#♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚈 ⤷ but i’ve no need for mighty deeds when i feel your arms around me.

[flownintothesun]

A sappy little something from my pack to their loves over @batteredoptimist . They had an incredibly hard time picking only five each, for how can you contain your entire heart to a set of five songs? ♡

[flownintothesun]

an official request for @batteredoptimist 's James, Muriel and Rosie's hearts this Sappy Day.

                                                                    𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒,                                                                     𝐹𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑠, 𝑊𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑦 & 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛 ♡

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    [ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 ] : 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐭. 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲

                              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝟒𝟎𝟒 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝. ( @batteredoptimist )

       𝐄𝐃𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 of some villain in a psychological thriller — right down to the gray London skies darkening by the minute in preparation for an autumn rain. He says that he doesn’t want to make a fuss about it — but there are police cars here, and neither Westley nor Muriel do well with the police. They’ve outgrown the helplessness involved with a police trip down to the station, but there are some things that just settle at your core as trauma — and a trip back to the Joneses almost always involved being in the back of a police car. Sure, they have security at the hospital, or cops that come in with criminals, or to investigate a case — but that’s different. Their eyes aren’t on him then. Right now, he doesn’t even need to listen to Doctor May’s victory speech to know what’s at cost here — his job, his degree, his prospects, his license, his freedom — and more importantly than all of that, James and Muriel.

      Muriel’s already on the phone with Coco, his features dark and serious — he tells the police it’s their lawyer — but Coco will know better than any lawyer what to do here, and Westley can’t just believe that something like this can happen. There’s no goddamned justice to any of it. He looks down at James’s small warm hand in his own as they all try to coax his lad away from him — and he drags him into an embrace, hand on the back of his head, whispering against his hair, “I’m not going to let this stand. We’ll figure something out, bloemetje. I promise.”

      It’s about now that Westley’s really regretting his decision not to attend law school because this is taking too goddamned long, and his hands are really tied, and Edward’s face is gradually turning the color of a disgruntled and angry turnip. How tragic, to not be in control of someone’s life. Westley will sift through every legal file in London’s hearings if he has to. There’s just no fucking way this piece of shit has any rights to James. His little flower is his own goddamned person and — fuck, he’s Westley’s person, too.

      His little dear fucking whimpers and Westley’s heart is out with that sound. He wants to wrap James up in his wings, stroke along his hair and kiss his forehead and tell him that they’re going to get him out — that he’s going to be safe forever.

       “I hardly need tell you,” Doctor May continues, “That a relationship of this sort with — a patient — Mr. Greene, is highly inappropriate.”

      Westley’s face turns into a grimace — one that shows a person capable of great cruelty and malice, should he choose to embrace it, as seaglass eyes turn into a tempest. “I hardly think it’s more inappropriate than a conservatorship.” Okay, so maybe it is, but you know, Westley’s pissed. Muriel’s hand is on his shoulder, grounding him. For what his husband does for a living — he somehow still manages to be the calm in Westley’s storm, not letting him do anything too rash and destructive. “And it’s Doctor Greene.”

       “We’ll see,” Edward says calmly. “As you gentleman can see, this — man — has confused my patient — hoodwinked him, as it were. James is confused, lost his memory prior to being found. Who is to say the trauma and abuse he may have experienced. The safest place for him is in psychiatric care where he won’t pose a threat to himself or others. Where he can’t be misled from the path of God to sin, or be given ideas of things that will never be. Come along now, James. I know you’ve had quite the adventure, dear lad, but I assure you this is for your own good.”

      Westley’s ears are buzzing, and he looks up to Muriel, whose golden eyes are flashing. They can’t let James just — go — they can’t. “Anything?” he asks, softly.

      “I’m afraid the law is on my side here,” Edward says again — “Everything documented quite plainly.”

      “We’re going to need you to come with us, Mr. Pollard,” one of the officers says, stepping forward.

      Westley’s grip tightens — not painfully, but in a show that he’s not just going to let this go. “Not yet,” he says, “Not until we’ve spoken to our lawyer.”

