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#wrote this from my wife's perspective
homunculus-argument · 2 months
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Reading Really Old Books has given me another angle of perspective to why "show, don't tell" is so important: you can always tell what you can see, even if you can't know for sure what you're looking at. It helps mend the gap, both intentionally when you're not 100% sure of what you're talking about, and as an insurance just in case readers of the future might know more about it than you currently do.
If a book from the 1800s just dismissively says "his previously so strong-willed wife developed hysteria after the incident", I'm going to roll my eyes and dismiss this right back. But if the same incident is illustrated by describing the way she becomes frightened and starts shaking at the sight of something only marginally related to the tramatising incident, I can draw my own conclusions and go "oh, she's triggered by the sight of horse reins. The reins remind her of the Someone Got Stomped To Death By A Horse -incident, and she is triggered by the sight of them. This woman has PTSD." And I'll have more respect for the author, who clearly looked at whatever he saw in the enviroment of his time, instead of dismissively assuming that he knew what he was looking at, and trusting that the readers would do the same.
The concept of ADHD wasn't known during the time when William Stearns Davis wrote his book A Friend of Caesar. And had he known a term for it, he may not have used it. But in the way he wrote the book, you can see that Davis had read multiple accounts of the kind of shit that Julius Caesar apparently did in his life. And wrote the man who had died centuries before the author was born having The Symptoms exactly the same way as I do whenever I'm unmedicated.
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tsyvia48 · 5 months
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Author & Mensch: Reflections on the impact of @neil-gaiman on my life, in essay and doodle
As a woman of a certain age, I am a well-practiced overthinker. Nerd, geek, know-it-all, intellectual, the names have been biting or praise depending on who wielded them. They’re all true, and I embrace them. 
In the early days of adulthood, when I was a wee 20-something overthinking nerd, geek, know-it-all, intellectual (20+ years ago), I became deeply interested in image and text and text-as-image. While friends were watching and arguing over Survivor, I was obsessing over Peter Greenaway’s The Pillowbook and Prospero's Books and Neil Gaiman’s Sandman. (To this day my copies of the Sandman graphic novels and the English translation of The Pillowbook of Sei Shonagon are proudly displayed on the good bookshelves—you know, the ones I want people to peruse.)
Sandman isn't merely good storytelling and good art, it teases at some of the fundamental questions to which my religion-major heart was consistently and reliably drawn. It modeled a way of rendering the questions—and suggested answers—I would never have imagined on my own.
In those days, I created an artist's book: an altered gift edition of Hamlet. I explored Ophelia’s femininity and the inevitability of her break with her mental health, caught as she is between Hamlet and her father. I imagined her story if she’d had true agency. I investigated the way art (fan art?!) had shaped my understanding of the play and my relationship to it. I layered in my story—my resonance and dissonance with hers—and my art, along with images of famous and not-so-famous paintings of Ophelia. I proudly named Greenaway and Gaiman as influences. 
I imagined myself an artist. And, truthfully, I suppose I was one. 
I read Good Omens back then, too, delighting over the religious tropes and subversions, the humor, and the fundamental faith in humanity that shone through. 
In the two decades since then, below the din of “responsible” choices (that have mostly moved me away from imagining myself an artist) there has been a melody quietly bringing me comfort, shifting my perspective, and reminding me who I want to be. When I stop to listen for and name the music, I realize much of it generates from Neil Gaiman. 
The Graveyard Book gave me comfort and hope as a new parent. 
Ocean at the End of the Lane reminded me of the layers and the depths⏤the archetypes and metaphors⏤present in everything around me, if I am willing to seek them.
Neil’s anecdote about meeting Neil Armstrong has been a talisman against imposter syndrome. Or, more precisely, it has been a permission slip for forgiving myself when the imposter syndrome inevitably surfaces.
The episode of Dr Who he wrote (“the Doctor’s Wife”) changed the way I understand the entire Dr Who experience before and since. 
Lucifer (tv), which his work inspired, gave me joy, comfort and distraction through a tough time in my life. 
When, a few years ago, I realized he is Jewish, I had that swelling of pride and resonance that I always get when someone I admire shares that identity with me.
And now there’s the Good Omens tv series. It has opened something in me I didn’t realize was closed. Crowley and Aziraphale are helping me better understand myself, and love, and gender, and storytelling, and, believe it or not, Torah. I am writing again for the first time in ages. I'm drawing more often and with more joy than I’ve known maybe since childhood.
I’ve been getting back into my gratidoodle practice, drawing and writing what I’m grateful for. And when I decided to add Neil Gaiman’s face and some words about my appreciation for his work to my sketchbook, I realized he’s brought me full circle.
Text and image and text-as-image + Neil Gaiman + story is an old constellation for me. And once again, I find my thoughts dancing, shifting, blossoming to the quiet melody of (one of?) the greatest storyteller(s) of this generation. 
And now that I am actively engaging with other Gaiman fans, I see how responsive and kind and encouraging he is to those of us who love his work, and his name is permanently etched on my heart: a benefactor, a teacher, a role model.
How satisfying and fitting that such a powerful and resonant voice, miraculously, thankfully, beautifully, also seems to be a genuine mensch. 
B”H (thanks to God) that I am alive at the same time as such a one.
#I didn't realize I was going to write AND draw when I started this #but I felt I needed both #I wish I had a flatbed scanner #this photo doesn't do it justice #there's greater nuance in the color in person #Stories matter #Art matters #like, really matters #Neil Gaiman is a gift to this world #Good Omens #Crowley and Aziraphale #Ocean at the End of the Lane #The Graveyard Book #Neil Armstrong and imposter syndrome #The Doctor's Wife #So grateful for tumblr
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What did Andrew Lloyd Webber do to make Patti Lupone upset? Sorry, saw your tags and i was curious
Oh.
Oh honey.
You sweet child.
Anyway, get ready for one of the most infamous showdowns in all musical theatre history, with the guy who writes the straightest musicals on Broadway (derogatory) and the one and only, the matriarch, the queen, two three-time Tony award winner Patti LuPone.
So, Andrew Lloyd Webber was basically kind of a boy genius in his prime - he met his future collaborator Tim Rice when they were 17 and 20 respectively, he wrote his first big hit, Jesus Christ Superstar, at 22, with Tim Rice writing the lyrics. And it was kind of a big deal at the time because the topic was controversial (you know, the Passion with rock music), but also because Broadway wasn't that far off from its golden age and let's just say the music and style were very different from, say, My Fair Lady. Or The Sound of Music. Or Funny Girl. It was basically the Rent/Hamilton of its time. (Yeah, Stephen Sondheim was around at that time, he worked on West Side Story which was revolutionary in of itself, but he's kind of an oddball in this case. You'll understand why later.)
Their real follow up (I'm not counting Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat for a variety of reasons) was a little musical called Evita, which you might know mainly because of a song called Don't Cry For Me Argentina. Or at least, your mom has probably heard it once at the very least. It's that song that's oversung from a musical while being out of context along with I Dreamed a Dream for Les Misérables. Or Memory from Cats.
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Evita tells the story of Eva Peron, the wife of an Argentinian dictator, who basically screws her way to the top and ends up becoming the mistress of Juan Peron and the most beloved woman in her country through guile and deceit. Yes, I know the historical accuracy is very much debated but I know jackshit about Argentina's history except the bare basics so don't come at me. It was first produced in the West End in London, with Elaine Paige in the role, but because of Equity issues, she couldn't reprise her role for the Broadway production. So a Julliard graduate who was mostly starring in David Mamet plays got the part instead, and that was Patti LuPone.
Patti... did not have a good time during Evita, because the part is basically the kind of score where you can tell the composer is used to writing male parts, but most female singers have a two-octave range (yes, you got Julie Andrews who used to have a three-octave range, and many others, but they're exceptions), so she struggled a lot. That being said, if you listen to live recordings of her, you wouldn't be able to tell, and it got a lot easier later on. But she had this to say:
"Evita was the worst experience of my life. I was screaming my way through a part that could only have been written by a man who hates women. And I had no support from the producers, who wanted a star performance onstage but treated me as an unknown backstage. It was like Beirut, and I fought like a banshee."
This is from Patti's autobiography, which she wrote in 2007 - 8 years after shit with ALW went down. With all that said, she won a Tony Award for Evita, and she pretty much became a musical theatre household name from then on. She played Fantine in Les Misérables, Nancy in Oliver!, Reno Sweeney in Anything Goes. Meanwhile, ALW's next big hits were Cats (I'm not even kidding, Cats was a hit), and, you guessed it, The Phantom of the Opera, which he wrote in part to showcase his then wife Sarah Brightman's triple threat talents.
So, you need to understand before I continue that ALW, from my perspective, has always had a bit of an inferiority complex. He's basically associated to writing these commercially successful musicals that show a big spectacle but aren't ultimately substantial. I'm not sure I entirely agree with that, but I do think that if he didn't have Hal Prince, Maria Bjornson, Charles Hart and Gillian Lynne backing him up for Phantom, it would have probably been a Rocky Horror Picture Show knockoff people would have forgotten about pretty quickly. This is what I mean:
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Yep, that was Phantom before any of the people I mentioned above (and Michael Crawford) were really involved.
Remember how I said Stephen Sondheim was an oddball? The thing with him is that his musicals weren't always commercially successful, but in general, in part thanks to being Leonard Bernstein's protégé, he was generally pretty well-respected and it was considered that his work was bringing musicals to a whole other level. Without Sondheim, you wouldn't have Jonathan Larson, and you wouldn't have Lin-Manuel Miranda. I am convinced ALW is resentful of that, and when you stop and think about it for more than 10 seconds, it's so obvious he REALLY wants to be Sondheim or at least command the same level of respect, but that's a story for another day.
So, after Phantom, ALW had other musicals that followed that either got a meh reception or outright flopped. Then there was Sunset Boulevard, which is based on the movie of the same name with Gloria Swanson. Despite all of her griefs for Evita, Patti LuPone agreed to partake in the musical as Norma Desmond, for its production in London, with the promise that she would transfer to Broadway once that production would open. And overall, after a string of flops, Sunset was actually doing pretty well.
HOWEVER. One day, while reading the gossip column of a newspaper, Patti found out that contrary to what she was promised, Glenn Close, who was meanwhile starring as Norma in the Los Angeles production, was to play Norma on Broadway. That was a complete surprise for her since no one on the production team had bothered to tell her it was happening - and keep in mind that for the news to come up the way it did in a gossip column, it probably would have necessitated a delay of a few weeks between the producers and the newspaper, which would have given them plenty of time to break the news to Patti. And Patti kind of needed the leg up because she was pretty bitter that a) Madonna was cast in the Evita adaptation instead of her; b) they actually lowered the key to fit Madonna's voice range, and she still had to expand her own to be able to sing the (lowered) score. And trust me, Patti is mad about it to this day.
So of course, she trashed her dressing room, the cast and crew weren't even mad about it because they were as shocked and angered as she was by the news. Patti sued Andrew Lloyd Webber for breach of contract, namely for 1 MILLION DOLLARS (yup, those are the real numbers), won, used the money she got from the lawsuit to get a swimming pool, which she called (and I SHIT YOU NOT) the Andrew Lloyd Webber Memorial Pool. Since then, Webber is dead to her, to the point rumor has it she had part of a building blocked during an event so she could get out of it without coming across Webber, because she hates him so flipping much she doesn't even want to be in the same building as the guy.
(There's also drama that happened with Faye Dunaway who was supposed to replace Glenn Close after she went from Los Angeles to Broadway, except they abruptly closed the show down after Close left, but that's a story for another day)
So with all the bad press, and with ALW forced to pay 1 million dollars for Patti's lawsuit, that led Sunset's productions to close earlier than expected. ALW has stayed around since, with... mitigated output, so to say. The lowest point for a lot of people is Love Never Dies, the sequel to Phantom, which some people love, and that's fine, but it didn't do well with either critics nor fans of the original show, which ALW is EXTREMELY BUTTHURT ABOUT. And like, there are so many stories I could tell about LND alone, but I will share my own crack theory about it, since it does relate to the ask.
Anyway, buckle up.
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So. There have been jokes going around for years that the Phantom in LND is basically ALW's self-insert, where he displays to the world that he's totally not over Sarah Brightman leaving him (in part because making Phantom kinda ruined their marriage lmao), despite, you know, having married since. (Aaaaaakward.) So LND basically becomes this really uncomfortable therapy session where a man writes a self-insert musical about how his ex-wife made a big mistake of leaving a sensitive artistic soul such as himself. The characters from Phantom who appear in LND are all more or less unrecognizable as a result, and one who gets it worse (in my humble opinion) is Meg Giry, who was basically Christine's sweet and loyal ballerina friend who basically went into the Phantom's lair on her own to save her friend despite the danger. In LND, she's basically a bitter hag (because ALW hates women, guess Patti was right about that), who really likes the swim and even has a stripping vaudeville number about it, written in universe by the Phantom, no less.
For comparison, here's Don Juan Triumphant (the Phantom's opera in the original):
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And here's Bathing Beauty (the vaudeville number):
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Yeah, so... do you see why people hate LND already?
And that's not the only thing with Meg! She's also pining for the Phantom to pay attention to her and threatens to drown the Phantom and Christine's secret love child when he makes it clear that he's gonna love Christine for EVA AND EVA.
So, with everything we learned today about ALW, would someone like him view someone like Patti LuPone as some sort of crazy, bitter diva who's obsessed with him for whatever reason? Absolutely. Would he be petty enough to insert Patti LuPone into his self-insert musical, which gave us the version of Meg Giry we got in LND? Of course. Why does Meg love to swim so much and why does she drag Gustave out ostensibly for a swim? Is it a dig at Patti's Andrew Lloyd Webber Memorial Pool? Maybe.
I kind of hope we find out one day if that theory is true. And maybe start a kickstarter so Patti can add this painting from the 2004 movie in her collection.
Fun fact: during the process of casting for the 2004 movie adaptation of POTO, ALW allegedly suggested Patti LuPone to play Carlotta... only for Joel Schumacher to have to awkwardly remind him that they were not on speaking terms. The idea was therefore promptly dropped.
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balioc · 1 month
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Oh, boy! It's Education Theory o'Clock again!
