#All the elderly in the room and I were incredibly baffled

[vetinarihavelock]

Help, almost a fifth of my queue is Conclave brainrot now!

[ohheyitsokay]

spectators

part 8 of the ‘hey batter batter’ series

paring: Francisco Morales (Frankie, Catfish) x reader

wordcount: 2.6k

warnings: strong language, kissing, enough fluff for a rich person chair

summary: it’s a Triple Frontier baseball AU! Trust me, you don’t need to know anything about baseball.

In this chapter, the Frankie and you appease the people who have been invested in their relationship this whole time.

>>

Pope threw the ball straight up, and caught it.

Then he did it again – he was thinking.

Right hand, then left. Right, left. The ball was in the air less and less time, but the speed didn’t increase. Eventually he was just tossing it straight into his own palm, slowly, thoughtfully, his gaze fixed somewhere far away.

Frankie watched, not even nervous. Of all the reactions he could’ve predicted this was more or less what he expected.

“I’m proud of you,” this throw was for Catfish.

“Thanks.” He caught it.

“You’re fucking lucky,” Pope grinned.

“I know.” Frankie threw it back.

“When is the next date?” Benny plucked it out of the air, a strange look in his eyes. The rest of the team was already back in the locker rooms, but they had held Frankie back, curious. He had spent the morning practice practically glowing, playing well, but suspiciously distracted. Initially, there was an onslaught of teasing and questions and exaggerated berating, but now they had quieted, actually processing this, as friends. Will look satisfied, happy even, but Frankie kicked himself, remembering too late that Ben’s most recent romance hadn’t worked out.

“Tonight – she thinks the parties are bad news,” he said it carefully - Ironhead had been the one to start sharing their pasts with you, but it was really out there now, for you to take or leave. He moved past them towards the showers and he heard Tom snort, making an exaggerated whipping sound. The older man had listened to his abbreviated story with a stoic face, just raised eyebrows and his arms crossed. Frankie’s jaw clenched, wondering if he should retort, but he didn’t get the chance.

It was quiet, but Will added, “She’s not wrong,” in that even, reasonable tone of his. The tension fell, and then rose, sharply, a testament to the respect they all held for the first-baseman's opinion. Trudging through the hallway suddenly felt too fast, too dangerous, like the conversation should’ve stayed outside. A long moment filled only by footsteps as they all considered, before Ben spoke. 

“Can I come?” Frankie stopped walking, turning incredulously and Santi smacked the rookie on the back of his head. Benny glared, but without any real bite. “Ow, fuck you - I’d rather hang out than go to another one of those stupid parties, wouldn’t you?” He looked defiant, meeting each of their eyes and gesturing with both of his arms, goading them to answer him, to disagree.

No one did, not even Tom, who glowered, the leather of his glove folded into deep wrinkles. Will’s blue eyes met the brown of Santi’s, and his mouth hooked into a smile. Deep laughter went a long way to thawing tension when it was genuine, and it was.

“Ben, you can’t crash Fish's date, we can do something else,” Will took his own turn smacking his brother but it was a bit of a bold statement. There were days when it felt like they really couldn’t so anything else, like there wasn’t other options that felt real – but they should be able to.

Frankie dragged a hand over his face before groaning a muffled, “Wait,” and sighing. He cursed, not even aware of what language it was in, occupied by the thought of what you would say if you were here. It was ridiculous but it felt right, and it was an opportunity for him to slow down again. “Honestly she would probably love if you guys hung out.”

There was a beat, where they stared at him, before the debate began. It didn’t last long, hushing as they reached the locker room, but by the time they were clean and dried and settled, it was decided. There really wasn’t a downside to it and really, they were all figuring you out, too. The lure of your smiles and home cooked food far outweighed the temptation of loud music and sticky floors and girls too tipsy to talk with, at least this time.

In the lull between the practice and the game, Frankie tried not to jump whenever his phone made a noise. One date in, and he was already daydreaming about just driving to your house and just kissing you until one of you had somewhere better to be. But you had a job, and things to finish so you had time for his game that evening, and he was acutely aware that while you had let that incredible evening – yesterday? – happen, he would need to slow down. He had already told you, he wanted to do this right.

He confirmed the plans for the evening, smiling as you agreed to host all his friends, and then tossed his phone into his bag. Then put a jacket on top of the bag, folded twice so it balanced precariously. When it buzzed he made himself take a lap around the building, and wanted to bang his head against the wall when it was a random email.

And all evening the thought of you. The game rolled in, and he squatted bitterly, annoyed his position left his back to the crowd. It meant he couldn’t look for you, and James. Logically he knew, even if you had told him your exact seats, he wouldn’t be able to make you out unless you were close, but that didn’t stop him from wishful thinking. 

Catch, catch, walk, sit, swing, hit, run, walk, sit. Repeat. 

The game built, and tensions were high as the scores stayed close and the crowd whispered about playoffs. It was the worst time for him to be batting, the pressure too high to be on the shoulders of a catcher, but it couldn’t be helped.

He walked out, listening to the blast of an old song too familiar to recognize, and the rumble of the announcer.

Frankie looked towards the crowd, knowing you were out there and fruitlessly wishing he could see you. He stopped at the plate, shifting on the balls of his feet, feeling the dirt under his cleats and trying to imagine your eyes on him. His hands tightened, loosened, tightened again, the wrap on the handle of the bat protested the movement, and he tried to hear you whispering his name.

You were cheering for him, right?

The ball hit his bat with a satisfying crack, and he didn’t watch where it went before he ran.

-

James was stalling.

You were supposed to drive him home, as always, but after spending most of the game filling him in about you and Francisco, there was no convincing him to move faster.

He wanted to see the man who had kissed his granddaughter – more than once! – and look him over again. The sweet, elderly man could be quite determined, especially when it involved two of his favorite people in the whole world. It meant waiting until the crowds fled and dodging staff who would no doubt shoo you away, but the eagerness on his little, wrinkled face made him impossible to deny.

“Jimbo, you’ve already met him,” you tried again, listening to the shrieks of a fangirl. After the surprising home run, the catcher was in high demand, and it made your stomach twist.

You had woken up this morning still shy and baffled at what you were to him, what was happening. So much had happened in such a short amount of time, and you talked a lot, but not about... you, together. But James was certain, this was it, and he wanted to look Francisco in the eyes before he gave you his blessing.

His hand was in your elbow and you tugged, again, before withering under his look. He began lecturing you, about this being his job and you offered a compromise. This time, you weren’t invited, but you guided him towards the lobby where friends and family met the players, and when they let you in, you let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding.

Santiago found you first, and both of you got big hugs from him and the Miller boys, as they told you animatedly about how much hell they gave Frankie for bringing you home the first date. You barely got a word in, but you grinned as James joined their indignation.

In truth, your eyes were looking for Frankie, and you chided yourself at how much you ached for him, as always.

After a few minutes, Will pushed you towards the locker room, and you shot him a grateful smile. All the other players were clear, he told you, Frankie was being a baby about facing the fans. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, confirming that he was at loathe to run into anyone but you. They kept your grandfather occupied, and you knew they were in good hands as he was insisting he was hosting game night, that night.

Ducking into the hall, you followed the tile and the gaudy decorations, and found him.

Frankie, your Francisco was freshly showered, tshirt and jeans marked with drips from his curls, fiddling with his phone like he was waiting for you to text back. When he saw you, he dropped it into his bag, and your arms and eyes were suddenly full of him.

It was a crushing hug, he was eager and almost bursting with pride. You made a noise, you know you did, when only your toes were touching the ground, but he didn’t spin you around before he set you down.

He tried to pull away, he really did, but he couldn’t help but stay close, and you could’ve sworn his cheeks were flushed as you congratulated him, telling him admiringly about how exciting his home run was.

Feeling him against you again was surreal. Mere weeks ago you had been watching him from a distance, and then burying ridiculous daydreams under the rug in your mind. And yet here he was, looking at you with the same softness as he had the night before, without regret, and like reality was better than a dream.

When he asked why and how you were here – not that he was complaining, you told him and explained about James. He only smiled, shifting closer to you again, telling you after all you put up with yesterday, he could certainly do this for you.

There was a pause, the air both clear and thick at the same time, and his head tilted, hands shifting on your hips. Thoughts of your family and friends and food slipped from your mind as his face drew closer, the tip of his nose tapping yours.

Brown eyes, searching your face, you almost felt like you could count his eye lashes. Frankie had little freckles, faint, spattered across the tan skin of his neck and face, and there were sweet little sparse patches in his beard.

“You know, we wont get any time alone, tonight.”

His tone was thoughtful, but he said it like he almost didn’t hear himself, and you could feel the edges of the words against your lips.

The hand on your hip slid up. Up and up, until it settled on the back of your head and he was pressing into you. Frankie’s kisses were deep and slow, like he couldn’t believe last night was not a figment of his imagination, and you wound your arms around him before you got lost in them. There were words in them, distant proclamations and promises and you pulled him into you, yearning to hear them clearly.

It could’ve been a minute or half an hour, between that moment and when he pulled away. With shock, you realized you had been pushed against the locker with his name on it, and his palm was cushioning your head.

There was a clatter of aluminum against the floor, and you jumped like caught teenagers. Then you were firmly planted on the ground again, and Frankie was turned around, shielding you like it was already instinct. Neither of you saw anyone, and his laughter was bashful and sweet. When he said you should probably go, and took your hand, you heard a genuine roughness in his voice.

Behind another row of lockers, Molly whispered into Tom’s neck, “Do you need to go, too? There’s that party tonight.” And he shrugged.

-

The environment at James' home was completely different than last time they were there. Things were less clean, there was less food, and everyone was twice as comfortable. 

It was strange, what really knowing them did - they teased you more, and breathed easier, as if they had never met someone who hadn’t minded it all. 

“Juice packets?” Will asked, confused at the drink selection, and you smiled when Santi winked at you. Tom hadn’t come but you thought it would be best to play it safe. It was important to you, that if they were choosing this over a party that it was lighthearted, sincere and simple.

“I just thought it would be fun,” you gave as your only explanation and he didn’t question it further. He did drink them three at a time, though, and when you laughed, you swore you saw his smile lines.

Benny was on your team, yelling and by far the most competitive, Santi and Will’s luck encouraging it every step of the way. They bickered like kids, bellowing laughter and rambunctious celebrations included. You made an extra rule – anyone who hit you with a pillow or playing piece had to buy you ice cream, next time the opportunity came up.

If should’ve been distracting, how James had pulled Frankie to the side to talk, but it warmed your heart. You didn’t need to swoop in and rescue him – they were talking like old friends, like Frankie was genuinely interested and invested in your beloved grandfather.

Every once in awhile, he would look up and meet your eyes, watching you with his friends with one corner of his mouth pulling higher. Once, you blew him a kiss and he scrunched his nose, like it hit him between the eyes.

Later, you scooted over to them, trying to steal him back, James leaned over and ruffled your hair before sternly, adorably telling you to let him have his turn with Frankie. When Frankie joined him, jokingly telling you to back off, you thought if it didn’t work out with him, Jimbo would adopt him. 