      “There will be time for that, still, Mr. McCarthy,” Doctor May condescends, “But the law waits for no one. James deserves a stable place where he can heal. Would you really deny him that?”

       That’s what Westley’s been trying to do this whole goddamned time. “Of course I wouldn’t. If only I could say I trusted that you had his best interest in mind. Amnesia doesn’t render him incapable of his own decisions.”

      “But it does give him the lack of background to make informed decisions.”

      The police officers look tired, one sighs, “Mr. Pollard — please come along, we don’t want to make this any harder than it has to be.”

       “Muriel — “ Westley pleads. He’s never felt so goddamned helpless in his life. What’s the point? In any of this? In all of it? If he can’t keep the two that he loves safe from the world’s harm. “Please — “ he chokes.

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    ❛   𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫? 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐨?   ❜   (𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞)

                          ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 & 𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬.  ( @batteredoptimist )

     𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒 that linger far away on some distant shore. He isn’t steering the ship, he wouldn’t know exactly how far from that place they are now — and what would it matter anyway? Their youth and their humanity is gone — they will not find it some two hundred years back on the English shoreline where they made a home, and fell more in love by the moment. It is as lost as the engagement ring that he’d dropped when their lives had changed forever. Back in that place is a house on the seaside, and a nut-brown lad, waiting on his captain to come home.

      The memories ache fiercely in his chest — and he harbors more grief and remorse for the fate of those two young lads than he does for any of the countless bodies he’s deposited into a watery grave. If he thinks back to bare feet running down the dock, a mess of auburn hair swept by the wind, and the feel of his lad in his arms as they spun ‘round and ‘round — he does not feel joy. He doesn’t know if he’s capable of feeling joy. James Pollard the florist and Westley McCarthy the sailor are a thousand hot knives that pierce his body. They are invisible enemies from every angle that he can never kill or protect James from. Those enemies are embedded under his skin forever, trapped in the prison that his mind has become.

     When Westley looks in the mirror, his red eyes speak of imps and monsters — not some well-meaning lad who had always believed with all of his heart that the sea held the answers to everything. In the end, that’s why he’d dug up James’s roots, and brought him to this ship — once the pride of his life, and now nothing more than a goddamned floating graveyard. His hands are forever stained in blood — he sees it even when it’s not there, and to look at James — to touch him — is to taint him further. There is no undoing it — everything that has passed between them. What have they done to each other, indeed.

      How long has it been since Westley’s uttered the words ‘I love you’ to his lad? How long has it been since Westley had kissed the roots that ensnare the entirety of his ship as he let James carry them wherever he needed to go? How long has it been since Westley could even look James in the eye? Even now he wonders if he should have let James burn in his fire and fury — if an end, no matter how it happened was better than an immortal life on an immortal ship with the Devil himself. James is not James, he is simply The Willow. And Westley McCarthy doesn’t exist — he is only a monstrous legend told by mothers who wish their lads never to become sailors. The real warning should be never to fall in love. There has never been and will never be a single thing that Westley wouldn’t do for James — and that is why they are here.

      They can call him what they want. Levensboom — the tree of life. They will never stop hunting him — all of humanity wants what they believe only James can offer. For a chance at immortality, they are willing to pay the ultimate price — and Westley will continue to collect, because what is the alternative? Their axes and their weapons have left damning scars in James’s trunk and what is Westley meant to believe if not that all things beautiful will be desecrated because such is the way of the world? Isn't that what's been proven to him over and over again? But not him. Never him. The one who will destroy James in the end will be Westley himself. What is love, he wonders, if not anguish — if not pain? He thinks he recalls that there was once a different answer to that question. The butterflies in Westley's stomach are dead. He'd ripped off their wings himself long ago.

       Is this the immortality that everyone seeks so desperately? If so, they can have it. Kill him and pick him apart until they find the secret of his own eternal youth and damnation. He gives up. He’s done. The sea can take him. He doesn't have the answers. He never did.

