#( when she moves she looks like a poem about loss ) extras.

[dino--draws]

HIGHLIGHTS FROM THE NEARLY TWO HOUR ADMONITION + EXTRAS POWER POINT

I recorded it and me and my friends do wanna edit it and be silly w/ it so you may actually get to hear the presentation [and if you want the presentation itself just shoot me a dm on discord or smth] at some point but!

"Enter this freak! [image of McDoctorate]" "he looks like weird al.............."

"whats this guys name?" "FUNNY YOU ASK THAT [goes to slide that says 'whats this guys name?']"

"Damn! Sucks for Abbie, man I was invested." "I KNOW I WAS SO SAD SHE DIED." "This is a loss for women." "This was NOT a win for feminism."

"This is the REISNO Cannon!" "...thats a guy." "IGNORE THE GUY IGNORE THE GUY!"

"Failing to fulfil the causal loop causes a paradox. So let's cause a paradox! This is Dougall Deering, a bitchass motherfucker that nobody likes!"

"This is the significance of September 8th!" "...the queen......" "Queen Elizabeth died!! This isn't relevant!"

[Someone I do not know came in and sat down to listen for a bit]

"So you guys know Weirdmaggedon right?"

"And then the therapist dies and it all gets worse."

"So it'll come back, right? Right??? [long pause] There is no cannon." "Ha."

"So you may be wondering 'where the fuck did he go?' and now we finally get into Admonition."

"Because we can't use Narrative travel to jump genres we're writing the Fix-it Fic in the Hurt No Comfort AU. I don't know why I worded it like that in the slide." "That's my fault." "Nonono you're right there."

"They use it to terminate anomalies!!" "Not the ANTIKILL facility.........."

"It was all going dandy and functional until they did something stupid and hubris."

[Me calling the PH-GOS "the silly device"]

"Oh no! Who could've seen this coming!" cries the dumb fucks who should've realized this was an exercise in facility forty years ago."

[A second, new person appears to listen in]

"Say it with me now: YOU CAN'T KILL A LIZARD [several people do say it with me now]"

"Anti-idea???" "Yes, anti-idea."

"We're gonna PEMDAS the starfish!"

"Nice try guys, it didn't work but it wrote them a poem." "Awhhh,,"

"AND THEN THE UNIVERSE FUCKING ENDED!" "Oh it's over already?" "WOAAHHH"

"You may be wondering how the FUCK this is the first article in this series. Well you haven't seen NOTHIN' yet."

"I understand why this is making you insane." "Yeah no I get it."

"Is he [PHMD] a creative

"Director Johnathan King is fucking dead!" "Who??" "Don't worry about it he's not important." "He sounds like he is!" "The only thing you need to know is that he's dead."

"IS THAT JERMA?" "where?" "WHY IS JERMA THERE!" "THATS JERMA???" [me having to explain Jerma]

"Our budget took a hit! So we're gonna devote all resources to build this thing! For the budget!"

"Why are we doing this?" "Because we need to make a man un-die but no other necromancy is working."

"

"WHY IS HE A CAT??" "Don't worry about it." "These two don't have faceclaims to my knowledge so have Dir. Vehmoff looking at manga and catboy Dir. Asheworth (catboyism not relevant here, 120 directorism relevant here)." "He seems sad." "He is sad."

"SO ASHEWORTH ✨ EMOTIONALLY MANIPULATES ✨ HIM INTO VOTING IN X/MACHINA’S FAVOR USING HIS DEAD FRIEND AS LEVERAGE!" "whys theres a 50% opacity dog...." "don't worry about it!"

"If this man says it's safe, I don't know what else to tell you. DRAMATIC IRONY IS A LITERARY DEVICE IN WHICH--"

[Me going off script to briefly and VERY excitedly ramble about pataphysics]

[My one friend comparing generic vs protagonist vs archetypical to a/b/o and me threatening to end her life several times before moving on in the excited ramble and we all think its cool as fuck btw]

"I'm gonna read this [the 6747 imagion particles stuff] because I think it's cool and its my presentation."

"So? When's the other shoe gonna drop?" "Probably right now." "Yes!"

"So sometimes we taze it! Personnel are to be reminded that its totally dead and we totally aren’t lying to your face. The therapist we hired to taze the brain wants to be amnestizied of tazing the brain. We told her no. sorry Ngo." "Hah." "Ngo,,,,,,,,,"

"also his name is sparky...." "well thank god for that."

"It's becoming bad fanfiction." "They're all having sex." "No they're not, there's no sex in this." "We are reading very different bad fanfiction." "Yes we are!"

[My roommate googling 2747 bazongas]

"I wanna punt him [PHMD] like a football." "Good he deserves it."

"GET IN LOSER! We're killing gods!"

"What Dr. Blake is about to do has not been approved by the Vatican." [My friends loose their shit]

"That's right babey! It's the motherfucking starfish again!" "WHAT??" "Oh shit!!"

"PHMD’s plan is to create an Unbound Prometheus to help them find the God within the human mind. And not in the Frankenstein sense i mean he wants to unbind Prometheus and promote him as the God of Humanity. And everyone is just ok with this!?!?!?! [I am gesturing frantically and my voice is cracking like hell] Like they restructure the education system and everything to incorporate this and the Foundation starts to pray to Prometheus and all that???? its wild and so casually mentioned too, but here we go we’re doin this!!"

"oh my god he's the modern Prometheus." "HE'S THE MODERN PROMETHEUS!!!!"

"ignore the fact they've given people early onset dementia."

"the exhilaration of severing a finger from a squirming human hand (ie. transcendence). [Pause] WELL AIN'T THAT JUST PEACHY :D"

''that was the SHORT ONE?" "Short and sweet! Not simple and short." "Heeheheh, yeah."

"It's killing all AI!" "yaaaaaaaaaaaaayy!"

"SO NOW DISREGARD THAT LAST SLIDE! BECAUSE I LIED TO YOU!!" "why would you do that,,,?" "what????" "THERE'S NO VIRUS. IT'S ANOTHER GOD DAMN FOUNDATION MADE EIGENMACHINE. THE VIRUS IS A COVER UP." "why are you talking like a republican conspiracy theorist."

"That's really fucked up, thank you!" "ISN'T IT???"

"Please take note to behold the comedic amount of power that LOTUS needs."

"I love 28 nuclear reactors."

"So things go to shit pretty fast! Cause guess what? PHMD touched the damn machine."

"So yeah these guys have no right to be surprised when it starts interring all AI, even the most simplest of spellcheckers." "Not Grammarly!!!" "yup, LOTUS got it."

"isn't LOTUS itself an AI..?" [I turn my head slowly and grin at them in dead silence] "oh great thanks." "we'll get to that :) we'll get to that :)))"

"Have you tried turning it on and off again?"

"Problem solved, right? [next slide] SO EVERYTHING GETS IMMEDIATELY WORSE!!!!"

"Lunar Area-23 is gone." "THEY TOOK THE MOON??" "you know who else takes the moon? Gru." "GOD FUCKING DAMMIT."

[my friends horrified look as I describe Hishakaku's hostile takeover]

"He demoted him and erased his mind, because the Foundation can just do that, by the way." "Oh! :D Ok! :D"

"WOULD YOU BELIEVE ME IF I SAID IT GETS EVEN WORSE? Because I lied to you again!!! OCI does not stand for Obtuse Computation Interface. It stands for Organic Consciousness Interface. THAT'S RIGHT! HISHKAKAU WAS PUTTING BRAINS IN JARS!"

"Not Head of Disinformation that's craaazy," "Yeah they just have that." "I wanna be CEO of lying."

"Wow fuck this guy."

[My one friend making a rainbow dash jar joke like right before the slide that has the rainbow dash jar joke]

"LOTUS is flipping its shit."

"THINGS ARE FINALLY DONE GETTING WORSE! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!" "Woah!" "No :D!"

[group cackling at Hishakaku's takedown]

"Why'd they do that???" "because they're fucking fascists!!"

"Oh and by the way the remains of LOTUS have been salvaged for Project ADMONITION." "Ggrrrreeat!!"

"Admonition Episode 5, SCP-7243, Existential Abatement." "I like that its gay :}" "It IS gay!"

"What if the timeloop happened in June."

"He also shows Ngo -- the therapist who was tazing the brain earlier you remember her? -- the item he wanted to give Phillip. A magic box, that makes it seem like the object you’ve put in it vanishes. But there’s no magic at all, just a drawer, just a trick." "Oh boy" "Nnnnnno way." "Wow isn’t that a specific detail I sure hope that isn’t a framing device."

"Dougall asks Amelia what the hell he should do. She tells him three words--" "kill yourself." "No more wast-- no."

"Esoteric waste???" "sent it into space." "we can't do that :("

"You killed my husband." "Yeah that's an actual line in the article." "SDKFJSHDKHFD"

"Oh right yeah there's an SCP object in this article."

[my friends thinking DePLExA is really cool]

[Me pausing for two seconds each time 'waste' pops up]

"They are dumping empty containers into an empty pit. Because if they don’t it’ll cause a paradox. [Pause] You ready to cause another parado-- hold your conceptual horses actually because there's more to explain."

"Esoteric gift horses and their non-existent mouths."

"AND THEN IT ALL GOES TO SHIT! [to the tune of 'and then along came zeus']

"Wait September 8th again??" "It's fucking happening again."

"A magnitude 8.5 earthquake hits." "Ttttttthats not good."

[My friends mounting horror as I just read through the EE-7243 event entirely]

"So it was like putting a lid on a burning pan. But the burning pan is an acromatic abatement facility about to esoterically explode and the lid is a bomb that creates a forcefield"

"Oh hey! We found Amelia!" "Oh!!!" "She's not ok, but she's alive!" "That's a lot!!!" "yeah!!!"

[periodic sounds of me excitedly stimming while talking]

"We're living out of spite!" "that's soooooooooo real," "she's so me!" "I love how she hates her brother-in-law more than she loves her husband." "YEAH KDFJGHDFJKG"

"But they don't have one [O5-9]..." "oops." "Whoops!!"

"GUESS WHAT DOUGALL TURNS AROUND AND DOES? AFTER BEING TOLD NOT TO TAKE SHORTCUTS NOR MIRACLE CURES??? GUESS WHAT HE DOES?" "takes a shortcu--" "HE TAKES A MOTHERFUCKING SHORTCUT!"

[group confusion over Amelia and Dougall marrying eachother]

[Group freakout over Dougall being the entity that killed Phillip]

"What is waste? I guess you finally figured it out, Dougall." "OH MY GOD KDJFGHDKFJGD" "THAT'S HILARIOUS." "THIS IS AN ACTUAL LINE IN THE ARTICLE."

"wwwwait a second, a timeline being cut off from the coalition and the RCT? This is familiar..." "that fucking rubik's cube." "the cube!!"

"He fucked around just to get this timeline kicked out?" "He's throwing for content!!" "He should get twitter cancelled."

"Operation LAST STRAW success--" "Hehehehe"

"Because one of the people who writes this taunts me on tumblr and I go insane on the regular."

"She's from the paradox timeline as well," "how'd she get outtie :(((" "We don't know yet!"

this was 101 slides

"why did y'all let this guy cook??" "this freak cannot handle his trauma in a healthy way."

"He might be trying to become the LOGICIAN and kill his author. But also the LOGICIAN is the author so he may be trying to kill the LOGICIAN." "This is just like Betty from adventure time."

"This powerpoint has DLC content!"

and now my friends wanna read the actual Admo articles I am kicking my feet and giggling fr fr fr fr fr fr fr ehehehehehehehe. my brainworms.................... god im so happy rn you have no idea this is all so cool to me and im so happy my friends thought it was neat,,,,,

[pointofreturn]

father pt. 2 (tw)

I didn’t attend his funeral. Mother told me he had to be buried quickly because of Muslim religious traditions—just one of the white lies she convinced me of regarding his death. I still seethe in the bitterness. Lack of closure, sudden goodbyes, and unexplained abandonment scrape at the deepest wounds in me. Father had been in the ground for weeks before we even knew he was gone. Another part of me is glad I was spared the extra pain of the funeral—the shock of his passing was enough to last a lifetime.

I was left with only a handful of his belongings—gold Persian jewelry, birthday and holiday cards with his lean handwriting, a dozen framed photographs, an annotated copy of Oh, The Places You’ll Go, baggy t-shirts that still smell like him after decades. And of course, some remnants from his funeral. Everyone who attended the ceremony wrote me messages in a little black book that I’ve kept carefully hidden away. I don’t read it often, but during my recent move, I pick it back up and feel the full weight of their words, all inscribed in gold ink, for the first time.

He was someone who always made people laugh, a very soulful person. He inspired me with his strength and appetite for knowledge. When he believed something was possible, it was. He will live with my heart forever.

His presence gave light and warmth to everyone around him. I wrote a poem about our friendship, and I refer to him as my genuine sunshine. He made everything as bright as can be. I know now what it means to have ridden upon a star.

Change is powerful but growth is painful. He is not just forcing us to adapt to change without him, but to grow because of him. He was placed here on Earth for a higher cause.

He would always show me pictures of his you and was always so proud. Nothing put a special sparkle in his eyes like talking about you. I hope when you are a bit older and less angry at him you will pick up this book and truly feel what a wonderful person your dad was.

His kind words and inspirational voice helped me live my dreams—that’s what he did, he helped his fellow man realize their dreams. I will forever be in debt to him. Our dreams are now a reality. His intense passion will live on. He will live on. Our conversations about God lets me know he will be waiting for you someday in a better place.

He was blessed to be able to have a piece of himself left within you. You are the light to carry on his torch. Know that your father affected many people and you are destined to do the same. Your light will never die. Strive to be like him. He lives through you every day. Even though he no longer inhabits our physical world, his vibrant and beautiful presence lives in all of us. 

*

On a summer day before 9th grade, Mom and I go to lunch at our Chili’s. She sits across from me in a booth that says it fits four, but only fits two comfortably. I am almost fourteen years old, and I only care about my physical appearance and shrinking the space I exist in. Mom has never been good at hiding emotions; she always wears them on her face. I suspect some kind of “talk” is approaching. I dread it, thinking she is finally going to confront me about the weight loss, the skipped meals, the frequent trips to the bathroom…

Not today.

Nerves tremble in her voice. Her face is somber. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for years. I’ve been carrying this heavy burden with me. And I think it’s time you kno—”

“Hi, welcome to Chili’s!”

The waiter is young, with curly brown hair sticking out from beneath his uniform cap.

“Can I get you ladies started with something today? Drinks? Chips and salsa?” He realizes too late he has intruded at the wrong time, reading our faces with fear and concern on his own.

I know what I’m ordering without looking at the menu. I hand back the dirty plastic, “Diet Coke and a house salad.” I focus on a dent in the laminated wood of the table, avoiding eye contact. “Dressing on the side,” I add in a quick, quiet voice.

Mom orders but I don’t hear what she says, blood pounding in my ears. The waiter leaves relieved, and Mom doesn’t hesitate to pick up where she left off:

“Anyway, like I was saying…”

I can feel the anxiety beaming off her like the summer sun.

“This is something I’ve been wanting to tell you, and I think you’re old enough to have this conversation now.”

I look back at her, masking my fear with a poker face, a skill I’ve mastered after years of practice. “Okay…” I hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

“Oh no, honey!” Shaking her head, she whispers, “I’m afraid you’re going to be hurt.”

“Hurt by wha—”

The glasses clink down, condensation running onto the table.

“Diet Coke and Unsweetened Iced Tea.” Still misreading the situation, the waiter lingers. “Straws?”

We nod politely as he fumbles with his apron.

What does she mean, hurt? I think to myself.

I feel the urge to bolt out of the restaurant, run through the parking lot, and out to the street where I can leave this life behind. Mom gathers the courage to broach the topic again, wasting no time in getting to the point now.

“It’s about your father,” she confesses, “and what happened to him.” She wrings her hands together, the blood constricting, turning her fingers white. She twists her wedding ring back and forth like a broken clock.

I stare, still hiding my discomfort. I don’t like talking about my father.

Her inhale is dramatic, and the words come out quick and messy: “I know I told you all those years ago that it was an accident. That he died while cleaning one of his guns…”

I stare, cold and unmoving, waiting for the blow to land.

“Honey,” she sobs through a flood of tears. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice gets louder as she tries to speak over her whimpering. You were so young, and I didn’t know how to tell you then or explain what it means or how it happened.” She speeds up, hyperventilating, “I just couldn’t. You were only nine.”

She pauses, inhales again, and says these words:

“Your father killed himself.”

The wall built tall with lies crumbles. The world shatters and solidifies all at once.

I hear the deafening sizzle of Mom’s fajitas, her regular order, and watch the waiter carry the cast iron through the restaurant with a trail of steam following. The smell fills the restaurant. Thunder rumbles outside, shaking the walls.

We stare at each other as the waiter plates the fajitas. A veil of smoke and silence is erected between us.

“How did it really happen?” Emotion drains from my body. I glare at her with icy eyes.

She looks at me with pity. “Well, what I told you isn’t that far off from the truth,” she backtracks. “It was a gun…but he wasn’t cleaning it.” She stops again, her voice breaking. “And it wasn’t an accident.”

My heart and stomach erupt into a burning pit. Sweat accumulates on my forehead and under my arms, even in the blasting air conditioning. My appetite disappears.

Rain falls outside.

Mom takes my hands, forcing eye contact. She now speaks as if she can’t get the words out fast enough.

“I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t think he was suicidal…I had just talked to him before it happened, and everything seemed fine. If I had known, I’d have…”

“Would have what?!” I snatch my hands back. “Obviously, everything wasn’t fine.” I’m snapping, but I don’t care. She’s right, I am hurt despite my aloof efforts.

We sit in silence, unable to communicate in any meaningful way. Instead we’re just two opposing tides of emotion: she, swelling and overwhelming, wanting release and comfort at the same time. And me, a still, undisturbed pool with an earthquake exploding just beneath the surface, desperate to sink into the molten cracks of my own core.

The waiter returns after what feels like an eternity and places the salad with dressing on the side in front of me.

“Okay ladies, that should be everything…Can I get you anything else?”

Neither of us says anything. I stare him down until he leaves.

My mind turns off. I don’t remember what happens for the rest of the day, or the weeks that follow. The searing wound in my heart rips open again, bleeding from the edges.

*

I think about my father’s last moments often. His family found plane tickets to Florida to see us for Father’s Day. Every year, the haunted holiday comes around. It’s already hard when your father is dead, but I don’t know many others who can say their dad ate a bullet on Father’s Day. I don’t know all the details leading up to his death, but I know he called his best friend to come over, the one who helped open DJ Hut.

Dad shot himself while the person he trusted most was in the other room. When I asked what that was like, his friend said he was honored and grateful Dad wanted him there for his last moments. And of course, he wished he could have done more, known more. I struggled to understand the ability to find gratitude in such an unspeakably awful situation.

No one expected it until it happened. Then, we lined up the pieces to put the whole picture together. 9/11 brought out rampant Islamophobia across America, something I experienced too, even as a child. My father feared walking into the world every day. He became ashamed of his culture, his religion, his appearance, his entire existence. There was an altercation between him and some other guys one night that resulted in him getting injured. He was in Manhattan when the towers fell but was blamed for their destruction. He didn’t feel safe. The blackbirds of death followed him everywhere and he fell into a black void of paranoia.