...I have a lot of thoughts on this topic. At some point, when I'm less busy and tired, I should probably try to write them up. Natively, I'm one of the school-is-a-nightmare-prison people, like so many others in this little discourse-sphere -- but I'm married to a middle school teacher, so I regularly encounter both the good arguments from the other side and the facts on the ground, and those things have altered my perspective somewhat.
But I am, in fact, busy and tired. So for now I'll just content myself with saying:
School is an institution that serves many, many, many purposes at the same time. A lot of those purposes are load-bearingly important. (A couple of years ago, I wrote this about college, and...it's double-plus true for primary and secondary schools.) If you don't try to account for all of that stuff in your theory of What School Is and How School Works, you will generate incoherent garbage thoughts. If you have a New Concept for school entailing top-down design that is optimized for a single function (like "increasing test scores" or "causing kids to love learning" or whatever), you'd better have a plan for how you're going to do all the other important things that schools do. And even if you think that some of those things aren't actually important or necessary, you'd better have a plan for dealing with all the people who disagree. Because...
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...school, as it exists today, is an inherently political institution. Both in the "soft" sense that everyone has strong opinions about what it's supposed to do and how it's supposed to work, and in the "hard" sense that it is actually controlled by democratically-accountable governments. (This is double-plus true in the US, where it is controlled by local governments, and therefore doesn't even have the protective insulation of a massive bureaucracy.) Everything about the way schools work is a compromise brokered amongst ideologues and self-dealers. Everything about the way schools work involves a lot of decision-makers trying not to get yelled at by the yelliest people around. If you're looking for elegant purpose-driven top-down design, you won't find it. You could probably make a case that any elegant purpose-driven top-down design would be better than the thing we actually have, but getting there would require finding a way to remove the political element.
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Most importantly: public schools are (1) compulsory, (2) universal, and (3) for children. [People who are legally children, anyway, whether or not they are actual children in whatever sense matters to you.]
This means that they cannot let students leave, and they have to keep control of all the students that they aren't allowing to leave.
In the most literal not-a-judgment-but-a-fact sense, they are indeed prisons. They are coercively keeping people inside. They have to do that thing, as per their most fundamental mandate within the current system. The alternatives involve letting kids run around unsupervised, and/or failing to give some kids even the most cursory kind of education, and those things are absolute non-starters under present conditions.
All the normal institutions-for-adults operate on the principle of -- If you really don't want to be here, you can leave, and deal with whatever consequences there may be for leaving. This is not an option for schools, and that fact accounts for...everything.
Classroom structure is built around the necessity of keeping the most-hostile, least-engaged student in the class present and supervised, and then trying to prevent him from disrupting things for everyone else. Because the obvious solution that any other institution would use -- "just cut him loose, he doesn't want to be here and we don't want him here" -- isn't available.
(I once talked to my wife about the rationed bathroom access thing, which is one of the most flagrant nightmare-prison aspects of the school experience. Her response was, "If you let kids use the bathroom whenever they want, as much as they want, then you don't have mandatory universal education anymore. Some of them will never return to the classroom, because they don't want to be there." Which is...obviously true.)
So you have something that replicates many of the features of prison, because it has to accomplish the same basic tasks that prison accomplishes. Yay, Foucault.
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Salvation
Series Masterlist
Kind of a sequel to Say No to Me, but can be read as a standalone fic
Fandom: Narcos
Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader
Rating: 18+ (warnings: mild choking, name calling, Papi kink, Mami kink, handcuffs, crying, spanking, fingering, mild cuckolding kink. Justification of violence and American imperialism?? Idek you guys)
Word count: 5.8k words
Summary: Shaken to his core by witnessing Colonel Carillo shoot a kid, Javier comes home guilty and questioning the role he plays in the war against drugs.
A/N: Say No to Me did soooo well, so I wrote a little more about about Javi and his wife. Hope people like this too 🥺🥺🥺. Warning: The characters’ views on violence and geopolitics are not my own.
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“I don’t see the difference.”
“What do you mean you don’t see the difference? Those assholes poison this country, poison the US. We’re trying to stop them.”
It was their first argument. Leave it to him to bring work home and argue about it with the pretty professor he’d been dating. His job was always a point of contention for them. She didn’t care that he flaked out on dates, forgot to turn up for dinner with friends and slinked into bed late at night with no explanation as to where he’d been. No. What she worried about was the fact that he was a man with a gun.
The first time he met her outside the restaurant the both of them frequented, he was on a raid where her friend happened to live. He’d opened a door, gun in hand, just like he opened many other doors in Columbia in his quest for men associated with the Medellin cartel. He’d surveyed the rest of the place like he always did. Behind the woman was her. The beautiful woman he’d been buying buñuelos for at the restaurant like he’d buy a drink for a woman at a bar. The woman who’d smiled at him in a silent thanks each time the waitress brought her the buñuelos he ordered for her. The one who reciprocated by sending him coffee.
She never saw him the same again. She stopped meeting his eyes when before, she’d always looked around for him shyly. She stopped eating at the restaurant, opting instead for takeaways he found her eating in her car. He’d confronted her, sweet-talked her and gotten her to take his buñuelos again. Talked her into having coffee with him every morning and took her back to his place to fuck.
They always wondered out loud to each other what life would be like had he not done that.
“I wouldn’t be picking up dirty socks from all over the apartment.”
“And I wouldn’t find hair clogging the drain. But I would also be perpetually single.”
“And that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Bad thing. No wife to come home to. No one to wake me up with a warm wet mouth around my cock.”
“Jodón!”
“Te amo, Cariño. Eres mi corazón, mi conciencia.”
If he weren’t a married man, he would have driven to the brothel he used to frequent before he decided he would go on a date with her. He’d take the first willing woman he saw and fuck his pain, his frustrations, his failures into her. She’d be nothing but a warm wet thing in which to bury everything for a bit of cash.
Doing that with his wife didn’t take away the pain or the frustration. It produced guilt. Finding hand-shaped bruises and bite marks on her body made her hide her face in his chest to keep her sweet shy smile away from him. But it just made him feel undeserving of her, like he was tainting the one truly good thing in his life with his violence and brutality.
Her black and white perspective on his job changed eventually. Marriage wouldn’t have been possible without it. For the first time, he felt a pang of guilt for deceiving her into marrying him. When it was just coffee and sex, she insisted that he keep his gun and badge away from her sight. They scared her. He felt offended that she wouldn’t accept him whole.
Eventually he stopped hiding work from her. She grew comfortable with his gun on their bedside table along with her pretty night lamp, books, personal diary, jewelry, and framed picture of their wedding at the embassy. She no longer flinched when she wrapped her loving arms around him and found his gun tucked in the back of his jeans.
He changed her, turned her into someone who could casually listen to him vent about the day to day violences of his job. Turned her into a woman who shared a bed with the kind of man who stood by as his colleague put a gun to a kid’s head and pulled the trigger. He wanted to drive off to the closest bar and drink himself to death, but as though on autopilot, he’d already driven himself home. He parked the jeep in the garage, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
What should he have done to stop Carillo? Could he have stopped him at all? It wasn’t as though he knew what the man would do… Or maybe he did. He couldn’t plead innocence over Carillo’s actions when he was the one celebrating his return, knowing fully about his cruel tactics. He sensed something was off when Carillo made those kids kneel on the ground, hands on their heads. Some of them still had baby fat in their cheeks. The Colonel knew what he was going to do. It was why he left Steve behind.
Steve was given immunity from these cruelties. While he’d been a bachelor when he first met Carillo, Steve was always the family man with a pretty wife to go home to. And now a baby. Now, he was also a family man with someone awaiting his return. Did Carillo not know that? Did he not see the glimmering gold band around his finger? Or did Carillo see something in him that indicated he was prepared to witness such horror? Something that said he lacked a heart unlike Steve. How did Carillo manage to go home to his wife and kids? How did he hold them in his bloodied hands?
“Javi?”
She’d opened the jeep door and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was truly out of it.
He whispered her name as she cupped his cheek, taking all the comforts that her touch afforded. He closed his eyes and swallowed as the guilt set in. The kid’s parents would need comfort tonight, not him. He didn’t deserve this. He should pry her hand off of him, reject her gentle touch. Stop her from tainting herself further.
She leaned close to him and he hummed gratefully for the proximity that allowed him to breathe in the fresh scent of her citrusy soap and her coconut shampoo.
He said her name again, like a prayer, like she was his god and he, a devotee who sought her for salvation. “It’s going to be okay, mi amor. Whatever it is…It’s going to be okay.”
“I need you,” he said as he nuzzled into her neck.
“You have me, Javi. I’m right here, whatever you need. Okay?” She swept her fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp, already taking care of him.
He hopped out of the car with a renewed energy now that he had her permission. “Need you right here, baby,” he muttered hurriedly and curled an arm around her waist, picking her up and placing her on the hood of the jeep. He tugged at the satin tie holding the robe together, untying it to reveal her in her purest form. No underclothes, no jewelry except her rings, just her. He palmed her shoulders and pushed the garment off of her, holding himself back from ripping it off when she took a few seconds too long to free her arms from the sleeves.
He spread her legs apart, mumbling, “Need to see you, querida. Need to see your pretty pussy.”
He placed a hand on her belly and pushed, forcing her to lie back down on the hood. It had to be uncomfortable, but he couldn’t think beyond getting his dick wet. She said whatever he needed, so he was going to take whatever he needed. He was going to take everything he could out of her, leave her spent and unable to offer him anything more.
He pushed her legs wider, spreading her out obscenely for his eyes. Her body held marks of their passion. Her knees were bruised from kneeling at his feet and bringing him pleasure with her lips. Bruises of various colors were scattered all over her, tainting the pure smooth skin she brought into their relationship.
She left her marks too. If he looked in the mirror, he would see the crescent shaped scars she’d left behind, some still healing from spilling blood for her. He would find that her name was etched on every scratch and bite she left behind, claiming him as hers and contrasting between the scars he did not ask for, scars he earned chasing sicarios on rooftops.
Javier was marked by all the successes and failures of this perpetual chase of the bad guy. He’d tripped, fallen, jumped from balconies, been shoved into walls, pistol whipped and grazed by bullets.
She’d asked him for one thing only when he was on one knee in front of her— Give me all of you, Javi. So he did. He came home every evening, touched her with hands covered in the blood of the innocent collateral damage in this war.
He bent over her and pressed his chapped lips on her plush ones as his hand found her breasts. She tasted sweet as she always did. There was something beyond the sweet treats she was so fond of. It was just her, just the sweetness of her heart and the kindness of the words uttered by those lips. Once upon a time, she did not like his taste. Their first kiss had her pull away, face scrunched and the lips that’d rejected him complaining about the taste of cigarettes. He used to keep a pack of gum on him at all times- in his pocket, in the glove compartment, on his bedside table, in the living room just to rid himself of the vile taste of his terrible days so he could drink her sweet moans from her lips.
She no longer complained. She’d gotten used to it, had grown to like it even. They didn’t want to waste time washing away the day’s traces before getting lost in each other. They took each other as they were, accepted the ugly and the gruesome, the sweat and the weariness, the mistakes and the guilt.
He released her from the kiss and nudged her chin up by his nose. She whimpered quietly and returned her hand to his shoulders to push his leather jacket off. He helped her out, shrugging the garment off and letting her hands run over his chest with only the thin gray shirt separating them. He nibbled on her chin, reining himself back so as to not bite too hard. She had to be a few orgasms in to enjoy such roughness. He fondled a breast in his hand, pinching his index and middle fingers together to tug at her nipple.
The vibrations of her moan as he kissed down her throat went straight down to his cock. He marked her all the way in his journey from her neck to her cunt. Kiss, bite, suck, nip. Kiss, bite, suck, nip. Kiss, bite, bite, bite—
Mine, mine, mine.
Fingers found her cunt faster than his lips that were busy marking her as his. He rubbed her with his tainted hand and she raised herself off the hood of his jeep to meet his hand. He pushed her back down and placed a firm hand on her belly, pressing down to send a message.
Stay down. Obey.
She stayed put, taking only what he gave. Slick coated the tip of his finger as he pushed between her pussy lips. “Were you touching yourself before I came home, querida?”
“Yeah,” she managed to voice.
“Couldn’t wait for me?” He asked as he pushed a finger in, roughly and with no mercy. She gasped silently as she squirmed on the metal surface.
“Sorry,” she whined as he found the spot inside her that drove her wild, one that her dainty fingers couldn’t reach. “Papi, ‘m sorr—” she shrieked as he pinched her clit.
“What did I tell you about touching what’s mine?” He asked, getting irrationally angry about her pleasuring herself. Useless. Useless on the job, useless at home. An absent and neglectful husband whose wife had to resort to touching herself.
“That everything that’s yours is mine too.” He could hear the smile in her voice as she recalled the sweet beginnings of their marriage even when spread out in the most vulgar way for him.
“Everything. Except this,” he said, palming her cunt. “Let me just have this. All for myself.”
“So you’ll be a good boy and share everything else? Lend my ass to some other guy, it’ll be f—” she gasped mid-sentence as he grabbed her throat and pulled her up to meet him face-to-face.
“You letting other guys in when I’m not looking, baby?” He asked, applying the slightest pressure around her neck. He knew she would do nothing of that sort. He wouldn’t either. For all his faults as a husband, he was loyal. But they liked pretending sometimes. It played into his insecurities a little, into his fears of being so inadequate for her that she had to look elsewhere. It wasn’t a fear for him sexually. Yet. But it angered him when she asked a colleague to do so much as put up a shelf in their living room. That was his job as her husband.
“Hmm, sorry Papi… He was right there and I really missed you,” she played along as she thumbed his lips.
“Told you you were all mine, baby…” he said, pinching her clit just hard enough to bring her the pain she craved from her. She jumped and wrapped her legs around him, the heels of her feet digging into his back.
“You just told me that just now! How was I supposed to know before this?”
“Put a ring on it, didn’t I?” He said before he took her left hand and thumbed her rings. “I put three on it, in fact. What else is a man supposed to do, hmm? Put a collar on you?”
Her breath hitched, letting him know that she very much liked the image he put in her head. He took it as his cue to continue, “Would you like that? Hmm? I’ll finally make you look like the bitch in heat that you are.” She tightened around his finger and dug her feet into his back harder as though she wanted to pull him closer.