        The Arcady groans and splits as she hits the shore.

[flownintothesun]

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍 :

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── with all of the love to nonny's ( @batteredoptimist ) muses, as always and as ever. of course i couldn't do a meme without mentioning my muses' darling loves.

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    [ 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐲 ]: 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. (𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲 @ 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞)

                ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a closed one-shot for @batteredoptimist.

       𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐄𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄, the way the sound just stops as Westley takes the stairs two at a time — quiet, all but for the sake of his footfalls, trying frantically to reach the one he loves in time. He’s out of breath and his heart’s ticking away like a war drum, rolling one beat into the next as he passes a sculpture of Jesus in his crown of thorns at the top of the stairwell. And, all right, Westley’s never subscribed to religion — but he has read the Bible out of sheer morbid curiosity, and he’s pretty sure this guy was all about love and camaraderie  — not the shit that Edward May has justified in His name. Jesus would be right to cry in a place like this  — a place where a soul might go to die.

       There’s only horror that fills Westley’s heart through each room he checks  —  a room designed for private prayer with two mats below the alter, light still beaming in through the window as though the sun hasn’t yet lost its memo to shine on a day like today. There’s even a church pew with Bibles resting in the corner of the neatly polished wood. But James isn’t there. Nor is he in the dingy, lightless room with the small bed under which is a system of restraints, like this is an asylum, and not a home. All for the sake of control. And Muriel’s got it covered downstairs  — soon, Westley won’t be the only one with murder on his hands. He only hopes he’s in time to absolve Edward’s soul from the murder he’d intended to commit to that precious lad with the sunlight caught in the auburn of his hair, and the color blue forever trapped in his eyes.

      The door before last in the hall doesn’t yield, though Westley can hear the steady plonk of water as it drips onto its brethren in what sounds like a full tub. There’s no time to pick the lock, there’s no time to waste at all as he hauls his own smallish body back as far as it can go, and shoulders into the door once and then twice before it starts to give. He repeats the process again and again, wasting precious seconds before the door budges and at last gives way.

      The tub is exceptionally large, enough to fit even Muriel’s long legs, long enough for a lad of James’s size to submerge completely beneath its depths, leaving nothing but desperate, frantic splashes of water upon the tile that have since ceased. James is still, his hair floating like strands of kelp in the ocean around him, his face deathly pale as Westley hauls him up out of the water. There’s no gasping for air — there’s no rise and fall of his loved one’s chest. No sign that that beautiful heart is still beating. He lays his precious lad on the tile gently as he can, tearing at the straight jacket that had prevented him from moving as Edward May had done his worst.

       Remembering what Muriel had taught him, he begins chest compressions — too frantic at first, but finding his groove bitterly to Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’. Not today. Not to-fucking-day. He pumps and pumps, tries to get the water out of his lungs through those parted lips that he remembers kissing so dearly. I should have told you, I should have told you.

     When chest compressions fail he begins trying to resuscitate by providing air. Nothing. “James, it’s your Westley. I need you to wake up now.” Hot tears begin to track down his cheeks. He’s too late, he’s too late. But he won’t give up. “Baby, c’mon...” he whines, “Open your eyes, fight for it, breathe...”

       Water trickles from cold lips before coming in a blast, all over Westley’s clothes, but fuck if he cares. He’s quick to haul James up, patting on his back. When he does so, for a moment he can see the wild panic in those blue eyes as they open. James will never be the same again. But he’s alive. Holy fucking hell, he’s alive.

[flownintothesun]

"𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑."

      ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 23 January 2022.

              𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐒 as though the hand of whatever had doomed him to this cursed existence has decided all at once to expel him from it. He crumbles willingly, clay in maker’s hand. Toss it in the sea, after, be done with him, let him wash away into the salty abyss of a grave that encompasses them, has encompassed them all these years. All these years.

     He recalls to mind the shocking, numbing cold of his first day of existence  — the first day he can remember. But there had been hands then to pull him onto the ship. And now, all he wishes is to jump. It consumes him, grief, the same swirling all-consuming abyss that destroys. Destroys others, but no more than they destroy him. He and his lad with the nut-brown hair.