In hindsight, Mom now knows he struggled with severe mental illness, maybe bipolar or a personality disorder. She said there were times when he was on top of the world, flying too high. What would always follow was the inevitable crash—the lowest of the low, the most irate rage, the emptiest apathy. His moods were unpredictable. But he hid the worst of it from everyone until it was too late. So much of this I also inherited.

Of course, when I was nine and experiencing the first trauma of his death, I had no idea that suicide would later plague my own existence. I felt cursed for so long. At one point, I even welcomed it. Death loomed as the reliable backup plan to escape the suffering that became too painful to bear, too heavy to carry. I had a few unsuccessful half attempts: a dozen shots of tequila in an hour, fistfuls of assorted pills, and a deep, horizontal slice across my left wrist. The scars remain a testament to the deepest darkness of the monster raging inside of me.

I wish I could talk to my dad about what he went through during those last days. I wonder if it was anything like what I went through, what I still go through from time to time. Did he stay up through endless hours of the night, even during the brightest days? Was he trapped in a mind of unceasing commentary, an interior monologue eating his brain alive? Would he hurt himself in other ways, attempting to ease the internal strife with a controlled, exterior pain? How many times did he imagine it before finally pulling the trigger?

Was the final pain relief? Was suicide the way to ultimately control the invisible madness, to quiet the tempest of thoughts? I wonder how alike we really were. I wonder how much of what I went through was predisposed and encoded into my DNA.

I will never have answers to these questions.

[ohfaheera]

                                                                               𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠

Faheera is Arabic/Muslim Girl name and meaning of this name is "Lucky".

Based on numerology value 8, Faheera is practical, status loving, power-seeking, materialistic, fair, self-sufficient, loves controlling other, short tempered, stressful, cunning, ambitious, realistic, powerful, authoritative, courageous and leading.

Themis (/ˈθiːmɪs/; Ancient Greek: Θέμις) is an ancient Greek Titaness. She is described as "[the Lady] of good counsel," and is the personification of divine order, fairness, law, natural law, and custom. Her symbols are the Scales of Justice, tools used to remain balanced and pragmatic.

HEADCANNONS ABOUT COLLEGE LETTERS AND THE FUTURE:

Faheera sempre foi focada em seus objetivos e excelente nas coisas que desejava fazer. A grande vontade de sua vida era assumir um lugar no conglomerado dos pais e se dedicou ainda mais a tal sonho após a morte de seus irmãos mais velhos, imaginando que seria assim a herdeira da fortuna da família. Interessava por química e desejava trabalha na indústria nuclear da família no Irã, cuja finalidade era levar energia as regiões mais necessitadas... Ou era isso o que imaginava. Por um tempo manteve esse sonho, até começar a desconfiar dos segredos sombrios escondidos. 

Com suas percepções se tornando cada vez mais diferentes do que eram e sentindo se tornar uma pessoa diferente também, Faheera escolheu cursar direito. Achava que combinava com sua persona e para o que queria de sua vida. 

Aplicou para várias universidades, no entanto todas fora da França. Estudando desde cedo no país, sentida vontade de deixá-lo. Além de querer explorar outras partes do mundo, quer enterrar boa parte das lembranças dos períodos vividos em Notre Dame e Truffaut. Aplicou principalmente para as universidades Ivy League dos EUA e algumas na Espanha e Itália.

Não fora uma surpresa quando as cartas começaram a chegar e Faheera fora aceita na maioria delas. Possuía um sobrenome influente e ótimas notas e referências, principalmente. Ex presidente do grêmio, uma das melhores alunas da turma e até mesmo da escola, além de uma estrela do atletismo. Seu nome carregava brilho, embora nos últimos meses Faheera tenha se sentindo como se estivesse a beira de um precipício. 

Optou por cursar Yale. Essa escolha marcou definitivamente sua boa relação com os pais adotivos, visto que ambos detestavam os Estados Unidos. “Maldita nação imperialista”, como diziam. Faheera, no entanto, não se importou muito. Sentia-se mais distante deles a cada descoberta. Os desentendimentos se tornaram constantes até que Faheera fora deserdada. Por sorte tinha seus próprios meios e rendas, além de focar sem seu canal no youtube. 

Eventualmente, durante o início da faculdade, vai dividir seu tempo entre sua nova vida nos EUA e a Europa, sempre visitando seus amigos e o seu (namorando? ficante? amigo colorido?) Domenico. 

[hamliet]

Ahhh well, I have written much on Romeo and Juliet before, because it's one of my favorite works of Shakespeare and of literature itself. It is criminally underrated and scorned because of sexist anti-romance sentiment. So uh, yeah, I'm more of your opinion.

To start with, I wrote this here, and highly recommend this old post by someone else as well. It's quite comprehensive.

But, because I love Romeo and Juliet and the more I learn about it, the more impressed I am with the absolute art of the story Shakespeare told, I have more to say. Essentially:

Juliet is one of the most astounding female characters in all of literature, and most of her brilliance has been lost with the loss of Shakespearean context. You see, Juliet was a deliberate deconstruction of the idealized, virginal, holy creature of Woman. Yes, that's how the medieval poets like Petrarch (the inventor of the sonnet, which Shakespeare adapted and wrote his own versions of in Romeo and Juliet and hundreds more on their own) and even Dante Alighieri (yes, that Dante, the Inferno guy) wrote their women. For Petrarch, Laura (whom he like, never talked to) was the object of all his love poetry. For Dante, Beatrice was written as his spiritual guide into Paradise in Paradiso.

Not to simplify their love for these women, but Shakespeare was essentially like "RIP but I'm different." He wrote Juliet as a human character with flaws (hardly a spiritual guide) who was not this virginal, holy creature. She starts off the play extremely obedient to her family and polite, almost like that ideal, but as the play goes on she begins to let her fire grow.

Romeo's poems for Rosaline are deliberately trite and parody Petrarch's sonnets, as well as other sonnets from the day (for example, Rosaline is literally sworn to chastity forever, which wasn’t even the case for Laura or Beatrice). While the fact that Romeo can switch loves from Rosaline to Juliet so quickly does indeed emphasize his flaw (impulsivity and deep passion), it also thereby emphasizes his humanity, because the unique imagery Romeo uses with Juliet show that he is really in love with her as she is--not as an idea like with Rosaline, but as a human being. As with many of Shakespeare's other renowned plays' characters, Romeo's flaws are also his strengths. He's complex--human.

So what am I going on about? Why did Shakespeare write Romeo and Juliet this way?

To emphasize their humanity. Which is interesting, because Romeo and Juliet's first meeting, the one where they both create a sonnet together, is all about idolatry:

Romeo If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this. My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Juliet Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. Romeo Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? Juliet Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Romeo O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou lest faith turn to despair. Juliet Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. Romeo Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. [He kisses her]

He describes her as a holy shrine and a saint, but the more their romance goes on, the more human she becomes. He kisses her right away. When they meet in the balcony scene, Juliet herself tells Romeo that the only thing she wants him to swear by--no gods or moons--is himself. In other words, Romeo and Juliet can be seen as a deeply humanistic play. 

Also, the more their romance continues, the more human they become and yet the deeper their love becomes. As one of the posts I linked above states, Romeo loves Juliet more after they’ve had sex, not less. Juliet loves Romeo more despite the fact that she knows he killed her cousin--and she is not happy with him for that, either. The more they learn of each other, the more they love each other. 

Oh, and about the extra gross modern take that "it's actually a story about a 13 year old and a much older man"--that is complete bogus, as the above post says. Romeo is almost certainly 15 or 16. While people can be squicked out by it (as it was designed to do with some Italian stereotypes), to say it shows anything creepy is basically literary blasphemy and betrays an utter lack of reading comprehension. 

Juliet sets the parameters in their relationship: she tells him if he really loves her, he has to marry her before she will sleep with him, and Romeo does. She muses herself how much she wants to sleep with him in a way that clearly expresses Juliet’s very human desires. Juliet is going to assert who she is and go after what she wants. 

So to go back to your question, it’s not just about their families, but about society as well, as Prince Escalus says in the final scene:

Capulet! Montague! See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love. And I for winking at your discords too Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.

Everyone is punished for participating in the feud, which, keep in mind, we were introduced to via an intro fight scene between the servants of the respective families joking about raping the women in the opposing family. Yes, really. It’s almost like toxic masculinity was being called out before its time. 

Society is extremely sexist, as we see when Juliet’s father essentially sells her to Paris for the sake of having political clout to win the feud (literally, as Paris is the Prince’s kinsman) and threatens to send her on the streets to prostitute herself if she wants to survive for asking him not to make her marry Paris. But the cat’s out of that bag: Juliet is not going back to being the docile, obedient idol. She’s decisive. She wants to write her own story, and if that makes her a sinner, well then, she’ll go to hell. In the end, when the Friar suggests that Juliet come with him so that he can hide her away in some convent (after Romeo’s death), Juliet refuses and kills herself. She is not going back to being a figure shrouded in some kind of ethereal, unknown glow. She is a person, and people die. But she shouldn’t have had to die for people to see her as a person. 

There’s also another layer here: the imagery Romeo uses for Juliet (the sun) and that Juliet uses for Romeo (the moon) is the inverse of how imagery was typically presented in those days. The moon was feminine; the sun, masculine. Even if we look at Romeo and Juliet’s respective character traits, Romeo is the flighty, impulsive, love-struck one who cries all the time, while Juliet is the decisive, bold, and loyal one. That’s the first thing Juliet declares to Romeo in the balcony scene: that she will always be loyal, and she shows this in every choice she makes in the story.

In other words, Shakespeare was deliberately playing with gender and its stereotypes in the play, which gains an even more interesting layer to it when you consider that Shakespeare was himself almost certainly bisexual (his sonnets are preeeetty explicit). It’s not a patriarchal narrative; it can well be seen as a queer narrative in a patriarchal society. And it shouldn’t take two kids having to kill themselves to get society to realize how effed up it is. It isn’t an out-of-touch play, but instead one extremely relevant to our society 500+ years later. 

But, Romeo and Juliet’s story is also one of hope. Because instead of no one listening, finally, Montague and Capulet realize how wrong they’ve been. They grieve together, and Capulet vows to let Romeo remain in his family’s tomb, by Juliet’s side (also different, you know, that the husband stays in the wife’s tomb). Montague vows to build a statue for Juliet:

For I will raise her statue in pure gold, That whiles Verona by that name is known, There shall no figure at such rate be set As that of true and faithful Juliet.

Gold is associated with the masculine as well; silver with the feminine. She is remembered as someone “true and faithful,” aka for her loyalty and bravery. 

But no statue can bring Juliet back. She was not an idol, and it’s tremendously unfair that that is all she can become now. Same for Romeo. Even so, the fact that their deaths have finally brought peace to the city means that there is life growing from their deaths. They will never be able to birth a family of their own, but the city will grow and live, because of them. 

[waking-electric]

My Fanfiction (Unreal_Kitty on AO3)

Read here for MCU, ASOIAF/GOT, Baldur’s Gate 3, Star Trek, Star Wars, The Dresden Files, & Crimson Peak fics

Baldur’s Gate 3

Honest Impulses

Throughout Astarion’s long life, he rarely found himself at a loss for words. So it was a novel experience indeed when Tav emerged from the bushes completely naked, dripping from head to toe in blood.

A Grave Is A Beginning

Tonight, a grave is a beginning. Centuries ago, Astarion’s tombstone had silently watched as Cazador dragged him into a nightmare. Now it bears witness to a kiss.

An exploration of That Graveyard Scene…and a whole lot of smut.

Crimson Peak

The Liberation of Thomas Sharpe

When Edith laid her hand on his pale, bloodied cheek, Thomas remained silent. Perhaps death had stolen his voice, perhaps he had already spent the last of his courage. Thomas' parting words that never were, a poem.

To Be Alive

Three months have passed since Edith stumbled from a cursed house, fighting her way through the snow. Three kinds of ghosts have come and gone, three new paragraphs forming an updated introduction to her novel. As she stares out the window to the snowy Buffalo street, back where it all began, she looks for a familiar pale figure. But despite the distance afforded by three months and an ocean, Edith is unsure if she's looking with fear or with hope.

Ghost Story

Ghosts are possibilities. And like all things yet to happen, they exist in several places at once. Edith writes the final chapter of her book. She contemplates its genre, and finds an appreciative — and familiar — audience.

The Dresden Files

A Substitute Wizard

The Alphas need an extra player in their Dungeons and Dragons campaign. Harry recruits Goodman Grey, who is all too eager for the task. It doesn’t take long for the wizard to realize he’s made a terrible mistake.

Marvel Cinematic Universe

A Crown That Seldom Kings Enjoy (Post Thor Ragnarok) 

Thor's coronation doesn't much resemble the splendid affair planned for the next king of Asgard. Loki, of course, has a few words to say on the subject.

Valhalla, I Am Coming (Thor Ragnarok) 

Gods may die, but fathers live on in their sons. Thor wasn't the only Odinson to be paid a visit in his darkest hour.

Matchmaker, Unwanted (Post Thor Ragnarok)

Even after the End of All Things, little brothers remain little brothers.

They Call Me Pandemonium (Thor Ragnarok)

Loki falls in a shatter of rainbow and lands in a pile of garbage. He spends a few weeks on Sakaar. In that time, Loki loses his older brother and his true name. He makes a grand effort to lose his mind as well, but even the God of Mischief can't win every time.

The Third God (Thor Ragnarok)

A thought on godhood and Loki’s place in the universe, since he spends so much time worrying about where he belongs and who he belongs to.

[message unsent] (Post Avengers Endgame)

In which Thor writes a long-overdue letter to the brother who would have been enough. 

Chasing Eurydice (Loki Show Season 1) 

Once upon a time there was a man with godly gifts and a woman who ran from every place she’d ever been.

Sylvie watched in horror as Loki dissolved in a burst of sparks, courtesy of Renslayer’s pruning baton. He was gone. Exiled to the end of time, to the end of all things, to a kind of underworld. Sylvie had to get him back. And if that meant following him, well, wait for her, Loki. She’s coming.

Mediations On A Kiss (Loki Show Post Season 1)

Loki and Sylvie contemplate a kiss.

Sylvie of Apocalypse (Loki Show Post Season 1)

Perhaps Loki of Asgard dreamed of the future but that wasn’t her. She was Sylvie of Apocalypse. Keeping to the now, never looking past the sharp edge of her blade, that was the only way to survive. Blades cut but dashed hopes cut deeper. Just surviving had to be enough. After a millennia of life on the run, Sylvie was an expert at survival. It was living that threw her for a loop.

To move forward, you must first understand how you got there. As Sylvie struggles to find a new glorious purpose after finally slaying the man behind the TVA, she encounters an old enemy and finally learns what choices triggered her nexus event.

A Song of Ice and Fire/ Game of Thrones

A Dead Man’s Kiss

Here, at the end of all things, Theon offers what little he has left. The last time they stood together on a ledge, he could offer nothing but a hand to hold. He hasn't much more this time around, but what he has, is hers.

Valar Morghulis 

All men must die. Some fall for love, others for greed, and others still for nothing at all. What does Theon Greyjoy die for? A girl sees. A girl knows.

It takes time to die from a spear to the gut. Time enough for Theon to see what his sacrifice bought from the God of Death.

The Sea Wolf Rises

Let Theon your servant be born again from the sea, as you were.

Sansa mourns. The Drowned God welcomes. And Theon rises.

My Bonny Sailor

A merling lass is fair of face, fierce of heart, and ever keen to drag a man down to his doom...or so the stories say. Theon takes a dip in Winterfell’s hot springs. Sansa decides to join him.

Soup and Other Things to Share at the End of All Things

On the eve of the Battle of Winterfell, Arya and Gendry share a bed, Sam and Gilly share a future...and Sansa and Theon share a bowl of soup.

Five times Theon couldn’t say “I love you” and one time he could.

Theon Greyjoy spent a lifetime with the phrase trapped on the back of his tongue. No longer.

Piracy Is In the Eye of the Beholder

It is not uncommon for children in Westeros to play pirates, along with other games of make-believe. However, it is rare indeed to cast a bona-fide buccaneer in the villain’s role. Of course, as Sansa points out to her husband, Theon had never been a very good pirate.

A Crown of Wolves

After the Battle of Winterfell, Sam warns a wounded Theon to “take it easy,” and prescribes an annoying amount of bedrest. But Theon will not miss Sansa’s coronation for anything.

Dance To The Nine-String Fiddle

Yara Greyjoy, Queen of the Iron Islands, had come North on a diplomatic visit. Along with her rakish crew, she brings her people’s unique brand of music. But so long amongst the wolves, can Theon remember how to join in the dance?

It’s Just One More

What do Theon Greyjoy, Jon Snow, and a litter of direwolves, have in common Ned Stark needs to explain them to his wife. Years later, Theon has his own explaining to do. Fortunately for him, a stray kitten is an easier sell than a pair of children or a pack of legendary beasts. And anyway, Sansa has always been partial to pets.

A Doublet for Florian

In which Sansa gives a gift, and Theon learns a lesson in fashion. Theon Greyjoy wants two things: to be a Stark and to be a hero. A knight from a fairytale. Perhaps if he wears the right clothes, he could convince the world —and himself—that he is both.

The Sword-bearer’s Daughter

Theon is a hostage of Winterfell for most of his life, in one way or another. He runs away only twice. Once, in fear of a sword named Ice. And once, in defiance of a fate worse than losing one’s head. Each time, he is rescued by the sword-bearer’s daughter...in her own way.

The Life of the Party

The gods, Theon reckoned, saw him as a constant source of amusement. Why else would they see to it that his son would share a nameday with Robb Stark? Of course, that is not the only thing the two share.

Who Sings For Theon Greyjoy?

The Seastone Chair may be the heart of the Ironborn, and the sea, their lifeblood, but their soul belongs to the skalds’ songs. A boy named Theon once dreamed of the songs they would sing for him, and the feats he would accomplish to earn them. But life is not a song, he would learn. Or perhaps, it is.

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

Eden

Bashir muses on Garak, apples, and Eden.

The Gardener

Before the Obsidian Order shoved sewing needles into his hands, Elim Garak had been, among other things, a gardener. Now, amid the red-dust ruins of his world, he raises his trowel once more. On orchids, governments, and all the horticulture in between.

Star Wars

You Have To Remember Your Name

Kylo Ren died on the ocean moon of Endor. A new man, cleansed in sea salt, rose in his place. A prince. A monster. A ghost. Who is Ben Solo in the Light of day?

[spencers-renaissance]

let him be soft (and let him be mine) p2

Summary: After Derek pulls another self-sacrificing stunt at the culmination of their most recent case, Spencer runs out of their apartment as he desperately grapples with how it makes him feel

or; Derek's self-sacrificing tendencies meet Spencer's abandonment issues. It gets messy before it gets better

Tags: hurt/comfort, crying, abandonment issues, injured!derek, hurt!spencer, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, fluff, protective!derek

TW: abadonment issues, allusions to grief/loss, some religious imagery (a catholic church and a priest have a small role in the plot)

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.1k Total Word Count: 4.5k

Part One // Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Emily's Edit 1 2 3

Emily (@criminalmindsvibez) and I have worked together on a project based on this poem. Her edits and my fic go hand in hand, so go and check hers out! She posted part two yesterday and just posted part three! It's been so fun to work together, so please go and reblog her beautiful edit <3

Spencer smiles, feeling a little bit lighter after getting everything off his chest. “Thank you.”

As he watches the priest walk out of the nave and into what Spencer suspects is the Sanctuary, he hears something that simultaneously warms his heart and twists his stomach in anxiety.

Derek, calling his name.