The night stretched beautifully late, before your grandfather lectured them on the importance of sleep and Benny spun you around in victory. There were stars in the sky, and you listened to their chatter fade as they piled into their cars, surprised at how affectionate you felt for all of them, after so little time and such unlikely circumstances. 

Frankie had stayed back, accepting goodbye hugs, and leaning against your car as you waved the other’s off. Of course, you asked, but he didn’t tell you what they talked about and he didn’t linger as long as you had hoped he would. 

His kiss was sweet and chaste, like he knew he had all the time in the world.

<<

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize @princess76179 @mrsbentallmadge

hey batter batter taglist:

@icanbeyourjedi @studyofawearymind @hnt-escape @athalien @the-witty-pen-name @daffodin @sarahjkl82-blog @pintsizemama @anaaaispunk @pjkimrn @dobbyjen @stuckontheceiling

[iwritefandomimagines]

SIMM!MASTER x READER: “Do you believe in love?”

prompt #11 — requested

masterlist

pairing: simm!master x reader

description: visiting a famed romantic hotspot (to cause trouble, obviously) with the master leads to you pondering one major question: does he even believe in love?

warnings: angst, as ever with me writing the master !

words: 1,535

You leaned forward to rest your palms on your knees and catch your breath again as the Master, a few paces ahead of you, turned to laugh at your exasperated expression.

“Would you stop laughing at me?” you grumbled, standing up again and following him back into his TARDIS with a scowl on your face, “If you weren’t so intent on pissing off every species in the universe, I wouldn’t have to run so much and end up so bloody tired!”

He smirked, pausing at the TARDIS doors while you caught up to him, “You should be used to it now then, love.”

You followed him inside, your expression still irritated as you folded your arms over your chest dramatically.There he goes again, you thought with a sigh, calling you love whilst mocking you just as he always did. 

It bothered you more today than usual, and you knew exactly why.

You’d been visiting the Four Moons of Tirus, famously frequented by couples for romantic getaways and often either weddings or honeymoons. Of course, travelling with the Master you knew that this hadn’t been a romance-fuelled trip -- instead, he wanted to cause chaos as ever and so dragged you along with him. 

At first it had been fun, stealing food from buffet tables and skipping through fancy venues. But he’d torn you from a conversation with a Commander of a fleet attending a wedding on one of the Four Moons, and from then on the day had been miserable.

You’d hoped he was jealous -- you couldn’t deny Commander Fluxx II’s flirtation towards you -- but his behaviour crumpled your hopes swiftly.

Watching him flirt with taken women of every species weighed heavy on your chest for multiple reasons: One, you were admittedly jealous. Your feelings for the Master were becoming increasingly potent, and his teasing was becoming increasingly infuriating. And two, it felt shit to see him so blatantly disregard the notion of love and relationships.

Above all else, though, you were devastated by his reaction to being told you made a cute couple. Once he’d pulled you away from the commander, an elderly alien woman had winked and complimented you both, telling you that you were perfectly suited to eachother. 

He’d scoffed, told the creature that you were ‘merely a companion, more like his pet’ and stormed away as though he’d never heard such a disgusting accusation in all of his existence.

You’d hoped maybe there’d been some small romantic undercurrent to him bringing you to the Four Moons, perhaps even if very subtle. Maybe he’d kiss you under the nightly Tirusian aurora, or buy you a bouquet of their native flowers. 

But of course, he was just here to wreak havoc with you at his command.

You’d finally composed yourself now, no more jagged breaths as you stood at his side, hand on your hips, “Don’t you get bored of just messing with people’s feelings, Master?”

You were directly referring to his previous actions, but your words were laced with dismay at his disregard for your evident feelings, too. 

“Whatever do you mean, Y/N?” he smirked, bringing his hand to his face in a falsely inquisitive manner.

“Well, that woman was literally stood next to her husband and you were blatantly disrespectful and embarrassingly flirtatious... the look on his face was terrifying, you’re lucky we got away or he’d have torn you to shreds. Did you see his claws?” you rambled, shuddering at the thought of the alien who’d chased you all the way back to the TARDIS.

“He would never have gotten to us, Y/N.” the Master too crossed his arms now, brows furrowed, “I don’t see what’s gotten you so riled up.” You could see in his face that he was lying. He knew. Of course he knew.

You grunted, shaking your head, “You spend all of your time treating people like they’re beneath you, like they’re expendable. You tease people, you flirt with people. Hell, you flirt with me. Then you go and act like I’m nothing but shit on the bottom of your shoes. You’re pathetic, frankly. Shameless, and pathetic.”

“Ah, so that’s what it’s about, us?”

You scoffed, “There isn’t an us, Master. Don’t you dare stand there so smug and talk like you even care about me. This isn’t about that. It’s about the fact that you’re selfish and self-important and you act like nothing matters to you. It’s ridiculous!”

Your chest was heaving as you spat these words at him, fury coursing through your every vein. You knew that it was obvious why you were predominantly angry, and that maybe you needed to calm down, but you were furious and upset and heartbroken all at once and this tornado of emotion couldn’t be stopped easily.

The room fell silent, the Master’s face no longer painted with a smirk but instead simply blank. You didn’t know what more to say for a moment, gathering your thoughts and trying to steady your erratic breathing.

You remained in silence for a good few minutes, both deep in thought and refusing to make eye contact with each other. 

You let out a deep breath then, leaning forwards and resting your chin in your palm, “Do you believe in love?” you whispered, still avoiding his gaze and speaking so quietly he wasn’t sure he even heard you right.

He swallowed thickly, straightening his stance and relaxing his arms.

“I didn’t.”

“What?”

“I didn’t before. Believe in love, that is.”

“Before what?”

“You, Y/N.”

Your face twisted in confusion, eyes narrowing as they snapped up to meet his all of a sudden. 

How on earth could he stand there and say that, especially seeming so serious, after all that had just happened? Did he really respect you so little that he believed providing you with such lies would give you enough false hope to stop being so angry with him?

“Please don’t say things like that. It’s not fair, and you know it isn’t.” you frowned, shaking your head again and biting your lip.

“I know it’s hard to believe, Y/N, but it’s true,” he shrugged, stepping towards you, “And that was why I brought you to the Four Moons of Tirus. At least initially.”

You cocked your head to the side, “Why were you acting like such an arsehole then?”

He raised his hand to rub over your upper arm for just a moment before returning it to his side, “Because when that disgusting Commander was shamelessly all over you I questioned the point of being in love, anyway.”

You were confused, and so said nothing, allowing him to continue.

“You called me pathetic, but you didn’t see his wife watch him touch you and run off crying,” he sighed, “So many species disregard love even when they claim to feel it. Why bother? I’ve spent long enough on my own, I needn’t fool myself into relying on someone when there’s every risk of ending up alone again anyway.”

You scoffed even more abruptly now, baffled by his words.

“So you got jealous and decided to be petty and hurt me anyway?” you questioned, venom dripping in your tone, “I’ve been waiting for some inkling that you cared about me, and now you finally tell me you love me and still somehow manage to invalidate that and make me feel worthless! I can’t keep playing your games, Master. I’m tired.”

He took your hands in his delicately, “I’ve spent so long alone, Y/N, you have to understand that. I never meant to fall in love with you, and a relationship with me would be about as dysfunctional as you could get. I don’t want to risk hurting you, or getting hurt myself.”

“Flirting with everyone under the sun and making me feel like I don’t matter won’t make feelings go away, Master,” you clenched your fingers around his, somewhat in an effort to reassure him whilst you were being honest, “You’re stuck with me, and I hate to break it to you but love doesn’t just dissipate overnight, even if you claim it’s ‘pointless’ anyway.”

“I’m sorry Y/N. And I’m sorry for ruining what could’ve been a chance to make things up to you.” he pouted, and you felt your stomach swarm with butterflies.

“Look, I’m not going to tell you I forgive you, but I’ll give you the chance to prove that this is more than just some twisted game of yours, because I’m that stupid human whose gone and fallen in love with you, eh,” you half-joked, bringing your entwined hands up to kiss the back of his, “I overheard one of the Commander’s fleet talking about the Perpetual Sunsets of Parboon. It’s like... always sunset and sounds incredible. Take me there?”

He nodded, kissing your temple and swiveling towards the TARDIS console with a newly returned smile. Your heart warmed; It wasn’t his usual arrogant smirk now, but instead a smile of genuine happiness.

“Parboon it is,” he grinned, pulling you closer to his side, “But if any silly alien soldiers make a pass at you again, I won’t be so kind to them this time.”

“Sure, spaceman,” you rolled your eyes teasingly, “Whatever you say.”

------------

hello !! thank u for the request & i hope you enjoyed this, not sure how i feel about the ending but i wasn’t sure how to wrap it up, i hope this was alright though !!

feel free to keep requesting as ever, here is my prompt list if you’re short of ideas, and here’s my masterlist for you to read for the time being! thanks again for reading & supporting my writing, i really appreciate it <3

[o-rchidae]

WIP Wednesday (on a Thursday) - Sleeping with Ghosts

��Jean, Joe, Phillip (17) and Diane (14) Pritchard moved into Number 30 East Drive, Pontefract in August 1966. Almost immediately, during a hot summer Bank Holiday, Phillip and his Grandmother first witnessed a baffling phenomenon, a fine layer of chalk like dust falling not from the ceiling, but from a level below head height. This was the beginning of several years of incredible, inexplicable events; green foam appearing from the taps and toilet even after the water was turned off, tea leaves being strewn across the kitchen, lights being turned off and on, plants leaping out of their pots and landing on the stairs, cupboards shaking violently, photographs being slashed with a sharp knife and an endless list of levitating and thrown objects including a solid oak sideboard and a grandfather clock.

Following these disturbing incidents, the Evening Post has called upon a noted spirit medium to better understand these strange occurrences. Thomas Barrow is an elderly gentleman from Manchester whose paranormal investigations have included the ghostly nun of Borley Rectory, the Dalby Spook and the Brown Lady of Raynham Hall, among many others. Unlike others who claim to have psychical gifts, Barrow has remained surprisingly sceptical about the paranormal, claiming 'ghosts are pretty harmless, really. It’s living people you’ve got to watch out for.’

Barrow enters the house and immediately pauses. ‘Well, there’s certainly someone here.’ He says, pointing towards the staircase. ‘Yeah, you’re not so frightening when someone can see you, eh?’ he addresses the invisible intruder. Something is thrown at us and hits me on the arm. It turns out to be a marble from the children’s room.

‘Oi! None of that! Didn’t no one teach you any manners.’ Mr Barrow shouts, ‘Now what’s this I’ve been hearing about you frightening little girls?’ Silence ‘Oh, I see. That must be very frustrating but that’s no excuse…’ More silence ‘Is there any way you can cohabit peacefully?’ The mirror on the wall, family photographs and light fittings all tremble as though an earthquake were occurring. ‘I see, well I’m sure she didn’t mean to.’