      So long, it’s been so long...

      So long, and goodbye...

      Thunder crashes in the distance, lightning illuminates angry sea, ship rocking ominously. She’ll never go down. It’s what he’d wanted, right? A ship that’s the pride of the sea and her captain. Unsinkable, legendary.

      He’d gotten what he wanted, right?

      And here it is, the truth. What does it matter in the end? When you’re a monster you don’t get a happy ending. People don’t get to fuck up this much and come out of it with happiness, with love, with something good.

      Hell, he’s not even good enough to die. Their guns haven’t killed him. Their rage hasn’t killed him. Their legends have left him standing. The loneliness hasn’t killed him. The recklessness hasn’t killed him. Death itself has not come to call, but oh, sweetheart’s words are damning as they come.

      The numbness feels warm, fuzzy, all encompassing nothingness that plays with him like the only thing that stays. He lives, if you call breathing living. If you can call what’s become of them a life. He’s unable to help James, to love James in any of the ways that matter. And as punishment, here he stands, Captain of the Arcady, the ruthless, the feared, the absolute fucking monster of their nightmares. Fine.

     “Destroy me then. You’re the only one who can. Let's put an end to it. Stop pretending to be the people we no longer are,” he calls over the spray of the ocean, the strong winds. Leaves fall. It breaks his heart. “I will be the monster, and you will be the magic. Destroy me, love. May the gods have mercy on us both.”

[flownintothesun]

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍.

    ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 5 January 2022.

       𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐋𝐀𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌, nearly toppling back into the sea. Ah, the sea: the divine body which claims him away from this place, away from could be home with crying gulls overhead, and lover who smells of flowers.

     He arrives differently than he left, midway through this expedition, their letters had been rerouted from the metal scrap heap of the Odyssey, to a ship called The Arcady, which stands proudly behind him now, looking every bit a life-sized model of the old world ships seen primarily in bottles or museums. Wood sways in the water, and Westley feels happiest here, caught between his two great loves.

      Fingers lace into lover’s hair, and he kisses James tenderly once and then twice for good measure before turning him to face the ship, “Do you like her? She’s mine.”

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 (𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞) 

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 11 January 2023.

         𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐑𝐆𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 — but it’s there inside his heart in each measure, in each beat as his wonderful lad rests in his arms, the canopy of his gorgeous auburn hair tickling Westley’s lips — he feels the sudden need to tell James that he loves him. It’s not as though he doesn’t say it often enough — he’d learned a long time ago never to take the precious things that one has in life for granted — it’s only that he’s here, and he is adored so wholly and utterly that it nearly overwhelms Westley’s senses. They’re not doing anything in particular — just nestled in on the couch, snuggled close and watching an old movie while Romeo sleeps off another headache upstairs. He tickles into his lad’s side until James squirms and looks at him with one of those megawatt smiles that make Westley’s heart do all kinds of funny things.

       Drawing his hand beneath James’s chin, he tilts his sweetheart’s head up to look him in the eyes, other hand stroking lovingly over the apple of his cheek. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?” he asks softly, “Or how proud I am of you?”

       A furrowed line appears between his loved one’s brows as it so tends to do in distress, or just when James is thinking as he does now, no doubt wondering where this is coming from.

      “You were so brave, sweetheart. Every step of the way. I think you might be the strongest of us all.” It’s said in earnest, no laughing, no making jokes. He does that enough. He can be serious too — and he is, serious in his love, serious in how much he needs his lad to hear this. “I’m proud of all you did to bring us here, and to keep us together. That was you, baby. No one else could’ve done that. It was damn near impossible but you and that pure, good heart of yours...” he trails off, bending down to press a lingering kiss to James’s lips. “I’m proud to call you mine, yeah? But I’m proud of everything you are on your own, too, James,” he tucks a strand of hair behind the lad’s ear that instantly springs back.