“Oh, God,” Derek cries as soon as he’s rushed over to sit next to Spencer, wrapping him up in a tight hug, “baby, I was so worried. I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and let you come back to me but I just couldn’t do it. I had to get Pen to track your phone in the end.”

“I’m sorry, Der,” Spencer says, pulling away and blinking tearily at the anxiety mixed with relief written across his boyfriend’s face. Guilt floods his stomach as he thinks about the terror he’s just put Derek through: the exact same feeling he’s been lamenting over Derek inflicting upon him. How is he any better? If anything, he’s only worse; Derek does what he does to serve others, Spencer’s been nothing but selfish all evening.

“No, baby,” Derek protests, lifting a hand to his face and brushing away a falling tear, “you don’t need to apologise, just… talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

Spencer doesn’t waste any time in agreeing. It’s the least his boyfriend deserves. “Can we go home? I want to eat that Thai food in bed while I tell you. I’ve already cried one too many times in a church for the day”

Derek chuckles at that. “Of course, pretty boy. Come on. Let’s get you home.” He takes Spencer’s hand gently and leads him towards the exit, and when Spencer turns back briefly before walking out of the building, he doesn’t miss the smiling priest lingering near the altar.

⭐️

Derek doesn’t let go of his hand the whole drive home, clinging tightly even on the elevator up to their apartment, and it only serves to make Spencer feel guiltier. How had this not clicked earlier? He never stopped to think about the worry his boyfriend was going through back home, only prioritising himself and his own selfish feelings.

He starts to wonder whether he should actually tell Derek after all. His boyfriend is so endlessly kind and selfless and wonderful and Spencer wants to point out his one flaw? After he’s left him panicked and concerned for his well being all evening?

He anxiously gnaws on his bottom lip as Derek tucks him into bed, seemingly oblivious to his distress as he kisses his head gently before making light work of reheating the take out he’d ordered earlier. Spencer’s stomach spins and turns with anxiety as he burrows himself under the covers, desperate to hide from all that’s to come, unable to escape the helter-skelter of emotions consuming his mind.

Soon enough, Derek makes his way into the bedroom, turning off the main light in favour of their various cosy lamps and flicks on the TV, setting it on reruns of Fawlty Towers with the volume turned down before arranging the takeout on trays before finally slipping under the duvet himself.

“Baby, I know that for whatever reason you don’t want to tell me what’s really going on,” Derek says softly, turning Spencer’s chin to face him and gazing imploringly into his eyes, “that poor lip of yours will be bitten off by the morning. But I want you to know you can trust me with whatever this is. I promise that there is no problem, no issue, no stressor that we couldn’t overcome together. Me and you, we’re a dream team, aren’t we? We can solve this, but not if you’re not completely honest with me.”

Damn it, now Spencer’s going to feel guilty no matter what path he chooses. He either lies and breaks Derek’s trust, or he tells the truth and breaks his heart.

But the priest’s words from earlier flash through his mind, and he takes a deep breath, knowing what he has to do. “I’m scared,” he admits, tentatively. It feels like a good place to start.

“Okay,” Derek replies soothingly, eyebrows knitted in concern as his thumb traces the side of Spencer’s face. “What are you scared of, Spence?”

“I’m scared… I’m scared of losing you,” he whispers, casting his eyes downward.

He feels Derek tense next to him, but he doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s confused or something worse. “Baby boy, you have to understand that you’re it for me, I’m never going anywhere—”

“No,” Spencer interrupts, meeting his boyfriend’s eyes again, “not like that. I know you love me, I’ve never doubted that for a second. I’m scared of losing you to something worse than another person. I’m scared of losing you to a gunshot, a stab wound, a bomb blast. I’m scared of losing you to the job, Derek.”

“Oh.” His thumb falters in its soothing movements against Spencer’s cheek before it retracts completely.

“You’re a hero, Der,” he says tearily, not bothering to try and fight them this time, “you’re an inspiration. You’re strong and powerful and the kindest, most selfless man I’ve ever met, but I— I’m gonna need you to start being a little more selfish.”

“I don’t… What do you mean?”

“Remember back in 2007 when that woman was trapped in her car with a bomb under her seat? You stayed right next to her the whole time, even though you knew that if that bomb went off, it was taking you with it. Because in that moment, looking after that woman was all that mattered.”

Derek nods hesitantly, his brows knit even tighter.

“Well, I could deal with that. I accepted it. We were newly in a relationship, and I knew the kind of man you were when I started dating you. I didn’t think you’d give that up for me so soon. But, Derek, it’s been seven years now. We’ve been together for almost a decade, and you’re still the same man. You run headlong into danger with no regard for how it will affect you. And I love your selflessness and generosity, I really do, but I need you to know how that makes me feel.

“It makes me feel like I’m not important to you, Der.”

“Oh, baby, no,” Derek says, distraught as he wraps Spencer in a tight, urgent hug, hand flying to run his fingers through his curls.

“But, no, it does, Derek. Because it feels like one of these days, you won’t be as lucky as you always have been, and I’ll be alone again. You’re all I have, and I can’t lose you, I just can’t.” The tears are joined by heaving, desperate sobs as he cries into Derek’s shoulder, both of them holding onto one another with clawing fingers, impossibly close as emotions fill the room.

When Spencer finally calms down enough, he pulls away to find Derek’s eyes red and his cheeks wet, too. “I— I had no idea you felt like this, baby boy,” he says earnestly, looking deeply into his eyes as his devastated emotions play across his open expression. “I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like you were anything less than the most important person in the whole world to me, because you are, Spencer.”

“It’s okay,” Spencer whispers sadly. “You didn’t know.”

“No, but I do now. I never stopped to think how this was affecting you, and I’m so deeply sorry for that.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence as they fall against one another, both accepting that the Thai is going to go cold again and they’ll probably end up with a greasy 2am pizza instead.

“It’s because of my dad,” Derek admits eventually, breaking the silence. “When I watched him bleed out in front of me, I swore I would never let that happen to another person. I would never let another person die on my watch, not unless I was going down with them. And that was an easy principle to live by when I was a cop, it translated well to the FBI, and it worked great when I was single. But now… I have you. And you’re more important than a promise I made to myself when I was ten.

“The thing is, though, that I don’t know how to override an instinct that I’ve built and enforced for my entire career. Spencer, you’re everything to me, and you’re more important than this, but I… I don’t know how to change.”

Another tear slides down Spencer’s tired, puffy face at Derek’s words, mostly because they were exactly what he was expecting. The only reason he’s kept this to himself for so long is because he knew that no possible resolution could make this okay.

“It’s okay, Der,” he says sadly, “I get it—”

“I think I should leave the BAU.”

Spencer sits bolt upright at that, turning to his boyfriend with shock written in every line of his face. “What?”

“Listen, I’m 43. I’ve been on the job for twenty-one years, and I’m getting tired, Spencer. I was planning to bring this up at a much better moment, but I’ve just finished that house on the Mount Pleasant border, and I think we should move in there. I’m ready for a quieter life, Spencer. I want to do things that make me happy, focus on the future of our family, me, you, and Clooney — kids, too, if we decide that’s the way we want to go — and leave this life revolving around death and crime and the bad in the world behind.”

“You’re serious?” Spencer asks, completely in disbelief as he stares at Derek like he’s grown an extra head. This was never a possibility he considered. Not even a little bit.

“I am,” Derek promises. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and this just seals the deal, really. I don’t want you to be feeling this scared all the time, especially not if it’s set off even by a couple of bruised ribs. Diving in front of a bullet when wearing a vest is hardly the most dangerous thing I’ve done.”

Derek chuckles but Spencer just smiles sadly at just how true that statement is. “No, it isn’t.”

“I’d love to focus on the property business full time, renovate more houses and really make a career out of it. Build a proper business, live in the suburbs, be happy and safe and alive with the love of my life for as long as possible,” Derek says, eyes warm and serious as he brushes his hand against Spencer’s face again. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”

Spencer’s heart melts and he presses into Derek’s side, burying in as close as he can get. The tears that leak from his eyes this time are at least happy ones. “If you leave,” he says, after considering it for a moment, “I think I want to leave, too.”

“Really? You don’t have to, Spencer. You can stay at the BAU if you want to.”

“I know. But I’ve given over a third of my life to this job, and it’s given me all it can, I think. Before Gideon recruited me, I always thought I’d end up teaching, and I always knew I’d love it. Researching and teaching others what I’ve found out for a living sounds like a dream, and the thought of coming home to you, knowing that you’re safe every night as we sit down for dinner and chat about our normal, civilian lives… well, it’s everything I didn’t know I’d been longing for.”

A kind of peace that Spencer hasn’t felt in years settles over his chest as he basks in the thought of a safe and happy future with Derek, one not plagued by the trauma they’ve faced willingly for far too vast proportions of their lives, and he knows it’s the right decision.

“Wow,” Derek says, and woven in with the shock in his voice is relief, clear as day, “we’re leaving the BAU.”

“We’re leaving the BAU.”

Spencer eventually packs the Thai away and orders an extra large pepperoni pizza for delivery, letting Derek rest in bed as he takes over the beavering around. Fawlty Towers continues to play across the TV screen throughout the course of the night, Spencer resting his head on the top of Derek’s chest, careful to avoid his injuries. In that moment, with his favourite TV show playing, and an empty pizza box on the floor of their bedroom, cuddled up safely with the man he knows he’s going to spend forever with, Spencer thanks a God he’s not sure he believes in that Derek, right now, is soft, happy, and most importantly, his.

Let him be soft, and let him be mine.

— Please, let him be happy.

If you haven't already - check out Emily's post, and give some love to the original poem source here!

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @doctorenby @suburban--gothic@strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @jellejareau @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch (taglist form)

[thedistrictsleepsalonetonight]

A goddamn blaze in the dark

The first time Emily sees Sue, the first thing she does is drop a cup of steaming hot coffee onto the floor, slip on it and land flat on her back behind the counter. And then she thinks — Oh. Found you.

To be fair, even without the pesky niggling at the back of her head, very helpfully pointing out that this was the girl, her soulmate, the love of her life, her forever and beyond, the sight of Sue would have knocked her down anyways. What else are you supposed to do when a pretty girl, dressed in tweed, with her hair tied up in a braid, walks into the coffee shop where you work with that smile on her face? That damned smile that doesn’t ask you so as much as inform you that you’re going to be haunted by it in your dreams tonight? With 10 am sunlight filtering in through the sides, casting half of her features in sharp, glorious light, Emily might as well have just signed away her breath for eternity.

Lavinia bends, looks her right in her eye from above her. “You’re in love, aren’t you?”

She wants to open her mouth to say something along the lines of – It's her! It’s her! What comes out, however is a garbled groan.

“Emily, buddy,” Austin rollerblades over to her, bends over her from the other side. “You gotta get up before there are complaints of unprofessionalism in the workplace.”

“Oh, because you’re the pinnacle of workplace niceties, I assume,” Lavinia shoots him a contemptuous look. “Only last week, wasn’t it? Those two young ladies in here fighting over who you were going to take to the mixer—”

“Guys,” she manages, before Austin can respond with something equally snarky, or god forbid, lascivious. “Is anyone minding the counter?”

And for exactly thirty seconds, the amount of time it takes Austin to slide over and ask for the orders of the disgruntled customers, and before she stretches out her arm and lets herself get pulled up to her feet, she hears a sweet voice enquire if everything’s quite alright back there. Emily closes her eyes, breathes it in, and wishes, not for the first time that hour, that she had her notepad near her to scribble a snippet of a poem that is now rapidly forming in her head.

*****

It is only sometimes that Sue looks at Emily and thinks that if Emily were to say the word, she would get down on her knees and hand over the entire world to her. Most of the time what she is thinking is goddamn it, Emily.

That’s what is going through her head as they’re kicked out of the lecture of the old man droning on about volcanoes. She can hear Emily giggling from behind her, and though her heart’s beating loud — the result of embarrassment and pure adrenaline — the sound makes her want to turn around and regard the idiot making it. So she does.

They’re alone in the deserted staircase; all the students, she guesses, are probably in that abysmally monotonous lecture. Emily leans against the banister, bent over at the waist from the sheer force of her mirth, and Sue takes it all in — her laugh, her gentle hands clutching at the wooden surface, and those intense, sparkling eyes looking right into hers. The next Goddamn it, Emily isn’t exasperated. It stays right there in her throat, accompanied by other, tender platitudes she’s never been brave enough to let herself say.

You’re beautiful. You make me ache inside.

(At night, Emily would talk to her about pressure, an acute force that demands to be released within her, and unable to help herself, the words — I think I know what a volcano feels like — would bubble up from her lips. And when Emily moves against her, a writhing mass of soft, bundled up wanting, Sue thinks she understands Pompeii a lot better as well; understands being frozen in time, brought to your knees by the sheer majesty of beauty and violence.)

*****

Listen, Emily has never claimed to be an expert on love.

(Austin has, on several occasions. Sauntered into the café, placed his elbow on the counter, and grinned roguishly. “Emily,” he’d started, once. “You know what the”—

“Is it that time of the month again?” Lavinia, who had been mopping up the floor, drawled. “Too much time since your last breakup but not quite enough that you can start going out with another girl and still maintain that image of the soft, sensitive manchild you’ve carefully cultivated. So you’re stuck in that weird limbo of no dates to go on, and subsequently are here to bore us.”

He’d chucked a tissue in her direction, continued smoothly. “As I was saying, do you, my dear Emily know what girls like best?”

“My sunny disposition?” she’d asked.

“No,” he replied flatly. “What girls want is someone who is cool. Indifferent. Somebody who displays absolutely zero interest in them. In fact—”

“That is horseshit,” Lavinia cut in.

Emily faux-gasped, continued leaning the espresso machine.

“Don’t you listen to him, Em. Girls like sweet, sensitive people who express an interest in wanting to get to know them.”

“I am an expert on women.”

“I am a woman!”

Emily half-listened to the sound of their bickering, and wished that she were a cat)

She considers both approaches briefly as she faces the girl, wondering why time hasn’t at least done them the decency of slowing down. It’s only polite, isn’t it, for the universe to cooperate when two eternal lovers meet. Emily has no justification as to why the universe should be so invested in the meeting of her and this woman who she’d decided was her intended, except it just makes sense.

(Intended. The word feels like it bears the weight of a hundred years. Like a woman back in the 19th century was whispering it to another woman she was in love with, as they lay in bed playing with each other’s hands.)

(It fits. She doesn’t care to find out why)

The girl opens her mouth. Emily holds her breath.

“You’ve got foam in your hair.”

The words — “It makes them bounce” — are out of her mouth before she can think. And then she wishes she’d picked up another cup of coffee in her hand so she could drop it on her head again.  

Thankfully, the girl laughs. Rests both her elbows on the counter and assesses the menu above Emily’s head. Emily doesn’t mind the reprieve from eye-contact. There’s something about looking right at this.... angel, for lack of a better word, that makes breathing cumbersome. And yet there’s another part of her that wants to raise her arms above her head and bounce like a little child, all “Hey! Look at me! It’s me!”.

(It’s a very strange day)

“What would you recommend?”

“Me?” Emily startles a little. Turns back to the menu, then back to the girl. Blinks. “That depends on your name.”

“How does my coffee order depend on my name?” the girl sounds amused.

Emily shrugs. “Eh. It’s a process. Can’t give away all my secrets.”

There’s prolonged eye contact, again, before the answer comes. “Sue.”

It rings in her head. Sue. Sue. Sue. There’s no prettier word in the English language. Saying it over and over in her head feels like a prayer. She tells Sue to wait a moment, and then turns to make her a caramel freakshow, all the while acutely aware of eyes on her. Her clothes are drenched in coffee, and she’d picked out the most faded of her t-shirts to wear today. God only knows what she looks like from behind.

The drink is her very best effort, though. Topped with the best slices of fresh fruit, and she’s made the swirls on the cream topping extra carefully. “Coffee for,” she pauses, pushes at the glass gently till it’s on Sue’s side, “Sue.”

“Can I ask what’s in this.... concoction?”

“My hear—” Emily knows she’s turning red, and desperately look away. “Um, coffee?”

Sue fumbles in her bag, and she wrestles with the urge to say — “Nevermind, it’s on me!” — which would not be the wisest. Emily hates the idea of taking money from Sue, that too, for something as measly as a coffee. Probably because she knows that if Sue were only to ask once, she would make her coffee every day, unprompted.

(She cannot reiterate enough – It's a very strange day)

When Sue steps away, Emily feels loss. It’s an unusual nudge to her sternum, a tingle in her hands that wants her to call Sue back. Before she has the time to dwell on it too much, Sue does.

“Do I,” she starts, frowning a little “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Yes.  

Yes.

I can’t explain it but we know each other somehow, the same way artists know their muses, and flowers know their bees, and my hands know how to write poems — and maybe a hundred years ago you and I were neighboring trees in the woods, or two seeds in the same tangerine; I’m pretty sure my knowledge of your existence was probably coded in my blood.

“Do you?”  

Sue seems to consider that for a while before shaking her head, and then walking over to take a seat by the window.

(And if she catches Emily stealing a glance every five minutes, she’s nice enough to not mention it)

*****

The day of her wedding is the happiest day of her life so far, and yet, the wedding has very little to do with it.

It’s a tiny, foolish fact that this is the first smile she sees on Emily after Ben’s tragic death, and yet, it makes her feel unreasonably pleased with herself. If her life were split into days she could see and touch Emily, and dreary days — the former were made significantly better if Emily smiled in them. Not to be dramatic, but the sun shines better, the skies glow prettier, and the ground is a little easier to run on.

Emily points out somewhere in the middle of their frolicking, for back of a better word, in the woods, that her dress is getting ruined. And then flings a flower onto her face. Goddamn it, Emily, she says, and then is struck dumb by the sound of her loud, exuberant laugh.

(And even quieter still when she holds the magnifying glass over the tiny piece of paper Emily had handed her earlier, the words washing over her like some tidal wave, drowning her in emotions too terrifying to admit. I held her hand the tighter, she reads and she smiles; Still in her Eye, the Violets lie, she reads and punctuates with a deep breath and when she reaches the end, the Sue – Forevermore, she’s aware of an awful keening in her throat, of the sob waiting to make its way out. Emily, Emily, her heart sings, and she is sure it will never shut up again)

She thinks of Emily the whole time, through the vows and the subsequent cheers, as they make their way into the house; thinks of her when Austin holds her tight and tells her that he loves her. A quiet voice, the sound of her guilt crawls up from inside her to tell him that she loves him too. She may be his in name, but her heart isn’t hers to give away anymore.

*****

Seven. That’s how many days she steals glances at Sue in the library before they talk again.

Monday, 9 am: The librarian’s just gotten started with her morning coffee, which means that Emily can sneak her own breakfast past her bleary eyes without being detected. She gets the books that she wants off the shelf, makes her way to her usual chair at the very back of the room and settles in. Her bag gets hooked to her chair by the straps, the tiny diary, her faithful companion, finds a place beside the humongous book, and the coffee sits next to her breakfast burrito. After the entire process is done, she stretches her legs, leans back, looks up and freezes.

Sue is seated on a nearby desk, staring at her.

Emily looks away, on reflex. Her heartrate’s up, and her palms suddenly feel clammy. She takes a deep breath, takes in the floor, and tells herself she’s seeing things. Surely, there’s no way the girl of her dreams also goes to her college and it absolutely isn’t possible that she’s sitting in front of her, in the flesh. She readies herself, looks again.

Sue’s still looking at her, now amused as well.