‘He doesn’t like sharing the house with people. Actually, he doesn't like the house either. It was built on top of his resting place.’ Barrow explains after this strange one-sided conversation concludes. ‘And he doesn’t like the children. He were a priest, you see, and he thinks they’re immoral because they wear shorts and listen to rock and roll music. I expect that sort of thing is pretty shocking for a four-hundred-year-old priest but it’s no excuse to drag a young lady up the stairs by her hair, is it?’ he adds pointedly as though he’s addressing the ghost instead of me. I realise I never told him about Diane getting dragged up the stairs.

I ask him whether he’s seen anything like this before.

‘I’ve not seen many poltergeists, they’re quite rare and most of the reported cases are hoaxes. This one’s particularly strong because he can feed off the energy of living people. The more afraid you are, the more powerful he gets.’

I ask if there’s any way of getting rid of the ghost and another marble is thrown at me. I still can’t tell where it came from.

‘You mean an exorcism? No, that’s all a load of rubbish. He’ll move on when he’s ready to move on. I say, just ignore him and he’ll get bored eventually and settle down.’

It is then that I notice the family photographs on the walls getting knocked to the floor one by one as though some unseen hand is ripping them from their picture hooks. I feel like Mr Barrow’s advice is easier said than done.

Curious Case of Mr Nobody, Geoffrey Hogarth, Yorkshire Evening Post, June 27th, 1968

[fullmoonpieces]

christmas spirit

Haechan x GenderNeutral!Reader

Word count: 2.1k

Haechan cost you your best friend with his playboy ways and you’ve been bickering ever since, but a wise man once said: Christmas is the spirit of forgiveness

Warnings/Tags: Enemies to lovers-ish, fluff, suggestive themes, bickering, swearing

Prompt 11 from this list

-

You had met up with your friends at the local library to see each other once more before the Christmas break. Jisung and Chenle were discussing which games they were going to play, while Krystal pretended to listen, with a fond smile. Jaemin was excitedly bouncing in his chair, insisting, “This year I’ll learn to ice skate!”

“Right, and Haechan will find the love of his life and settle down,” Jeno commented, to which Haechan laughed and Jaemin pouted.

Haechan was seated across from you, slouched in his chair, arms nonchalantly swung over the armrests. He’d always been the flirty type, but about a year ago, he’d started sleeping around, the ‘no feelings involved’ kind of thing, which was fine, he could do whatever he wanted, but he crossed a line when he played your best friend.

She had stormed at you, furious and with tears running down her cheeks, yelling about how Haechan broke her heart and how she couldn’t bear to look at you.

She stopped talking to you after that. Every time you approached her, you were met with cold eyes and the same words: “We’re not friends. Leave me alone”.

You’d been positively furious with Haechan, and what had previously been a friendship between you two, had turned into bickering and curses. Your friend group had quickly grown accustomed to your bickering and even had a bet going on about who’d retort to murder first.

“Okay, but what are you actually doing this break Haechan?” Jaemin asked. “Who am I doing,” he corrected, “and it depends, I’ve got a couple in mind,” he smirked.

“Tasteless, Haechan,” you tell him, and he raises a challenging brow at you.

“You’re no fun, Y/n, such a bore,”

“Well at least I still have my dignity,” you retort to which he snorts and opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t get far, as he’s interrupted by your phone ringing.

You look at the screen and see that it’s your mom calling. “Hey, everything okay?” you speak.

“Hi, Sweetheart. Look, I’m sorry to be a bother, but we could really use your help at the shelter, it’s incredibly busy here today,” she tells you and you can instantly picture your mother rushing around the shelter, even with her fragile back.

“You’re never a bother, I’ll be there soon. Should I pick anything up on the way?”

“No, I think we’re good, love you!”

“Love you too, I’ll get going now!”

You quickly picked up your things, stuffing them in your bag. “Oooh,” Jeno hooted, “Is our Y/n finally seeing someone?”

“Sounds like it,” Krystal quips, and at this point, you’re packed and ready to go. You merely smile at their antics, and wave goodbye, “Gotta go, Merry Christmas you guys!” you yell as you’re running out the library, earning you a pointed look from the librarian.

-

As you left the library, Haechan couldn’t help but be disappointed. Right from the moment you’d picked up your phone, he’d had a sour taste in his mouth. Who was the person taking you from him? A frown adorned his face as you spoke into the phone, “Love you too”. And when Jeno and Krystal started teasing you, he didn’t participate, instead, he pondered, are they really seeing someone?

He decided right then and there, that this Christmas, he’d tell you how he felt, at the very least apologize for the past… before it was too late.

-

“I’ve handed out some extra blankets, do you need anything else at the moment?” You asked. You mom turned to you, still stirring the soup, she pointed to a door, “Get the boxes out there, will you? The ones with bread and cups,”

“Got it”.

You’d quickly located the box with bread but had been in a 10-minute search for the cups. Sighing, you decided to deliver the bread to the kitchen, before you search any longer. You carefully made your way to the kitchen, the box in your arms, obscuring your vision, and causing you to almost trip a couple of times. With a huff you put down the box, “Sorry it took so long mom, I couldn’t find the cups,” you said with a pout.

As you turn to face your mom, you’re shocked to find an equally shocked looking Haechan. Without thinking, you raise a pointed finger at him, “Who let him in?” At that, he huffs out a breath, and regains his usual nonchalant posture, “Very classy, Y/n”.

“You two know each other?” Your mom inquires from her spot at the stove. “Acquaintances,” you tell her, as Haechan lowers your arm that’s still pointing at him.

“We’re friends,” he corrects you, “I’ll go get the heaters,” and with that, he leaves the room.

You look to see your mom smiling at you. She raises a brow, “He’s cute,”

“Right, I’ll go look for that box!” You excuse yourself and rush to the storage room.

-

The meal had been served, and you’d seated yourself next to a nice elderly man who seemed to be alone. Throughout your chat, you’d been sneaking glances at Haechan. What was he doing at the homeless shelter? He couldn’t possibly have expected to meet you, he’d been just as surprised as you to see each other here. I guess he really is just here to help, you thought.

It was just so out of the ordinary to see him like that. His smirk had long ago been replaced with a genuine smile as he spoke to an elderly woman. He was wearing a ridiculously tacky Christmas sweater that you were sure he would never let your friends see him in.

The man beside you gently nudges your shoulder, “Preoccupied are we?” he smiles, and you look down embarrassed, “I’m sorry, just a lot on my mind,” you explained. He nodded thoughtfully, “You should talk to him, the guy you’ve been staring at,”

“I-I wasn’t staring!” You exclaim, flustered, “Besides, we have a history… he hasn’t exactly been a great guy,”

“I see… Still, my advice is the same. Christmas is the spirit of forgiveness, and who knows, maybe he had his reasons,” he finished with a smile.

You looked at Haechan again, a confused pout on your face, and saw him laughing with a little boy. He has a nice smile, you guess.

-

You pick up the trash bags silently and Haechan does the same. You silently curse out your mom for assigning you AND Haechan to carry the trash bags outside. He holds the door for you, and you step outside in the cold, instantly freezing as you weren’t wearing a jacket. No one breaks the silence until you’ve reached the waste container. He throws the bags in the container with a huff, and you finally get a closeup of his ridiculous sweater. You fail to hold in a chuckle, and without thinking, you mumbled: “You look strangely cute in that sweater”.

You instantly shut your eyes, and pray that he didn’t hear, but then he speaks up, “You’ve finally succumbed to my charms, huh?” And you look up to see an annoying smirk on his face, but what catches you off guard is the glint in his eyes and his tomato red cheeks. Must be the cold, you think.

“In your dreams,” you manage to speak, as you throw your bags in the container as well. He lets out a low chuckle, “You know it,” he says with a cheeky smile, and you’re reminded that he’s the biggest flirt in the entire town. Despite that, you can’t seem to look away, as snowflakes gently fall onto his head, one landing on his nose, making him look, dare you say, adorable.

“Right…” you sigh and turn to go inside again, but he grabs your arm, gently, much to your surprise.

“Listen, I never really apologized for you know, costing you your best friend and all, and I-”

“No need. It’s not like it’s bothered you the past year anyway, so-”

“No, I wanna explain. Please?” He looks at you pleadingly, and you find yourself turning to face him again. He sighs and you notice that he’s trembling slightly, and you start to doubt that it’s the cold. You consider placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, but let your hands fall to your sides instead.

“I made it very clear that it was a ‘no feelings involved’ thing, I made sure of that, but then she told me that she liked me, and I-I told her I didn’t feel the same, but I really wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, I promise. But when I told her that I didn’t like her, she got really mad and got all hysteric cause she-...”

He visibly gulped, and his cheeks reddened impossibly more and though you were curious to hear the rest, you waited patiently for him to continue. “She somehow knew that I-I kind of definitely had a crush on you, and before I knew it, she was cursing you out and blaming me being an idiot on you, so I just kind of… told her to piss off, and I know that wasn’t the best way to handle things, and I’m sorry that I hurt you, but I am not sorry that she left, cause quite frankly she was a bit of a bitch, and you deserved better,” he finished, out of breath.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice, before Haechan nervously spoke again, “Y-Y/n?” You finally looked at him and realized just how vulnerable he looked, and all you could think about was how much you wanted to hug him.

That wasn’t what you did at all, however, instead you spoke: “The old man was right,”

“Excuse you?” He questioned, a nervous smile adorning his face, and you allowed yourself to finally admit that he was definitely adorable.

“Sorry I never even gave you a chance to explain,” you uttered, still baffled by his explanation. He nervously rubbed his neck, “It’s okay, I probably shouldn’t have slept with your best friend in the first place”. You looked at him incredulously, “Probably?” you asked with a laugh, and he joined in too.

“Come on, we should head inside, it’s freezing cold out here,” you spoke, and he smirked, “You’re right, we can’t have your mom thinking we’re up to no good,” he teased, and for the first time ever you were relieved to see he was back to his usual, smirking, nonchalant self.

You’d only just entered the warm building again, when your mom stopped you, “Freeze!” she yelled. “What. Why? Are you okay mom?” you asked from the doorframe, where you’d frozen in your spot.

She let out a girlish giggle and you shot her a confused look. “I think I’ll let Haechan explain, Sweetheart,” she mused as she speed-walked to the kitchen.

You turned to the boy, “What did she mean?” you asked with a confused pout, and he only let out a nervous laugh. When you tilted your head in question, he let out an awkward chuckle and pointed above your heads, to a subtly placed mistletoe.

Your cheeks were on fire at once, and you thought you might just pass out when you made eye contact with Haechan, whose nonchalant demeanour had quickly vanished again. Your eyes flickered to his lips for a second, and it didn’t go unnoticed by him. Your mind was running wild, searching for words to say, but stopped dead in its tracks, when his warm lips pressed against yours.

He pulled back as soon as his lips had touched yours, seemingly shocked by his own actions, as he started apologizing profusely.