“Hnnngg please!” She whined as she began fucking herself on his middle finger. He added his ring finger, making her fuck herself on the finger that showed the world who he belonged to. Showed the world that he belonged. Showed him he wasn’t a lone man, that there was someone home who gave a fuck. He pressed the pad of his thumb on her clit, circling it gently, barely touching as she used his fingers for his pleasure.
“Javiii!” She cried his name, her voice grabbing at his heart. He belonged. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled her flush against his chest, needing to feel her skin against his.
“Yeah, baby. ‘M here, I’m yours,” he whispered into her neck and sucked on that spot that was bruised from all the times he’d wrapped his lips around it because he knew it made her melt in his arms.
She moaned his name over and over— Javi, Javi, Javiii— and he drank in all of it as he fucked her with his fingers. It grounded him, her moans. Told him she was real, this life they had was real and pushed away the horrors he’d participated in. He was just Javi, her husband Javi who just came home from work and made her scream his name. Not Agent Peña.
“Come for me, Cariño,” he encouraged when he felt her nearing her peak. He continued doing what he was doing, kept up the pace, kissed her neck and squeezed her tits, taking turns between each one when she finally collapsed in his arms, dropping her entire weight on him as she gasped for breaths.
“Want more,” she whined, her voice raspy from screaming his name. She palmed him through his jeans, making him hiss before she moved up to his belt buckle and tugged impatiently. “Want your cock, Papi.”
“Greedy little thing,” he scolded before kissing down her neck. “I just made you come, didn’t I? You’re still shaking but you already want more?”
“Pleeeeease!” She cried, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and letting her hands roam his chest. “I missed you.”
“Missed me? I fucked you silly in the morning before you went to work. Did you forget?”
“Missed you all day. I thought about it the whole time, thought about your cock.” She said, palming him through his jeans. He managed a smirk, trying his best to not let her know how much her touch affected him already.
“Thought you were more professional than that, bebita. Did you rub one out in the restroom thinking of me? Take a break from teaching to touch this wet little cunt for me, Mami?” He asked as he touched her gently, knowing she was still sensitive from how he played her with his fingers.
She shook her head and nuzzled into his neck, her bashful smile catching his attention before she could hide it away from him. “Can’t disappoint my darling wife, now can I?” He teased, quickly unbuckling his belt and undoing the button and zipper of his jeans to free himself. She reached behind him and squeezed his ass before she grabbed his gun and set it aside on the hood.
The cavalierness of her action struck him. The woman who was frightened by the mere sight of his gun was now handling it casually. If he had noticed it any other day, he would’ve been proud. But not anymore… He had changed from the ambitious fool he used to be in Laredo. And he had changed her.
“Hmm yeah, don’t want your wife letting other men in her ass,” she teased as her hands roved over his torso, the pointed tips of her nails making the hairs on his arm stand up. She reached his dick and wrapped her hand around it when he decided enough was enough. He slapped her hand away, pulled her off the hood and turned her around before pushing her back down face-first. It happened so quickly that she didn’t seem to realize what had happened.
Usually, he felt guilty only after taking his frustrations out on her. Now, he felt the guilt had already begun to surround him, thickening the air he breathed until he felt it was choking him.
“Stay right there,” he ordered, holding her down as he reached into his pocket for his handcuffs. He snapped the cold metal around her wrists and leaned over to whisper into her ear, “I’m gonna take you rough, cariño. Can you handle it?” When she nodded, he asked her again, “Will you let me fuck you hard? That’s okay tonight? I need to hear a yes. A clear yes.” The nodding wasn’t enough for him. He didn’t feel right in the head and he needed her to be clear.
“Yes, Javi,” she said, turning a little, her cheek pressed on the hood as she met his eyes. “I want it. I’ll tell you to stop if it gets too much.”
“Okay,” he breathed out as he pulled his leather belt off through the loops of his jeans. As the leather cracked in the air, he noticed her ass clench. He grabbed a handful of her behind and let go before swatting the flesh. Mesmerized by the jiggling of her behind, he let her find reprieve for a few second before he repeated the motion for the other cheek. He reduced the gaps between each slap to her ass, enjoying her screams and cries, unbothered about whether they were waking the entire damn neighborhood.
When he felt she was adequately prepared, he folded his belt in two, holding the metal buckle tight in his hand and wrapping the excess leather around his fist to make sure he didn’t accidentally hit her with it. They liked leaving marks on each other, but none that would be as painful and permanent as the damage metal would cause. He reached between her legs and found her pussy, wet from her cum, making her let out the soft sounds he would lock up in the depths of his mind to look back on whenever he missed her.
“Love the pretty sounds you make for me, bebita,” he praised, pleased with himself as he caught her dazed smile. As much as he liked seeing her in the throes of pleasure, he liked it more when he could bring out her sweet smiles. It made him proud, knowing he could do that to her.
“Think you forgot the belt, Papi…” she said softly, her tone contradicting the depraved thing she was requesting.
“So eager,” he mumbled, his words buried by her scream when his belt made contact with her ass. “Quiet, querida. You don’t want to wake our neighbors. Don’t want them to run over here to check on you now, do we? They might accuse me of being an abusive husband and I will be forced to explain that my little pain-slut of a wife begs for this shit.”
She trembled underneath him, holding her hand up to seek comfort. He took her hand glady, entwining their fingers and giving it a kiss before he dropped it back down. She huffed in disappointment, making him feel just a little guilty for taking her comfort away from her. Promising himself that he would give her all the love and affection she needed after this, he slipped his ring finger inside her. He was met with no resistance and he enjoyed how she took him in, enjoyed how she dripped down his finger and coated the gold band with her deliciousness.
“You would like that, won’t you? My little exhibitionist. I knew you were one when you made me finger you in my jeep before I could take you home for a proper fuck,” he reminded her of their first time together, delighted in himself as she tightened around him. He gave her a few quick pumps before withdrawing abruptly to make her taste himself on his fingers. He tightened his grip around the belt and landed another one, the black leather kissing her skin. His hand effectively muffled her scream, but she bit down on him hard, making him hiss.
He fucked her mouth like he fucked her pussy, aloowing himself to be satisfied with how her tongue swirled around his fingers. Forgetting himself, he pressed himself against her ass, grinding to relieve himself just a little. She pushed back at him and he took a step back, realizing what he’d done.
“Mierda!” He cursed. This was not the right time to rub the rough denim of his jeans on her sensitive behind.
“Lo siento, mi amor…” he apologised, bending down to kiss her temple. “Just… can’t wait to have you.”
“Just a— just few more, Javi baby…then— and you can have me,” she breathed out between pants.
“How many more? How many can you take?”
“Four. Each. No breaks, just go. Alternate it.”
“Sí, Mami,” he nodded, taking her command. He crumbled up the soft tie of her robe and pushed it into her mouth before he stood back and took quick aims, raining her with one hit after another.
Her cries and screams were muffled by the cloth he’d shoved in her mouth, but he was certain she would be heard if someone happened to walk by the garage door. While this was a safe neighborhood thanks to it being embassy staff quarters, late night screams were unfortunately not a rare thing for the city. At other times, it chilled him to the bone and made him want to send an armed bodyguard with his precious girl wherever she went. Now, he contented himself with the fact that nobody would come knocking to check on the poor screaming woman.
He pushed his jeans down to his knees and lined himself up with her tight, wet heat before forcing himself in.
“Feel. So. Fucking. Good.” He grunted, alternating each word with a thrust into her pussy. She gripped him so tight, so good, so fucking good.
“Dios mío, Mami. Tan perfecto,” he spewed praises, grabbing her hair with his fingers and giving her a painful tug to force her to show him one half of her face. She was utterly debauched, freshly washed hair all tangled up in his hand, eyes glazed over with everything he gave her, lips bruised and swollen and cheeks covered in her tears. He was sick in the head, he knew that and God, she knew that too. He was a sick fuck, making her cry for him, getting himself harder in her cunt as he watched her spill more tears from his thrusts.
“Lo siento,” he mumbled, still giving her what brought on the tears in the first place. He knew she wanted it, she’d told him so several times, reassured him as she cradled him in her loving arms. She understood him, sometimes more than he did. She knew the depths of his wretched would and found herself a place in it rather than running away screaming.
But that didn’t make him stop apologizing, “Lo siento, Lo siento, por favor… Mi amor, perdóname, por favor—” his words caught in his throat and he let out a sob around her name. He let his tears fall, bent over her and slipped an arm around her shaking body to pull her close to himself. He buried his cries into her neck as his thrusts slipped out of rhythm.
She spat out the cloth that he’d stuffed her mouth. “Javi? Are you okay, baby?”
He shook his head, unable to hide himself from her any longer. “No te merezco,” he whispered.
“Uncuff me. Wanna— need to touch you,” she begged. He snapped her cuffs open, having left it unlocked for her safety. Her hand was on her immediately, comforting him with her touch.
“Javi…I got you, honey. I got you,” she reassured him, taking his hand in hers and giving him a squeeze. He peeked out a little like a frightened yet curious child and caught the gleaming silvery metal of his pistol on the hood. It simply sat there, too close to his wife, not inspiring the fear it should in her. He’d ruined her so much that she could simply have it in her line of vision when she took him.
“Lo sien—”
“Javi, Javi, it’s okay. Everything’s okay, mi amor… It’s alright.”
“Dime que me quieres,” he begged. He needed to know, needed to hear that she still loved him even though he doubted she would if she knew Agent Peña as much as she knew her husband Javi.
“Te quiero, te amo, Javi. Mi amor, mi corazón, mi—” she whined as he unknowingly hit a spot. All these years knowing her and he somehow didn’t know that this did it for her. He repeated the motion, thrusting in the exact same angle with the same vigor that made her cry so sweetly.
The world turned hazy around him and for just that moment, he was just Javi, just her Javi. He belonged to her and the pleasures she brought him, belonged right in her sweet pussy that made his lips moan her name over and over and— He let out sounds he didn’t recognize to be from his throat as she gripped him like a vice and he struggled with the in and out motions, needing to just bury himself in her for eternity and never leave. As though she’d heard his plea, she granted him the high he’d come home craving, pushing him over the edge yet holding onto him, keeping him safe, keeping him hers.
He stayed put even after he’d spilled inside her, needing the closeness, needing to surround himself in all her goodness whether he deserved it or not.
“Javi…What happened, baby?” She asked, caressing his hand with a tenderness that warmed his heart. “What were you apologizing for? What happened?”
He removed himself from her and turned her around to face him. He kept his eyes on the ground as he retrieved the robe that had fallen to the floor. He draped the fabric around her and she stumbled as she took a step ahead. He pulled his jeans up and zipped up before he surveyed her form. She couldn’t walk without limping. Fuck! He was the piece of fucking shit.
He picked her up and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him on his chin and then on his cheek, keeping her eyes on his as he carried her through the corridors. It was thankfully too late for anyone to be wandering outside.
He laid her out on the couch when they got home, opting to sit on the floor at her feet rather than next to her. She let him place his head on her lap and even massaged his scalp with her caring hand. He shut his eyes and let himself get lost in the feeling, needing the comfort despite being undeserving.
“You were right,” he spoke quietly into the night.
“About what, mi amor?” Another time, he was sure she would have laughed and said she always was.
“When you said you didn’t see a difference. Our first fight. You said you didn’t see the difference between them and us. ‘S bad no matter who does it, the violence. Guns.”
“That was a long— why are we talking about this now? Is that what’s got you so worried? Javi, I didn’t know what I know now. It was a very…reductive way of thinking about it. I told you that much later.”
He felt he’d manipulated her somehow, put the perspective of the bright-eyed young Javier who’d come to Columbia to be ‘the good guy’ who put bad guys in jail and saved the world or whatever the fuck he thought he was going to do. He had done good, sure, but the bad… Oh god the bad.
“Carillo is back.”
“Yeah, you told me…”
“Whenever we go on a fucking operation, the guys we’re trying to nab are always a step ahead of us. Escobar’s got informants everywhere. Kids. Some the size of your nieces. Couple teenagers. Bad situation at home, either they don’t have a choice, or they don’t yet understand what the hell they’re doing… I thought we were just going to scare them. We rounded them up, Carillo was doing the talking. This kid got too mouthy, you know that kind of teenager with the ‘fuck the police’ attitude and enough blind courage fuelled by his newfound independence… It just felt off, baby. I should’ve done something, but— This is how it’s going to go from now on and everyone will turn a blind eye because we’re just that desperate.”
“Javi… Tell me what happened.”
“He shot him,” he managed to say. “Carillo shot the kid. To make a fucking point.”
Her hand stilled in his hair and her eyes widened. “I want to think there’s a difference, but it’s getting harder and harder everyday to see it. Escobar’s using these kids to save his own ass and we’re killing them to send him a fuckin’ message.”
“You didn’t pull the trigger.”
It was a statement, but he replied as though it was a question. “I didn’t pull the trigger.” He was a piece of shit, but he needed her to know that he hadn’t gotten that bad.
“You can’t carry others’ sins on your back, Javi.”
“I was there when—”
“So were the others. And Carillo pulled the trigger. You think he’s at home apologizing to his wife?”
Yeah but you didn’t marry Carillo.
He shook his head and she took his face in her hand, cradling his cheek like he was something precious. “You do what you can, Javi. Your hands are as clean as can be for a DEA Agent. You can’t bear other men’s sins. And you can’t change how entire governments operate.”
“You wouldn’t have said that before.”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t have. Back then, I didn’t have to stay up all night waiting to hear my husband’s car arrive so that I could run to him and see for myself if he’d come home to me in one piece. I was on the outside before but now I’m in the heart of it, with you. I know you try to shield me from the worst of it. I see how you and Steve whisper about work instead of talking out loud. But I’m not naïve. I know you’re in danger most days and there are some things that you just have to do.”
“I have blood on my hands. I’m not the same man you married. And you’re not the same, I changed you. I made you believe in something I don’t believe in anymore, pulled you into my mess and—”
“It’s okay,” she declared with a quiet smile. “As long as it’s not your heart. As long as you’re not bleeding out on the streets. If you need to get blood on your hands to keep yourself alive out there, I won’t stand in your way. I don’t want you thinking about whether I would approve of the morals of what you did. I don’t care if I change. Change me, get the blood on your hands on mine and I’ll clean you up before I have to send you back out there. I don’t care who has to bleed for you to see another day. I’ll always take the man you are when you come home, no matter how much you have changed. I know in my heart that you’ll never do what Carillo did. I know who I married and it’s not a Carillo.”