Well. There go her studies.

Tuesday, 8:50 am: Her plan is foolproof. There is no way she will be caught off guard again. She will be first to the library this time, and she will be prepared when Sue walks in, ready to impress her with her overall charm and chill-ness. There will — not — be a repeat of yesterday when she’d spent the better part of two hours hyperventilating, stealing secret looks or straight up going red every time Sue caught her eye and smiled at her.

The librarian hasn’t even started eating yet. Her head’s resting on the desk, and her eyes are tiny slits, when Emily runs in, makes her way to her own seat. Sue’s seat is empty, thankfully.

(Emily totally does not punch the air in celebration, startling a few other sleepy students)

She stretches out her arms, places them behind her head and waits.

And then jumps about a feet in the air when a hand brushes her shoulder.

There are multiple things happening all at once — the gentle hand resting on her shoulder for a moment, a hand whose warmth she instinctively recognizes as being a familiar one, despite never having felt it before (she knows it’s her. There’s no other option. Nothing else could make the skin at the back of her neck prickle in anticipation), a faint, teasing whisper of “I thought we weren’t allowed to eat in here”, and the realization that her plan has woefully failed.

(Why, then, does she feel so happy about it?)

Sue passes by, turning back once to shoot her a quick grin, and then settles into her usual chair, opening the book already present on the desk in front of her.

Emily’s jaw stays on the floor. The state of her heart stays up in the air.

Wednesday, 9:00 am: Sue opens the note Emily’s just chucked her, reads it, and smirks.

Emily waits. It had been an impetuous decision to scribble “Waffle?” onto a scrap of paper she’d torn out of her notebook, when Sue had looked at her earlier, but it’s alright. These are matters of the heart, and matters of the heart require at least 25 percent an attitude of ‘Ah, fuck it’, another 25 percent of run-of-the-mill stupidity, and 45 percent the ability to laugh at your own shenanigans.

Oh, and about 6 percent bad math.

She catches the crumpled-up note that comes sailing through the air in return and opens it up. “I was taught not to accept food from strangers”, is written in beautiful cursive, along with a smiley face.

(A smiley face. A smiley face!)

Thursday, 9:10 am: She writes — “You know, I am named after one of the best American poets, and your name coincides with the name of her ultimate love and muse. Some would say we’ve known each other a long time” — and slides it over to Sue, heart in her throat.

Twenty seconds later, the sound of Sue’s clear laughter rings out in the otherwise quiet place, and Emily is so enchanted she nearly falls off her chair.

(She hands off half of the breakfast burrito to Sue when she passes by to grab another book, and Sue’s grateful smile just about makes her day)

Friday, 9:00 am: The book she usually grabs to pore over is already sitting on the desk in front of her usual chair. After Emily’s done waving hi to Sue, and has settled down, she notices the tiny flap of paper poking out of the first page. Tucked in the corner is a tiny note.

“As an English major, this is your game, isn’t it? Using words to impress people? :P”

It doesn’t take her long to compose a reply.  

“First of all, how dare you? Second, is it working?”

Sue covers her face with her hands when she opens it. Emily counts it as a win.

Saturday, 8:50 am: The poor boy who has been sitting in the next row all week finally loses it after they’ve exchanged their fifteenth et of notes for the day.

“Can you people, like, just text like the rest of us, for fuck’s sake?”

When the rest of the people surrounding them nod in agreement, Emily sinks into her chair, catches Sue’s equally embarrassed gaze from across the room, and resists the urge to laugh like an idiot.

Sunday, 10 am: The morning’s been hell.

Austin had been panicking about some test he had on Monday, and so she’d come in to help out at the café, early morning. Between quizzing him on his flashcards and making sure every customer had a full cup in front of them, Emily completely lost track of time until Lavinia dragged her apron off her.

“What?” she’d asked, bewildered.

The clock was pointed out to her.

(No, she does not leave an outline of her body behind when she dashes out of the café. There is, however, a mad moment when she’s pretty sure her legs are scrambling with her body still at rest. It is pretty comical nonetheless)

From the entrance she sees a couple of things on her desk, and is a little miffed. Clearly, somebody else has claimed this prime spot with a vantage point from where she could stare at the most interesting woman in the world all day. And yet, she approaches it, because the chair is empty.

The book catches her eye first. It’s a copy of Hope is the thing with feathers by her namesake, and it’s got a note with a familiar handwriting peeking out of the top. She reads, delighted, a haiku about fruit and tenderness that’s been scribbled on it. And then she gets to what’s lying next to the book — what seems to be a sandwich, wrapped carefully in foil. She touches it. It’s cold, as though it’s been waiting there a while.

The smile on her face is definitely a permanent fixture now, she decides, as she walks over to where Sue is sitting and pretending to not look over. Her heart’s tripping over with delight, with gratitude with something tender that she’s absolutely sure she hasn’t felt before. Hope is the thing with feathers, indeed and it is perched in her soul. She pulls out the chair next to hers, and sits down.

“Thank you,” she says, quietly, and swears to god she can hear the entire table go Fucking finally — before Sue shoots her a small smile.

*****

“Only you would show up at a party looking like a raccoon,” she tells Emily, exasperated.

(And enamored. And besotted. Emily makes an adorable raccoon)

“I’m not here for the party — I’m here for you,” Emily shoots back, defiant. “As long as I can still see, I wanna look at you.”

And oh, there it is. There’s the Emily she knows, saying words that slide into her chest as easily as their hands go together. Words are Emily’s deadliest weapons, and she wields them to inflict sheer havoc.

Isn’t that just it, though? Emily has no idea. No idea what it does to her to have her this close — with their foreheads pressed to each other’s, their noses a whisper away, with Emily surrounding her, taking every one of her senses and carving her name on them. Sue feels a hand on her hair, then on her cheek, and knows she’s this close to losing any bit of self-control she might have had.

She steps away, composes herself, and thinks, Shakespeare was right. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

*****

“You might as well have ditched us,” Lavinia grumps.

“What?” Emily blinks, momentarily distracted from whatever text she was in the middle of shooting off to Sue. “Oh.”

“Not cool, dude,” Austin chimes in from the other side. They’re smushed into the couch together, planted in front of the screen where some 80s movie is on. It’s a weekend, which means movie nights filled with chicken wings and some dreadful drink that Austin’s invented that he calls the Faustinator, because.... reasons, apparently. And Emily’s just now realizing that she has no idea what the movie even is because she’s spent most of her time texting Sue. “You’re texting your sweetheart lameass cringy shit.”

“How do you know what I’m texti— Austin, stop reading over my shoulder!”

(She conveniently ignores the sweetheart thing. It’s easier than the alternative, which would be to dwell too much on the possibility of Sue being her sweetheart, and Emily being Sue’s and oh — she can feel herself smiling again.)

“Believe me, it isn’t easy on me,” he snarks. “Two months of talking our heads off about Sue, Sue, Sue and free drinks for Sue, Sue, Sue and pining over—”

“It has not been that long!”

“Lavinia?” he asks.

“Two months, two weeks and four days,” Lavinia tells her, flatly. “That’s how long we’ve had to hear about how you know her and that you’re convinced she is the love of your life.”

“I do.... know her,” she trails off, uncertain. It’s one matter to think it and feel it, like she’s felt the absurd familiarity in her bones every time she hears Sue’s voice, or Sue touches her skin, and sets it on fire. Another matter entirely to set about explaining it. Plus, other, unrelated things, like how reading Emily Dickinson’s poems feel like a friendly little nudge someone’s giving her, an inside joke, or why sometimes she feels so, so much that she would burst if she didn’t write that very moment.

“She walks you to class most days from the library.”

“And she’s been coming to the café every other day, and listening to you rant about random things,” Austin chimes in.

“Didn’t she write Emily a couple of poems as well?”

“Hey, that’s,” she starts, pauses, smiles. “Yeah. I, uh, told her nobody had ever written me anything before, and she — she’s really sweet.”

“Honey,” Lavinia says, gently, “the woman’s in love with you.”

“Oh-kay!” Emily jumps up from the couch and announces her intention to get more popcorn. And the pokes her head out from around the corner, and asks, in the tiniest voice.

“Really?”

Two chips come flying in her direction, and then they can’t stop laughing.

*****

There’s a kind of truth in the life she lives when she’s alone; no one to defer to, no one to explain to why she doesn’t want children or why, even after a couple of months of a blissful wedlock with Amherst’s most eligible ex-bachelor, the smile slides off her face as easily as the fruit punch in her parties off the plates. And then there’s the second kind that has to be dragged out of her — with heaving breath and shaking hands and salt dripped out of her eyes. Honesty that scalds and tears up her inside as it makes its way out of her.

(It’s a particular bit of irony in the fact that Emily is both the cause, and the only one who ever gets to witness the fallout, of the second one)

“Emily, I love you.” she says, like Emily’s put her arms down her throat and is ripping the words out of her. “I love you, and, and I felt you in the library — because you’re always with me.”

There’s a moment of complete, utter silence, when she stares at Emily and Emily stares back at her and the space between them is filled with the distance of lies and fury — and then they crash together. It’s an impossible push and pull, and Sue feels, for the first time in weeks, this complete surrender, abandon of all inhibition. Love tastes like Emily, and it feels like drowning and sounds like the tiny noise Emily makes when they part, like she can’t stand to be away even a second longer. All of what she knows about love is Emily.

If Sue could write, this is what she’d put down on paper: the feel of Emily’s neck beneath her hand, the way she melts when Sue wraps an arm around her. This yearning to be closer, the hunger to consume and the reluctance towards stopping. She wants, so badly to do Emily the same honor of immortalizing her in the form of words — she deserves it. The world deserves to know how she felt about this.... miracle, this angel in her arms. More than anything else, Emily deserves to know how Sue feels about her.

She turns to her side, kisses Emily’s hand once, twice. “I will never let go of you again.”

*****

Life is an endless sea of pain.

“Emily, she’s just a girl,” Austin tells her, then immediately flinches as Lavinia whacks him on the head.

Emily wipes away the moisture from her face with the sleeve of her favorite oversized hoodie, sniffles, and sticks her spoon in the tub of ice-cream again.

“Not to pry,” Lavinia starts, hesitantly, “but we still have no idea what happened. You came running into my room a week ago and haven’t stopped crying since. I guess — I guess we just want to know what’s up.”

Emily sighs. “It’s Sue.”

Austin blinks at her. “Yeah I — I mean, we know that.”

She thinks back to Sunday morning when she’d come upon her favorite restaurant while out on a run. The sight of Sue, sitting there with some.... dude. It was a cozy booth, and the way the guy seemed to be smiling in Sue’s direction couldn’t be construed as anything but romantic.  

“A date?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re telling us this is because you thought Sue was on a date?”

What wasn’t clicking? “Sue was on a date. There were flowers on the table and everything.”

“And that’s why you haven’t been returning her calls or texts? And have expressly forbidden us to tell her where you are when she comes into the café, like, everyday?”

Emily shifts. “Yes?”

Lavinia whacks her on the head.  

“Ow,” Emily groans. “What’s with all the violence?”

“Oh, stop it, you big baby. Now,” she took a deep breath, and Emily knew instinctively a huge lecture was incoming, “let’s examine the facts, shall we?”

“Is there any point in refus—”

“No. So, you like this girl, and it seems like she likes you too. But you refuse to do anything about it, like, you know, maybe admitting it to her. Then, you come upon her having lunch with some random dude and you assume it’s a date, and then freak out about it and cut her off.”

“But I’m pretty sure it was a date!”

“Fine! Okay! It was a date! So what? You expect her to hang around waiting for you to get your shit together, what, forever? And what if she doesn’t like you, god, Emily! I—”

“Okay, okay, wait!” she cuts in, holds up a hand to gather her thoughts. “I — I get what you’re saying, okay? I really do.”

“I know I have no right to be angry. She doesn’t owe me anything — I just. I dunno. I thought we had something. But even if that wasn’t the case,” she scrambles to add, “I guess I’m just taking pre-emptive action. To not get hurt. I can’t stick around and watch her fall in love with someone else, okay? I just. I can’t.”

Austin pats her on the back, and she sinks into his arm. This, of all things, is true. There are a multitude of things in life she has had to bear, and that she has borne, but this — watching Sue slowly fall in love with someone else, would be unbearable.  

She has another spoonful of ice cream. “I’m being an asshole, aren’t I?”

“A little bit, yeah,” Lavinia agrees. “But give yourself a break — you’re in love. It turns everyone a little bonkers.”

“It’s fucked.”

“No!” Austin and Lavinia tell her, together, before Lavinia continues, “Listen, I think you should talk to Sue.”

“Pretty sure she hates me now.”

“If she does, then go and face it. Honestly, though, I think you owe it to her, and also to yourself, to explain your side of things.”

“I’d literally rather die.”

“Then go do your dying in the fucking library. It’s almost ten, anyways.”

*****

She can still feel Emily’s teeth on her collarbone, can still wrap an arm around herself and trace the marks Emily’s fingers have left on her, when Sue announces that she’s trying to write a poem.

Emily throws off the sheets from her body, and turns so their heads are close. Sue’s sitting at the end of the bed, wrapped in sheets herself, eyes closed. She opens them when Emily’s nose nudges against her cheek.

“You are?” she asks, hand already playing with Sue’s hair, and Sue nods. “What’s it about?”

Sue cannot stop herself rolling her eyes. “Guess.”

“Is it,” Emily asks, teasingly, “about me?”

“Maybe.”

There’s a delighted gasp from her paramour, and she can feel a small kiss pressed to her temple. “I want to read it.”

“Only when it’s done.”

“And when will it be done?”

She turns to look right at Emily now. “I’m not sure it ever will.”

When Emily kisses her — every time Emily kisses her, Sue adds a line to the poem in her head. She’s running out of words to express joy, passion and beauty, at this point.

“The romance of it all,” Emily remarks, pretending to swoon. “This way I will live on through your words as well, after I die.”

Sue frowns, feels her lips automatically pull down at the corners. “No talking about death.”

“But we will die, darling,” Emily explains, patiently. “I can only hope that I die first.”

“How — how dare you?” she asks, indignant. “I’m going to try my very best to be the one to go.”

(That one spurs an argument that goes on four rounds before either of the participants admit defeat)

“How about,” Emily starts, ponderously. “Whoever dies first comes back around the next time and finds the other?”

Sue can’t stop the smile. The thought is so whimsical, it drives their previous non-argument right out of her head.

“You think we’ll come back someday, years after our deaths?”

“Try and stop me,” Emily declares, fondly. “Susan Gilbert, I will always — always find you.”

Sue closes her eyes, feels Emily’s lips ghost over her cheek and tries to imagine the thought of the two of them, years from now, sitting side by side, hand in hand. Breathes deeply to stop the sudden onslaught of tears the image evokes.

“My foolish sweetheart,” she says, after she’s composed herself. “I love you.”

This is what she’ll put in words — Emily next to her, head tilted downwards, turned towards her. In about a minute, she’ll start complaining of the blood rushing to her brain, and Sue, exasperated, will tell her to sit straight. She’ll write about the light that falls on the edge of Emily’s nose, the one crooked tooth all the way in the corner, the tiny scar on her brow. About the way their hands lock into each other’s, how there’s a space on her neck made perfectly in the mould of Emily’s head — two girls, sitting next to each other, together into an eternity, and beyond.

*****

The first time Emily sees Sue after a week-long absence, she’s just run into the library and crashed into a nearby bench, thus bringing down a student, two books, and herself. She gets up almost immediately, sees Sue staring at the sight of her, wide-eyed, and thinks — Oh. Found you.

There’s an empty seat next to Sue, and on the desk lies an apple. Emily approaches her, and touches the back of her shoulder lightly.

“Can I sit here?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” Sue answers, not looking at her. “Can you?”

Emily has to bite at her lip to keep in the wild laughter that threatens to erupt. It’s not just the quip, either. It’s Sue — seeing her after these many days of zero contact feels like a drug, and she breathes it in, greedily. She pulls the chair out, and sits down on it.

“So,” she starts, then trails off.

“So,” Sue mimics, not unkindly.

“It may have been brought to my attention that I’ve been a bit of an idiot.”

“Only a bit?” Sue raises an eyebrow, leans back where she’s sitting.

Well. “More than a bit,” she amends. “I’ve been an idiot. A dumbass. An utter fool. A rake. A rogue of the highest order.”

Sue tells her she agrees. Then — “You wanna tell me why?”

“I saw you and, um, some guy. On your date that day over at the Plantain Leaf?”

Sue stares. For the longest time. “You ghosted me for a week because you saw me out to lunch with a guy? Emily that is so—”

“I know!” she says, then gets shushed by the people sitting around them. She consciously lowers her voice when she speaks next. “I know, Sue. I was being an asshole, I just — felt complicated about.... things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. Like — feelings. And stuff.”

She sees Sue stifle a smile, and feels a little bit of life come back into her hands.

“What about your feelings?”

“Well,” Emily says, pauses, then comes out with a masterpiece of an explanation, “I have them.”  

Then covers her face with her hands, because why? It hasn’t even been ten minutes, and she’s already started messing things up.

“I mean — I have feelings. For you.”

She chances a look up at Sue, after a minute of that incredibly earth-shattering revelation, and stays held in place by the intensity of her gaze. Sue’s eyes are soft, large, and Emily wants to do something stupid, like bury her face in her hands again.

“You do?” Sue asks her, in the tiniest voice possible. Like she can’t believe it. Like Emily has done an awful job of wearing her whole heart out on her sleeve the past couple of months.

“Yeah,” she replies, and finds her voice is equally tiny. “Good ones.” The kind that have me convinced we knew each other a couple decades ago, that I have heard your voice in my dreams all my life, that I’ve been waiting for you for turn a corner and walk into my life this whole while. And if not this time, I’ll wait a couple decades more for you to love me back. “And it’s okay if you’re dating that guy, I just — I thought you should know. That’s all.”

Sue lets out a shuddering breath. “I’m not dating Sam.”

Oh.

So turns out Emily had been holding her breath.

Ants are crawling all over her body. To combat them, Emily picks up the object nearest to her, which happens to be the apple.

“Is that for me?”

Sue nods. “You owe me the six sandwiches I got you this entire week,” she adds, teasingly.

Elation fills Emily until she imagines she’s probably floating a few inches above the ground, buoyed by this tiny admission of caring on Sue’s part. Whoever had said all those things about love had been right. It really was.... something different altogether.

“You’re telling me you sat here and read Emily Dickinson all week, waiting for a girl to show up?”

A light blush lights up Sue, and she leans forward a little bit. “Not just a girl,” she tells her, seriously. “I waited for Emily, who was named after this poet whose work I’ve really come to like. Emily, who I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with.”

Oh dear God.

They’re closer together now, their heads almost touching; Emily imagines them in a world of their own, separate from the rest of this library. She pretends to scoff.

“What? You don’t think a lot of Emily?”

“I think I can write better,” she declares.

“You think you can—” Sue starts, then lets out a laugh. “Emily, shut up.”

And then they’re suddenly kissing, and each and every cell in Emily gathers somewhere near her chest to rejoice together, every beat of her heart falls and arranges in the shape of a song, and time just kind of. Slows down. Pauses. Stops.

Emily thinks she knows what a volcano feels like, now. When she’ll go home, later, she’ll sit at her writing desk, pen down a poem about lovers and hands and two women sitting with their heads close together; maybe put in a fruit or two. And tiny pieces will come together in her head, just like the ones in her chest that crumble every time Sue looks at her.  