You broke out of your trance and grabbed his cheeks, his face squished in your hands, and pressed a confident kiss to his lips. He felt so warm against you, his hands hesitantly went to gently hold your hips, and you found yourself thinking that this was home… he was home. Despite what you expected from him, the kiss was innocent, wholesome, and everything you could’ve asked for from a first kiss.

When you pulled away, both your faces were burning red, and as your eyes met, you couldn’t help the smile on your face, soon turning into a giggle, and Haechan quickly followed.

“Be mine?” He asked, beaming, and you thought you’d never seen anything more breathtaking. “Already am,” you told him, and placed a small peck onto his lips.

“Merry Christmas Haechan,”

“Merry Christmas, Love”.

[calliopewritings]

christmas spirit

Haechan x GenderNeutral!Reader

Word count: 2.1k

Haechan cost you your best friend with his playboy ways and you’ve been bickering ever since, but a wise man once said: Christmas is the spirit of forgiveness

Warnings/Tags: Enemies to lovers-ish, fluff, suggestive themes, bickering, swearing

Prompt 11 from this list

-

You had met up with your friends at the local library to see each other once more before the Christmas break. Jisung and Chenle were discussing which games they were going to play, while Krystal pretended to listen, with a fond smile. Jaemin was excitedly bouncing in his chair, insisting, “This year I’ll learn to ice skate!”

“Right, and Haechan will find the love of his life and settle down,” Jeno commented, to which Haechan laughed and Jaemin pouted. 

Haechan was seated across from you, slouched in his chair, arms nonchalantly swung over the armrests. He’d always been the flirty type, but about a year ago, he’d started sleeping around, the ‘no feelings involved’ kind of thing, which was fine, he could do whatever he wanted, but he crossed a line when he played your best friend. 

She had stormed at you, furious and with tears running down her cheeks, yelling about how Haechan broke her heart and how she couldn’t bear to look at you. 

She stopped talking to you after that. Every time you approached her, you were met with cold eyes and the same words: “We’re not friends. Leave me alone”. 

You’d been positively furious with Haechan, and what had previously been a friendship between you two, had turned into bickering and curses. Your friend group had quickly grown accustomed to your bickering and even had a bet going on about who’d retort to murder first. 

“Okay, but what are you actually doing this break Haechan?” Jaemin asked. “Who am I doing,” he corrected, “and it depends, I’ve got a couple in mind,” he smirked. 

“Tasteless, Haechan,” you tell him, and he raises a challenging brow at you.

“You’re no fun, Y/n, such a bore,” 

“Well at least I still have my dignity,” you retort to which he snorts and opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t get far, as he’s interrupted by your phone ringing. 

You look at the screen and see that it’s your mom calling. “Hey, everything okay?” you speak.

“Hi, Sweetheart. Look, I’m sorry to be a bother, but we could really use your help at the shelter, it’s incredibly busy here today,” she tells you and you can instantly picture your mother rushing around the shelter, even with her fragile back. 

“You’re never a bother, I’ll be there soon. Should I pick anything up on the way?” 

“No, I think we’re good, love you!” 

“Love you too, I’ll get going now!”

You quickly picked up your things, stuffing them in your bag. “Oooh,” Jeno hooted, “Is our Y/n finally seeing someone?” 

“Sounds like it,” Krystal quips, and at this point, you’re packed and ready to go. You merely smile at their antics, and wave goodbye, “Gotta go, Merry Christmas you guys!” you yell as you’re running out the library, earning you a pointed look from the librarian. 

-

As you left the library, Haechan couldn’t help but be disappointed. Right from the moment you’d picked up your phone, he’d had a sour taste in his mouth. Who was the person taking you from him? A frown adorned his face as you spoke into the phone, “Love you too”. And when Jeno and Krystal started teasing you, he didn’t participate, instead, he pondered, are they really seeing someone?

He decided right then and there, that this Christmas, he’d tell you how he felt, at the very least apologize for the past… before it was too late. 

-

“I’ve handed out some extra blankets, do you need anything else at the moment?” You asked. You mom turned to you, still stirring the soup, she pointed to a door, “Get the boxes out there, will you? The ones with bread and cups,” 

“Got it”.

You’d quickly located the box with bread but had been in a 10-minute search for the cups. Sighing, you decided to deliver the bread to the kitchen, before you search any longer. You carefully made your way to the kitchen, the box in your arms, obscuring your vision, and causing you to almost trip a couple of times. With a huff you put down the box, “Sorry it took so long mom, I couldn’t find the cups,” you said with a pout. 

As you turn to face your mom, you’re shocked to find an equally shocked looking Haechan. Without thinking, you raise a pointed finger at him, “Who let him in?” At that, he huffs out a breath, and regains his usual nonchalant posture, “Very classy, Y/n”.

“You two know each other?” Your mom inquires from her spot at the stove. “Acquaintances,” you tell her, as Haechan lowers your arm that’s still pointing at him.

“We’re friends,” he corrects you, “I’ll go get the heaters,” and with that, he leaves the room. 

You look to see your mom smiling at you. She raises a brow, “He’s cute,”

“Right, I’ll go look for that box!” You excuse yourself and rush to the storage room. 

-

The meal had been served, and you’d seated yourself next to a nice elderly man who seemed to be alone. Throughout your chat, you’d been sneaking glances at Haechan. What was he doing at the homeless shelter? He couldn’t possibly have expected to meet you, he’d been just as surprised as you to see each other here. I guess he really is just here to help, you thought.

It was just so out of the ordinary to see him like that. His smirk had long ago been replaced with a genuine smile as he spoke to an elderly woman. He was wearing a ridiculously tacky Christmas sweater that you were sure he would never let your friends see him in.

The man beside you gently nudges your shoulder, “Preoccupied are we?” he smiles, and you look down embarrassed, “I’m sorry, just a lot on my mind,” you explained. He nodded thoughtfully, “You should talk to him, the guy you’ve been staring at,” 

“I-I wasn’t staring!” You exclaim, flustered, “Besides, we have a history… he hasn’t exactly been a great guy,”

“I see… Still, my advice is the same. Christmas is the spirit of forgiveness, and who knows, maybe he had his reasons,” he finished with a smile. 

You looked at Haechan again, a confused pout on your face, and saw him laughing with a little boy. He has a nice smile, you guess. 

-

You pick up the trash bags silently and Haechan does the same. You silently curse out your mom for assigning you AND Haechan to carry the trash bags outside. He holds the door for you, and you step outside in the cold, instantly freezing as you weren’t wearing a jacket. No one breaks the silence until you’ve reached the waste container. He throws the bags in the container with a huff, and you finally get a closeup of his ridiculous sweater. You fail to hold in a chuckle, and without thinking, you mumbled: “You look strangely cute in that sweater”. 

You instantly shut your eyes, and pray that he didn’t hear, but then he speaks up, “You’ve finally succumbed to my charms, huh?” And you look up to see an annoying smirk on his face, but what catches you off guard is the glint in his eyes and his tomato red cheeks. Must be the cold, you think. 

“In your dreams,” you manage to speak, as you throw your bags in the container as well. He lets out a low chuckle, “You know it,” he says with a cheeky smile, and you’re reminded that he’s the biggest flirt in the entire town. Despite that, you can’t seem to look away, as snowflakes gently fall onto his head, one landing on his nose, making him look, dare you say, adorable. 

“Right…” you sigh and turn to go inside again, but he grabs your arm, gently, much to your surprise.

“Listen, I never really apologized for you know, costing you your best friend and all, and I-”

“No need. It’s not like it’s bothered you the past year anyway, so-”

“No, I wanna explain. Please?” He looks at you pleadingly, and you find yourself turning to face him again. He sighs and you notice that he’s trembling slightly, and you start to doubt that it’s the cold. You consider placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, but let your hands fall to your sides instead.

 “I made it very clear that it was a ‘no feelings involved’ thing, I made sure of that, but then she told me that she liked me, and I-I told her I didn’t feel the same, but I really wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, I promise. But when I told her that I didn’t like her, she got really mad and got all hysteric cause she-...” 

He visibly gulped, and his cheeks reddened impossibly more and though you were curious to hear the rest, you waited patiently for him to continue. “She somehow knew that I-I kind of definitely had a crush on you, and before I knew it, she was cursing you out and blaming me being an idiot on you, so I just kind of… told her to piss off, and I know that wasn’t the best way to handle things, and I’m sorry that I hurt you, but I am not sorry that she left, cause quite frankly she was a bit of a bitch, and you deserved better,” he finished, out of breath.

 You blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice, before Haechan nervously spoke again, “Y-Y/n?” You finally looked at him and realized just how vulnerable he looked, and all you could think about was how much you wanted to hug him. 

That wasn’t what you did at all, however, instead you spoke: “The old man was right,”

“Excuse you?” He questioned, a nervous smile adorning his face, and you allowed yourself to finally admit that he was definitely adorable.

“Sorry I never even gave you a chance to explain,” you uttered, still baffled by his explanation. He nervously rubbed his neck, “It’s okay, I probably shouldn’t have slept with your best friend in the first place”. You looked at him incredulously, “Probably?” you asked with a laugh, and he joined in too. 

“Come on, we should head inside, it’s freezing cold out here,” you spoke, and he smirked, “You’re right, we can’t have your mom thinking we’re up to no good,” he teased, and for the first time ever you were relieved to see he was back to his usual, smirking, nonchalant self. 

You’d only just entered the warm building again, when your mom stopped you, “Freeze!” she yelled. “What. Why? Are you okay mom?” you asked from the doorframe, where you’d frozen in your spot. 

She let out a girlish giggle and you shot her a confused look. “I think I’ll let Haechan explain, Sweetheart,” she mused as she speed-walked to the kitchen. 

You turned to the boy, “What did she mean?” you asked with a confused pout, and he only let out a nervous laugh. When you tilted your head in question, he let out an awkward chuckle and pointed above your heads, to a subtly placed mistletoe. 

Your cheeks were on fire at once, and you thought you might just pass out when you made eye contact with Haechan, whose nonchalant demeanour had quickly vanished again. Your eyes flickered to his lips for a second, and it didn’t go unnoticed by him. Your mind was running wild, searching for words to say, but stopped dead in its tracks, when his warm lips pressed against yours. 

He pulled back as soon as his lips had touched yours, seemingly shocked by his own actions, as he started apologizing profusely. 

You broke out of your trance and grabbed his cheeks, his face squished in your hands, and pressed a confident kiss to his lips. He felt so warm against you, his hands hesitantly went to gently hold your hips, and you found yourself thinking that this was home… he was home. Despite what you expected from him, the kiss was innocent, wholesome, and everything you could’ve asked for from a first kiss. 

When you pulled away, both your faces were burning red, and as your eyes met, you couldn’t help the smile on your face, soon turning into a giggle, and Haechan quickly followed. 

“Be mine?” He asked, beaming, and you thought you’d never seen anything more breathtaking. “Already am,” you told him, and placed a small peck onto his lips. 

“Merry Christmas Haechan,” 

“Merry Christmas, Love”.