She pushed his errant curls out of his face, bent down and placed a kiss on his forehead. “You are the same man I married. You have heart. And you want to do the right thing. Unfortunately,” she said, taking a deep breath. “There are just some things you can’t control and you just have to let go of it to face the next day. You can’t do that with others’ sins on your shoulders. You know you have enough of your own to lug around.”
She allowed him her comforts, her words and her touch and the warmth of her lap as he put his head down. He wasn’t wholly convinced by her words, but closed his eyes knowing she would be there when he came home. She would have him, broken down and full of guilt. He would come home to her for the rest of time and find salvation in her arms and that would be enough.
.
.
.
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burningvelvet · 7 months
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more rambling thoughts on pride and prejudice and my first foray into jane austen so far
1 austen really loved the word “felicity” - i love getting a feel for an author’s language - i’m also so glad that she’s so much funnier than i thought she would be! i didnt know she was funny at all. everyone always focuses on the romance and heightened emotions of her stories but why have i never heard about her social commentary, sense of humour, clever use of plot, etc.? this is what i love & this is what she excels in imo!
2 mr wickham is so byron-coded its unreal. the regency era rake vibes are unmatched. his “idleness and dissipation.” his hysterical levels of pettiness and melodrama. tbh love him. can’t wait to see what he does when he finds out darcy has told elizabeth his side of the story
3 coming from my studies on byronism i’ve seen lots of papers compare/contrast the work of austen & byron & now i finally know why — they’re both great at satire but approach it in such different ways that it makes a really interesting juxtaposition. they shared the same publisher, although there’s sadly no evidence they ever met or corresponded; austen once wrote that she read a work by byron, but she gave no review of it — & his wife was a fan of austen, but byron/austen never mention each other personally or their opinions on each other/their works. i feel like he would’ve really liked her though. after i get more into austen’s other works now i want to read byron’s don juan and one of her novels back to back to compare the use of satire & social commentary from their differing perspectives!
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the-authoress-writes · 8 months
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Somewhere Out There
Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x Wife!Reader
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Synopsis: Deployments are hard, but when you have someone to come home to, someone to love, that makes things easier, painful as it may be.
Warnings: Maybe a little bit of angst, I guess, offscreen sort-of implied married-people-doing-married-people-stuff 😉😉, minuscule cursing, a PG-13 use of the F-word, and a crap-ton of fluffy, lovey-dovey goodness.
Author’s Note: I don’t write reader fic.
I really don’t.
I write ship fic and gen fic, and I’d say I’m pretty decent at it, judging from the comments on my stories.
But then, @valmare came along, and we just clicked.
Mostly through screaming about Top Gun, naval aviators (*cough*tomkazansky*cough*), and our mutual appreciation for Val Kilmer.
And I knew I wanted to write something for her, especially since she was celebrating 300 followers!
Unfortunately, deep down, I knew I couldn’t write a ship fic for her.
I would have to write a reader!fic.
So, because I love her, I delved into the uncharted (for me, at least) waters of reader!fic.
I’m honestly not sure if this is any good, I wrote it in a perspective I’m not used to, and I hope and pray it makes any kind of sense.
Title is from the song of the same name, “Somewhere Out There”, from An American Tail.
To my dear Mir, I swear I began writing this yesterday, but I touched on things that you did in your own most recent fic, however, I couldn’t for the life of me, find another way to put what I wrote.
I promise on Goose’s grave that I did not plagiarize you.
All I can say is… fangirls think alike?
Please don’t hate meeee!!!!
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this attempt at wading in the waters you so expertly navigate, my dear!
Happy 300 Followers!!!
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The mist was rolling in from the sea, she absently noted, while the rising sun caught the minuscule droplets of water in the air, making the very wind shimmer.
Even inside, she could smell the faint tang of salt in the air, one of her favorite scents, but it was missing the key part—so much was missing.
The warmth of her husband behind her, for one thing, as they watched the sunrise on this window seat, her legs bracketed by his, his arms around her, the scent of spice, bourbon, and jet fuel which was all him, surrounding her.
God, she missed Tom.
Right now, he was halfway around the world on a ship, and she was watching the weekend sunrise without him, for the first time since they got married.
She knew this was part of being married to an active duty naval aviator, but it didn’t make the ache any better.
She tugged the collar of the USNA t-shirt up to her nose, but the scent was so faint from when Tom had tossed it to the floor the night before his deployment.
She sighed; she could still remember how he’d made her feel that night—he’d made her body sing, playing her like an expert musician would his instrument.
She’d felt him for days after, and if she focused enough, even now, she could almost feel his hands on her, the paradox of how gentle they were, despite the callouses on his palm, his lips on hers.
For all that he was called “Iceman”, she never saw an iota of the reasoning; with her, he was never anything but unfailingly warm, gentle, kind, loving, and passionate.
It had been nearly a week since she dropped him off last Monday at Miramar, exhorting Mav and Slider to bring him home to her.
The grave promise in the two men’s eyes as they readily agreed, had to be comfort enough, and wordlessly, they hauled Tom’s seabag between them, a strap in each of their hands, cheerfully bickering as they went, to give her a chance to say a more private goodbye.
She didn’t know what to say to him—this had to be one of the most painful things she’d ever done—giving her husband up to the sea and sky for ninety days, not knowing if he’d return to her alive, safe, having to trust only in his skill on the stick and his wingmen to bring him back to her.
Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and Tom’s eyes softened, as he drew her into his embrace. “I’ll come back to you, lyubimaya moya,” he whispered in her ear, all too aware of how dangerous it was to speak Russian on base, outside of the safety of the walls of their house, but aware that she needed the comfort.
“Promise me—promise you’ll come back to me, Thomas Kazansky,” she fiercely murmured, drawing back to look at him, taking the opportunity that she would shortly not have.
“Always.
No matter what, no matter what oceans part us,” he replied, an intensity which would frighten others, but which soothed her, in his crystalline eyes.
She gasped and desperately tugged him to her, his kiss piecing her heart together and breaking it, all for knowing that it was the last time she’d feel it for three months.
He’d taken her soul with him the moment he let her go to do his duty.
Back in the pain of her present, a sob masquerading as a sigh tore from her lips—it wasn’t enough; it would never be enough until she had him back in her arms, back in her bed, back in this house, where she felt like a shade of herself, a modern-day Eurydice.
Her legs reluctantly carried her to the kitchen, where she prepared her weekend coffee, narrowly resisting the urge to pull out two mugs instead of one.
But when she picked up the can of Maxwell House, she fumbled it, because it was far lighter than it should’ve been—heavy, but not the still-full can it should have been.
Tentatively, she opened it, and gasped when she saw that the can was filled with folded-up pieces of paper, each marked with dates on them, in Tom’s careful, exacting writing.
She tipped the can over, and the papers came spilling out—there had to be at least three months worth of letters here, one for each day of his deployment.
She frantically searched through the pile, looking for today’s date.
Upon finding it, she dashed back to the window seat, deliberately peeling the tape holding it closed, unable to treat the letter with anything less than the utmost care.
She quickly noticed Tom’s writing here was cramped, as if he were trying to fit everything he wanted to say on this one small piece of paper.
“Hello, solnishko,
If you’re reading this, it means that you’ve found the letters I wrote for you; one for each day of my deployment.
As I write this, I am next to you in bed, looking at your beautiful face, so peaceful in sleep, but the mere thought of my impending departure already tears me apart more than I thought possible.
I won’t have thought of anything else but you since the moment I left your arms, I am absolutely certain.
You know all too well why I joined the Navy—my search for a home, a real home, one not plagued by unattainable standards and harsh words.
I eventually found one in the sky, and for the longest time, she was enough, with her freedom, her thrill, but there were still demands, still standards, though the words were kinder.
Then I met you.
And you changed everything.
You are my home, lyubimaya moya; with you, I don’t have to be Iceman, or Lieutenant Kazansky; with you, I can be Tom.
Just Tom.
Your Tom.
I can’t wait until I can be your Tom again.
Eighty-four days, zhizn moya; and I’m yours again.
Yours forever,
Tom”
She pressed her hand to her chest, careful to avoid crumpling the paper beneath her hand, a tear slipping from her eyes, the ache of his absence soothed with the absolute confirmation that he was thinking of her just as she was about him, and intensified, knowing that he was so far away.
Eventually, she sniffled, brushing away her tear tracks, wishing it was Tom’s hand, and gathered herself.
Eighty-four days.
Eighty-four days, and she’d have him back—a short eternity, to be sure, but a small price to pay for what she’d get back at the end.
Until then, she’d count the sunrises, holding him and the words he’d written for her, close to her heart.
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Tom stared out at the horizon, watching the sun come up on the relatively quiet deck of the Enterprise.
It meant that he lost a good thirty minutes of sleep, but it was worth it, just to know that his wife was looking at the same sunrise, or she would be, at any rate, given the time difference.
The horizon spread out before him; endless, and the fleeting, errant thought that she was just there, beyond the beyond, entered his mind.
So far—a little over six thousand nautical miles, more or less, depending on the course and speed of the Enterprise, further than any F-14 could fly—and yet so near, because she was never far from his heart.
He’d never thought he could love anything or anyone more than her—among his other endearments for her was zhizn moya, because that was what she was to him: his life.
Tom idly twisted the band of gold around his left ring finger, more proud of that simple ring than the hard-won blue-jeweled Annapolis ring on his right.
God, he missed her.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Tom turned to see Mav, coming up to lean on the railing beside him, none of the usual cockiness on his face.
“You shouldn’t be up yet, Mav.”
A haunted expression lingered on the edges of his wingman’s face as he searched for anything but the truth to tell, and Tom knew. “The usual?”
“Yeah,” Mav rasped. “I—I checked on Merls and Sli, but I got—got worried when I—I didn’t find you, so…” the black-haired pilot trailed off, before continuing, “you okay?”
“I should be asking you that, but… yeah, I am, just…”
“Just missing her,” Mav nodded sagely, almost wistfully.
“Yeah.”
“How do you even handle that?” Mav asked, frowning.
The sunlight made him feel more honest than he would probably otherwise be, Aurora’s kiss a comforting benediction, reminding him of all he had to come home to, and he replied, “What makes you think that I am?” He shook his head, “Doesn’t really feel like I’m even here, honestly.”
Mav good-naturedly smirked, “You left your heart in San Diego?”
Tom side-eyed his wingman. “Yeah, actually.
You’ll understand it one day, when you meet the right one,” he sighed, thinking of his wife’s beautiful smile.
“I dunno, Ice, I’m not sure if I want to be you, or be thankful that I’m not.”
Tom scoffed, unable to help his grin. “It’s the worst feeling in the world, to be away from her, to exist without her, after knowing what it’s like to be with her—”
“Not exactly selling it, Kazansky,” Mav interrupted.
Tom rolled his eyes, “I wasn’t done, dickhead.”
At Mav’s grin, Tom continued, “As I was saying, it’s the worst feeling in the world, to be away from her, to exist without her, after knowing what it’s like to be with her, but knowing that I get to come home to her… that makes it all worth it.
I hope you get this someday, Mav.
You sure as hell deserve some fucking happiness in this life.”
Mav smiled weakly, but honestly. “Maybe one day, Ice.”
The two of them smiled at each other, before Tom clapped Mav on the shoulder. “We better get going—the guys should be awake now, and if we don’t get to mess, Slider and Merlin might just take all the good stuff.”
“Good is relative,” Mav scoffed, making him laugh.
“Okay—the better stuff.”
They laughed, beginning to make their way back in.
But just before he stepped through the door amidships, he couldn’t help but look back at the horizon, the sun shedding the last of its dawning gentility, to turn into the harsh, blazing light that it was in this part of the world.
Eighty-four days.
Eighty-four more sunrises holding her only in his heart until he could also hold her in his arms.
It was a high price, to be sure, but in the face of having eternity as hers, what was eighty-four days?
Until then, he’d count the sunrises, holding her close to his heart.
“Hey Ice, you coming?” Mav called.
“I’m coming,” he replied.
And with that, he stepped inside to do his duty, eagerly awaiting the next sunrise, each consecutive one bringing him closer to his home, to his beloved wife.
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I headcanon Ice as having Russian descent, but quite frankly, you can tear Slavic!Ice from my cold, dead hands.
To me, he’s either Polish or Russian.
Russian Glossary
Disclaimer: endearments and translations taken from Google—please don’t hesitate to correct me if I’m wrong, which, odds are, I am.
Lyubimaya moya: my darling/my one and only sweetheart
Solnishko: little sun
Zhizn moya: my life
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jinkicake · 1 year
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Hi
Flowers for you because you deserve 🤗
I wanna ask if you've already made a forced marriage with Deinslief?
I love reading your works ❤️
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Forced / Arranged Marriage Trope
(pt. ??) Dainsleif x Reader
A/N: Hi, Anon!!!! You're too sweet </3333 Thank you for the flowers, they're so pretty TTTT I haven't written one of these for him yet but, I wrote it for you!!! I'm sorry that this took a while, I've been writing but never have the time to post!!! I love Dain so I hope you enjoy this!!!!
WC - 988
~~~
“Knight captain of the Royal Gaurd, Dainsleif.”
The announcement of your betrothal looks as if it means nothing to you. Dainsleif can read the judgment in your expression, he can see how displeased you are as you run your pretty eyes up and down his kneeled frame.
Oh, you have no idea what you do to him.
It seems that you have nothing else to say to him, to the one which you are going to be married to, or anyone else as you turn and head back for your room.
Before you leave out the door, you take a step back and gently spin on the tips of your toes to face the remaining audience in the room.
“He is who I am supposed to be married to? A knight?” You do not hide the judgment in your voice as you speak with a squeak.
“Part of the Royal Gaurd, your majesty,” One of your handmaidens answers and it does not satisfy you in the least. Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline as you manage to give her a tight-lipped smile.
You await their bows and curtsy before stepping out of the room, no doubt heading for your place of solitude. No matter how much you despise this alliance and wish to push the knight off, he knows you better than you think. Dainsleif knows why you push eligible bachelors away, one after another until the last they could pick from was him.
You value your independence more than anything else.