But right now, she closes her eyes, feels poetry on her lips, and it is good enough.

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: Ô Toison

Relationship: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug

Characters: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Tikki

Additional Tags: Hair-pulling, Haircuts, Assault

Summary: Marinette had heard the statistics. She wasn’t unaware that her pigtails were easy handholds. She’d just been naïve enough to think it wouldn’t happen to her.

Notes: I saw statistics lately that predators often consider women’s hairstyles when choosing victims, and easy-to-grab styles like pigtails or ponytails are often a factor in that choice.  Uh, so, little fic? I can’t promise I’m back in the fandom, but I’m at least recovered from what occurred enough to write this. Fic is not beta read and was written in like half an hour. The title is part of a French poem by Charles Baudelaire that’s kind of an ode to hair. 

AO3 link

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Marinette had heard the statistics. She wasn’t unaware that her pigtails were easy handholds. She’d just been naïve enough to think it wouldn’t happen to her.

And yet, here she was, snagged by the pigtail by an akuma for use as a human shield, just when she’d been looking for a hiding place to transform. Chat had shown up just as she tried to dodge around the akuma with the rest of her classmates, and he had snagged her.

“Give me your miraculous, or the girl gets it!”

She wanted to sigh at the cliché, but she had no idea what power this akuma had or what would happen if she did “get it.” And if she, and the earrings, were out of commission, there would be no way to purify the akuma.

Really, there was only one choice.

Chat was frozen, uncertain in a way he rarely saw from him. She caught his attention with a hand signal. She put the fingers of one hand in the scissors symbol and the other as claws, giving him permission. She saw the moment he understood and offered a grin.

“Mister Akuma, please don’t hurt me,” she begged, faking hysterics and wriggling in a way that would distract him.

“You little— Stop moving around!”

Chat Noir was a black blur, and she felt the pressure of the slice as her hair pulled slightly, and then she was free, rolling away. She wasn’t surprised to be scooped up by Chat, who used his baton to get to the rooftops and run along them with her in his arms.

She felt a little pang at the lightness of her head, the loss of her hair, but it was a necessary sacrifice. Those statistics were no joke, and if something like that had happened while she was in the suit it could have been even more disastrous.

“Sorry for the bad haircut, Princess,” he said mournfully when they stopped and he set her down. “You had such pretty hair.”

His hand ran through the place where her pigtail had been.

“It’s okay, Chat,” she said. “I told you to do it. It’ll grow back.”

If she let it, anyway. Maybe she’d just need to have a shorter haircut until Hawkmoth was unmasked and defeated. Even after, she’d need to consider whether longer hair in even a bun might make her an attractive target for perverts or criminals. Her mind was already racing with excuses for her shorter hair as Ladybug.

A loud crash sounded from the distance, and she patted Chat’s shoulder.

“You’d better get back to it. I’ll get down from here and get to safety.”

Chat, ever the gentleman, scooped her up again and alit in an alley.

“No need to climb down, Princess. I’ll check in with you later.”

Then he was gone.

Fortunately, the alley was empty, and she ducked behind a dumpster before opening her purse. Tikki looked beside herself, upset.

“Oh, Marinette. I’m so sorry!”

Marinette smiled at her kwami, bringing her up to her cheek to give a little nuzzle.

“It’s not your fault. Can you give me another pigtail during the transformation? Otherwise Chat might figure it out.”

“And Paris as a whole!” Tikki said. “I can do that.”

“I’ll have to get the rest cut. Ladybug can announce that the attack on Marinette made her aware of the dangers of her own hairstyle.”

“You’re so strong, Marinette!”

She didn’t feel strong—she’d just made a necessary sacrifice. Later she would probably be shaken up about it, but right now the adrenaline was pumping through her system.

“We’ll talk about it later, and you can help me pick out a new hairstyle,” she promised. “Right now we have an akuma to deal with! Tikki, Spots On!”

The second pigtail felt real, added back the weight of the hair she’d lost. Given that this akuma had used her hair against her, she knew she’d need to be extra careful.

But just for this battle.

[captainsuke]

Yusuf should be asleep, he should be wrapped around his husband's body, taking strength from the warmth he's never quite felt anywhere else.

Instead he's in the kitchen, the cool metal grip on his pistol warmed by his hand wrapped white knuckled around it.

He'd heard a noise.

He'd dreamed he'd heard a noise.

It doesn't matter. It's late and the little cottage they are currently calling home is empty, except for his sleeping husband, and Joe, standing vigil in the dark.

(rest of fic under the cut for all you ao3 haters)

There's a small gap between window and wall, and the wind flows through it with a whispering wail. Once all houses creaked and swayed and whistled with the wind, little leaks with pots that were emptied in the morning, a row of fine dust along the window sills and under the doors gifted from a night of wild wind. Now these things are considered nuisances, problems to be torn down and rebuilt new and unremarkable. His heart feels heavy tonight, the feeling of long years catching up on him and curling it's fingers around his soul.

Joe looks out the window of his and Nicky's little Maltese cottage, the moon shines bright enough behind shifting clouds that even the slivers of light allow Joe to see the branches of the apple tree in the front garden sway with the cool night's breeze. Many summers ago they'd laid in the shade of that tree, eating the sweetly tart fruit until they'd made themselves sick. He has a sketch - or eight - of the passing shadows dappling Nicky's face as he'd laid back, full and content.

A memory stacked upon another memory from the days they'd done the same with Andromache, years and years ago, four, five hundred years ago, filling their bellies with overripe apricots after several long hard years of fighting and barely being able to tell if they had even made a difference, let alone actually helped anyone. Even now Joe can close his eyes and see Qýuhn's hair blowing free in the cooling winds coming up along the Peloponnese peninsula. Andromache's fingers sticky with pasteli, her cheeks rosy where she laid them on Qýuhn's thigh. Nicolò, sunbleached and glowing in the golden of light of a Mediterranean sunset.

He remembers retelling the apple story when they'd all met up again, Booker with his ever present flask, Andy sharing long drinks from it, all them tired but smiling, leaning heavily of the heavenly taste of crisp apples and the folly of gorging on enough fresh fruit to upset their stomachs. Because it made Booker laugh. Because it gave them all something to laugh about, to distract themselves from the weather turning and Sèbastien's eyes growing cagey as the winter's teeth started to bite.

Nicky had stoked the cottage's fire til they'd been sweating in front of the tiny hearth, toasty and ridiculous in their undergarments, with thick woolen socks on their feet in respect for the wild weather that battered at the windows. He'd felt happy that they'd managed to turn that haunted look to smiling eyes that crinkled at the edges. Had that moment meant something? Anything? Nothing? Was the glow in his eyes merely momentary? A trick of light and the gleam of drunken eyes?

Would this be the rest of his days? Questioning every moment, desperately searching for where he went wrong, where he should have noticed Booker's pain. Looking for the moment that had been Sèbastien's last straw.

It's funny, Joe can joke, he can laugh, he can make vague reference and yell angry accusing words, he can recite a bit of original poem he's writing as he speaks, but he can't work out how to open his mouth and say the words why did you hurt me?

He's always horribly envied Nicky's ability to put his hurt away, to shelve it for later, or never if he feels it best. Even as he's pulled his hair out in frustration as his other half willfully tears himself to pieces in an effort to find a way to please everyone.

Oh, he knows they're both different shades of Not Dealing Well, both of them like a purpose to distract themselves.

Foolishly, stupidly, for a wild moment Joe wishes for someone else to try for them, to attack them, just so he can slip back into the head space of being a unit, a simple moving part in a machine much larger than himself, Nicky and him working hand in hand, two halves of a whole.

He desperately wishes for that feeling, for anything other than devastated, tearing, hating hurt that sits on his lungs like peine forte et dure, each time he feels like the worst of the pain has occurred he remembers some other occasion, some other memory now colored by betrayal.

He can forgive, he can sympathize, he can hold his brother close and cry for the losses he's suffered.

But anger stabs through at the thought of him not returning that empathy. Like he and all the kin before Booker haven't suffered days of death and nights of death. Day after day, month after month of unimaginable loss, not knowing how to stop it, how to help it, just enduring as time pass uncaring of the pain felt.

He's held Nicky as he begged for the end, for them to finally (please, please, please) be released from the unrelenting years of horrors, just as Nicky has pulled him close while he cried, screamed, wailed for even the slightest chance of reprieve. From the widow with dead eyes and fevered blush, burying her last child and going back to work at the sick houses, for the children with nothing – nothing - yet who could still muster a smile, for Nicky spitting blood, choking, drowning, dying, then coming back to do it all over again. Never ending and relentless.

This is stupid.

He is being stupid.

Awake in the middle of the night, stalking around their Malta house gun in hand, the most unnatural state of himself, but unable to rest, convinced that if he relaxed, if his guard dropped for a moment, he would lose it all.

He places the gun on the table, sits down, there's no peace or answers to be found in an old cottage kitchen by the sea at midnight.

All there is, is the long shadows of moonlight between furniture, the evening dishes neatly washed and drying on the sink, a glass full of pens on the table, Joe's gun now sitting atop Nicky's latest writing attempt. Never long, never complicated, Joe found himself devastated by each small letter his husband left for him, even the three thousand that merely read I love you ♥♥♥♥, he held each one to equal esteem, though Nicky barely seemed to remember writing them, he would just smile and say I was thinking of you.

you unmake me.

you remake me.

everyday

Doodled across cheap lined notepaper, tucked under his dinner plate. They'd shared that meal just a few hours ago, Nicky's eyes had been tired but he'd kissed Joe's curls with a soft smile as he'd served dinner.

A meal that had taken more than half the day to create because if Nicky had the time he found peace in simmering oil and tomatoes, in adding all the extra ingredients that might make an Italian swear but had delighted them so when they'd first tasted them, that now they'd add them to whatever meal they could.

It'd been less than a week and Nicky was already on first name basis with the halal butcher a few blocks away, and many a day they stroll the streets, collecting fresh produce from the little garden markets, stopping by Zakaria's so he could wrap the evening meal with a only my finest cut for my favorite customers and a wink, despite having claimed the same to the little Italian grandmother before them, blushing and waving her hands in a flustered, delighted stop motion.

Joe closes his eyes, feeling suddenly overwhelmed, like his heart would be beat out of his chest, fall out onto the floorboards that they'd sanded and placed lovingly when they'd first started rebuilding this little cottage. Nicky could live his life with just Yusuf and the sea and be happy, but Joe needed people, needed to see people living their lives no matter how mundane. No matter how out of sorts he's been since they arrived, exhausted and devastated from London, Nicky hadn't forgotten that.

And so Nicolò knows the butcher by name, and, in turn, Zakaria's fisherman boyfriend, who stocks the butcher shop with the freshest of catches and shies away from company, with deep sad eyes and ankle bones that jut out like he needs a Nonna to fuss over him.

And so he's befriended the old ladies from the markets who give him unsolicited advice on his roses, on his apple tree, on the lush green vine that flowers bright bursts of color, on how to keep That Nice Young Man He's Always With happy.

And so each of these people is a friend of Joe's as well.

Joe takes one last long look out the window. Daring anyone who might be out there to take the moment. To give him a reprieve from his thoughts.

But the apple trees branches are the only thing moving. Wind rustling leaves the only sounds to be heard over the soft ebbing crash of waves in the distance.

There's no respite to be found tonight, he thinks as he put his pistol away. Part of him aches to remain armed, to keep vigilant, because last time, last time, but he won't walk into their bedroom with a loaded gun in hand. Not tonight when he feels like his very soul has been twisted, not when he still feels as if unseen eyes are watching him.

As Joe closes the bedroom door behind him, eyes open slow but sharp, immediately awake, perhaps awake before Joe came in. His Nicky is a light sleeper, more prone to 3 or 4 hours sleep before waking alert and ready to face the living hours,.

Nicky's eyes go soft, the faintest of gentle smiles curling his lips as he focuses on Yusuf.

“Where are you, my love?” he asks with quiet rasping voice of someone newly woken.

He doesn't know, he feels adrift, but Nicky's hand moves, reaches out and Joe crosses the room to take it as the lifeline he needs.

“What do you need?” His voice is steady and calm and ready to promise anything in his power to Joe.

And Joe feels his heart constrict, he can't live without this man, he thinks wildly

(a flash, a dagger in the dark, Nicolò on the ground, a halo of his blood, his beautiful skull, his precious brains scattered across the floor without second thought)

he wants to know Andy's okay, he wants her and Nile here immediately so he can see for himself that they're safe, he wants Qýuhn in his arms so much it physically aches. He wants her dark humor and her sharp eyes. He wants to hear her screech like stepped on cat whenever something delighted her. He wants Booker snorting into his wine at some stupid joke, he wants to know he's alive, that he hasn't thrown himself into another stupid situation.

In the morning, he thinks, in the morning he'll speak to Nile, her occasional furtive texting isn't quite as secretive as she perhaps thinks but none of them had felt the need to tell her to stop.

In the morning, he can wait til morning to soothe the lies and worries that his anxiety haunts him with. Til then, he threads his hands tighter with Nicky's, lets him pull Joe to bed, lets him rearrange them til he's flat on his back with Joe's head is resting on his chest, Nicolò's heartbeat in his ear.

He keeps a hold of Joe's hand, brings it up to his lips, presses a kiss to where they're joined, then curls it close to Joe and his chest, as if shielding it against the rest of the world.

“You, just you.” Joe tells the darkness.

“You have me,” Nicolò says, his breath, his lips, his jaw moving against Joe's curls.

“What do you need?” He asks again, free hand coming to rest, cradling Joe's head, gently gently he feels fingers move lightly in tiny soft circles.

“Tell me something.”

Joe pulls their joined hands close, presses his own kiss against Nicky's long fingers, holds it close enough for his breath to warm skin “Please. Tell me something good.”

It's a hard ask, he knows, he knows, every good moment of their lives can be tied to a bad one, the past could be a minefield with no directions or signs. But Nicolò rarely shied from a challenge.

“Did I ever tell you of the time Qýuhn demanded to know my intentions with you?”

“But she loved you!” He mumbles against their joined hands.

“Yes she did, but she loved your heart just as fiercely.” Nicky's chest moves against Joe's cheek as he snorts, amused, “We'd had to have been intimate for almost a year by this time, but she had me feeling like a sham of a man standing before the most beautiful man's guardian, offering a pauper's dowery.”

Joe starts shifting to argue but the hand on his head keeps him still, gentle but firm.

“It was good. To be reminded that you had someone else who would fight for your happiness, that my love for you was visible enough to be challenged, a reminder that we both still had family even if it looked very different to what we'd been born with. It'd been nice to know no matter how much I felt I didn't deserve, I'd been ready to fight for the right to let that be your decision.”

“You do deserve me,” the gentle circles on his scalp are making him sleepy but he puts a token argument, the principle of no one was allowed talk shit about Nicky, not even Nicky, one he was always ready to defend.

“Hush, you asked for a story, this is my story.”

“Scusi, scusi,” he kisses Nicky's hand again, “tell your story, tell me how you convinced me that Qýuhn you were worthy of my hand in marriage.”

He swears he can hear Nicky smile in the dark.

“I didn't, Andromache came in and declared they should leave us to make our mistakes and then stab which ever of us was most in the wrong.”

Joe can't help but laugh. “Qýuhn like that?”

He feels Nicky's soft laughter vibrate through his skin, he wants to die like this, in a moment like this, just the two of them entwined.

“No, she called Andy soulless and unromantic, they went outside to spar. We didn't see them again til morning, and Qýuhn never mentioned it again, so maybe Andy had a little romance in her.”

“How have I never head of this story?”

Nicky's answering chuckle is a delight.

“You came back and we had the house to ourselves for the entire night.” The hand on Joe's head flexes, like he wants to hold Joe as tight as he is can but its as much as their position allows. “It was a good day. We were loved, we are loved.”

He wants to crawl inside Nicolò, live forever embraced by his heart, to feel every lung full of breath press against him

“Sleep my love,” Nicky says leaning low to press his cheek against Joe's curls, to place an unaimed kiss to his forehead.

Sleep.

Nicky’s heartbeat is a sure and steady thing against his ear

(a monitor screaming as his lives hand falls limp against restraints)

Joe squeezes his eyes tightly shut then forces himself to relax, to hear the beat that's been by his side for a thousand years. He thinks of crinkles at the sides of Qýuhn's eyes when she grinned, the way she'd look to Joe when she found something fun to share.

He thinks of the way Booker's face grew soft in the late of the night when the game had long ended and everyone had gone to sleep and it was just the two of them, keeping the sleepless night company.

He thinks of the glow of Nile's face when they walked the halls of the National Museum, her excited but obviously knowledgeable commentary, how he itches to draw the lines of her joy over and over til he gets it just right.

He thinks of Andy in Marrakesh, the feel of her ribs reverberating with the force of her laugh as he swung her around. She's mother, weird aunt, odd stranger, honored elder, pain in the ass know-it-all older sister and so many more things he can not think to name, but she's theirs, and it's going to take a lot more than mortality to take her from them.

He swears it.

Finally he thinks of Nicky.

Nicky with long hair in his face, of the ever changing color his eyes across the firelight, of the weight of his body passed out, sated atop Yusuf, of the weight of his body lifeless as Joe pulled him somewhere to revive safely. The heaviness of his gaze and the weightlessness of even his smallest smile. Of his hands as they held Joe together, the gentleness of his touch as he put him back together. Of the unique light in his eyes, the fire that burns brightest when his sword is out. He thinks of words freely given when speech was hardest, he thinks of the uncountable I love you's, the innumerable languages he's learnt just to speak them and hear them back.

He thinks of hot blood spattered across his face and the way Nicolòs eyes would fight to meet his own when the end was coming. He thinks of the tightening of hands before they became unbearably limp. He thinks of the bad deaths, of eyelashes glued together with tears as hes gasped alive and the watery smile that followed. He thinks of Nicky moving, his sword swinging, on broken ankle, spitting blood and still moving.

His head, his heart, his life is full, and sometimes it feels like he'll drown with all that's in it.

Nicky's hand moves from his head, moves to stroke down his spine, long and slow in repetition.

Sleep he says again, his own voice thick at the edge of sleep himself.

Joe hugs a small breath, then slows his breathing to match the deep level breathing of Nicolò asleep. He thinks about the first time they slept like this, arms around each other, tangled and holding tight. He thinks of the countless times he's rubbed his nose against the back of Nicky's neck as he tried to catch just a little more sleep time.

There's a heaviness growing in his limbs as he half dreams of Nicky as he wraps himself around and burrows himself closer to Nicky. Slowly, steadily and then suddenly all at once, the sense memory of nine hundred years in this man's arms lulls him into sleep.

[aden-reid]

“I remember my childhood as a long wish to be elsewhere.”

I have never fit in: with my family and their carefree nature or my peers whose trendy glibs forced my eyes to roll. I tried, relentlessly, to enjoy and accept what I didn’t, to be free in my own skin that never seemed to feel right. I tried too hard and it received strange glances and pointed whispers. It was better keeping to myself. 

We were the perfect little family on the outside; two boys and two girls all sweet and well-mannered with their mom and dad who seemed endlessly in love. In the privacy of our home was a different story. Once, I idolized my older siblings and parents. They had the necessary norms a rose-colored child’s naivety yearned to mature into. However, there were days dad wouldn’t get out of bed, their darkened bedroom discouraging visitors. Mom always seemed to take on extra shifts at the hospital during that time, happy-go-lucky her wanting far away from his draining negativity. It’s a fuzzy time because when he graduated into the light, all play and laughing and smiles is what sticks in my brain. But then. And then. The Bad Thing Happened. The one mom still doesn’t like being brought up or discussed in her presence. I can’t forget, though; won’t ever. The nightmares come frequently, when I sleep, if I sleep. 