[ms31x129]

The end is here Chapter 7! I went simple with this DJ Jackson/William was shaped by 2 couples who loved him. That’s at the heart of this incredible story, imho.  @cultureisdarkbeer @monikafilefan @today-in-fic

Chapter 1 - Courage to Jump Tumblr LINK  AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 2: Luck of the Irish Tumblr LINK or AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 3: Graffiti of the Heart Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE.

Chapter 4: Leave Your Demons At The Door Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE.

Chapter 5: Truth Is the Pain Inside Our Hearts Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE.

Chapter 6: Final Destination Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE. 

Chapter 7: Full Circle <<AO3 Link or if you like Tumblr you know the drill clickity-click on the Keep Reading link below. 

{Summary:

Jackson’s journey has come full circle, but what happens before it finally comes to an end?}

“Everything has a way of coming full circle. It takes patience and perseverance to see a dream through… to close that circle. Because some dreams, like some circles, can be much bigger than others.” -Karen Dale Trask

The fresh spring breeze tousled Jackson’s unruly hair. It either frizzed or flopped around his cowlick and left him consistently smoothing it down more often than not. He couldn’t help but wonder who he’d gotten that trait from: Mulder or Dana? Would he call her Dana or Mother or… Mom? Not that. He didn’t think he could ever find it in his heart to call anyone Mom again.

Jackson couldn’t help but think back to the moment he first spoke face to face with his birth mother. After hearing her heartfelt confession in the morgue, the one that made his gut tumble to his toes, he made a silent promise that he would talk to her at some point in the future. He just had no idea that the chance to make good on that promise would present itself so soon after he made it. He had just endured the worst day of his life after witnessing his parents lying lifeless on the floor covered in blood, and then hearing the words of a mother he never thought he’d meet left him reeling. Using Ghouli for selfish reasons had him feeling overwhelming guilt; yet seeing her and Mulder, under the guise of an illusion at that off-the-beaten-path gas station, had softened the ironclad armor he was trying so hard to construct around his heart...

The bell attached to the gas station door chimed and a tall man walked in.

“Can I get $40 on the SUV out there, please?” Jackson could see the attendant in his peripheral ringing the guy up as he popped a sunflower seed in his mouth. He watched the man turn to him and nod up at the TV where the Pirates and Nats were tied in the bottom of the 4th inning.

“You follow baseball?” His voice was low and smooth in a familiar sort of way that flowed over Jackson with ease.

Feeling a wave of goosebumps spike across his arms, he glanced over inside his illusion and directly locked eyes with the man his birth mother had embraced in the morgue: Fox Mulder.

Slowly nodding, Jackson answered, “I’m a Yankee’s fan myself.”

“Me, too!”

“Too bad I’m leaving town. Maybe, we could have caught a game,” Jackson sighed, confused that he actually meant it.

Mulder shrugged and scoffed at the pop fly to the pitcher's mound. “Yeah, maybe.”

“I bet a G-man can get good seats.” He nudged Mulder’s arm and pointed to the exposed badge sticking out of his jacket pocket.

Mulder narrowed his eyes at Jackson, the same ones he saw in the mirror every day. “Good eye.”

He huffed. “Gotta have one nowadays.”

Mulder smirked, nodding in agreement, and a flicker of sadness washed over his face as the screen focused in on a father and son laughing as they cheered on their team. “Years ago, I had the hope of taking my own son to a game.”

A knot began to form in Jackson’s throat. He cleared it and decided to leave a little something for the obvious emotionally worn-down man standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with him. “Well, maybe one day you can. Don’t give up.”

The smell of baked goods caught his attention and the memory of his first encounter with his birth father faded. He ventured over to the small mom-and-pop shop called “Little Virginia’s Bakery and Novelty Shop” with a renewed sense of purpose and food on the brain.

“Perfect!” His empty stomach rumbled in agreement.

For being an out-of-the-way shop, the little place held a few farmers, a family of three, and an elderly couple tucked away in the back. The sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the air and Jackson’s mouth watered instantly.

“Hi there!” The silver haired woman stood from her corner table to greet him. “Welcome to Little Virginia’s. Hungry?” Her brown eyes trailed him from head to toe, assessing his dirty, worn jeans, well-loved jacket, and mussed hair. Jackson was sure he would hear a grandmother-like lecture about taking good care of himself; one he knew he’d never heard from one of his own. But, instead, she smiled and nodded to the bakery case. “How about I get you a nice carb-filled breakfast while you take a look around the place? Can’t help but assume you just might like something you see.” She pointed to the baseball on his shirt from his Freshman year travel league team—which he was reluctantly kicked off of for skipping too many practices.

“Uh, sure, okay. Thanks,” he stammered, unsure of what she meant by that yet followed her gaze to the wall behind him. Gasping, he wandered over to the large shelving unit filled with snow globes. “Wow!”

The wall was covered with a wide array of different sized globes. Each one was unique in design and meaning. Just like the collection back in his room that he’d never see again, he thought bitterly. He scanned each shelf from top to bottom, searching for one that called to him. It was something that he and his mom used to do on family vacations when they visited tourist shops.

Jackson slowed his mind and chose not to fight against the happier memory tickling at his brain of his very first snow globe that sparked not only the start of his collection, but his interest in all things cryptid...

“Jackson? There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” his mom chastised, grabbing his arm and kneading it between her fingers. “You wandered off again and left me wondering where my son’s imagination had decided to lead him this time.”

He sighed, hoping he wouldn’t be grounded later because of the strong attraction to what was staring him in the face at the moment. “Sorry, I just saw this and liked it.”

With a ruffle of his thick hair that dipped along his forehead, his mom chucked. “That certainly is an… interesting snow globe.” Jackson shook it and the white, glittery flecks swirled like a storm. “Why this one? It doesn’t seem to fit your space-themed bedroom.”

A grin spread across his chocolate stained mouth. “Oh, it does, Mom. Just like with outer space, there’s mystery behind the existence of Sasquatch. You know, guesses...”

She shook her head. “Theories, you mean,” she corrected, “just like with space. Jackson, you are too smart for your own good, you know that?”

His mom teased yet it was the truth; and he knew it. He knew a lot of things he wished he didn’t. “Yeah, I do.”

“Hey, kid!” A deep voice snapped Jackson’s eyes open and back to the shop. He stared at a man through one of the large glass globes and nearly laughed at the distorted fun house image he saw looking back. “You alright?”

“Yeah, uh yes, I’m fine,” he said, quoting his usual line when anyone asked how he was. “Just checking these out. I used to collect them, actually.” He wasn’t sure why he was sharing personal information with a stranger. He’d never done that before, but the kindness in the man’s eyes reminded him of his dad.

“Used to?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, just haven’t added to my old collection in a few years.”

“Well,” the man started as he adjusted his hat, “looks to me like you’re ready to start a new one.” Jackson raised a brow and watched as the man went and sat back down in his chair with a smirk peeking out from his mustache.

As Jackson continued to look through the mass of watery globes, he considered that the old man was right. Starting something new was exactly what he was hoping to accomplish. Just then, a ray of sunlight struck the glass on a small, circular one out of the corner of his eye. It sat on the shelf nestled in a row of sports themed snow globes. The one he felt compelled to touch left him baffled at the significant meaning. If he weren’t fully aware of the pain-free feeling in his skull, he might think the image inside the globe was a snapshot of a future vision.

Holding it up into the light, the tiny people inside painted an exact picture of a life that Jackson thought he was never meant to have.

A man stood on the pitchers mound, arm wound back in an arc, ready to let loose a curveball with the way his fingers were gripped around the seams. The batter was a boy with brown hair who leaned over the plate, wooden bat cocked back and poised in the air. There was a woman sitting on a grassy hill near the boy, strands of her red-gold hair were fisted within a tiny infants grasp cradled in her arms. In that moment, Jackson actually believed that fate was calling.

Over an hour later, Jackson had made it to the desolate Wallis road, his belly full and spirits lifted, but a part of his heart remained heavy. Nature called, so he found a tree among the weeds to relieve himself. As he zipped back up, in the far distance he noticed the roof of the house, and reality punched him square in the solar plexus. Would the DoD pick up his trail? By taking these next steps, did it place them all in danger? Maybe they had moved on and were a happy family without him—complete and worry free.

Maybe, his trek should end where he stood.

His thumb rubbed the glass auricle buried deep in his jacket pocket; the crinkled letter folded next to it worn by years, travel, and his own perspiration poked at the back of his hand. Both of them provided reassurance. Perhaps, another link from the past held an answer along with some courage. There was still one line left to read after all. Carefully, with trembling fingers he unfolded the paper and the heart-wrenching words flowed freely from his lips.

“And in that moment, you will be blessed… and stricken… for the truest truths are what hold us together, or keep us painfully, desperately apart .”

An explosion of images seared through his brain in a rapid fire of painful impulses, like an electrical storm burning across his neurons. He was assaulted by her face, her voice, her scent... It was then that Jackson refocused, the revelation that he had returned to a monumental moment in the past—a crucial turning point, as he began to walk his mother’s path one last time.

March 22, 2002

Her hands shook as she closed the door and entered her dark, silent apartment. She tore her purse, shoes, and jacket off in the entryway and let them fall carelessly to the floor. Her heart beat wildly within her chest as intense anxiety buzzed through her body, like a saw blade humming through flesh. Pushing it away yet again, she stumbled through the dim hallway, stopping abruptly as she came to a cracked open door.

She gasped, taking in the sight of the empty crib. Ignoring the voice in her head that Jackson could hear screaming for her to run—to hide and shut it all away, she allowed her fingertips to dance along the cool wooden bed where her son should lay dreaming. With a trembling chin, she reached in and grabbed his cream blanket, the one her mother had knitted for him when she hadn’t yet known to use pink or blue.

“Mom…” Jesus, her mother will never understand; she might always blame her for searching for answers to obscure questions when her miracle was held within her arms. She slammed her eyes shut as the memory of her mother’s advice played out behind her lids for Jackson to witness…

February 18, 2002

Sliding her arms into her jacket as she prepared to leave, she said, “Mom, it’s important. I wouldn’t go if it weren’t.”

Frustrated, her mother shook her head and clutched baby William tighter against her hip. “Yes, I know, Dana. You say it’s about getting answers.”

Shaking her head, she sighed and her eyes flicked to her son playing with his grandmother’s sweater, blissfully unaware of his role in life. “Answers about William, Mom.”

“I know you’re worried about him—that there are things about him that you just can’t explain. But, even if you were to get those answers, what would it change?”

With emotions flaring, her voice trembled as she tried to explain in the simplest way possible. “Mom, he’s my child.”

Refusing to back down and stay silent, she pleaded with her daughter to listen. “And you have to love him and raise him in spite of everything.” Stepping closer, her mother’s tone softened as her hazel eyes met watery blue. “Dana, God has given you a miracle. A child that wasn’t supposed to be.” Gazing down at her grandson with pride, she offered, “Maybe, it’s not to question—just to be taken as a matter of faith.”