It’s also why he knows to find you at one of the more reserved fountains hidden away in the court’s garden. You’re all alone as you prefer to be, looking pitiful as ever while staring at your reflection in the rippling waves of the water.
The sounds of Dainsleif’s light steps gather your attention, a quick turn of your head but, you’re quickly back to running your gloved fingers against the surface of the water.
“I did not wish to insult you,” You quietly murmur and the knight takes it as the only apology he is going to receive from you tonight. He cherishes it.
“I understand,” Dainsleif stands beside you, his back toward you as he looks on at the hidden bushes of the garden. The shrubs are so tall that he can’t imagine anyone finding you here for hours, it’s clear why you prefer the spot so much.
“I do not have the desire to be a wife.” You confess and finally, allow your hand to scoop up some of the water. The substance completely drenches the material covering your palm but, it’s a sensation that does not bother you. You relish in the feeling of your hand in the water, it’s freeing and calm, you can choose to move however you wish. Dainsleif grants you silence as a sign to continue. “I am not devoted, not submissive in the least. I worry more about the country than I’ll ever worry for my future husband.”
Dainsleif’s jaw clicks with that as he quietly sighs, would you not care for your husband even if he were the one fighting for the country?
“That does not matter to me,” He replies and softly lets his eyes flutter shut. “I will let you keep the freedom that you desire.” At the lack of response, the knight opens his eyes and turns to face you. You’re staring at him, chin on your knees as you try to understand his perspective. He can tell you don’t understand an ounce of his harbored affections, one that has been buried for many years. The pout on your face signifies this, you look lost as you stare at the stars in his eyes.
Slowly, Dainsleif lowers himself onto one knee (fitting of a knight) and gently pulls your hand into his own. He takes his time with removing your glove and keeps his eyes trained on your face to see if your expression changes.
“I promise you will get everything you want, your highness,” He seals the promise with a kiss on the back of your hand, a gentle peck that makes you gasp. The sound is followed by a bodily reaction as you stiffen all over and immediately try to pull away.
“Why?” You ask and the quickened rise and fall of your chest does not go unnoticed by the knight. He keeps his trained eyes away from the sight. “Why do you wish to marry me?”
“Your happiness is always something I have cherished, if you trust no other man to make you happy then you must allow me.”
“Accept me.”
The expansion of your pupils tells the knight everything he needs to know, followed by the shallow intake of your breath. He forces himself to withstand his feelings of desire and tries to think of anything else than sealing the plead with a proper kiss.
You blink at his words, parting your lips to speak but no words come out. As you look down at him and run your eyes over him one more time, you begin to nod.
“Alright, only because you have properly protected me for so long.” You announce before bringing your hand to gently cup his cheek. Dainsleif has known you since he got the position assigned to you, over five years ago before either of you broke the yolk of adolescence. “And, because I know you will be a good husband.”
The softness swimming in your eyes nearly makes the knight’s heart stop. His breath hitches in his chest as he tries to mask the effect you have on him. The task is entirely hard to do now since you’re finally reciprocating his feelings.
Dainsleif will personally see to your utmost safety until the day he no longer roams this earth.
((Perhaps that vow is why his lasting immortality stings that much harder since he ends up living much, much longer than you do.))
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distort-opia · 10 months
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This might sound silly and i know bruce is bisexual and all but from a queer standpoint, the scene where he proposes to selina feels a lot like compulsory heterosexuality. "I love you. I HAVE to love you."
And considering the timeline, joker was HIDDEN INSIDE BRUCE'S BASEMENT my god the implications, the metaphor....
Yeah, the whole thing is... [clears throat] very interesting. These two panels, which happen relatively close in time, put it into perspective:
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Batman (2016) #32 // Dark Days: The Casting
However, to be entirely honest, I don't think Bruce proposing to Selina, and that whole arc... can be boiled down to just compulsory heterosexuality. It's more complicated than that. Bruce is doing this after interacting with the Batman of Flashpoint, his own father, who begs him to try and be happy. And Bruce's idea of happiness, very much inspired by Thomas', is settling down with a woman and having a family. Gaining peace.
Tom King is the one who wrote the wedding arc, and the whole thing is permeated by this... typically masculine, American idealization of women as this isle of peace that a tortured man yearns for, but can never fully choose. I'm sure there's names for this trope or stereotype, but I'm too lazy to look this up. Think Michael Mann movies, think James Bond movies, think stories about criminals and agents and soldiers leading a dark violent life aspiring to put down arms, and the whole dream being entangled with a woman. A female character who usually isn't fleshed out beyond the representation of leaving a life of violence behind, having a nice wife and nice children in a nice house with a nice white picket fence. Tbh it's not surprising to me that King ended up writing Bruce and Selina with these undertones, because of King's infamous background with the CIA before he became a comic book writer.
And thing is, I don't think it's inaccurate to portray Bruce this way. Bruce has lead a long life of violence, and he wants to want to stop. He wishes it didn't define him as much as it does, he wishes there was another path for him-- and this wish drives his attempt to settle down with Selina. "I have to love you" is less about "you're a woman and I should marry a woman", it's more about "if I love you I am more of a human being, and I need that." Yes, it's compulsory heterosexuality too, in the sense that Bruce is drawing from the heteronormative idea that happiness can only be achieved through normality, and normality = wife and retirement. But it's also a sad, desperate attempt at salvaging himself through Selina, whom he does love... but the things he loves about her are less about her, and more about himself. In the end, his own subconscious acknowledges all of it, during the Knightmares arc:
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Batman (2016) #69
[sigh] It's all quite sad. And I've said it in a different post, but this is partly why -- in a seemingly paradoxical way -- a relationship with Joker has the potential to work. "You can't love anyone but the Vow, but the Bat," Selina (a figment of his own mind) tells Bruce. And Joker is part of the Vow. In many ways, over the decades, Joker has become the endgame of the Vow, the incarnation of all the things the Bat is supposed to defeat. It's fucked up and makes me want to chew on glass, but the Bat could allow loving Joker, because loving Joker would be a part of the Mission.
Anyway, I went on a bit of an unncessary tangent, but yeah! I do agree, Anon. So many implications.
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bonefall · 4 months
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post/734733274896809984/do-you-ever-worry-your-own-writing-might-come-off that makes sense. i was asking because i'm afraid of accidentally writing misogyny myself and i kind of admire what you do
Hmm... I wish I had better advice to give you on this front, but honestly, the only thing I can tell you is to consider the perspective of your female characters.
Women are people. They have thoughts and feelings of their own, so like... just let them have their own arcs. A lot of the worst misogyny in WC comes from the way that the writers just don't care about their girls (or, in the case of tall shadow, actually get undermined and forced to rewrite entire chapters), so they're not curious about their lives, or WHY they feel the way they do or what they want, or any direction for their character arcs.
Turtle Tail as an example. She'll often just end up feeling whatever Gray Wing's plot demands. She's gotta leave when Storm dumps him to make him feel lonely. She shows up again to love him in the next book. Lets her best friend Bumble get dragged back to Tom the Wifebeater, but is sad enough about her death to be "unreasonably angry" with Clear Sky, and then calms down and accept Gray Wing is right all along.
And then she dies, so he can have his very own fridge wife.
In this way, Turtle Tail's just being used to tell Gray Wing's story. They're not interested in why she would turn on Bumble, or god forbid any lingering negative feelings for how she didn't help her, or even resentment towards Clear Sky for killing her or Gray Wing for jumping to his defense. She isn't really going through her own character arc.
She does have personality traits of her own, don't misunderstand my criticism, but as a character she revolves around Gray Wing.
So, zoom out every now and then, and just ask yourself; "Whose story is being told by what I wrote? Do my female characters have goals, wants, and agency, or are they just supporting men? How do their choices impact the narrative?"
But that's already kinda assuming that you already have characters like Turtle Tail who DO have personalities and potential of their own. Here's some super simple and practical advice that helped me;
Tally the genders in your cast. How many are boys, how many are girls, how many are others?
And take stock of how many of those characters are just in the supporting cast, and compare that to the amount you have in the main cast.
If you have a significant imbalance, ESPECIALLY in the main cast, fire the Woman Beam.
It's a really simple trick to just write a male character, and then change its gender while keeping it the same. I promise women are really not fundamentally different from men lmao. You can consider how your in-universe gender roles affect them later, if you'd like, but when you're just starting to wean yourself off a "boy bias" this trick works like a charm.
Also you're not allowed to change the body type of any girl you Woman Beam because I said so. PLEASE allow your girls to have muscles, or be fat, or be old, or have lots of scars. Do NOT do what a cowardly Triple A studio does, where the women all have the same cute or sexy face and curvy body while they're standing next to dwarves, robots, and a gorilla.
Or this shit,
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If you do this I will GET you. If you're ever possessed by the dark urge, you will see my face appear in the clouds like Mufasa himself to guide you away from the path of evil.
Anyway, you get better at just making characters girls to begin with as time goes on and you practice it. It's really not as big of a deal as your brain might think it is.
Take a legitimate interest in female characters and try not to disproportionately hit them with parental/romance plots as opposed to the male cast, and you'll be fine. Don't think of them as "SPECIAL WOMEN CHARACTERS" just make a character and then let her be a girl, occasionally checking your tally and doing some critical thinking about their use in the story.
(Also remember I'm not a professional or anything, I'm just trying to give advice)
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bradshawsbaby · 2 years
Text
Until I Saw You
Pairing: Rooster x Future Wife!Reader (featuring mentions of Goose x Carole)
Author’s Note: I wrote this based on this request I received, though it definitely ended up being longer than the drabble I said I’d write. It’s a counterpart of sorts to You, Me, and Karaoke, since it features Rooster’s perspective on the first time he laid eyes on the future Mrs. Bradshaw.
Warnings: Nothing but lots and lots of fluff!
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“Mom, how do you know when you’ve found the one?”
He was fifteen years old and his heart had just been trampled by the girl he’d been dating for the past six months. It hurt, no doubt, to be dumped out of the blue, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that his ego had taken a harder hit than his heart. Shouldn’t he have been more broken up about it? Maybe. But he wasn’t. And that had led him to wonder how he would ever know if he’d found the right girl.
His mom, standing at the sink washing dishes, looked over at where he was sitting at their kitchen table, glumly eating a bowl of ice cream.
“Aw, honey,” she sighed in understanding, drying her hands on a dish towel and walking over to wrap her arms around him. “That girl didn’t know what she had in my darling Bradley,” she grinned, planting a big kiss on his cheek. “I never really liked her anyway,” she added, straightening up and taking the seat across from him at the table.
“Mom!” Bradley groaned, pushing his bowl of ice cream away and running a hand down his face.
“What?” Carole scoffed, batting her eyes innocently. “I didn’t. She wasn’t the right girl for you.”
“But how will I know when a girl is the right girl for me?” Bradley pressed, returning to his original question.
His mom was quiet for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face as she contemplated his question. “I’m not sure how well I can really explain it, but I’ll give it a try,” she began slowly, tapping her chin lightly. “When you meet the girl who’s the one, you’ll just know—”
“But how will I know?” Bradley demanded impatiently, an exasperated expression on his face.
“Don’t interrupt your mother,” Carole told him with a twinkle in her eye, biting back a laugh. He looked so much like his father when he made faces like that, a fact that simultaneously warmed and broke her heart. “I’m getting there.”
“Sorry,” Bradley murmured sheepishly, resting an elbow on the table and leaning in closer to hear what his mother had to say.
Smiling, Carole nodded. “Mhm. So as I was saying, when you meet the right girl, you’ll just know. You’ll feel it right here in your chest,” she explained, placing a hand over her heart. “She’ll light you up from the very inside and make you forget that there were ever any other girls you could have ever possibly had eyes for. She’ll make it hard for you to breathe, but in the best way possible. And you’ll just know,” she finished firmly, as if she had just recited a scientific fact.
Bradley sat in silence for a few moments, mulling over his mother’s words. Then he glanced up at her and smiled slightly. “Is that how it was with you and Dad?”
Carole laughed at that, though her eyes got that look in them, the look Bradley had seen countless times throughout the years whenever they talked about his father—a mingled look of love and grief and joy and pain. “Oh, yes,” she nodded, gently fingering her wedding band. “Lord knows I never knew how to breathe properly when your daddy was around. Did I ever tell you what he told me once, about the first time he saw me?”
Bradley shook his head and leaned forward eagerly. He loved the stories his mom told about his dad. They always made him feel so real, like he was sitting right there beside them.
“He was with Mav, naturally,” Carole grinned, resting her cheek in her hand as she recalled that day as if it was yesterday. “They came in for lunch at the restaurant where I was waitressing. Your dad said that while they were waiting for a table, he saw me running a huge order out of the kitchen and it felt like the whole world stopped turning. For a second, it was just me and him and no one else.” She smiled, her eyes getting misty the way they did whenever she talked about him. “And then he apparently told the hostess that he needed to be seated at a table in my section. Mav backed him up, of course, saying they’d wait as long as they had to for a table to open up,” she laughed.
“And the rest is history?” Bradley grinned, nudging his mother affectionately. He knew his friends would think it was mushy, but he loved hearing stories about his parents’ relationship. They’d gotten married so young, and yet had so few years together. He would never get tired of hearing stories about the time they got to share with one another.
“And the rest is history,” Carole nodded, reaching over and squeezing his hand. “And to think, your dad and I grew up just a few towns apart from each other and never met before then. Fate has a funny way of working things out the way they’re meant to happen,” she told him, that sad look flashing through her eyes quickly.
“So that’s how I’ll know then? When I see her and the whole world stops turning?” Bradley asked, taking his father’s words about his mother to heart.
“That’s how you’ll know,” his mom affirmed, rising from her seat and dropping a kiss on the top of his head. “And what a lucky girl she’ll be, the girl my baby chooses to spend the rest of his life with,” she said, pinching his cheek playfully. “That girl I know I’ll like, unlike Miss What’s-Her-Face,” she added with a laugh, walking back over to the sink.
“Thanks, Mom,” Bradley murmured, rising as well and walking over to press a kiss to his mother’s cheek. “I’ll finish the dishes. You go relax.”
“See? A lucky girl indeed,” Carole smiled, squeezing her son’s arm and taking him up on his offer.