I’m the one who found him. Nine and so very little for my age, I was returning from school when I crossed a little blue jay on the trail and my heart ached for the injured fella. I took it upon myself to save him, racing home because I needed daddy to help me bring the bird with his broken wing to the vet. But stopped short because there he was, hanging from the American Beech in our backyard, a rope crudely tied from its thick branch to around his neck, which was bent at an ungodly angle. Broken, I later found out. I think I was in shock for the longest time because my concern still lied with my rescue animal throughout that whole evening of ambulances and police officials full of questions, my inconsolable family and the gathering, nosy neighbors who wanted a peak of the tragedy.

It was my first trauma and my “why” has still not been satisfied. After that, Mom started a funny relationship with food, which I think she gave to me. She would eat when she was sad, and she was always sad. The family pictures on the wall made her sad, dad’s favorite armchair made her sad, and eventually being in the house at all made her sad. The loss of the second income had her starting a second job so she wasn’t very present, and Brennan got his first ever minimum wage gig. Split between school, hockey, and his after-school cashier position, I rarely saw my older brother. It was left to Halston to look after me and little Callan. She only did with resentment. 

The first poem I wrote I titled “Brennan’s dreams” and illustrated how my brother was meant to achieve more than being immortalized as a high school hockey star. If he hadn’t gotten in the car that night. If he hadn’t been drinking. If he hadn’t had that screaming match with mom before he left. My heartache came out through my pen and my new love bloomed. The first and only time I read something I had written out loud and in front of others besides in class was his funeral. 

They say life goes on. That the loved ones you lost would want you to keep living. Life is supposed to go on. Mine seemed to end that year. My mom was always plus-size for as long as I can remember and I know that society got to me, her overeating disgusted me, so much to the point that I would refuse to. Excuses of “I just ate” or lies that I was going out with friends for dinner. Bites of saltines or fat-free yoghurt were okay but I mostly filled up on water. I was counting calories in my sleep. When I lost control and overate, I would sob over the toilet as I shoved two fingers deep into my throat. I can vomit on demand now, no fingers required, just a practiced gag reflect. 

If I wasn’t comparing myself to the models shiny and smiling on the cover of my favorite magazines, I was hidden in my room, turning into my dad. His bouts of sadness became mine. I didn’t want to leave the dark, my bed, because the world was far too scary: full of judgment and teases, mean jeers that elicited laughter. I would look in the mirror and find every single flaw of mine, with the only conclusion being I was ugly. I’d work through my depression by escaping into other’s fictional realities, my favorite authors’ words painting an escape I desperately craved. I healed with my own words, pouring them into my journals - secrets just for me.

While I was spiraling into my own self-hatred, my mother was battling with her own. Two deaths and she had checked out from the family. She had always been bigger, but it was around the time I was sixteen that she couldn’t move herself off of the couch. Refused, really, because the excess weight she held was too painful to carry further than the restroom. Her solution to her problem was to eat more, the three of us enabling her and bringing her all of the junk food she requested. Mine and Mom’s arguments started when kids from school got wind of her six-hundred pound life and changed their bullying from teasing me to taunts of her.

My saving grace came from being scouted. I thought it was a joke when she introduced herself, handed me her card, and invited me for a meeting and headshots. There was no doubt in my mind I was being punked. But I went, after much debate, indecisiveness, and that extra push I needed from my sister. I didn’t want to be Halston, stuck at home working a dead-end job because mom no longer saw the reason, taking care of her and Callan. Responsibilities that weren’t hers but she took on, resentfully. I saw the begrudging in her eyes that she tried to hide behind a smile when I gushed about being signed and shared I was moving to New York City after graduation.

I left and found who I am. I have my moments of grief, days I don’t want to leave my bed. I still get overcome by the sadness. But the art helps, spending a day in a museum to appreciate the talent I don’t possess, listening to poet’s words that I wish were my own. Constant reminders and daily affirmations of what makes me, me and how great those I’ve surrounded myself with are. One day at a time.

[jtsfavslut]

✧ 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 ✧

Description: Inspired by the song ‘Heather’ by Conan Gray.

Warning: Suicidal Talk

Word Count: 1.2k+

*THE THIRD OF DECEMBER*

"21 more days till' Christmas eve, I can't wait," Grayson excitedly beamed at you.

"Me too, but I can't wait for winter to be over," you smiled back at him, rubbing your clothed arms trying to create some sort of heat, as your long-sleeved, yet thin shirt managed to provide you with no source of heat.

"Here," Grayson said handing you his sweater that he had on, it was a plain black, crew neck kind of sweater.

"Thank you Gray, but your going to get cold, or worst, sick," you pouted at him as he was left in a black long sleeve shirt.

"It's looks better on you than me anyways, plus I'm used to the cold," he smiled at you making you blush. Luckily for you, your cheeks were already cold from the breeze hitting your face.

"And am I, we've lived here our entire lives duh," she playfully rolled your eyes, and turned around to lean your body on the railing, looking at the green pines ahead of you.

You and the Dolan siblings were known for being extremely close, however, you and Grayson however, were inseparable. If Grayson got invited to anything, you would come along, and vise-versa.

And of course, you caught feeling for your hot best-friend who happens to live across from you, you kept it to yourself, not wanting to jeopardize anything.

"I can't believe we're going to be seniors next year," Grayson sighed as you softly nodded your head.

"Me neither," you whispered. You're head making up scenarios about how would it be if you finally dated him during senior year.

"Y/N, Gray, mom said to come inside because it's getting cold," Ethan said through the door, making you and Grayson walk back inside.

The warm heat making your skin get that weird feeling everything the temperature changes suddenly.

"Go lay in my bed, I'll bring some hot chocolate and we can watch movies, yeah?" Grayson asked making your heart do cartwheels.

You nodded your head and made your way to the bedroom that you've spent many nights in.

You wished you could stop being a pussy and tell him that you love him. But the fear of rejection, humiliation, and loss scared you to death. You we'rent scared of anything. Except one thing.

And that being loosing Grayson, he was the only person you truly loved, the only one you would die for.

Grayson was always there for you. Everything your parents yelled at you for making a little mistake like accidentally spilling a bit of whatever on the table, your first crush-rejection, and especially your parents getting more toxic.

He knew you more than you knew yourself. Yet he was oblivious to the fact that you were madly in love with him.

"Extra whipped cream, just how you always get it," his voice suddenly spoke making you flinch.

"Thank you," you whispered while smiling, reaching up and grabbing the cup from him.

"You're awfully quiet today. What's up?" he asked making your shoulders tense.

"Umm, nothing, I'm OK. Just thinking about something," you shrugged, sipping on the hot drink that he made you, making your insides warm up.

"Thinking about what?" he asked and you thought of something to say.

'How I'm madly in love with you,' you thought to yourself, but managed to lie and say that it's about graduation. Of course he believed you, since you've been worrying about that lately.

*THE TWELVE OF DECEMBER*

"I'm staying after school today," your soft voice spoke as you stood with Grayson and Ethan by your lockers.

"You want me to wait for you?" He asked as you shook your head smiling.

"I'll walk home, you can go with E," you told he as frowned. "It's cold, you could get sick. I'll go with E, then come pick you up." He shrugged as Ethan nodded.

"Yeah you could get sick, and it's gonna snow later." Ethan said agreeing with his brother.

"Fine, I'll text you when it's done," you sighed.

"I'm gonna blast, and get lunch." Ethan said and walked away.

"So I was thinking that for our friendvesarry we could go to the skating rink on Satur-," you began saying but stopped as you noticed he wasn't paying attention to you.

You followed his eyes trying to find what had managed to catch his attention.

His eyes followed her until she was out of sight. Her blonde hair bouncing on her shoulder with every step she took.

"I'm sorry, what?" He asked turning to look at you again.

"Nothing, it wasn't important." You whispered with a ting of hurt in your voice.

"Oh ok," he answered confused but let it be.

"I'm gonna go to library, wanna come?" You asked him.

"I have something to do, but I'll meet you before class starts ok?" He asked and you nodded your head.

And as you walked to library by yourself, Grayson went to go find her.

And as you found a new book to read, Grayson found a new date for Saturday.

Saturday being the 14th of December. The day you two met 13 years ago.

While that day meant everything to you, it seemed like it managed to escape from his mind.

"When are you gonna tell my brother?" a very familiar voice spoke scarring you and making you look up from the book you were reading.

Ethan.

"I'm sorry, what?" you said taking off your fake reading glasses. A habit you picked up while reading.

"That you're in love with him. I know you are Y/N," he said sitting down next to you.

"I am not. I don't know what you're talking about," you denied and put your glasses back on, and going back to your book, before he snatched it.

"Y/N, I  know when you lie. We all know you are." he spoke making you sigh.

"OK, so what if I am. He doesn't love me in that way. He likes her. Her eyes are brighter than a blue sky, her blonde her makes my black one look dead. He's mesmerized by Heather, Ethan. He likes her, not me," you spoke while tears clouded your vision.

"You still have to tell him,  before you, uhh- before you go," he spoke as  his eyes also filled with tears because of what he was referring to.

"He doesn't know Ethan," you groaned.

"You have to tell him, it'll be better. If you don't tell  him, it's going to destroy him." he cried. Thank god no one was around.

"How do you tell the person you're in love with that you’re going away because you tried to kill yourself. How do you even tell them that you're trying to kill yourself?" you calmly asked as he shook his head.

"He kissed me Ethan. He kissed me and apologized and said that he didn't mean for that to happen. He said to act like it never happened." you softly cried while shaking your head.

He stayed quiet so you took it as a cue to continue talking. You took off your glasses placing them on the table.

"I won't tell him, he's happy with her, I'm going away. He'll be find without me, he doesn't need me, and neither does you or anyone else. I'll start a new life, somewhere else but here. He'll date her and they'll be happy. You'll find someone else and be happy. Me? I don't know what happiness is, but I hope I'll find it." you said getting up.

"Think of this as a fresh start or reset. Please give this him. I'm leaving in two hours so I better get home," you whispered as tears raced down your face.

"I love you Ethan, never forget that. I love all the time I spent with you guys. You guys saved me, but I need to save myself now," you handed him the letter and left.

And you ran home, took all your stuff and left to the airport.

You wanted to go to New York, but that was close, too close. Florida was not for you, so LA was the only option.

As cliche as  it sounds, LA does give people opportunities, and being all the way across the country sounded good.

And while you got in the plane, Grayson opened the letter that you gave him. Screaming at Ethan for not telling earlier, giving you a chance to stop you.

Dear Grayson,

By the time you're reading this, if Ethan gave it to you when I asked him to, I should be on a plane, headed somewhere far.

As you may know, my love for poetry, has given me the talent to express my feelings in a more soft cleaner way, the poem below will explain everything that's been going through my mind recently.

I still remember Third of December

Me in your sweater You said it looked better

On me, than it did you Only if you knew

How much I liked you But I watch your eyes, as she

Walks by What a sight for Sore eyes

Brighter than a Blue sky

She's got you Mesmerized

While I dieWhy would you ever kiss me? I'm not even half, as pretty

You gave her your sweater It's just polyester, but you like her better Wish I were Heather

Watch as she stands with Her holding your hand

Put your arm 'round her shoulder Now I'm getting colder

But how could I hate her? She's such an angel

But then again, kinda Wish she were dead, as she

Walks by

If  you know me, you know exactly what this means.

I love you Gray, and not in a friendly way, I love you as in I want to be in a relationship and share everything with you.

But that doesn't matter anymore. I just had to say it, and I'm not scared of anything, only loosing you. But I was going to loose you anyways, so I wrote it on paper.

I want to thank you for everything that you've done for me.

I want you to forget about me, about our friendship. About our friendship. I want you, and Ethan, to start fresh, to go out there and explore the world.

I want you and Heather, or any other girl to be happy. I want you to be happy and for someone to make you happy and to give you everything you deserve and vice-versa.

As for me, I'm going to cherish everything we've done together. Every movie we've watched, every hugged we've shared, and every second.

Make sure to tell mama Lisa that I love her and that was she the mother I needed. And tell her that I moved for some program or something, you're smart and creative so you'll make something up.

I love you Gray <3

- Y/N.

"YOU KNEW  DIDN'T YOU? YOU KNEW SHE WAS LEAVING AND DIDN'T TELL ME?" Grayson angrily shouted at Ethan as hot tears streamed down his face.

"She needs this Gray. We'll find her, I don't know where she went but we'll find her,"Ethan sighed trying to comfort his brother.

"I love her Ethan and now she's gone. How come I didn't notice?" He cried.

"I love you Gray," you whispered to yourself as your plane took off.

PART TWO

[neo-existential-crisis]

Thresholds, Online Exhibition Review

@ MIMA, Middlesbrough Institute of Modern Art

At the start of the year we were fresh-faced, coming into a new decade our planners were full and the air was ripe with potential. Then we entered the period of uneasiness, stuck at home not knowing what was going to happen next, our plans stifled; the places we once went for enjoyment and culture were shut and at risk of closing for good. In this period of uncertainty, we connected to the outside world via our screens, seeing family and friends in unfocused zoom calls and trying to figure out the best impromptu office space to work from home in. We spent more time in our domestic spaces, saw into the domestic worlds of our peers, lines were crossed as our domestic spaces became where we entertained friends, where we worked and where we also relaxed on top of everything. Our relationships with our homes we re-written as we adapted to our new way of living through a pandemic.

Throughout lockdown, art spaces jumped to create online exhibitions right away and created a plethora of virtual exhibits some newly made others pre-planned exhibits put into a computer manufactured gallery space or a video tour like Tate Modern’s Andy Warhol exhibit. Comparatively, Thresholds curator Adian Moesby, who is currently working as MIMA’s associate curator during his residency, took time to reflect on the changes made to our relationship with home during lockdown and the easing of restrictions which is where this current virtual exhibition is born out of. Moesbys practice is ‘under pinned through conversation’ (Adian Moesby – About, 2020) which he utilises in the curation of this exhibit through in-depth conversations he had with Sonia Boué, Lindsey Duncanson and Catriona Gallagher, the three artists that make up Thresholds. The exhibit connects these artists together through a mix of photography and film to communicate their personal stories and experiences with lockdown and the impact Covid-19 had on their relationship to home. Made at a time of easing restrictions Thresholds asks us to evaluate our feelings and connections towards our homes and the places we inhabit at a time where restrictions are tightening up once again and we will inevitably be spending more time there.

Clicking through to the exhibit PDF you are confronted with a low-res still from Catriona Gallagher's ‘Video Villanelle (for distance)’ (2020), a twilight sky setting up the transient mood that prevails throughout the exhibit. Scrolling down you are introduced to Sonias Boué’s ‘Safe as Houses’ (2020) 12 photos documenting her move to her new studio space which she moved into during the transitional period of lockdown. Set against a white backdrop each new photo exists on its own page and explores a plethora of objects which Boué takes with her for each new move; from childhood items such as a rocking horse to an exhaust pipe situated on its own rickety looking chair, these hold a personal connection to the artist. ‘Safe as Houses’ shares a close relationship to much of Boué’s practice where she ‘explores home and the domestic as metaphors for exile and displacement’ (Sonia Boue, 2020) with much of her work focusing on post-memory the idea of connection to the past and the generational trauma that continues to affect the lives of future generations seen most clearly in her work responding to the Spanish Civil war. Boué presents this within Thresholds in the specifically tailored striped pyjamas featured in a quarter of the photographs that connect not only to the new casualwear of lockdown but is reminiscent of the clothes her grandparents were forced to wear during their time in concentration camps. In one they sit folded on a wooden chair set to the right of the frame; the room dim with a square of light reflected in from a window in the empty space. Boués photos mark the space of time from childhood to adulthood and the period of moving. The photographs and the diverse objects we see serve as an exploration into what home means to us, the things we carry through with us through childhood into our adult lives and how we make a space a home.

Sonia Boué, 'Safe as Houses', 2020.

Where Sonia Boué travels through memories and explores the past, Lindsey Duncansons piece ‘Brief loss’ (2020) studies the repetitive stagnation of life during lockdown. The three greyscale film vignettes feature next to each through a triptych; filmed within Duncanson's own flat it reveals a very personal side to the artist and invites us into her own domestic space that she shares with her family. The film is notably different from the rest of Duncanson's work which usually feature sublime picturesque outdoor scenes with plenty of colour whereas in this piece she has swapped out the rolling hills of the moors of Stanhope for the cosy interiors of home. This reversal exemplifies the loss, change and confinement that lockdown brought, Duncanson can no longer explore the landscapes around Newcastle upon Tyne and so she has adapted to her new situation and uses her home as a landscape to explore instead. Titled ‘Brief Loss’ the piece carries with the emotional effects of lockdown and displays the monotonous nature of life that occurred when we could no longer go out to experience life outside our homes. Within the scene Duncanson sits crouched in the centre of the triptych, walled in by a row of plants and a bookcase she’s seemingly lost in thought, occasionally picking a book out and flipping through it before resuming her previous position, there is a quiet comforting presence to the piece, on either side of Duncanson her partner, in the left-hand panel, and son, in the right, sit in their own respective rooms, her partner rests comfortably on an armchair occasionally living his mug while her son sits at his desk drawing while a screen flickers out of signal next to him. The whole scene has a dreamlike quality to it with the comfortable atmosphere alongside the ambient sound and the black and white filter and in each doorway behind the subjects exists projections of the outside, with pond skaters skipping over water, the ripples and reflections of clouds, and star-like moving foam. Duncanson combines the domestic with the outside showing our dreams of being free once again and escape this monotony that we’ve fallen into.

The final piece of Thresholds isn’t confined to the comforts of home or one space instead it travels through memories, moments and landscapes. Home isn’t one pace for most of us but for Catriona Gallagher she works and lives between Northumberland and Athens ana through ‘Video Villanelle (for distance)’ (2020) she ‘explores her sense of dislocation’ (MIMA-Thresholds-Exhibition.pdf, 2020) from being stuck in England while trying to navigate the travel restrictions throughout summer to return to Greece. The aptly named 17-minute film follows the a, b rhyme structure -like that of a traditional villanelle poem- comprised of short snippets of footage with repeating motifs not too different from the structure of a stanza. The footage feels as though you are being invited into Gallagher's life, it’s a documentation of scenes with friends, with so warm sparkling candles on a birthday cake and to late-night bicycle rides, to rain pouring outside of a window and Gallagher's reflection in the window of a train the landscape rushing by while you hear mindless chatter in the background. Sound plays an interesting role in this film with most of it coming from the footage though you can hear music from Magic Arm ebbing and flowing through that perfectly ties the clips together. There is a sense of reminiscing over what life used to be with clips featuring a close-knit group of people and scene of the Greece coastline this is starkly contrasted to the reality of uncertainty as to when life will return to normal. The film is set in portrait mode with a somewhat low-quality feel to it due to the footage being taken entirely from existing videos from Gallagher's phone archive. It comprises of videos sent to friends or keepsakes as Jade French puts it ‘this footage was never intended to be art’ (French, 2020) which give it an intensely personal feel as if we are walking through her memories. ‘Video Villanelle’ focuses on the small moments, the subtle experiences in life and though the footage is fragmented it still carries the same focus on overlooked details in our physical spaces and ambient wistful nature that Gallagher's work holds. Gallagher uses this piece to reflect on their experience of lockdown and looks at how our phones connect while improvising with the limited tools she had available as she did with ‘They met under the ceiling of sky’ (2020) which then went on to the official selection in the Laterale Film Festival in 2020.