Feeling lost and alone with horrible thoughts swirling of what secrets may be out there regarding her son, she stared at her mother’s worried expression and told her the truth. “Mom, I can’t take this on faith. I need to know,” she explained, soothing William’s soft, fuzzy hair, wishing she could fully trust what her heart was telling her. “I need to know if it’s really God I have to thank...”

Jackson felt his mother stiffen as her own memory melted away. Her eyes snapped open yet the residual turmoil of her mother’s words remained entwined like barbed wire within her chest.

“Oh, Mom...” she whispered and bit her lip until it hurt almost as much as her heart.

She inhaled a deep breath, her knees buckling at the strong baby scent and that’s when she saw it: her own withdrawn, broken reflection in the small mirror hung above the rocking chair. How could she look herself in the mirror ever again and not see someone who had simply given up, who didn’t have the courage to stand by her son and fight to the death to protect him? His father would have if he were here. Yet, she sent him away to keep their son safe, and now she was left with nothing.

Guttural cries finally burst free from her mouth, the awful feeling of guilt and sadness overwhelmed her. Pressing the scent of their baby boy to her face, she screamed into the yarn of the blanket as her emotions warred on. Her mother: a God-fearing woman who forgives as easily as she loves, would never forget what her daughter had done here tonight.

Emptiness echoed in the silence, fatigue pulled at the weariness beneath her lids as her fingers ran along the soft stitching connecting the satin to the plush cotton. Her body felt hollow, like a shell that held nothing but an ocean of tears and shards of glass wedged between her soul and her heart.

It hurt to be in her son’s room where he slept and played and nursed and listened to her terrible singing and… it hurt to breathe. “Oh God, Mulder, please forgive me.”  

A heavy layer of sorrow covered her chest, suffocating her. The reality of her decision surrounded her with every shallow breath she took. “Mulder, I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, fiery tears burning her down the column of her throat. “Our truest truth… our son, he’s held us together and now… and now desperately apart.”

No matter if her choice was right or not, William was their son: a living breathing product of their everlasting love, their miracle… and now he was gone. No matter her constant worry of the safety and origin of the miracle she held within her arms every day—had loved unconditionally the moment she knew he existed; she had willingly given away a part of her and Mulder’s love. A love so strong that it conquered the impossible and produced a wondrous gift. In that very moment, she knew she would carry this heaviness in her heart until the day she died. And Jackson felt her terrible thought that just maybe, she deserved to.

He felt his mother slipping away from his grasp as she road the roaring tide of her emotions. She and her gut-wrenching sobs were fading, drifting off into darkness where he knew she would rebuild her fortress of stoicism in order to survive, dimming the remaining light in her life as the vision did the same for him.

Time stretched like a rubber band connecting the past to the present. Jackson separated achingly slow from his mother’s grief with images fading into the back of his mind as his own anguish took hold.

“Ah, dammit!” The sheer agony that had coursed through her veins was enough for Jackson to still taste the metallic remnants of blood from her gnawed bottom lip within his own mouth. The upheaval of emotional static was in his head, shredding it from the inside—the side effects of constant fears and self-doubt. The selfless suffering felt from an unconditional love took away a piece of him as it took from her, unraveling the purity in his soul.

He felt his chin tremble uncontrollably, like it did when he was nine and was teased on the playground for being “weird.” He felt it: the last remaining bricks of the wall that stood to protect and uphold his heart crumbled, leaving him bare and exposed. The flashback sucked the breath from his chest and he folded, collapsing into himself and driving him to his knees.

Squinting up at the sun with a sheen of sweat across his brow, he clenched his fists, blanching his knuckles as nails dug deeply into the palms of his hands. Slamming them to the ground, Jackson screamed. The sound piercing the early afternoon sky like an air raid siren, unleashing the remaining demons from the scars that had refused to heal. The agony left his lungs with the strength of a gale force wind, begging the sun for its rays of light to soothe away the darkness. The torment felt as though it ripped his muscles, bones, and flesh to shreds. His dark lashes brimmed heavy with tears and the dam burst when his emotions surged against it. Crystal beads streamed from his deep blue eyes as heaving sobs tore at his throat and wracked his chest—the weight of his grief pressing him into the ground where he knelt.

Within the last year, he had cried all of three times: the night of his parent’s death, once out of sheer loneliness, and now from the effects of this letter. These words from his mother had saved him from the monster, the one indifferent to suffering and sorrow, and got him to feel.

Jackson dug into the dirt with the balls of his feet and pushed off, taking mighty strides as he sprinted before even aware of the conscious decision. His bag bounced along his shoulders, his long dark colored locks whipping back and forth behind him as he leapt large rocks and dodged roots. Charged with adrenaline surging through his veins, he had to keep running forward; nothing would stop him now. As quick as his long legs could carry him, his shoes hammered the hard earth that mimicked the pounding in his chest. The smell of bark and pine invaded his nostrils, his burning lungs begging for air, but Jackson embraced the pain. His shirt clung to his form, damp with sweat and tears and he ran, feeling her presence like he could feel her mind. He finally let down the mental barrier he had held up against reaching out and into her mind, liberating him.

All the signs, all the things leading him to reach this very path was fate; it had intervened and he knew now—felt it now… William needed to come home.

Now, the boy who had always felt split in two was whole. Now, he was finally fine . He was free.

By the time he reached the gated driveway to the property, the pain had dissipated as hope and truth dominated. One hand rested on the cold iron; his limbs on fire as he panted, trying to catch his breath. The well-worn house stood taller now—a simple A-frame with a couple dormers and extended front porch. The fence surrounding the property consisted of many shades of weathered wood, time and sunlight painting it several grayish and brownish hues. Beyond its confines stood a patchwork quilt of several grasses and wildflowers, sewn together by a dusty road. For a glimmer of a moment, he envisioned a little sister running through the rolling grass, chasing a dog to hug and cuddle, the puppy stealing licks while they laughed in amusement and drank tea on the front porch.

Jackson pulled open the heavy gate and stepped onto the familiar ground his feet had yet to tread. A deep breath calmed his rising nerves, as did walking through the tall wheat grass swaying in the open breeze. It all reminded him of his childhood farm and working the fields with his dad.

The land here grew wilder than his dad would allow, although so did he and, he suspected, so did the pair that occupied that house. He continued on, the rhododendrons now in full bloom overpowered the nearby flowers. They greeted his senses and he became more engrossed, living in the moment like he had never experienced before. This was real. His futuristic visions foreshadowed death and hellfire, reeking of ash and rot. But here, only birds sang and thick, green foliage swayed with the breeze, covering the sound of distant traffic.

For so long his thoughts never stopped spinning, visions of pasts and futures, the constant questioning of himself was nothing but a furnace of pain hidden beneath a forced smile and occasional happiness. All of that stood silent now. For the first time in his life there were no thoughts, only instincts. Ones that he trusted. So he continued walking along the gravely dirt driveway, up the worn steps to stand at their faithful door.

Somehow it all made sense, that the flashback visions would take him back to where this all began, bringing him full circle to find the truth; taking him back to the night where his old life had ended and was given a new one. The night William M. Scully became Jackson Van de Kamp. He was both Jackson and William, he realized: Chimera born—one boy with two sets of parents who loved him. One remarkable teen with a remarkable past standing on the porch of an unremarkable house, hoping to share a future with those who sacrificed everything for him.

Jackson had navigated his way through his birth mother’s past and his own—effectively finding himself during a time when he was truly lost. And, now, the son of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully would finally cross their threshold as his whole self, an open book written in a language only they could fully understand.

A flutter of nervousness began to churn in his gut. He shut his eyes, inhaling a deep breath and counted to ten, recalling what his dad had told him to do when he felt this way. Those familiar words of wisdom embraced him, giving him the push he needed to let loose three confident knocks to the squeaky screen door. Footfalls and muffled voices could be heard through the oak door and his heart pounded through his shirt.

A smile pulled at Jackson’s lips when he realized that he was standing inches from the proverbial edge of what was his leap of faith for a new beginning, completely unafraid and committed to jump.

[melodiouswhite]

Inconveniently a mermaid

Gabriel John Utterson was just done with his work, when he heard his telephone ring from the other room. Odd. Who would call him at this hour?

He went to answer the call. “Hello?”

“Good evening, Mr. Utterson. Pardon me for the late intrusion.”

“Poole! Good evening? What's the matter?”

“You have to come immediately. It's an emergency. Something happened to Master Hyde and I don't know what to do.”

“I'll be there in ten minutes at most.”

“What's going on?”, Utterson demanded to know immediately after arriving at Jekyll's villa.

“Follow me, Sir”, Poole replied and lead him through the house. “I called Her Ladyship and Dr. Lanyon as well”, the butler told him on the way, “They too will be here soon.”

Utterson nodded in acknowledgement, before impatiently asking: “Now, what happened?”

Poole stopped in front of the bathroom door and sighed: “See for yourself, Sir. But I must warn you, the sight will be shocking.”

With that he opened the door.

The lawyer's eyes immediately fell onto the bathtub. What he saw was shocking indeed.

“What the-?”

Utterson had no idea what he was looking at, but he didn't like it.

Judging by the long, café noir brown hair, it had to be Hyde. But Hyde was … a mermaid? Why the hell was he suddenly a mermaid?!

Mermaid-Hyde was staring at him with tortured, frightened eyes. His fishtail was way too big for the bathtub and he was rattling for air.

“Help me …”

Yes, that definitely was his voice, albeit slightly distorted.

Utterson frowned at him. “What happened to you?!”

“I … don't know”, Hyde wheezed, “But … it hurts … I can't … breathe … help … make it … stop!”

The lawyer turned to Poole. “Do you know a body of water that isn't as dirty as the Thames?”

Before the butler could answer, hurried steps resounded from the hallway and Lanyon burst in, Lady Summers on his heels.

But when they saw it, they stopped dead in their tracks.

“Ach du grüne Neune!”, Lady Summers gasped.

“Mr. Hyde, is that you?”, asked Lanyon incredulously.

Hyde nodded weakly. If he hadn't been in such agony, he'd probably have given a snappy retort.

All at once several servants rushed into the room with buckets of water and changed the water in the tub. In the fresh water, Hyde relaxed and submerged as much of himself as he could.

The other three and Poole stepped closer.

Now that they had full view, Utterson could see that Hyde's body was a fishtail from the waist down. His belly was white, the rest of him a greyish green. His skin was covered by a relief of dark green, meandering lines and speckles. There were a lot of fins on his back and sides, even his ears now looked like fins (and moved like it too). His tail was very long, muscular and big. On his sides, Utterson could see several pairs of gills that pushed out waste water with Hyde's every breath.

He sighed sadly and caressed the wet brown hair of his unfortunate lover.

Hyde lifted his head and looked up to him unhappily. His eyes were now completely black, safe from the pupils that were of the shrill acid green his irises usually were. The poor brunette choked back a sob and leaned into the tender touch for a moment. Then he submerged the lower half of his face again.

“He can't breathe air anymore”, the lawyer told the other two. “We have to do something. He needs to be brought to a close-by body of water, before he suffocates or dries out.”