Bradley spent the rest of that night, and the days and weeks that followed, contemplating his mother’s words and taking them deeply to heart.
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In the years that followed, especially the years after he had to bury his mother, Bradley never forgot what she had told him that night. But he also never found what she had described. He dated lots of girls, sure, and even thought he loved a couple of them, but he never found the one who lit him up from the inside, the one who made the world stop turning the way his mom had done for his dad.
On his loneliest days, he often wondered if he’d ever find what his parents had shared. Maybe the love they’d had for each other, the kind that made it hard to breathe in all the best ways, was just too rare for him to find. Maybe the woman that was meant for him just wasn’t out there at all. It was a depressing thought that he tried to push out of his mind, but as the years passed, it plagued him more and more.
“I don’t know, Mom and Dad,” he’d murmur sometimes, when he felt lost and adrift. “I don’t know if I’ll ever find her.”
Finding “her,” the elusive woman of his dreams, was honestly the last thing on Bradley’s mind when he walked into The Hard Deck with Phoenix, Bob, Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, and Hangman that night. They’d had a long day of training exercises and were just looking to cut loose with some drinks and a few rounds of pool.
He had certainly not been counting on you.
It had been a few weeks since he’d had the time to stop by Penny’s bar, so he hadn’t been aware that she’d hired anyone new to work the floor, running orders from the bar and the kitchen. He hadn’t been in the bar for more than five minutes when his eyes suddenly landed on you.
And the whole world stopped turning.
He had never seen any woman as beautiful as you. With your bright eyes and infectious smile, your cheeks flushed from the heat of the crowded bar, and little wisps of hair escaping from your ponytail and kissing your forehead and cheeks—he didn’t know how to take his eyes off you. And suddenly he found himself wondering how there ever could have been any other girls he possibly could have wanted.
Because he couldn’t tear his gaze away from you, he noticed, well before you did, the bag that someone had carelessly left sitting in the middle of the floor. With your focus fixed firmly on the bar, you didn’t see it at all, in fact, and Bradley knew that you were going to trip right over it. Without a second thought, he shot his arm out and quickly wrapped it around your waist, steadying you as you stumbled before you could fall to the floor.
“Oh, thank you! I—”
If you said anything else, Bradley didn’t hear it because at that moment you lifted your eyes to look at him and his chest tightened inexplicably. It felt strangely warm in a way he had never experienced before. He found that it suddenly seemed hard to catch a breath, and yet he didn’t mind at all. He gladly would have forgone breathing altogether if you just kept looking at him with those gorgeous eyes of yours.
“Careful, darling,” he chuckled, his hand resting gently on your elbow. He bit his tongue, wondering if he should have called you “darling.” Somehow, though, it felt right.
Your lips parted slightly and his heart did a somersault in his chest and then Hangman’s voice cut through the crowd and ruined it all.
“Bradshaw! Quit flirting and get your ass over here for your turn or you forfeit!” he called from the pool table.
He could really kill Hangman sometimes.
Gazing down at you and smiling apologetically, Bradley slowly turned away and walked back over to his friends, but not without shooting several more glances your way over his shoulder. He felt the breath return to his lungs only after you were out of sight. Yet it wasn’t a feeling that filled him with relief, as being able to breathe should. Instead, he found himself searching for you all night, craving the lightheadedness that came when the world stopped turning.
His breath caught in his throat whenever he spotted you and his heart soared whenever he caught you gazing back at him. You always looked away first, an adorable look of sheepishness crossing your face when he caught you staring. Though he tried, he wasn’t able to talk to you for the rest of the night, which crushed him a bit.
“I didn’t know you hired some new waitresses, Penny,” he said, feigning a nonchalance he certainly didn’t feel as he closed out his tab a couple hours later.
“Just one,” Penny smirked, a knowing look gleaming in her eyes. “She’s very sweet. I think you’d like her,” she added with a grin.
Bradley tried not to choke at that, rapping his knuckles on the bartop as he nodded stiffly. “Good night, Penny.”
“Good night, Rooster,” Penny chuckled, her gaze drifting between him and you as he made his way out of the bar. She had a feeling she was going to be seeing a lot more of him in the coming weeks.
Climbing into his Ford Bronco, Bradley let out a soft sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. In spite of himself, he couldn’t help but grin as he thought back over the past couple hours. He rather liked the feeling of the whole world coming to a standstill.
Glancing down at the picture of his parents that he kept tucked in the center console of his car, he smiled. “I think I found her, Mom and Dad,” he told them. He knew somehow, without being able to explain it, that they were smiling, too.
And as he drove home that night, one thought kept running through his mind over and over again.
I’m gonna marry that girl someday.
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mclennonlgbt · 4 months
Text
Riding to Vanity Fair
I know this song has been on the McLennon songs list for a long time, but I recently listened to it again and was struck by how much it is about John. And what a different perspective Paul takes here. He usually sang how much he loved John, and here he reveals his frustration, possibly in reference to the conflict from the 1970s.
The first verse goes:
I bit my tongue I never talked too much I tried to be so strong I did my best I used the gentle touch I've done it for so long
which reminds me of this quote:
“I always find myself wanting to excuse John’s behaviour, just because I loved him. It’s like a child, sure he’s a naughty child, but don’t you call my child naughty".
Paul continues singing and decides to stop suppressing his anger and resentment towards the other person:
I'll tell you what I'm gonna do I'll try to take my mind off you And now that you don't need my help I'll use the time to think about myself
which reminds me of:
There’s no hard feelings or anything, but you just don’t hang around with your ex-wife. We’ve completely finished. ’Cos, you know, I’m just not that keen on John after all he’s done. I mean, you can be friendly with someone, and they can shit on you, and you’re just a fool if you keep friends with them. I’m not just going to lie down and let him shit on me again. I think he’s a bit daft, to tell you the truth. I talked to him about the Klein thing, and he’s so misinformed it’s ridiculous.
This excerpt touches me the most:
The definition of friendship Apparently you're to be Showing support for the one that you love And I was open to friendship But you didn't seem to have any to spare While you were riding to Vanity Fair
What the "riding to Vanity Fair" would be? My interpretation is that this is what John was doing during his interview with Jann Wenner in 1970 (later released as Lennon Remembers): belittling Paul's talent, criticizing him for taking the initiative in The Beatles, and presenting himself and Yoko as True, Non-Commercial Artists.
Some people believe that the song is addressed to a woman. I think this is nonsense. Even if we ignore everything I wrote earlier, look at this:
There was a time When every day was young The sun would always shine We sang along When all the songs were sung Believing every line
This "believing every line" could be a reference to John and Paul's communications through music.
I don't think Paul hated or hates John (or vice versa). However, I think he had the right to be angry with him and feel sorry.
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dragonagitator · 5 months
Text
I started out just wanting to write a "Modern Girl in Faerun" author self-insert fanfic of BG3 in the tradition of all the "Modern Girl in Thedas" fanfics I've enjoyed over the years in the Dragon Age fandom. You know, someone who has played the game gets transported to the world of the game and uses her foreknowledge of events to steer for the best ending and pursue her favorite romance, yadda yadda yadda.
And then I thought, oh, I should also write a sequel from Gale's perspective that runs parallel to the first story that's about him trying to figure out if she's just crazy or what.
I decided that while my MGIF character will be successful in using her foreknowledge of events to achieve the best or even better outcomes for the main events of the game, it would be hilarious if that same foreknowledge of events also led to her inadvertently flubbing every single scripted romance progression scene with Gale so that it ends up being an even slower burn than canon.
Meanwhile, most of the companions (including Gale) don't believe her story about how they're fictional characters in an interactive story she's played as a game because there are so many other plausible in-world explanations for why someone would have her foreknowledge of events. So Gale thinks she's mentally unwell, and he struggles with the ethics of pursuing a romantic relationship with someone whose interest in him is at least partially predicated on (what he believes to be) delusions.
It works out in the end, but Gale's perspective of what the fuck is going on is so divergent from hers that it would be a fundamentally different narrative.
And then as I was researching Forgotten Realms lore for the first set of stories, I realized it would be hilarious if I wrote a post-canon sequel about Gale and the MCIF trying to plan their wedding in Waterdeep while the events of the D&D modules Dragon Heist and Dungeon of the Mad Mage are unfolding in the background.
And then while I was researching stuff for that, I learned that it's Forgotten Realms canon that Elminster knows about Earth, has a portal to Ed Greenwood's house, and regularly visits Ed and few other D&D authors to give them more lore to write about.
So then I realize that while the Elminster we meet during BG3 is actually a Simulacrum and thus wouldn't be privy to anything Elminster didn't think it needed to know for its mission, presumably the real Elminster would show up for Gale's wedding. So if Gale happened to mention his new wife's unfortunate "delusions" to Elminster, Elminster could rock Gale's world by confirming no she's been right all along. Thank you, Elminster, for the best gift a bride could ever receive: the opportunity to say "I TOLD YOU SO!" to her husband. Lol.
And then I thought if Elminster has a portal to Ed's house in Toronto, what if Gale and the MCIF eventually used that portal to flee to Earth for some reason? Either to escape the reach of Mystra, or maybe because their child has a condition that's treatable on Earth but not with Faerun magic/medicine ala Outlander?
Then we could have another story in the series that's a reversal of the first story's trope -- a "Faerun Character in Modern Earth" story of Gale going through culture shock while also losing his connection to the Weave and thus losing all his wizard powers AGAIN. Mmmm angsty.
This is my first time writing fanfic, I've only written a fraction of the first story so far, and I've already come up with at least three sequels I need to write too.
What.
The.
Fuck.
I now fully understand what fanfic authors mean when they cry about "the plot bunnies are multiplying."
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empirearchives · 7 months
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I want to learn more about Napoleon and Josephine’s relationship. Can you tell me about it?
Of course! I love talking about Napoleon and Josephine’s relationship 💕💕💕
Let’s see. Well, Josephine was Napoleon’s first wife, and Napoleon was Josephine’s second and final husband.
They were married in 1796 when Napoleon was 26 and Josephine was 32. Their marriage lasted until December 1809, when Napoleon was 40 and Josephine was 46. They separated for political reasons, and Napoleon said “She has graced fifteen years of my life, and the memory of this will remain for ever stamped on my heart.” (Sergeant, The Empress Josephine; Napoleon's Enchantress Volume 2, p. 517)
Long periods of their marriage were spent apart due to the war. Josephine wrote to Napoleon when he was far away in Warsaw in 1807: “I took a husband in order to be with him!” (Castelot, Napoleon, p. 320)
Other times were spent traveling and living together. They had no natural children together, but Napoleon adopted Josephine’s children from her first marriage.
It was not an arranged marriage set up by their parents. In fact, Napoleon did not even ask for his mother’s permission (or tell her until after), which was considered to be disrespectful as it broke traditional Corsican custom. Napoleon’s parents had an arranged marriage when they were teenagers. Josephine’s first marriage was arranged when she was a teenager. Napoleon set up many of his relatives marriages. But Josephine and Napoleon’s marriage was a love match, so in that way, it was unique.
Josephine was Napoleon’s “star” or memento of good luck. When they got together, he got her a medallion that said “To Destiny” which is really quite prescient considering that they had no idea then what an amazing and extraordinary destiny they would have together. Together they lived through wars, created and broke empires. They ushered in the modern era and played a key role in all its hopes and sorrows. The years in which they were at the forefront were ones of incredible social, cultural, economic and political transformation.
Many details of their relationship are murky. Unfortunately, not a lot of writing from Josephine has survived, though there is some. However, we are very lucky that Josephine saved so many of Napoleon’s letters to her and kept them safe, so they have survived when so many other letters have not.
One of the appealing aspects of their relationship and the reason why a lot of people find it fascinating is because it is considered to be a more “equal” relationship, relatively speaking when considering the standards of the age. In many ways (though not all), it was actually a reversal of norms. It was not a child marriage. It was not an arranged marriage. It was a rare case of a man marrying an older woman instead of a younger woman. At the beginning of their relationship, it was Josephine who had greater influence (though Napoleon would quickly become the more dominant one). In actuality, Josephine had a lot of issues, but she did come from the old French aristocracy and she was also part of the social circle of wealthy and politically powerful French elites. Napoleon did not come from either group. From his perspective, Josephine was a glamorous and alluring figure. She was part of an exclusive world that was out of reach for people like him and so many others. So what you see, Napoleon married up the social ladder.
What is interesting is that Josephine technically married down the social ladder and she managed to pick the one who would make her an empress. It is quite an ironic twist of fate. Who could have seen it coming?
But you know, she found him alluring too, and saw something fascinating in him. This is what Josephine said after meeting Napoleon for the first time: “His piercing look has something about it quite mysterious which impresses even the directors.” (Zamoyski, Napoleon: A Life, p. 106)
She described him as having “the strength of a passion of which he speaks with a force which does not permit any doubt as to its sincerity.” (Zamoyski, Napoleon: A Life, p. 106)
Her first impression of him was of someone who she found to be both unsettling and extraordinary.
There was infidelity in their marriage. First by Josephine, then mostly by Napoleon. They kind of mirrored each other. At first Napoleon was passionately devoted to Josephine, whereas she was unfaithful. Then Napoleon felt quite alienated and betrayed by that, so he became more guarded. Whereas Josephine fell increasingly more in love with Napoleon and was loyal to him, while he was the one being unfaithful and having affairs.
After their marriage ended, Napoleon continued to support and provide for Josephine for the rest of her life. He was no longer her husband, but he was her “protector”. They saw each other in person less and less. That’s not to say that they forgot about each other or ever stopped caring about each other.