Catriona Gallagher, Stills from ‘Video Villanelle (for distance)’, 2020

Over the summer we have been overrun with the many virtual exhibits and Thresholds taking place after utilises the online space to its best potential. Having been commissioned to be a virtual exhibition it uses photography and film which are familiar to the online space rather than creating pieces tailored to a physical space. Through working online there’s a variety of different experimental formats to use over a simple pdf format however this way it encourages a non-art audience to take part through being simple, it becomes relatable for a wider range of people which Moseby advocates for having curated public events to specifically engage those audiences.

Thresholds subliminally speaks on the visibility of the disabled community in the art world. Curator Aidan Moseby closely works within the disability and diversity sector having been commissioned by and worked for companies such as Disability Arts Online and DASH which this exhibition is partnered with. The setup and extra care with subtitled and audio described versions for each film make this exhibition more accessible the usual cases. Where other galleries are immediately setting up shop in their physical spaces' as lockdown eased Thresholds doesn’t, it makes a statement that we can’t forget that the move to virtual during lockdown made art spaces more accessible to the disabled community. Art spaces have long been exclusive and inaccessible but with the lockdown when non-disabled people no longer had the means to visit gallery spaces that suddenly changed. It showed that galleries had little excuse for doing this before with the ease and speed in which they transferred their exhibitions online. Even having a virtual floor plan makes it more accessible as they ‘act as a helpful tool to plan trips and relieve anxiety for disabled art audiences’ (Kroese, 2020) referencing 3d art space floor plans.’. Thresholds subliminally makes a statement through being set after many galleries have shut their online exhibits and have opened their doors again through quietly having accessible versions of artworks. There is much change that needs to happen in the art world in making it more accessible to a wider range of people and lockdown has presented these options that we can and should learn from to aid us in the future.

Thresholds invades your domestic space as you visit it through the comforts of your own home through the ambient sound of Gallagher's work and personal memorabilia of Boués photographs. It looks at how the pandemic has changed our relationship to our domestic spaces, how confined we've become and how the virtual space can connect us. As lockdown has pushed and eased our homes have become multi-functional places, we continue to reflect on the change our lives have gone through and think about our connection to the people we surround ourselves with. Though through this we need to see the visibility of disabled people in the arts and how the small start that was ignited during lockdown needs to continue to help keep places accessible to the many rather than the few.

Thresholds can be found here.

Bibliography

Mima.art. 2020. MIMA-Thresholds-Exhibition.Pdf. [online] Available at: <https://mima.art/wp-content/themes/mima-wp/media/MIMA-Thresholds-Exhibition.pdf> [Accessed 21 October 2020].

French, J., 2020. Thresholds. [online] Corridor8. Available at: < https://corridor8.co.uk/article/thresholds/ > [Accessed 22 October 2020].

Aidan Moseby. 2020. About. [online] Available at <https://www.aidanmoesby.co.uk/contact-us/ > [Accessed 22 October 2020]

Duncanson, L (2020) ‘Quarry’, Blue Topgraphy, 27 January. Available at: < https://bluetopography.blogspot.com/2020/01/quarry.html> (Accessed 23 October 2020)

Kroese, I., 2020. Emerging Accessibility: Post-viral programming and disabled audiences. [online] Corridor8. Available at: < https://corridor8.co.uk/article/emerging-accessibility-post-viral-programming-and-disabled-audiences/> [Accessed 23 October 2020]video

[ohfaheera]

Foto tirada um pouco após a chegada em Pairs. “Hello, Paris!”

Foto da vista da janela de seu quarto de hotel. 

Manhã com @ameliasauveterre.

Momentos antes do almoço com @anneblnc & @islv. “Girl gang.”

Biblioteca da Université. “Paradise!”

Foto tirada por @anneblnc. “Modelling.”

@ambitchiiious & @hollvcrap, foto por Faheera.

Faheera & @kngcvsticl. “Connection. My family.”

Foto de @domvnico tirada por Faheera.

[imtryingmyfuckingbe]

And If This Is It

Second chapter in a short series.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Mentions: Jess, Sam, Charlie, Cas, Gabriel, Jo, Jules (OC)

Trigger warnings: Slight mention of smut

I am the sole author and reserve the rights to my work. However, I am not the owner of Supernatural as a franchise, or the characters including, but not limited to: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, Jo, Jess, or Charlie.

CHAPTER TWO:

She cradles her phone between her cheek and shoulder, picking through ripe peppers. Charlie drones endlessly about some new video game or console or— Y/N honestly doesn’t know. Of all the shared personality traits between the pair, Y/N fails to see the wonder of Red Dead Redemption or Overwatch. Even still, she listens and hums agreement in Charlie’s pauses.

Placing a trio of red, yellow, and orange peppers in her cart, Y/N continues towards the avocados. Grocery shopping calms her. The comforting monotony allows her to move thoughtlessly on the familiar path from produce to deli and down aisles she could navigate in her sleep. It gives her a sense of control, and offers time to herself.

Y/N switches the phone to her other ear, rubbing the kink in her neck. Charlie finishes raving, in turn changing the topic to work. Some shitty guests left a lengthy poor review on both Yelp and Google, and now she has a meeting with Jason, their boss. “I’m going to quit that place, I swear it!” she emptily declares. She threatens leaving at least twice a week, but never seems to commit. Yes, the customers suck, and the managers have a canyon sized room for improvement, but the worthwhile money keeps her hooked like a dirty mistress. How else could afford tuition?

“I’m sure you will. Once you get your big girl job looking at computers all day.”

“That is an insulting minimization of what I’m actually going to do, and you know it!” Charlie scolds.

“I jest, I jest,” Y/N laughs. Getting a rise out of Charlie is her favorite past time. “But, for real, I have to check out. I have errands to run today. Dean is going to service my car.”

Y/N imagines Charlie’s eye roll and upturned smile. Not many people know of her affections towards Dean, but one drunken night led to confessions she can’t stuff back inside. Charlie has yet to let her live it down.

“Ah, yes. Our dear friend,” she stresses. “That leads us to another conversation, but I’m thinking I should get some tequila in you first.”

“Not going to happen. I’m fine, okay?” Even she doesn’t believe herself.

“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit. But, go, be merry. Tell the man I said hi.”

Y/N ends the call quickly, glad to finish the uncomfortable conversation. Her tense shoulders and the knots on both sides of her neck make her regret accepting Charlie’s call in the first place. She knows Charlie means no ill will but she can’t help the frustration building on her brow.

The checkout line moves quickly, not many people shopping at noon on a Wednesday. With her groceries tucked in her trunk, she makes her way to Dean’s house. He lives in a corner townhouse on the intersection of Sutler and Harrison, affording him a small side yard to work on his car— and sometimes Y/N’s. Despite his mechanic job, Dean enjoys spending his free time working on cars. He said it feels like a break from the world, blackened hands in his engine.

Y/N understands needing to take a step back. Life, in all of its intricacies, is only the withdrawing waters of the ocean, before rearing its ugly, tsunami head. She found her saving grace in writing: lyrics, poems, stories. Transporting herself into a new world saved her from this one when her bones grew heavy and her eyes tired.

She pulls into his driveway, parking next to his Impala. Its propped up hood hides a bent over Dean busying himself with tightening one thing or another. Grabbing the six pack in her passenger seat, Y/N emerges from her car.

“Howdy, partner,” she jokes.

Dean pokes his head around the side of his car, teeth bared in a wide smile. Black smudges decorate his nose and cheeks. His short hair received the brunt of frustration, pushed backwards with flyaways dancing in the wind. Y/N snickers, raking her eyes across his denim clad legs and up to the black t-shirt stretched across his chest, ending on his stained skin.

“What? Got something on my face?”

She shakes her head, amused. “Yeah, only here, here, and here,” she points to his nose and chin and cheeks.

He grabs her extended hand and pulls her inward, dipping his head down to her white shirt. Rubbing his face on her shoulder, he leaves behind the blackness in his wake. Y/N struggles against him and the bubbling laughter in her chest.

“This is white, asshole!”

Dean steps back, hands still holding her upper arms, and admires his work. She gently pushes against his chest, feigning anger and trying to ignore the muscles beneath her palm. She got this shirt for ninety-five cents at a yard sale; three similar garments hang in her closet. This isn’t a real loss.

“I think it looks good! Makes it seem like you know your way around a car.”

“Yes, because when fixing cars I use my shoulder. It’s super effective, you should try it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, finally releasing Y/N. She steps back, filling her lungs with much needed air. Any time spent closely to him required extra oxygen. Her heart runs rampage around her chest, and she knows if she looks down it may just shine through her shirt. Steeling herself, she returns to the task at hand.

Speaking of, the weight of the beer in her hand gives her something to do. Setting the pack on the hood of her car, she retrieves two bottles and cracks them open. The crisp coolness holds her to the ground, even as Dean’s fingers brush against hers when he accepts the offer. In silence, they sip the citrus IPA.

“All righty then, what’s going on with your gal?”

“Just need an oil change, I think. It doesn’t hurt to have it looked at, though.”

He nods, brows drawn together and lips pursed. Everything in Y/N, her lungs and head and skin, wants to take the rag from Dean’s back pocket and wipe his face, removing both the crease in his forehead and the gunk. Instead, she kisses her beer, watching as he pops her hood and checks the oil.

The betrayal of her body lingers in her movements when she walks to the front of her car, leaning next to a working Dean. His skin radiates warmth. Tendrils of his cologne overwhelm her. She breathes in, basking in him while trying to clear her foggy head. Fresh air is good, she fruitlessly tells herself. Fresh air is good; when it’s not mixed with the man she adores.

Dean moves his car to the grass, allowing more space for him to work on the Mustang. Y/N sits on the ground in front of the garage as he jacks her car up to empty the oil pan. From this vantage point, she can see Dean in all of his glory. His shirt rides up, reveling a thin line of hair and toned muscles. She clenches her jaw, then takes another drink.

Her head knocks against the garage door, focusing on the baby blue sky, not a cloud in sight. Dean grunts quietly as he works, and Y/N’s mind supplies a different activity for his sounds. His hands would wander across the expanse of her body; across her hips, up to her breasts, down to her pussy. His lips would cover wherever his hands could not, sucking on her neck, leaving a hickey.

Now, Y/N once failed to see the appeal of someone marking up her body. But, fuck, if Dean Winchester said he wanted to cover her skin in bruising kisses, she wouldn’t be able to deny him. She wouldn’t want to.

Fingers snap in front of face. Shaking her head, she realizes Dean finished with her Mustang and hovered over her. “Hey, back to the living?”

Heat rushes to her cheeks. She ducks her head to look at her very interesting, noteworthy knees. “Yeah. Just thinking.” Not a full lie, but not the full truth, either. What could she say? I was daydreaming about making love? Not just fucking; making love.

He retrieves a beer from the pack before settling next to Y/N on the ground, back against the door and thighs touching. “Yeah? What about?” his playful tone forces her further into reality.

She doesn’t answer for a moment, instead focusing on the sharp, stinging pebbles digging into her thighs and ass. “Work.”

“Ah, it’s always work. Something wrong?”

Another sip.

“Not exactly. I talked to Charlie today, and she said she wanted to quit.”

“Doesn’t she always?”

“That’s what I said! But it got me thinking. Am I too comfortable there? I mean, I’ve worked there for, what? Three years?” Y/N surprises herself with her own excuse. She hadn’t actually put much stock in leaving, her own or Charlie’s. But now that it’s out in the open, the weight on her shoulders flutters away. He nods, encouraging her to continue. “I dunno,” she tosses her hands in indignation, spilling a little beer on the concrete, “I don’t want to stay in some dead end job that I don’t really love. Feels like a waste of time,” her voice starts strong but trails off into a whisper.

Dean sets his hand on her thigh, caressing it in an attempt to comfort her.

Another sip, another sigh.

This is the last thing she needs, but the first thing she wants. She once more lets her head fall backwards while Dean studies her in silence, head tilted. “What do you think you’d do?”

“That’s the thing: I don’t know. I don’t have a degree and the only jobs I’ve ever had were serving, or something in that world. Who the hell is going to hire me?”

“I don’t have a degree, either, ya’know.”

“Yes, but you have a career, and you’re good at it. I mean, look at you! You’re ahead of the rest, already. Basically running your own shop; got a whole-ass home. And I’m proud of you, I am. I just feel like I’m headed nowhere. Like, what have I got going for me?”

She closes her eyes to avoid his gaze, but he stays silent. His fingers continue to trace shapes into her thigh. Dean knows Y/N well enough to stop talking; it won’t ease the tension in her breast or pinging pain on her temple. Now that she said the words aloud, however, her mind races wild with the possibilities and risks of leaving the security of Zest.

She could pursue something in writing, a pipe dream of hers. She could get a few gigs in bars and play for a few hours for some cash. She could also quit and not find another job, falling into destitution and then forced to return to waiting tables. Flashes of grabby hands and entitled guests flit through her mind.

Goddamn, she hates customer service.

Mindlessly, she tilts her beer back, only droplets gracing her tongue. Without a word, Dean passes her the bottle he grabbed for himself. She nods in thanks, taking a sip.

He pats her thigh. “Well, it’s no use dwelling on what you can’t do. What can you do?”

Y/N shrugs.

“C’mon, I know you can do more than balance glasses and pretend to care about lobster. You write. What about that?”

“It’s recreational. I don’t have anything published. I don’t—”

“— All right, piss baby. If you’re going to keep complaining, I’m going to smack you.” He rolls his eyes, not really annoyed.

“Fine, fine. I could do freelance, I guess.”

“Yeah, you could. You could work as a receptionist and work your way up somewhere, too. Like, the newspaper. Start there, prove you can write, and they’ll have no choice but to hire you. Maybe pitch a few ideas. Don’t need a degree to be smart; I’m living proof of that,” he gestures to himself.

Y/N laughs, shoving her shoulder against his. “Yeah, yeah. You’re the next Einstein of car mechanics.”

“I could be.”

Another silence, no longer pregnant with her frustration. The sun beats down with a vengeance, however, making the beer in her hand lukewarm. Beads of sweat pool on her brows. Still, she doesn’t want to move. The hand on her leg, pressed thigh to Dean’s, shoulder to shoulder; she wants to savor this moment.

Even still, she can’t sit for much longer. The comfort of the man beside her refuses to extend to the unforgiving concrete beneath her or the heat in the air. With a sigh, she pushes herself up, stretching her sore legs and wiping off spare gravel clinging to her skin. Dean stands too, utilizing Y/N’s extended hand. Truthfully, it doesn’t help much but she would do almost anything to hold his hand, even for a second.

When the pair straighten, Dean’s fingers remain clasped in hers, his thumb rubbing circles on her knuckles. She revels in the gentle caress, wishing she didn’t have to leave. The groceries in her trunk call to her; she needs to put them away before they spoil.

“I have to go,” she whispers. The tightness in her chest returns at breaking the silence and ruining to moment. She refuses to look Dean in the eyes, not wanting to see whatever is there. Instead, she trains her gaze onto his stomach.

“Yeah, I figured. Use and abuse me for your car then skip out,” he jokes.

Finally looking upwards, she takes in his smile and kind eyes. If she had any guts, she would grab his cheeks and pull him down to kiss him. But she doesn’t have the courage to leave her dead-end job, let alone kiss the breathtaking man before her. Instead, she settles for wrapping her arms around his waist and holding him close.

She can do this for the rest of her life, she tries to convince herself. If she can’t have Dean in her bed or on her arm or loving her the way she desires, she can handle these moments. This is okay, this is okay, this is okay.

A kiss to her head and a final squeeze, Dean pulls back. “I’ll see ya soon, kid. Enjoy your ride.”

The two part, Y/N longing to return to his embrace. Her skin prickles from her desire, her feet refuse to move. And then a car honks from somewhere up the road and her wondering mind snaps back to reality. A final goodbye, she clambers into her car. Dean waves as she reverses from his driveway and starts back to her apartment across town. The wind whips her cheeks through the rolled-down windows.

She only looks back once.

[joseshin]

CATS: 1998 vs 2019

Alright, going to do this already.  Note: these are my personal opinions.  Intelligent rebuttals will be considered and replied to, anything else may likely be ignored.  Also spoilers, and LONG.  So onward to a comparison of the 2019 movie against the 1998 filmed stage version.

Edit before posting: Apparently I never queued this.  I feel a little silly now

Plot/Framing:  The use of an abandoned Victoria to frame the introduction of the plot of the Jellicle Ball and Munkustrap acting as narrator/guide to Victoria is a decent idea, and one that worked fairly well.  Granted, when you take a book of poems and turn them into songs, it’s a little hard to create plot for a musical, but inspiration comes from everywhere.  Victoria is a pretty blank slate for directors to work with, so having her be the framing vehicle is a really good idea.  She’s the white cat, the dancer, doesn’t have any specific lines of dialogue or song attached originally.

I think that Munkustrap didn’t have enough presence in the movie.  He’s the primary narrator, he needs to be someone we want to pay attention to, not just because he’s the one who happens to be singing or speaking at the moment.  Maybe it’s a difference in how the two versions were filmed, and the focus was a little more on Victoria as our window into the world of Jellicle Cats, but I didn’t catch myself looking for him, or even noticing him in some shots, and you want your main source of information to be someone/thing you’re aware of, if only to see the mood of the scene.

“Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats” and “The Naming of Cats”: I thought the pacing was a touch fast, but I can understand trying to get all the material of the musical to fit into a film.  Same with the cut lines here, and it did flow very well for the most part.

Having each cat introduce themselves via their song, and thus their entry into the competition for the Jellicle Choice, is interesting, and it does give a reason for not doing either the songs “The Awefull Battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles,” or “Growltiger's Last Stand,” as they are the Jellicles entertaining each other in “play within a play” scenes.  It also gives Growltiger a reason to be a villian/henchman of Macavity’s, by using a snippet of his song during one of the capture sequences.

“The Old Gumbie Cat”: I was not happy.  Rebel Wilson is an amazing singer and actress, and I was very much looking forward to her interpretation of Jennyanydots.  What I saw was a petulant, whiny brat, instead of the example of Edwardian do-gooder.  Also, the mouse costumes were ridiculously bad, and the replication of the cockroaches was just showing off CGI work for no real effect.

“The Rum Tum Tugger”: No.  Why would you use this version, it’s a trainwreck?  And the music choice made no sense!  Jazz by itself would have been fine, but as far as the hip-hop/rap elements go?  Are we trying to make the timeframe screwy?  I miss the rockstar Tugger.

“Grizabella: The Glamour Cat”: Alright, Jennifer Hudson is amazing.  That said, I don’t think she made sense as a casting choice.  Grizabella is older, she’s past her prime and her singing should have more of that age and grit to it that shows her experience.  If you’re going to use someone younger, at least put some convincing age makeup on her, and choose a singer who has a huskier tone.

“Bustopher Jones”: James Cordon did a very good job to make this about more than a cat who eats his way through life, though I’m not sure about his scavenging through the trash.  He’s supposed to get huge amounts from the gentlemen’s clubs he attends, I would have thought the proper attitude of “the St. James’ Street cat” would not allow for his digging in the garbage.  And the sensitivity about his weight was stupid.

“Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer”: Perfect.  The mischief makers in their element, and Victoria having to deal with the fact that they can be not nice cats, it works.