“Obviously”, Lady Summers agreed, “How about the Thames?”

“The Thames is too dirty”, Lanyon objected, “That would be like standing in a cloud full of toxic smoke. He would die from all the rubbish and manure.”

“True, but we need to find him a reliable source of fresh water that's rich enough in oxygen. And of course, big and deep enough for him to hide – no pun intended.”

Hyde wound himself in the bathtub, making the water splash. When he gripped the edges of the bathtub, the other three could see the lappets between his fingers.

Carefully, the black-haired lawyer touched one of these web hands. It twitched at the contact, but the brunette seemed to relax considerably.

The skin under his hand felt a bit smoother and more taut than human skin.

My dear Edward, my poor sweetheart …

“Mister Hyde”, Lanyon spoke up again, “Do you or Jekyll have any ideas?”

The mermaid– no, merman paused for a moment, before lifting his head out of the water again.

“He says … the Serpentine … would be good … for now”, he gurgled. Then added pleadingly: “Help us … please … I'm dying …”

Then he slouched back in.

Lanyon frowned. “The Serpentine isn't deep enough.”

“No, but it's big”, Lady Summers argued, “He could move far enough from the shore for no one to notice his movement in the water.”

Utterson turned to the others. “Whatever, we need to get him there as quickly as possible.”

“But we can't transport him per coach. He'll be dead ere we've made it there”, Lanyon pointed out.

A high-pitched, frightened whimper came from the bathtub and the lawyer went back to stroking the brunette's hand.

Suddenly, Lady Summers clapped her hands. “I have an idea! All we need is-”

Like on cue, her butler Sameer Singh walked in. “You told me to come here, after my chores were done?”, he inquired.

Lady Summers nodded. “We have a serious problem here”, she told him and pointed to the tub.

The Indian stopped short, but recovered almost instantly.

The Lady looked at him expectantly. Then she said something in Hindustani, probably briefing him on the situation. The young butler understood and stepped up to the bathtub. Then he proceeded to baffle almost everyone by effortlessly lifting Hyde out of the tub.

“Didn't this house have a balcony on the roof?”, he asked.

“Yes”, Hyde choked. “Big one …”

All of the sudden, Poole piped up: “One moment, please!”

Then the elderly butler wrapped his master's alter ego into a dropping wet blanket.

“Better?”

Hyde smiled gratefully and nodded.

Utterson sighed: “Up to the roof then?”

So up to the balcony they went.

But in the door, the lawyer hesitated. He didn't want to go out there. It was so awfully high. But he knew what was about to go down and he needed to be there, for-

He pulled himself together and followed onto the balcony. He came just in time to see the Indian butler lift off from the ground.

Oh right … he can fly …

Hyde shrieked in fear and clung to the … uh, whatever the butler was. A demon or something, Lady Summers had once mentioned.

He turned to them for a last time.

“You get him there as quickly as possible”, Lady Summers ordered, “We'll follow after with the coach. Bring him to that small bridge that separates Hyde Park and Kensington Garden. We'll meet you there.”

The Indian nodded, then he took off with insane speed.

Utterson prayed desperately that the wind wouldn't harm his beloved at the speed the butler was carrying him through the air with.

“Come”, Lanyon spoke up, “We need to hurry.”

The other three dashed out of the house, where Her Ladyship's coach was waiting, then drove off.

Once arrived at the bridge, they joined the butler, who was waiting for them.

But of course he was standing on the bridge alone and it was too dark for them to see anything in the water.

“Where is Hyde?”, Utterson asked anxiously.

“Mr. Hyde is swimming around right under the bridge”, Mr. Singh told him, “He's feeling much better now that he has a bigger bathtub.”

The lawyer would have laughed at the word 'bathtub' being applied to such a big pond, but he was too nervous.

Damn, I can't see anything!

Lanyon turned to the butler. “There are still people in the park. How did you manage to get him there without anyone noticing?”

The butler shrugged. “Rakshasa magic. I cast an illusion. They just saw a seagull carrying a fish.”

The hoary doctor sighed. “I refuse to think further about it.”

“Good decision”, Singh replied drily.

Utterson didn't listen any further. He bent over the railing and cried out: “Edward? Can you hear me?”

“Not so loud!”, Lady Summers hissed and pointed at a group of men, who were walking along the strand. “It's still over an hour until the park closes!”

“Good grief. I'm casting another illusion”, Mr. Singh sighed and snapped his fingers.

His mistress bent over the railing as well and stared into the water.

She must have sent out a telepathic call, because Hyde popped his head out of the water in almost an instant.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Hyde?”, she inquired worriedly.

“Better”, he rasped. “Jekyll too.”

“That's good”, Lady Summers breathed in relief.

Hyde dived under again, only to startle them all by leaping up and holding onto the railing.

Utterson immediately cupped that greenish face and kissed the cold, wet lips.

Hyde kissed back and allowed the lawyer's hands to caress his cheeks, before letting go and sinking back into the water.

When his face came out again, he reached up and Utterson took his webbed hand.

He looked so incredibly unhappy with the entire situation, that the lawyer's heart shattered into a million pieces.

“We'll find a way to undo this, Edward”, he told the brunette softly. “We'll turn you and Henry human again and then you can go back to doing the things you love. I promise.”

[thegreenfairy13]

Mr. Van Dahl’s Remarkable Double Life - Final Chapter

At last, I finished my slightly cracky tale about the marriage of Jim and Oswald. Read it on Ao3 here. 

Jim is incredibly relieved he’s finally allowed to leave the basement - for about five seconds.

Oswald is standing behind him, still complaining about the cream smeared all over his fancy clothing, when Victor Zsasz blocks their path.

“I think you’re going nowhere,” the assassin declares smugly while already launching himself at Jim. Oswald shrieks in terror and raises his cane the exact same moment the hitman's fist connects painfully with Jim’s jaw. Not having expected the sudden attack, he drops to the floor. The mobster surges forward but Jim isn’t having it.

“Stop it! Both of you!” he hollers despite the white and black dots dancing merrily before his eyes and the excruciating ringing in his ears.

Zsasz, completely surprised by the Penguin’s sudden attack, freezes. Oswald lowers his arm dutifully. Good, Jim thinks. At last, his husband is listening. Well, after the last couple of days, he’ll probably fulfill all of his wishes - before returning to his wicked ways by next week.

“What the hell is he doing here?” the detective inquires while getting back to his feet. Shaking his head, he wonders if this week qualifies for the worst of his life. The sad answer is: no. This week doesn’t even make it into his top ten.

Nervously licking his lips, the Penguin tries putting on a nonchalant demeanor and fails miserably. Blushing furiously, he gives everything away. For whatever reason, Oswald is a terrible liar when it comes to Jim. The cop smirks despite himself. Oh, he knows exactly why the killer is at their home, but he needs it to hear from his husband.

“So?” he urges, cocking his head slightly. This will be the first time Oswald has to confirm what they truly are.

“Uhm…”

“You hoped I’d agree with your ridiculous plan, right?” Jim growls in annoyance and Zsasz’ eyes widen. He can tell the killer is speechless.

“Who would agree to get tortured?” he sputters once he found his voice again while Oswald simply glares at him.

“I never said anything about torture,” he snarls petulantly.

“You said Jim Gordon is being kept in your basement and I should come over,” Zsasz argues, slowly losing his patience. Jim can’t blame him. This whole ordeal is infuriating.

Pressing his mouth into a thin line, the kingpin tries pushing past the killer.

“Oswald!” Jim commands, inwardly rejoicing when his husband stops still in his tracks. “Isn’t there something you want to tell Zsasz?”

The gangster tenses but Jim doesn’t care. Oswald promised, and there’s no way the cop is letting his husband off the hook now. He turns around, a pleading look gracing his features but Jim merely nods, encouraging him to go on. Meanwhile, Zsasz is looking from one man to the other, becoming more confused by each passing second.

“Fine,” Oswald huffs at last. “Zsasz, I’m proud to announce that James Worthington Gordon is, in fact, my husband. I specifically hired you to go after him and rough him up regularly in order to keep up the pretense that my husband and I are enemies.”

The hitman’s mouth drops open, closes, and drops open again. It’s the first time Jim sees one of the most feared psychopaths helpless. In his utter confusion, he almost resembles a baffled child. Jim snickers while marveling at the killer’s unease.

But then Victor’s mouth curls into the most discomforting smile and the moment is gone. Staring at Gordon, the killer looks incredibly impressed. “How?” he utters, awe-stricken. “How did you trick him into believing he’s your husband?”

If Jim wouldn’t be so proud of his husband, he’d for sure be annoyed. But at this moment, the only thing that counts is Oswald finally having confirmed their relationship and making it clear that they are married.

Smiling softly at his huffy husband, Jim verifies the statement.

“We have a certificate,” Oswald adds briskly, leaning heavily against his man. “And as we won’t be keeping our marriage any longer a secret, your services will no longer be needed. Well, regarding Jim,” he adds as an afterthought. “I might have other assignments for you, though.”

“Absolutely not,” Jim interrupts sternly, finally dragging his man upstairs. He doesn’t miss the conspiratorial look his mobster shoots the killer.

Jim hopes to finally let Olga and the rest of Oswald’s staff in on their secret but, of course, he has no such luck. Once they reach the kitchen, Harvey and Selina already stare curiously at the pair of them.

“Where have you been?” his friend growls sourly. “I thought your little psycho has killed you after all.”

“And what is this stuff on his suit?” Selina chimes in, staring at Oswald with obvious disgust.

Harvey takes only one look before making a gagging motion. “I’m worried sick and you’re having kinky sex with your man?!” he explodes, almost flinging his glass at them.

“There’s a child present!” the Penguin yelps, horrified about the cop’s accurate observation.

“Child,” Harvey snorts. “The little brat probably stepped on this earth fully grown with a plan in her hands how to rob elderly ladies.”

“I’m offended,” Selina remarks good-naturedly, sticking out her tongue at the man beside her.

Jim’s head hurts already. What even made him think this would work smoothly?  “What are you even doing here?” he asks her, internally debating how to throw them out both as soon as possible.

“I was curious about your fate,” she simply replies. “And Ozzie’s cook makes some rad breakfast. Did you two know that?”

“As I hired her,” Oswald interrupts, “I have a vague idea,” he finishes drily.

“So what’s the deal?” Harvey pointedly looks at Jim. “Despite you two making me gag, that is.”

“We’re going public,” Jim replies quietly. “No more lies.”

Humming in agreement, Harvey nods. “That might be best. Our colleagues at the precinct were already celebrating your death. They’ll be relieved you teamed up with our honorable mayor.”

Oswald makes a pained noise beside him but still entangles his fingers with his cop. He’s tense, and despite his promise, still not certain going public is the right thing to do; neither is Jim, but the lies, the secrets will eventually drive them apart. Besides, the cop really has to give his ribs a solid break from getting broken.

“Jim, I’m terrified,” he mumbles barely audible and the grasp on Jim’s hand tightens.