This is from a letter to Josephine that Napoleon wrote when he abdicated and was headed to his first exile in 1814:
“Farewell my dear Joséphine, resign yourself just as I do and never lose the memory of the one who has never forgotten you and never will forget you.” (Lentz, Napoléon: “My Ambition Was Great”, p. 131)
I genuinely believe that Josephine died of a broken heart, even though it sounds cheesy. It’s impossible for me to believe that it was just a coincidence when considering the timing. She “caught a chill” a few weeks after Napoleon fell, and she never recovered. When Josephine learned about Napoleon’s exile to Elba, she said “If it were not for his wife I would go lock myself up with him!” (Erickson, Josephine: A Life of the Empress, p. 337)
She wrote to her son on 9 April 1814: “What a week I have spent, my dear Eugene! How I have suffered at the way they have treated the emperor! What attacks in the newspapers, what ingratitude on the part of those upon whom he showered his favors! But there is nothing more to hope for. All is finished.” (Erickson, Josephine: A Life of the Empress, p. 335)
She died on 29 May 1814, the month after Napoleon abdicated. Napoleon never saw her again. When he was younger, he wrote to her: “Have a good rest. Haste to get well. Come and join me, so that, at least, before dying, we could say—‘We were happy for so many days!!’” (Hall, Napoleon's letters to Josephine)
And I think they truly spent many happy days together. In 1814, Napoleon was speaking to Caulaincourt about Eugène (Josephine’s son), and he said “His mother made me very happy. Those are the sweetest recollections of my life.” (Knapton, Empress Josephine, p. 317)
Different people have different opinions, but I think they were soulmates or perhaps even toxic soulmates. They had a turbulent relationship, and of course they had flaws. Both of them were unfaithful, dishonest, toxic and possessive. But their strengths and weaknesses complemented each other a lot and they seemed to genuinely love being together. In the end, it was a rare and unique love.
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msbarrybeeson · 10 days
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Before You Go - P.6 | Future Donatello & April O’Neil Insight
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(Reader Included)
A/N: Any constructive criticism is appreciated. Reader comments and feedback are also welcomed a lot. 
I have been gone for a long time. Just occupied with my studies! No fan fiction author curse or anything (yet).
Summary: You’re both adopting-parents of Casey. The story follows the perspective of Donatello and April O’Neil during the Kraang apocalypse. You and Leonardo decided to ask them to watch over thirteen-year-old Casey.
In other words, familial interactions between April, Donnie, and Casey Jr.
Reader: Gender-neutral pronouns are used, except the terms “(Mom / Dad)” are also used. Second POV.
Pairing: Rise! Future! Leonardo X Reader
Warnings: Bittersweet.
Word Count:  ~3490
Parts: One / Two / Three / Four / Five / Six / ...
~
Donnie knew how much of a genius he was.
It was no surprise after all. In his late teens, he improved NASA’s satellites to communicate with planets light centuries away. He cured breast cancer through the use of protons in radiation therapy to target specific cells, rather than affecting the harmless. Hell, he even managed to discover a new type of radioactive particles: mutons. By that point, he—.
“—should have been given a Nobel Prize in Medicine and in Chemistry.” Donnie cursed under his breath. He strolled over to his lab bench, equipping his goggles.
Squeeeak. 
April– who was found seated on Donnie’s roughed-up, spinning gaming chair– raised an eyebrow. Her hair had grown out and was left unbounded. Faint wrinkles and eye bags on her features displayed maturity, in contrast to a couple of years ago. However, everyone was well aware that time was not the only factor. 
“Whatcha going on about now, Donnie?”
The softshell huffed. “Recall when I wrote a report about my experimental findings with an invention meant to revive a deceased human being?”
“...You mean the one where you thought it was a good idea to open up Curie’s tomb? Even gone as far as to ask for my help?” April grimaced. “Who’d ever forget that.”
She proceeded to massage her temples. 
“God. You were in all kinds of messed up for that, Don.”
Lightning-like yellow sparks flickered as Donnie had his robotic hands occupied with a butane torch. His goggles were sealed tight around his eyes as he built a oval-looking device on his lab bench. Titanium outer-layer over a seriously complex circuit-board; appearing as if Samsung marketed grenades.
He scoffed. “Oh please. It wasn’t as if I’d taken long to understand how Marie Curie deserves her rest for her great contributions to radiation. Thus is why–.”
“–You decided to take a poor random husband of an old wife,” April interjected.
“Ahem.” Donnie pronounced. “The poor woman was begging me for her husband to be alive again. I was simply gracious and generous enough to not charge her for the process.” He set aside the butane torch. “At least it progressed well; he stayed alive for an additional two years. It gave his wife psychological comfort, and I was able to submit my paper to the N.S.F..” 
He picked up a screwdriver. “Except....” 
April could tell her friend’s eye was twitching. 
“They rejected my findings, nearly had me detained, and claimed it was far too ‘unethical.’” Donnie raised his volume. “Scoff! As if those researchers weren’t committing the crime themselves! Taking bodies away from families and claiming them as scientific property without permission.
If I could go back in time and shove my documents in their jaws, you bet I would.”
April smirked. “Well, I have my regrets too, Donnie.”
“You sound rather amused, April. Is that so surprising? And here I never thought you would regret your part-time job at Albearto’s. Or the fact you wasted money to switch to journalism in university.”
WHACK!
April threw her bat at Donnie’s head, flying back to her hand like a boomerang.
“Watch your mouth, mister. I may have regretted Albearto’s, but not a single moment in my life did I ever regret my journalism passion.” She stood up.
“Ouch.” The softshell vocalized, squinting his eyes toward her. His robotic clampers paused, setting aside the torch and taking off his goggles. 
“Mind yourself, April. Horse-playing is forbidden in the laboratory. I am not consenting to having yet another silver-titanium apparatus get scratched because of you.” Donnie gritted his teeth. “Can you hear the negative connotation?”
“Seriously, Donnie? Where’d that come from? Not only was that years ago but it ain’t anything except a simple accident.” 
“‘Simple accident?’” the softshell repeated with dramatic offense. “An accident, like many others in science labs, which could have caused severe damage! Remember the incident when your teacher dumped bleach and vinegar into the trash bin?
You know, if you had paid any attention in your chemistry class, those two would make mustard gas?” Donnie side-eyed his friend. “Simple accidents can have serious consequences, O’Neil.”
A hand crept up the lab bench.
“Uh-huh, and I’m supposed to believe an instance of me knocking over your phone and books would kill somebody?” April crossed her arms. “If anything, the blame’s yours for not organizing your desk when you got drunk on coffee.”
The hand took ahold of the butane torch.
“Donatello? Disorganized? Sounds cheap coming from you, a student majoring in Journalism.”
April pulled up her coat’s sleeves. “Oh boy, you’re about to get it—.”
Squeeeak!
Heads spun and found a 13-year old boy, replacing April’s spot on Donnie’s chair. Casey eyed the torch with a great yet concerning amount of curiosity.
“Yo, what’s this for, Uncle Don?”
At lightning speed, while April ran to move the gaming chair away further from the workbench, Donnie snatched the tool from his hands. “Child. Casey. Young man.” The softshell heaved loudly. “I must inform you this is NOT meant to be handled with such casual ease. How in Hawking did you even—.”
“Don’t your lab have a passcode or something?” 
“–Is what I am wondering myself, O’Neil. I refuse to believe this child remembers the beginning thirty numbers of π–.”
“Nope, only us.” April and Donnie lifted their gazes to his lab entrance. You leaned on the frame while a dear red-eared slider stood just behind. A couple of steps inside, and the metallic lab door shut close. 
Donnie– strangely– was quick to hide his device-in-progress off to the side.
“You’re back!” April grinned. “Hell, you would not believe the convo Donnie and I were having a minute ago.” She hurried to hug you.
“Figures,” Leo remarked. “We could practically hear you yards off.”
“Sounds like things never get old.” You smiled.
There was a side-eye between Donnie and April, before the Commander proceeded to inquire, coughing: “Anyhow.. care to explain the occasion? You two don’t seem to be in a hurry.”
“The only times you ever visit my laboratory are to prepare for immediate combat engagement, and you look awfully collected.” The softshell furrowed his brows.
“No, no.” You waved your hands, shaking your head. “Thank God no. We came here to ask if you two could take care of our Casey here while we head out.” The other turtle scrunched his in-quote eyebrows. “You— You came here to request us to... babysit him?”
April jabbed him in his plastron.
“You see? Just like I said.” Leo turned to you. “I know my brother, love. Don’s not the kind of guy to take responsibility for a kid. Or anyone, really.”
“Hold on.” Donnie narrowed his eyes. “I never said I refused, Leo.”
“Don’t know, it sounds like it to me.”
“Well, my misinformed brother, contrary to your belief, I am perfectly capable of handling a child.”
You huffed with amusement. Your husband only winked back.
“If you say so, Don.”
“Where are you two heading off for if you needed us to watch over him?” April inquired. “Wondering, ‘cause this never happened even when you two leave for patrol.”
“Just finding some time for ourselves.”
April exclaimed, “As in a honeymoon? Why not just say so? We’ll leave you two alone–.”
“–In this economy and climate?” Donnie interjected. “Has it also not been six years since your yet-to-be-legal marriage?”
“Alright, alright,” Leonardo chuckled. “Cut us some slack, bro. Finding time wasn’t easy when there’s Kraang above our necks.”
“Right, and you’re going on a honeymoon, how?” The softshell crossed his arms. “Simply because you’re the leader does not equate to you making wise decisions, Leo.”
“His ōdachi can teleport anyone to anyplace, we have some hope we can easily teleport to a remote area,” you answered. “One without Kraang infestation. It’ll be hard, but we may as well try.”
“Bonus points if we find clear skies and an ocean.” The red-eared turtle grinned, wrapping his arm over your shoulders.
“What’s a honeymoon, (Mom / Dad)?”
Your hand went to caress Casey’s cheek. “Parent quality time. It just means you get to handle yourself like the responsible grown-up you’ll become one day. Just promise me you’ll be on your best behavior around Uncle Don and Auntie April?”
“I promise, (Mom / Dad)!”
“Good boy,” Leo laughed, ruffling the kid’s hair.
“You didn’t ask Mikey and Raph to help out too, or?”
“Between you and me, I think you guys are better of making sure Casey doesn’t get into any chaos,” you whispered to April. “Don’t tell them that, though.”
She laughed. “Okay, I see how it is. You both have fun.” 
Donnie bit his lip. Right as Leonardo and (Name) turn to exit the laboratory, he extended his arm out to them.
“Leo, (Name).”
You two faced back to him once more.
“Don’t kill yourselves out there.”
Everyone’s eyes widened– April, you, and Leonardo himself. But the brother in blue snickered, holding a smile that reached his eyes. “So you do also care for me, Don. And all this time I thought you were plotting to put me in my grave or something.”
“We won’t.” Leo placed a hand on your shoulder. “You got my word.”
“Bye (Mom / Dad)! Bye Papa!”
“We’ll be back soon, Casey!”
Donnie stood in silence as you finally left, leaving himself with none other than his best friend and his nephew. “I refuse to believe this is the future we have to deal with.”
“Times changed all of us, didn’t they?” April spoke. “One day we wish each other a good one, and the next, we hope we just don’t die. I could’ve been a famous news anchor by now, make my mother happy, fight crime without worrying about dying the next second.
..I wonder if there’s anyone else out there besides the small number of us down here.”
“..I doubt it.”
Donnie pulled himself together and walked back to his workbench, operating his clampers to work once again. He put on his goggles. Casey, being a young teenager of enthusiasm, peeked over.
“Watch yourself, boy,” April warned.
“Don’t worry about me, Auntie. I’m only standing over here.” Casey narrowed his eyes upon the glowing and metal-like ball his uncle had his tools on. “What are you working on, Uncle Don?”
“A sphere.”
“A sphere?”
“You heard correctly.”
“That sounds kind of boring.”
Donnie had to hold himself back from remarking with: ‘That is exactly what every child whose intellect is doomed would say.’
“I’m sure your mother would find it rather moving.”
“(Mom / Dad)? I don’t understand what’s emotional about a ball, though.”
“Hey Casey.” April coughed. “Why not tell us about your mask here? Haven’t taken a good look at it before. Maybe Uncle Don would like to hear it too.”
“You actually want me to talk about my mask?”
“Ain’t a problem, is it?”
“No.” He fidgeted with his fingers a bit. “You don’t have anything else to do?”
“We were just told to watch over you, kid.”
“Yeah, but everyone I know is always busy with the Kraang or supplying weapons. I never really get chances to hang out.”
There was a brief pause in the butane torch’s flame.
April’s expression softened. Her hand came up to brush his black hair. “Things have gotten calmer up there. So you’ve got plenty of time with us now.”
Casey smiled.
“So your mask?” 
The boy alternated between covering his face and removing it. “(Mom / Dad) gave it to me. She told me it is based on the one worn by my biological mother. (Mom / Dad) also said that my birth mother was kind of crazy-funny and likes to be loud. She would have a stick to play– what was it– hockey?
I don’t know what kind of game hockey is supposed to be, but I guess it’s nice to know how life was like before all the Kraang.”
A sad smile crept on April’s lips. 
“Anyways, I thought the mask looked kind of plain, so I decided to draw red marks on it. See?” Casey showed his mask off, fingers tapping the surface. “Guess who it looks like!”
There were two bold and thick streaks of red. Each one ran through one eye, truly a defining characteristic. The Commander chuckled, already imagining how much pride her friend in blue would feel from the fact a kid– let alone one he had been parenting– looked up to him so much.
“You know, I am seeing someone familiar here.” April hummed as she put on a thoughtful facade. Fingers holding her chin and everything. “Got to be Uncle Don.”
Named turtle paused for a moment and raised a brow.
“Seriously, Auntie April?” On the other hand, Casey gave her an incredulous look and shook his head. “You probably want to get your eyes checked out, ‘cause Uncle Don doesn’t have any red stripes.” Off to the side. “And even if he did, he won’t look as cool as Dad.”
April snickered behind her palm as Donnie eyed the boy from behind his goggles.
“You’re right, you’re right. Just messing with you, kid.” Her hand ruffled his hair once more. “Sounds like you really admire your Papa, don’t you?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Dad has an awesome sword that opens up portals. He always moves so quickly whenever he’s fighting. Bam! And the Kraang’s gone!” The teenager stretched his arm for emphasis. “Even as the leader, Papa knows when to get serious and when to make people laugh. He also cares a lot about me, (Mom / Dad), you guys, and everyone!”
It made even Donnie himself smile. 
However, the way Casey’s enthusiasm died down had not gone unnoticed. “I’ve always wanted to help out though.” He sighed, shoulders slumping. “I want to fight the Kraang right by his and (Mom / Dad)’s side. Except I barely get the chance to, because they keep telling me to stay close to base and hide behind a giant rock.”
April crossed her arms and went quiet. His feelings were nothing new. In fact, she experienced the same thing herself, seeing she had always been a human. It was like that until–.