        “You’re kind and loving. I see it with Romeo and I, with Baby and Percy, and your parents. You try so hard and give so much, there are no limits to the fathoms of your heart. You’re strong in your convictions when it matters, and you are precious and you are good.” It’s no secret that they’ve struggled with the changes in Romeo from when he was their Muriel. But James’s positive outlook has been all of their saving grace. “I just...I thought you ought to know that I know how lucky I am to have you, that’s all.”

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    ❛   𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐢 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭.  ❜   𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞  

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 27 November 2022.

            𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐋𝐘  at one of the great loves of his life as though he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. They have, the three of them, been through absolute hell and back. And Westley knows the truth — people are mean and vicious and cruel...and they take. Oh, do they take. And so how, after everything, can James be laid on his lap, playing with a stray curl of his hair, looking up at him with a megawatt smile and eyes brimming over with happiness...

      ...only to tell him that he believes that people are inherently good. And protectiveness rises fiercely into Westley’s heart. Because where had these good people been when his papa left him? When the system had failed him? When he and Muriel had been ripped away from Mama and Papa’s cold bodies? When James had been taken and locked in a sewer for ten fucking years? Where were they when Westley’s nails dug into whatever was closest for purchase from the pain? When Muriel was forced to kill? When they needed a miracle or one person?

      Where was the help of these good people when he’d carried James through the sewer half-dead, and when he’d found his husband with more wounds? Where was help, and support when James flatlined on them and Westley’d thought he’d lost him for good?

      Where were these good people while they trudged around the world, just trying to make it home? Where were good fucking people when they’d been taken again? When they’d lost Muriel? While each of them took their turns nearly dying again and again and again?

      No. No, Westley refuses to see it. The only good fucking people are the ones that share his bed or share one of his names — James and Muriel, Mama and Papa, the Pollards, Doris. How, after everything? How does James believe in the goodness of humanity when there’s so much bad, so much horror in the world? “James...” he whispers, seaglass eyes narrowing and opening again in concern, as he strokes back auburn curls, kisses a pale forehead. “...How?”

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    ❝  𝐢’𝐦 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐰.  𝐢’𝐦 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞.  𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.  ❞ 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐎𝐝𝐲𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐲? 

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 25 September 2022.

       𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐘'𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄  pushing its way through him like his body is a river system. Knuckles are cut to ribbons — but the other man’s teeth got the worst of it. Well, not quite. Westley is not a tall man, standing at five-foot-eight, give or take a couple centimetres — but for this moment, he’s made himself big enough to fill the room, standing in front of James, snarling like a feral cat. When it comes to beloved, he is something superhuman — the urgency to protect overriding that of common sense at its basest level.

      He wipes his lip and spits blood on the ground, watching as the body at his feet shudders and shakes, heaves and then draws shallow breaths. James speaks to him, loves him, but his world is white-hot, full of fire and a buzzing that fills his ears like a hundred birds swarming, flapping their wings and leaving behind a mess of feathers.The feathers disintegrate and turn to ash. He can taste it on his tongue.

      When he turns around, storms rage in his eyes like the crashing of waves upon someone’s beloved ship, rocking to-and-fro on the ocean. Hair curls like so, messy and this way and that. He’d always wondered when he’d be put into the fighting pit, like Muriel. Always wondered when Claudio would toss them in together and leave them there until they were forced to kill one another or die of dehydration. Claudio isn’t a smart man, he’s never thought of the ways to hurt Westley and his loves in the sadistic ways that have haunted Westley’s dreams and plagued his days.

      Brute force has always been Muriel’s strength, forced. But Westley is a tempest that came out of nowhere on an otherwise sunny day. Damage is done, death lays at his feet, and he regrets it not. And here, this is the truth: they will never be safe until they’re out of here. They will never be okay until they are together in London and Claudio Rinaldi is in the sewers — rotting in an unmarked grave where no one will remember him. Like he’d left James to ruin and rot.