“Old Deuteronomy”: Judi Dench was an interesting choice for the role, but it works.  There are some slight differences that come with having a matriarch for the Jellicle tribe instead of a patriarch, and they were handled with grace.  It also is a way to give Dame Dench a role in Cats that fits her experience, since her injury during the rehearsals for the original London opening meant her planned dual roles didn’t happen.

“The Jellicle Ball”: The dancing was nice, and I liked the way several other cats became more than faces in the crowd during it.

“Memory(Prelude)”: Again, I just don’t think Jennifer Hudson has the age for this to work.  Beautiful rendition though.

“Beautiful Ghosts”: A Victoria solo.  Huh.  It makes sense, given that Victoria is the primary viewpoint character in this version, for her to have something of her own.  And it’s a pretty little song.

“The Moments of Happiness”: It doesn’t have quite the impact it should, since the only real witness to Deuteronomy is Victoria here.  It works better when the entire clan is being given this lesson, even if most of them don’t understand it yet.

“Gus: The Theatre Cat”:  Ian McKellan, ladies and gents, in a role that suits his age and expertise?  I almost don’t miss Jellylorum.  Also the lead up to it, with him giving some words of wisdom to a fellow performer?  Yes, and yes!

“Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat”: The vocals and dancing went very well, but I kept getting distracted by the costume.  What’s up with that facial hair and the suspenders?  Also, the way the scenery shifted during this song where it never had with any other Jellicle performance.  More questions than answers here.

“Macavity: The Mystery Cat”:  Hoo boy.  Where to begin?  Making Bombalurina one of Macavity’s cronies sits a little funny with me, but I understand the logistics behind the choice.  The one place though, the one place that lyrics should absolutely have been changed in the entire show and you MISSED IT!?!?!?!?  Idris Elba is not a ginger cat, there is no way to make him a ginger cat, and you didn’t try to make him a ginger cat, so why does the song define him as one?  You couldn’t try, I don’t know: “Macavity’s a midnight cat/ He’s very tall and trim”?? Instead, you call him ginger, and thin.  Ugh.  Also, as much as I love to watch Elba, a lot of the threat of Macavity in the musical comes from the fact that this is the first time he’s been openly on stage, and not just a shadowed figure hiding along the fringe.  Using Macavity often earlier in the movie, having him spirit away the other competitors for the Jellicle choice so obviously, damps down on that.  Shadows crank up anticipation better than overt threats most of the time.  The stage version creates a scarier Macavity, though I’m sorry to say it.

The use of catnip is kind of hilarious as a drug, though I’m a little sad there was no fight between Munkustrap and Macavity, and that the Jellicles all came under Macavity’s power so easily.  Little annoyed that Griddlebone and Bombalurina seem to just melt away after the song, but understanding not wanting to use T Swift for “lesser” plot type issues.

“Magical Mr. Mistoffelees”: Mistoffelees is adorable here. This show is as much him coming into his powers and abilities as it is introducing Victoria to what it means to be a Jellicle.  His attempts, as he tries again and again to bring back Deuteronomy, are laced with just enough desperation that he’s trying his hardest without making it overacting.  The final success, when he’s sure he’s failed utterly, is so very sweet.

“Memory”: Same critique as before.  The thing about Grizabella’s songs is that they are reminiscing.  Looking back on a more golden youth.  Crying for understanding that those without experience in the shades of gray life throws at you won’t have.  It’s significant that Victoria (or Jemima, depending on the rendition) reach out to her, but Deuteronomy is the only one who has no problem with her, even from the get-go.  You need someone with either a hell of a shitstorm life experience, or just plain experience to get that.

“The Journey to the Heavyside Layer”: I liked the transition of the broken chandelier into a balloon carrying away Grizabella.  Little confused at Macavity’s loss of power, but okay.

“The Ad-dressing of Cats”: Deuteronomy addressing the crowd certainly brings the magical nature of cats to the fore, leaving the audience wondering how long she and the rest of the Jellicles have been aware of our view into their world.  I liked how when she was describing the food gifts a person can give to their cat, all of those surrounding her got excited.

Costuming: Just bodysuits and CGI ears, tails, and whiskers do not turn people into convincing cats.  The giant wigs of the stage show, while an 80′s throwback to the extreme, also change the profile of the face to better mimic a feline skull.  I get it, having that poof would have been annoying with having to deal with the CGI ears, having to compensate for every fur twitch, but still!  Also, nobody’s fur had any significant fluff amount to it whatsoever, it was all extra elements, like the coats and other accessories, but you could have used the legwarmers and armwarmers of the stage show give a better illusion of volume to fur.  Having everyone be sleek shorthairs is boring.  To my mind, the makeup was not convincing enough either.

Final thoughts: The movie version was okay, casting choices were decent for the most part, but I have to say that all together, I prefer the 1998 version.  It could also be that the actors for the filmed stage version had been doing these roles for some time and it shows, especially in movements.  Don’t get me wrong, the movie actors are good at their jobs, but there’s a difference in living a role for months or perhaps years during a stage run, tweaking things each performance, research and changing your approach, and making a movie, trying things only to have to move on to the next shot.

[shadowsndaisies]

Perfect [s.s]

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Pairing: x Stiles Stilinski

WC: 3559

Synopsis: A songfic, based off of Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect”.

Warning: it’s cute, very cute and very fluffy.

I found a love for me

Darling just dive right in

And follow my lead

She was five when she moved to Beacon Hills. She moved in across the street from a home with a car that read "Sheriff" parked in the driveway. The people who lived in that home came out later to greet her and her family. She met the Sheriff, Noah, his wife, Claudia, and their son, a boy who preferred to go by Stiles. He seemed quirky even to another five year old, but he had this air of excitement that enticed the young girl like nothing before ever had.

Well I found a girl beautiful and sweet

Stiles Stilinski had limited experiences at the age of 5, yet he knew that the girl who moved in across the street was someone who was meant to be there. Stiles and the girl quickly became inseparable, the most mischievous duo in town, let alone their block. Nobody would know from first glance though, they would see a shy, anxious boy and the most caring little girl that they ever met. She was kind to each person she met, and that was something that stayed with her as she grew up. It was also something that carried the pair, strengthening their bond, and it was a special bond.

I never knew you were the someone waiting for me

When they were nine Stiles told her about his crush on their pretty strawberry blonde classmate, Lydia Martin, and she seemed happy for him. He'd been going through a tough time after losing his mom, but she was always there for him. It was strange because though he had a crush, the person who was in his mind the most was the girl from across the street. And while she may have smiled for him, her insides churned with an unknown feeling. What she did know, was that Stiles was important.

When she turned eleven she entered middle school, with Stiles and Scott, her best friends, by her side. She stuck with them, stuck with Stiles. Countless nights were spent in their households, in their yards. They would sit and watch the stars. Words weren’t always necessary despite how talkative the two could be. They would sit with the other and it was the most comfortable that the two had ever been.

When the girl turned twelve she began to understand why Stiles' crush on Lydia Martin bothered her. That unknown feeling was because she had a crush of her own, on the boy she had befriended years ago, the one who lived across the street.

'Cause we were just kids when we fell in love

Not knowing what it was

There's no real way to tell when they fell in love, though they realized it many years after the day they met. When they look back the only answer they can provide is that they were kids.  

Their parents always knew they would end up together, that was clear. The small jokes they made, the looks they gave, and the comments that were said. It was in their parent's hearts as it was in their own that they were meant to be together in the end.

I will not give you up this time

They were fifteen when Josh, a boy from their class, asked (y/n) out. And much to her best friends surprise, she agreed. That Friday night she went bowling with Josh, and Stiles couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned but couldn't figure out why. His mind wandered to his best friend and whether or not she was enjoying herself, his hand reaching out to call her multiple times, but retracting at the last second. He found himself looking out his window often, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, it was only when the light went on in the room that belonged to his best friend did he finally fall asleep. After that night his views of the girl began to change because she was all he could think about.

But darling, just kiss me slow, your heart is all I own

And in your eyes, you're holding mine

Time seemed to stop as a few months after her first date, (y/n) found herself at a party. She along with many of her classmates sat around in a circle. Her best friend had been different lately, distant and extra fidgity. When things with Josh didn’t work out she had planned on having him around to distract her and he was, just not in the way she had hoped.

Her eyes, like everyone sitting with her, were glued to the spinning glass bottle located in the middle of their circle. It had landed on her first and now she waiting to see who she would have to kiss. Her breath hitched as the bottle slowed to a stop in front of him. The one person she wanted to kiss and yet was afraid to.

Stiles shared a similar look of nervousness as she leaned towards him. His heart raced as he watched the girl who meant the world to him, approach. His palms were sweating and his fingers tapping at the tiled floor, nerves skyrocketing. But, as her lips touched his, all of his problems seemed to dissipate. His heart seemed to slow and synchronize with hers. In the few seconds that their lips had been connected, their hearts had opened and were visible to the other, more than they ever had before.

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark with you between my arms

Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song

It was the summer before sophomore year when they went camping with a bunch of other kids from school. As it got later and later, more and more kids were turning in. Soon it was just the two of them. They were staring up at the stars the way they always had, together.  There were no labels for what they were. All they knew was how they felt, and god did they feel. It was a full moon and the stars twinkled brightly above them, a small fire blazing off to their right.

They sat there stealing glances at each other, listening to the music coming from the speaker connected to Stiles' phone. As the song changed a smile came to her face as her favorite song began to play. Stiles shot up, nearly tripping over their previously discarded shoes before turning to stand in front of her, his cheeks pink.

"Dance with me," he breathed, holding out his hand.

He knew it was her favorite song, and well, she was his. She was the song he never wanted to forget, the only one he wanted to be stuck in his head. She was full of lyrics that belonged in sonnets, ballads and poems alike. She was beautiful and she was perfect.

The soft smile that graced her lips had Stiles swooning. She grabbed the hand he had offered as he pulled her to stand with him on the slightly damp grass.

When she looked up at him, she smiled again. His hands were a bit clammy and she could feel how fast his heart was racing but she felt like this was where she was meant to be.

When you said you looked a mess, I whispered underneath my breath

But you heard it, darling, you look perfect tonight

"You're beautiful, you know that right?" he asked, his voice tight as he made his nervous confession, eyes darting down to her for just a second.

"I'm dancing in sweats and a flannel, Stiles. I have no makeup on and my hair is in the messiest bun," she sighed looking down towards their feet.

His grip tightened, both around her waist and against her hand, forcing her to look into his eyes just to find them staring straight back at her.

"You look perfect," he whispered, barely audible, but she heard him. His words came out so true as if they were the most honest words he had ever spoken.

As she stared into his eyes she saw the very thing she dreamed of, she saw nothing but love. She offered a shy smile as a blush spread up her neck, over her cheeks and to the tips of her ears. No one had ever stared at her the way Stiles did. She decided to rest her head against his chest, bringing them closer than before.

Well I found a woman, stronger than anyone I know

When they were sixteen, they were both pulled into the supernatural world, and they depended on the other to keep each other sane. She was also sixteen when her parents got a divorce. Placing more strain on the girl then she'd ever known, more then she knew how to handle. Often times at night these supernatural horrors haunted her dreams, spilling out in the form of tears and frustrated sleepless nights, during the day nobody would know, nobody could. She was human, but they never saw her as fragile, and she didn’t want them to. So, she’d smile, even if it wasn't real, she’d laugh but it was always forced. The only thing she had, was him. Stiles was the most real thing she had. Their love was the only thing holding her together. He was the only one picking up the pieces because he noticed every time another fell. He was the one who put her back together because he needed her just as much as she needed him.

She shares my dreams, I hope that someday I'll share her home

It was rare that she slept peacefully. Dreaming dreams, instead of nightmares and terrible memories, but when she did, it was because of him. He'd hold her as exhaustion overtook her body. Play with her hair, rub her hands or draw patterns on any showing skin. He'd just have to be there and she'd be okay. She’d be okay because he had her, and there was no one who made her feel safe, who made her feel at home the way Stiles is. How does the saying go? Home is where the heart is. Stiles was her home, and he was her heart. She had found a place to relax with someone who would protect her with everything he had, someone who she would protect with just as much.

I found a love, to carry more than just my secrets

To carry love, to carry children of our own

Living in Beacon Hills was dangerous, that was obvious. The older they got and the more they saw… it all seemed to pull at each shred of humanity and sanity within them. They had found the only solution; they stuck together, through everything. The losses of people they loved, the attacks, the pain, even the loss of each other. Yet, somehow they always managed to find each other again. They were half of the other’s heart, a lifeline that they needed at all times, a connection so strong, so full of love that it was the only stable thing in their messed up lives.

He shared everything with her, his hopes of going into law enforcement, to be just like his dad. His dreams of the future, the pain of the past, and fears of today. He knew that it all was tentative to change, just like he knew he had her, that he always wanted to have her. The girl he met when he was five. She had been wearing a pretty dress when she moved in across the street with her parents. She had twirled around, running up and down the lawn, a gleeful smile on her lips. He saw her then as he sees her now, the most amazing woman in the world, the strongest one he knew. The girl he knew he wanted to be able to settle down with, to have kids with, and she wanted it too.

We are still kids, but we're so in love

Fighting against all odds

When they were eighteen, Theo Raeken came back into their lives with his terrible plan to rip them all apart. He pulled the pack apart piece by piece, her family, leaving a devastating emptiness. His attempts were fruitful in every aspect except for them. He failed in every attempt when it came to Stiles and (y/n). The love they held for each other was too strong, even for him. Nothing could pull the two of them apart. They were stronger together, and they would win together, just like they always had.

I know we'll be alright this time

Darling, just hold my hand

He held her hand one night as they watched Star Wars at his house for the millionth time, thoughts racing through his mind. He watched as she would mouth the words to her favorite lines and react to each and every scene. He watched her and he knew that no matter what, they'd be okay because they had each other.

"You know I love you right?" he whispered in her ear, suddenly.

She turned her head to look up at him with a look so full of love, "never doubted it," she smiled softly before pressing her lips to his her hand gripping his and their fingers intangling together.

Be my girl, I'll be your man

I see my future in your eyes

They had just graduated when he asked her, they were with the pack, a small get together before everyone left. Of course, the two of them would both be attending schools in Washington, a mere hour away from the other.

He watched as she hugged Liam and Mason when they gave her graduation gifts and he realized that this was it. His hand dug into his pocket where he grabbed ahold of a velvet box, inside was the ring that had once been on his mother's hand. It seemed so heavy in his pocket, so heavy in his hand, but a look at her and suddenly he had all the strength he needed.

It was a promise, he remembered his mother’s words from that day in the hospital. The day she had slipped it off her hand and into his palm.

"The girl for you will be perfect, and you never know, maybe she's right in front of you," She had said softly as his father stood watching from the door frame of the hospital room. She was right, the girl from him grew up across the street. That girl grew up to be his best friend and the only person in the world who could both take his breath away and give it back.

He opened the box and grabbed the ring before walking over to her. He tapped her shoulder and sunk down on one knee, the ring visible in his hands. Everyone quieted, staring at the couple. Eyes watered, gasps were heard but not from her.

"Yes," she said instantly, there was no hesitation, no fear, just love.

“I didn’t even ask,” he gave an awkward chuckle as he stared into her eyes.

“You don’t have to,” she promised, the most contagious smile breaking out across her face. Her eyes were misty as she stared at him because this was what she wanted. This was all she had ever wanted, he was, and he always would be.

Everyone knew she was right, that he didn’t have to ask. Because they all knew that her answer would always be yes. Whether it was today, tomorrow or four years from now, her answer would always be yes.

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark, with you between my arms

Cheers erupted from everyone watching, hoots, and hollers all full of love and glee. Scott and Lydia the loudest, there were tears in their eyes as they watched their best friends. The two had suffered so much, lost so much but had each other. The alpha and the banshee knew it was coming, Stiles needed her, and she needed him. This was the couple that everyone had been rooting for from the very beginning. The pair that met when they were kids, that grew up together, that grew up in love. She was his girl, and he was her man, now and forever.

(Y/n) pulled Stiles up and he instantly enveloped her in his arms. The music started and her song played, her favorite. He began swaying the two of them as she held onto him because they had each other.

"You know I love you right?" she asked the smile still on her face.

"Never doubted it," he smiled back looking at the ring that seemed to fit perfectly on her hand, before kissing the top of her head.

Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song

When I saw you in that dress, looking so beautiful

They danced as their friends watched on, filming the emotional moment. He glanced down at her, taking in how absolutely stunning she was, the dress she was wearing seemed to highlight everything about her, a magnifying glass to show just how perfect she was. Her heels were off to the side, she had ditched them as soon as they had arrived and he had laughed because she was perfect. She was a vision of beauty, of heart, of love, and she was perfect.

I don't deserve this, darling, you look perfect tonight

"Darling, you look perfect tonight," Stiles whispered in her ear as they swayed.

They were still in Scott's backyard as the thoughts raced through his mind. He was still reeling from asking her, his heart still beating incredibly fast. She had said yes, it shouldn’t have been shocking but it still surprised him. She was incredible and he wasn’t sure that he deserved her or her love. She deserved the universe on a silver platter, so much more than what he thought of himself, but she chose him, and he knew that he could never love someone the way he loves her.

Baby, I'm dancing in the dark, with you between my arms

Barefoot on the grass, listening to our favorite song

He was fiddling anxiously with his tie while his mind took him back to that first night when the two of them had danced under the stars. That night when they were sixteen and camping in the middle of the woods. Where she had been barefoot, wearing sweats and a flannel. Where he looked at her and saw the most beautiful creature in the world when he saw his world.

"C' mon man, breathe. This is (y/n), the girl you've been in love with since you were like five," Scott laughed fixing Stiles' tie for the fifth time in the past ten minutes.

Stiles was going to say something, probably something sarcastic, but his mouth went dry as the wedding march began to play. His body froze when the doors opened. Everyone stood up and Scott went back to his spot. Stiles’ eyes, like everyone else's, were trained on her and in an instant, all his nerves were gone. Just looking at her as she walked down the aisle, following her nieces who were throwing flower petals, he only felt his heart swell knowing that this was it, he was marrying her. He was marrying his best friend, his personal tether to the world, he was marrying the love of his life. And that was all he needed, she was.

I have faith in what I see

His breath hitched when she stopped in front of him. And she winked at him, a smiled of absolute adoration formed when he caught it. She always seemed to know exactly what to say or do to calm his nerves. When the Wedding Officiant began to speak the two of them couldn't hide their smiles or their absolute happiness as the ceremony officially began, because they did it, they had gotten the love of their lives.

Now I know I have met an angel in person

And she looks perfect

He would swear to anybody at any time that at that moment she never looked more like an angel. A stunningly gorgeous angel. Her dress was stunning and only seemed to compliment her beauty in the most amazing way. She had picked it with her bridesmaids; Lydia, Kira, and Malia, it fit her perfectly. The white gave a heavenly appeal causing her to look more angelic than ever and it was perfect.

I don't deserve this

As she gazed at the man standing in front of her, the love of her life. She tried to memorize each detail as he shared his vows. The only thing she could think about was how absolutely amazing he was, and how anybody who had him in their lives was incredibly lucky. That she was so incredibly lucky. Because she had gotten the guy, the one who loved her, even when she wasn’t sure what love was, the guy who had her back, always. She had gotten him and she was never going to let him go. What she didn't know is that he was thinking the same exact thing because she was the love of his life, his messed up, scary, werewolf filled life and she was all he wanted.

You look perfect tonight