“Have no hard feelings,” Donnie spoke up, his hands and eyes remained on his spheric gadget. The sparks were flying. “Your parents are merely worried about your well-being.”
“I know, I know. They won’t have to though, if I can have enough training or something.” Casey sighed. “Then again, I also know I’m only a normal sensitive human.
...Why can’t I be a mutant instead?”
“Ahem. You are classified as a human. That is a true statement and one you cannot change.” Donnie hummed. “However, that does not mean you cannot be strong and capable in other ways.”
“Why does it sound like you’ve been in my place before?”
“Perhaps I did. Did you truly think being a soft-shell turtle is easy? I happened to be born as one of the only Testudines species whose outer shell cannot protect.” Donnie remarked. “Casey, your mask.” His hand signaled.
“What about my mask?”
“I merely want to add something.”
Confused, he hopped off the chair and handed the mask over. “Hmm. As long as you don’t mess with the stripes, Uncle Don.”
“Who says I won’t?”
Casey kicked Donnie’s leg.
“‘Ow,’ I say sarcastically without feeling physical pain.”
“Hmph.” He crossed his arms. “Why do you keep saying things like that?”
“Such as?”
“You say those action verbs, even when you’re already doing them.”
April snorted. “Just his thing, kid. Uncle Don’s got his special quirks.”
“Do you have a quirk?”
“Picking unnecessary fights for one,” Donnie commented.
“You only call them ‘unnecessary,’ because you never want to fix the problem.”
He rolled his eyes. “My solution would’ve been ten times more efficient if you had allowed my technology and I to do the work.”
Casey wondered. “Does your tech ever go haywire, Uncle Don?”
“No.”
“Oh man,” April began, “you should’ve been there for this one time. Your Uncle Don was building some kind of overprotective bed to keep your late Gramps from waking up from his beauty sleep.”
“Gramps likes to sleep?”
“You’d be surprised to hear that he sure does.”
“Then what happened?”
“Uncle Don asked your Dad, Uncle Mikey, and Uncle Raph to try punching, slicing, throwing whatever they could on the bed. They were attacking it like crazy!”
“And then?” 
“And the bed was even more insane, ‘cause there were actual missiles shooting out! They went straight for his brothers. At some point, it got overboard, so Uncle Don tried to command it to stop.”
“I’m hearing a ‘but’ coming.”
“But it malfunctioned and thought Uncle Don was the enemy!”
“However!” Donnie pointed his finger up, interrupting the story-telling. “It did not take long for my creation to recognize his master.”
“Still went haywire in my book,” April remarked. 
“Ignoring that.” His robotic hand tapped the edge of his workbench, grabbing Casey’s attention. “Come here, young man.” He slid back the mask, except in his hands, it felt as if the frame had thicken.
“It looks the same, but it doesn’t feel the same?”
“Try wearing it over your face.”
The boy did as told. All of a sudden, a bunch of green rectangles and words appeared in his vision. He gasped in awe. He spun around slowly, watching the rectangle focus on a figure through the wall.
“Yes yes, I know. I am well aware of how amazing I am.” Donnie huffed in pride. “I have opted to construct an interface with your mask. I cannot see why you shouldn’t have something to defend yourself with,” he reasoned. “I have other updates in mind later on. As of now, however, your mask will help you detect life forms across other rooms or through other objects.” 
“That’s so cool!” The boy hesitated though. “But I don’t want to break it or anything.”
“Hey.” April rested her hand on Casey’s shoulder, giving a firm squeeze. “Our resources are already scarce. Using then losing them is better than nothing. You better make the most of our tech. Understood, soldier?”
Casey grinned underneath his mask. He fixed his posture up and saluted. “Gotcha–! Understood, Commander!” 
He faced the inventor, whose hands were already back to being occupied with the “sphere.” “Thanks so much, Uncle Don!” Casey exclaimed, leaping towards the turtle to give a tight hug. “You’re the best!” 
Upon contact, Donnie stiffened up, but his lack of experience with physical touch did not prevent a smile forming on his face. He extended a robotic arm, patting Casey’s back. 
The boy then scanned around curiously with his mask. “Hey! Think I spot Uncle Mikey and Uncle Raph two floors down! They’re holding hands over a table or something. Why are so many people circling around them?”
April rolled her eyes. “Sounds like another arm-wrestling match between the our youngest and oldest brother.” 
Just like that, Casey booked it out of the laboratory so quickly, it reminded her of a certain red-eared slider. “What the–! Casey!” April groaned. “And here I thought we don’t have to deal with runaway kids. I better catch up to him.” 
“Would not worry about him too much,” Donnie commented. 
“What do you mean by that?”
“Considering we will not always be alive to protect him... the sooner we leave him to himself, the easier it will be for him to survive alone.” 
“Hey. Come on now.” April walked to her best friend’s side. “Don’t you say things like that. We’re all going to survive this together–.”
“April.” Slight pain wavered in his voice. “You know as well as I do how our current reality is. It is only a matter of time before the Kraang finds everyone.” 
“Yet you’re still here trying.”
No response.
“It’s all because of the kid, isn’t it?” April affirmed. “He ain’t any genius prodigy you were expecting long ago. But he gave you a reason to try– he became someone worth fighting for.”
“I would not put it as simply as that.”
She shrugged. “That’s how I’d say it. You know you’re not the only one whose life changed because of Casey.”
Donnie paused his work, turning off the butane torch and finally pulling his goggles off his eyes again. “...Casey reminds me of when we were young, being rash and immature teenagers like any other. I hate admitting to such thing, but I was one too. And I hate admitting much more how much I missed those times.
The child has known nothing of the trouble we’ve experienced outside, April: when Cassandra was killed, when Draxum was torn apart, when Dad decided to sacrifice himself despite the slim odds.” His hands clenched into fists.
“Do not expect me to have any false hope for our future, but do not assume I would want Casey to feel the same way. For as long as he can, I want him to hold onto that false hope.”
“...” April had her arms crossed. Her eyes slowly came to linger on the workbench. “Is that ‘sphere’ his false hope?”
“..No. Not his.” Donnie traced his thumb over his contraption. “It’s for (Name).”
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mayumiiyuu · 2 years
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Eddie x reader
Where she hits a bully with a lunch tray because they’re making fun of Eddie for something stupid because she don’t take none of that shit
I love violent reader insert
A/N: i too, love violent reader insert, with all my anger issues (which I should prolly talk to my therapist about) I too would smack anyone with a lunch tray if they made fun of the love of my life.
e. munson || violent delights
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tw: mentions of (well deserved) violence against douchebags
While you were relatively new at Hawkins, only having lived there for about two years when you transferred in your sophomore year of high school, you had earned quite the reputation for yourself as none other than the badass of Hawkins High.
It wasn’t that you were mean or unnecessarily cruel, the basket ball team douchebags had already taken the title as bullies of the school anyhow, it was just that you were frank, brutally honest, and utterly allergic to bullshit.
You didn’t bother with the stupid made up rules about cliques being unable to mix, despising the social hierarchy with all your heart and soul, you were friends with the people you wanted to be friends with, from all different sorts of groups. From the funny band kids to some of the less pretentious, nicer cheer leaders, to even some of the nerds that played dungeons and dragons, you only ever made space in your life for genuine people, people who could be their most authentic selves without worrying about the status quo.
Your reputation as an absolute badass first started when you called out your old, racist, sexist, homophobic, and all-things-a-bigot-was English teacher who gave you a backhanded comment in class when you wrote about how F. Scott Fitzgerald was a shithead who basically plagiarized his wife’s work and plastered his name on it when you were supposed to do an in-depth essay on The Great Gatsby and it’s themes involving “the American dream”. You smirk at the memory of him basically cowering at your feet when you called out the fallacies he had used when you debated with him.
But, you had officially earned your title when you broke a jock’s nose by slamming his stupid face into a locker when he had made a sexist remark at you right before he tried to lean in an swap salivas with you.
You had been sent to detention that day, and that was the fateful day you had made acquaintances with with a certain metalhead. After telling him your reason of being there, he had applauded you, inviting you over to his club to join in on one of his campaigns. Unable to refuse as you had wanted to get to know him more, you agreed.
From then on, you found yourself constantly within the company of Eddie Munson.
You liked him, with his whole eccentric personality, witty remarks, and weird sense of humor, you had become friends with the boy fairly quickly despite his outcast status—which, of course, you didn’t give a damn about. He made you laugh the hardest you had ever felt, stomach aching to the point you swore if you laughed anymore you’d grow a six pack; he was someone you often sought out for to have some of the most interesting, thought provoking conversations. Despite his carefree demeanor and utter lack of concern for his academics, you had observed that Eddie was actually really smart, able to dismantle societal concepts with his disdain for conformity, hell, you even admired the guy for his open mindedness.
Though you had made friends, you could only ever really count them on the fingers of one of your hands, as people were too intimidated by your blunt demeanor to approach you. That, combined with your resting bitch face, made it hard for people to view you in a warm and welcoming perspective.
But you had decided long ago that whoever was too intimidated by your aura and sharp eyes weren’t worth your time. If your reputation and the rumors they had heard of you honestly made them hesitate to befriend you, they weren’t people you wanted in your life anyway.
Currently, you sat at a lunch table with Eddie and the other members of Hellfire, throwing your head back in laughter as you cackle at one of Eddie’s snarky jokes about the popular crowd.
As if they had heard him, Eddie’s own sworn enemy stands from his seat and makes his way towards your guys’ table.
Ever the observant one, you had spotted him get up from his seat, by scanning his body posture with his clenched hands as well as the look of contempt in his eyes, you silently prepared yourself for battle.
As he saunters over to the table, a few of the other basketball jocks following behind him, you let out a tsk.
Didn’t even have the fucking balls to come here himself, no, he had to bring in reinforcements.
The glare you send him almost makes him want to turn back and torment the D&D nerds another day, but since he was a man with his pride on the line, he very idiotically ignored his gut feeling.
You intertwined your fingers together, propping your elbows on the table as you rested your chin on your hands, eyeing his movements carefully.
The others quickly catch on, the freshmen, who you knew as Mike and Dustin, quickly avert their gaze and freeze like deer in the headlights, as if Jason Carver was a T-Rex: he can’t see you if you didn’t move.
But if Jason was a T-Rex, you were motherfucking Godzilla.
He flashes them his signature smile before Eddie rolls his eyes at him.
“What do you want, Carver?”
“Oh y’know, just wanted to see what the freak show was up to—hey, didn’t anyone tell you guys the circus left town the other day?” The blonde says sarcastically as his goonies laugh at his weak ass joke.
You stay silent, thinking that maybe, just maybe, in that pea sized brain of his, he would somehow find some common sense and realize what the hell he was getting into.
“Fuck off, will ya?” Gareth replies, exasperated from the jock’s incessant attempts of intimidation and bullying.
“And the geek speaks!” Jason cries. “What, you guys feeling brave now that (last name) is sitting at your table?”
Eddie stands, his form most definitely towering over Jason’s, in order to defend his friend.
You only pay half attention to whatever Eddie says to him, glare glued onto Jason, laying patiently, silently in wait for that jackass to give you a good reason to knock him into next Tuesday.
Whatever Eddie says to him riles him up more than Jason reckoned.
The blonde laughs, the sound devoid of any amusement at Eddie’s words.
“Why don’t you take you and your satanic cult and get the hell away from here, yeah? Or, better yet, why don’t you jump off a bridge? Doubt anyone’ll miss you,” every word that comes out of his mouth makes you want to claw his eyes out. “You’re nothing but a freak, Munson, no one fucking wants you around. Bet your parents left you with your uncle because they couldn’t stand to see what an utter disappointment their child was—or, maybe they couldn’t find it in themselves to love a freakish monster like you.”
Good, you thought, that sentence was reason enough for you.
You grab your lunch tray, lowering in order for him not to catch onto what you were about to do next.
You plaster a smile on your face, which had him somewhat fooled. He smiled back at you warmly.
“(y/n), come on, why don’t we escort you away from these freaks,” He starts, gesturing you over to him and his friends.
Tch, typical meathead jock, not a single thought in his brain. Had he seriously not noticed the look of pure death in your eyes?
“Of course,” your voice is nauseatingly, sickeningly sweet that it sends a shudder up Jason’s spine. “But, first—“ were the last thing Jason heard before you lifted up your lunch tray high in the air as you swung it at him, hitting him smack dab on the face.
He lurched backwards at the force you had hit him with, blood coming out his nostrils as his friends caught him before he could land on the floor.
Too bad, you would’ve loved to see that.
Eddie and the rest of your friends are absolutely stunned, while at the same time admiring how gracefully and effortlessly you had just attacked the captain of the basketball team.
As Jason somewhat regains his consciousness, he wiped the blood that had started to dribble from his nose onto his upper lip, panic and shock written all over his face.
You bend your knees slightly as you lean in towards him, his so called friends too chicken to even try to defend their captain from your wrath.
“Next time you try that shit again,” you start, placing the lunch tray down on the floor. “It’ll be the last thing you ever do, mkay?”
He stammers, hands shaking under your vicious stare.
“Nod if you understand.” You say, ensuring the message got to him loud and clear.
He gulps, nodding his head slowly.
“Good.” You state, flipping your hair as you waltz your way back to your seat, sipping your apple flavored juice box.
The whole cafeteria looks at you with the same and utter shock Jason had just given you, murmuring to themselves about the scene that had just unfolded while Jason was basically carried by his friends that acted like his crutches.
Eddie sits down and exhales. “That, was the single most amazing thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life,” he looks to you, veneration in his eyes as he chuckles. “All hail (y/n)!”
The group continues to chant Eddie’s statement, banging their fists on the table as they praise you. You roll your eyes playfully at their antics before standing up to take a bow.
Suddenly, you freeze, and all commotion in the cafeteria comes to a halt as a well dressed man strode his way towards you.
Through all your time in his office, you recognize the man instantly.
“Principal Higgins,” Mike breathes out as he glances towards you worriedly.
“(y/n), to my office, now.”
You turn around slowly, slumping your shoulders as you follow his orders.
“Yes, dad.” You groan inwardly.
But as you catch sight of Eddie giving you a smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief, you can’t help but feel the pride swell in your chest.
Detention, suspension, community service, or even having to clean up the garage, whatever punishment your father had in store for you would be worth it.
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