     Approaching his lover, he wraps him up in blood soaked arms and wonders which one of them is shaking as Westley smooths his hair, “I will never let anyone hurt you again, d’you understand me, lieveling? Never again.”

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    [ 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 ] : 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫, 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭. (𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞!)

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 20 September 2022.

       𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌,  in a rare moment of reprieve. Beside Westley, James still smells of sea salt and sunscreen, his cheeks a healthy red from the exertion. Every day he becomes more human, and less what he had been those months ago in the sewers. He’s bloomed like one of the gorgeous pink flowers on their balcony here in Positano. There’s a tell-tell for ominous music, and these old black and white movies leave a lot to be desired when it comes to jump scares, anyway. So, Westley doesn’t really think about it.

      But when he looks down, James’s eyes are a little buggy, staring into the screen. There’s the POP and the overly dramatic woman screaming, and James jumps too, spilling popcorn. When Westley looks down, James has his hand in a vice. His heart skips and warms, and...well, isn’t that a funny feeling? He wraps an arm around the lad and draws him in close. It’s not as though he’s not been there from the beginning, wholly invested. He’s seen James in every state he’s been in outside of that damp, dark prison — including ones a whole lot scarier than this movie. He chuckles, and so does Muriel as James tucks himself up into Westley.

     “It’s all right, songbird, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, James. We’ll watch something else, okay? I’m sorry,” he soothes, fingers through a nest of hair, “I didn’t mean for you to be scared.”

      Muriel smiles, and brings himself into the fold, and Westley realizes that James has hold of his hand too, and that that feeling warms his heart just as much as that small hand in his own.

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───  ‘  𝐨𝐧𝐞  𝐜𝐚𝐧  𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲  𝐭𝐨  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐧,  𝐛𝐮𝐭  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬  𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫  𝐢𝐧  𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞  𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬.  ’ 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲  

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 9 September 2022.

       𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐘'𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐘𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘,  almost like the static could catch the lightning crackling ominously in the distance. Every hair on sea-salt skin stands on edge as the wind whips he and his precious Arcady to and fro, caught in a bubble of existence outside that which is human. Sinister rocks loom in the distance, and he can hear the words of siren’s song clear as though they were in his native Dutch.

      “You are not the water, and I do not obey you,” he calls back, his voice cold as the damnedly frigid air that makes a home of their little orb of existence.

      Eyes the color of sea-glass flash red and angry. The ship groans as she shifts, and black ink trails from the veins in Westley’s fingers up his forearms, swirling in black magic, as though he is a writer, about to pen a different kind of ending. And still.

     The siren is beautiful. They are the sailor’s devil, coming to you as everything you’ve ever wanted to steal your soul. The lad looks warm though the water is ice, with his autumn-auburn hair and daydreamer’s eyes. He stands naked in the rocks, as though stranded. And were magic unreadable to him, he would be damned for trying to allow the creature a place within his heart. Hearts are not homes and the only fire to keep them both warm is rage. “I command the sea, and you have no power here.”

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── ❝ 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬, 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞ 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫   

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 24 August 2022.

         "𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒," 𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃.  This is not the story of how he’d wanted to love his darling battered optimist. This is not the story where he turns into a prince charming. This is the story of where the dragon had scaled the tower first — the story of where the dragon had brainwashed the needing saving into thinking he was safe. Where the dragon had burned the world to a crisp and where if Westley could ever be a prince, he’s come far too late for his declaration to mean what it should have meant all those months ago.

     “You’ve never been without love.” Love pours through him like water from a fountain, touches everything as though it’s on a flood plain. Plants bloom beneath his touch, captured in the praise of his loving words, his gorgeous heart. “Nothing that has met you would be ignorant of what it is to be loved. And you, you are loved. Always and forever, I’ve loved you.”

     Tears that he’d forgotten how to cry flow freely from him — he, too, has been drowned in the wake of James Pollard — lips like rain falling over him in a storm, the thunder of love that shakes him to his foundation, the hot flash of lightning when he screams James’s name and spills into him like everything in the world makes sense when they are together, never after. Only then. This, too, is what they call love.

     “And I don’t deserve the love you’ve given me,” he sobs, falls to his knees and places his head into James’s lap, “After what it cost you. I tried to keep you safe, моя любовь. I tried to keep you safe from my truth, and ended up destroying you with yours. I love you, James. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I bought you a ring and I lost you to fear. I thought I wasn’t afraid of anything anymore; but I was afraid that I loved you too much. That it could only end in you hurting too much. I couldn’t lose you, and so I’ve lost you, and I’ve damned Muriel, who loves you too.”

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── "𝐈𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐞'𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐤𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮  𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐖𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝  𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧- 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮  𝐚𝐫𝐞.. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰? 𝐈'𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲  𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝. 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭  𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐰𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮." 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @  𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲 (𝐎𝐝𝐲𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐲)  

            ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 29 July 2022.

          𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆. Their flower seems so far away. The air is warm here, salty sea air brushing through his hair, and he’s in a hammock, swaying with the waves. He remembers their summer in Italy  —  Muriel tanned dark and gorgeous, and James every bit a strawberry, despite the sunscreen. He wishes he could just disappear here, to this beach forever. But not like this. This is quiet, and this is lonely. Muriel isn’t calling to them to get in the water  —  and god, Westley doesn’t think he’s ever heard Muriel talk as much as he did in Italy. And James isn’t tucked under one arm, swaying with him, making the sea smell floral, like a tropical paradise. He doesn’t like to think about it. That this beach is all wrong. Because when he thinks about it, everything changes, and slips into a nightmare.

    There’s so much pain. So much pain. He remembers Muriel, walking with him along the river. He remembers thinking that it’s all wrong. That time isn’t what it should be. That it’s not time. It’s not time. And then he was here, alone again. And the pain dulls. The physical pain. He’s not sure what happened but he remembers screaming. Remembers Muriel there, and he’d been talking too fast and where was James, where was James?

   And then there’s James in the hospital bed and the alarms blaring because he’s seizing and they might lose him, oh god, they might lose him. Blood on his hands, blood on Muriel’s hands. Blood everywhere. Disconnect. Reconnect. Music. We can be happy, we can be happy. A bullet to the heart, Muriel’s last bit of life staining his hands, staining his shirt, circling the drain. James crying, why is James crying? Muriel’s too strong to die, too strong to die...

    ...The house on Primrose Hill. The garden. Baby at home, two lovers in his bed and no one’s dead. No one’s dead.

     He hears the roar of the ocean again.

     So, what happened?

     The monitor’s going faster. Who is in the hospital now? Pain. Pain. Muriel’s screaming in Italian and James is crying.

     Don’t cry, he tries to say, tries to brush away tears; but his lips feel like cement, his hands like steel...weigh him down and he’s sinking. I’m right here, bloemtje, I’m right here.

    He wants to say more, but he’s so tired. So tired...

[flownintothesun]

𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓, 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄:

  ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── In which James proposes to Westley. A legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 18 May 2022.

       𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐌 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐓 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐒, overcome with wild daisies in the spring. So much time has been wasted and spent, and they are not who they once were, though he can call memories to mind as though they had not passed a day sense. They, characters of a story that will never get written, with so much hope and love in their hearts. The story of a sailor and his lad, and of the forever that he’d meant to promise.

     Heart races in the chest of the being who was first man, and then monster, and then both. Years have dulled the shine, coated his precious forever in dirt. And still, he imagines that the markings remain in neat cursive just on the inside: ‘for the dancing and the dreaming’.

     He remembers early mornings twirling barefoot in the kitchen, lips pressed into James’ hair, murmuring that he’ll love him forever, that this will always be their song. Recalls more songs, too. When had he forgotten his nut-brown lad? When had the fear overtaken his heart and made the laughter die in his eyes? They well up with tears now, as he huffs out a laugh.

     They have come so far, and they have so far to go. He sinks to his knees in return, feels them squish in the mud as he pulls the love of his life into his shaking arms, “I see you’ve found my ring.”