The policeman squeezes back. Not caring about their audience, he wraps his arm consolingly around the gangster’s hip and pulls him close.

“I know,” he tells him softly. “But we have all of eternity to figure everything out now,” he reassures while pressing a soft kiss to his temple. The mobster trembles imperceptibly in his grasp and it’s almost enough for Jim to blow it all off. He knows Oswald loves him, would literally die for him, would let him go if requested. It’s just...Jim doesn’t want to go anywhere. He belongs right here: At the Penguin’s side. In Gotham. Forever.

“I’ll make a few calls,” Oswald declares then. “We’ll be gracing the Gazette’s cover by tomorrow, that’s for sure,” he concludes with a dramatic sigh.

Before he can leave the room, Jim holds him back by his sleeve. “Thank you,” he breathes into his ear. Pulling his husband into a tight hug, Jim clings to him as if he’d leave forever.

“Everything for you,” Oswald murmurs back, squeezing Jim’s bicep slightly.

For the first time, the cop truly feels as if they’re having a real chance. Despite being married, their relationship has rather resembled a fleeting affair. But from now on, they’ll act like a team.  

Harvey rolls his eyes when Oswald hobbles clumsily out of the room, but Jim knows his friend long enough to tell he’s happy for them. The silence in the small space stretches, only interrupted by the noise of Selina happily munching a cupcake from the counter. Jim feels guilty for lying to his friend for so long and grateful for him still supporting his decision.

“I take it the birdman is immortal, too,” Harvey states, startling Jim from his musings. The cop purses his mouth before nodding reluctantly.

“Thought so,” Harvey grumbles. “Always knew the little cockroach is indestructible.” Slurping his coffee loudly, he continues, “To be honest, I should lock you two up in Arkham and throw away the keys.” Shaking his head with mock annoyance, he grabs a croissant from the table. “And I wasn't even invited to the wedding,” he grumbles.

“Oh stop it,” Selina sighs, rolling her eyes. “At least you get to blackmail me.”

“What?!” Jim asks in surprise.  

“Selina is my informant now,” Harvey declares smugly. “Else I’d tell Bruce Wayne and Mr. Cobblepot she was willing to let you die.”

Jim sputters. “Oswald would never hurt her.”

“Figured that myself,” Selina answers drily. “Not as long as you are his loverboy,” she adds with a salacious wink.

“Yeah, but the possibility of Bruce Wayne being mad at you did the trick,” Harvey sing-songs victoriously. The little cat merely glares at him.

Jim wants to bury his head in his hands. He’ll never hear the end of this, that’s for certain. Thankfully, Oswald saves him from diving deeper into Bruce Wayne’s love life. Besides, what’s there to say? Selina Kyle is his villain, just as Oswald is his.

The heroes and the rogues in Gotham are inseparably entangled. They have always been. Harvey had Fish. Bruce will forever love Catwoman. And he? He’s lost to the Penguin. They’ll spend eternity with each other, and despite the fact that they’ll fight and even temporarily break up, they’ll never be able to truly stay away from each other. Oswald is his destiny, it’s as simple as that.

Jim still doesn’t know how to feel about living forever, doesn’t know if he can wrap his head around what happened, but he's got enough time now to figure everything out.

When Oswald returns, he looks pale yet also relieved and determined. His announcement to the Gazette must have gone well. Out of habit, he scowls at Harvey and Selina before focusing on  Jim.

“No turning back now,” he jokes with more bravado than he possesses. Jim has to admit, he’s afraid, too. Gotham will for sure be after them. This city won’t make it easy on them and their enemies know their weaknesses now. Yet, should anyone ever be as stupid as to consider taking his man from him, Jim will make sure hell looks like a spa-resort in comparison. And vice-versa.

“I love you,” Jim tells him earnestly, desperately almost, when finally all is said and done. His little Penguin nods.

“When I made the call,” he starts, rummaging through his pockets, “I found something.” Oswald pauses as Jim holds his breath. The earnest expression on his face speaks volumes and Jim wouldn’t dare to interrupt now.

“Before my mother and my father broke up for good, he gave her a ring. My mother kept it all those years. She never had another man.” He gulps, stares at the floor before bravely carrying on. ”There was never another man for me too,” he whispers. Trying to get down on one knee, Oswald asks Jim a question the man can hardly process. Harvey gasps beside him, for sure being hardpressed to keep his coffee in. Jim couldn’t care less.

Of course, there’s only one answer to Oswald’s question. Of course, they’ll renew their vows.

Before the scrawny gagster can damage his shattered knee any further on the cold, hard tiles, Jim catches him and wraps him safely up in his arms. Harvey might throw up all he wants, he’ll need to get used to this. He hardly notes Selina’s excited squee when accepting the ring from his husbands' hands.

He only knows they’ll make it. They’ll be happy - forever. Or at least until Oswald realizes Harvey is going to be Jim’s best man.

[badassbiburgerbob]

I didn't fully realize that last part until recently. I knew older people have disabilities and need extra care or aid with things. What I didn't fully realize was how disturbingly little help is actually there. And it's disgusting.

I recently took over care of my grandmother. Taking her to the store, Dr's appointments, helping her with medications. That sort of thing. And I was legitimately shocked.

The amount of Dr's offices, Dr's offices, with no consideration for physically disabled patients is astounding. I'm blessed with relatively long legs, so I can throw a door, catch it with the toe of my shoe and push her wealchair in. But my god, there is so little consideration. Which is incredible because we all age. And if you get up close to 90 or 100 then more likely than not your gonna need ambulatory aids like canes, walkers and wheelchairs. But it's not just the elderly. There are millions of young people who are physically disabled and have trouble with stairs and doors. And these were Dr.s offices. How are you supposed to see the Dr if you can't get through the door. Seriously what the fuck? It's 2022, why do we still have to push for basic respect and consideration for the disabled?

But it's not just the Dr.s. She wanted to go to the jewlers for her watch and we had a to find a new jewler because the old one had two steps too big for me the pull the wheelchair up and small ass room that her chair wouldn't fit in. Which is a shame because she really liked that jewler.

And that's just one aspect of one type of disability that was completely overlooked.

On the other hand, the complete ignorance towards mental illness always irritates me. I myself have struggled with depression and anxiety most of my life. If I hadn't been put on anxiety medication I was headed for mental breakdown. It helped me cope. Like the post above said, it helped me live and be relatively happy.

Another example. My mother, brother and I have thyroid disease. When my brother went off the medication when he was younger because my father was of the same opinion that he shouldn't need medication, he got so angry and easily agitated that he nearly begged my mother to put him back because he felt like putting his fist through a wall. I know personally that not taking my thyroid medication agitates my anxiety.

In terms of medications, I understand the feeling that people are overmedicated and if some people can be weaned off certain medications great. I personally think medications are wonderful discoveries that can help make life better when used and prescribed correctly. Some medications can be stopped, others can't. My family needs those thyroid pills and we always will. I need my anxiety medication, my grandmother takes about 10-12 medications for her medical conditions. Yes she needs them, maybe can be taken off of 1 or 2 but the rest she will need for the rest of her life. If she stop taking them she could die. And if someone looked me in the eye and said 'well then she should die' I might actually punch them in the teeth.

And for fucks sake every door should have a sensor or a switch for automation. Every facility needs a ramp and passageways and rooms large enough for mobility aids.

It's incredible to me. I knew people and institutions never gave enough consideration to the disabled, but Jesus fuck man. This is ridiculous. It's fucking 2022, some of the takes I've seen recently on both mental and physical disabilities is astounding. The sheer ignorance of these ableist statements is just baffling.

Some rando: You should think about stopping your prescription

Me: My pills make me not want to die tho

They: You shouldn’t want to die, that’s not normal

Me: Yeah that’s why I’m taking my pills

[winglesscrows]

I’m Yours Ch. 5

AO3 I Patreon I FF.net

First I Previous I Next 

Merlin (BBC) I T I Merlin & Arthur I 37k WIP

Merlin had secrets, and Arthur knew nothing of them, until, slowly, he did.

In which Arthur slowly unravels the mystery that is Merlin, and begins to realize just how much he doesn’t know.

Read on AO3 I Patreon I FF.net or under cut

“Sire,” Lancelot called to Arthur as they passed each other in the hallway. It was quite late into the afternoon, and Arthur was already thinking about dinner and rest. He had spent most of the day discussing politics with the council and his father, and his brain was slowly turning to mush. Politics weren’t usually something Arthur hated, but calculating how much grain should be given to each village based on the number of children, elderly, pregnant women and working adults, while factoring in the varying geographical circumstances of all of the villages, well, that wasn’t really one of Arthur’s favorite topics. However, Arthur was particularly fond of discussing infrastructure and was pushing the council to pass a suggestion to start work on a new road which would make travel easier for many from the outlying villages, who wished to come to the city for trading or other purposes. So far, they had more or less ignored him and his wishes for a new road.

Regardless, the point was that Arthur was tired, but Lancelot was always good company, “Yes?” Arthur answered, stopping to converse with his knight. There weren’t many people around them, only the passing servants who were getting ready to serve dinner for the inhabitants of the castle.

“I heard that you plan to have some knights escort Lord Agravaine on his travels,” the knight began and Arthur nodded.

“That is true, although I don’t believe that to be public information yet,” Arthur smiled, teasing Lancelot was always a little fun, only because he usually got the joke about three seconds later, and always looked slightly baffled when he thought he had done something wrong.

“Merlin talks,” Lancelot explained, a smile growing on his face as he had realized Arthur was joking.

“He does,” Arthur agreed, “It’s a bad habit of his.”

They both smiled, but Lancelot continued, “Regardless, sire, I wanted to request that I became a part of this mission.”

“Really?” Arthur lifted an eyebrow, “I think you are a bit too talented to go on such an excursion.”

“Perhaps, sire, but I want grow in any way I can, so what I came here to ask was if I could lead the mission. If that isn’t too arrogant of me,” Lancelot bowed slightly to show his respect, but Arthur beamed. He had planned on sending out some of the more… inexperienced knights on this little mission, but if it could serve to let Lancelot grow more comfortable in a leader position, then it would be excellent.

“That is a great idea, Lancelot,” Arthur said, not even trying to hide his smile, “If you are ready to lead, I think you would be very fit to do so. I’ll have a list send to your quarters of the knights available for your mission, and you shall choose five. I would also like you to write a short essay explaining your choice of knights.”

“You shall have it within a day, sire.”

Lancelot disappeared down the corridor and Arthur felt more awake than before. Lancelot was his finest swordsman, and a couple of years younger than sir Leon. When Arthur became king, Leon would be first knight, but Arthur was looking to incorporate Leon into a council position at some point. Leon wasn’t only a fine knight, but a skilled tactician and a naturally observant person. With many years of military service, Leon could prove very useful in the council, and when that time came - whether naturally or forcefully - Arthur would love for Lancelot to be first knight. Not only was he incredibly skilled and perfect for the job, but he wasn’t of noble blood, and when Arthur was king, he would remove the laws that prevented others like him to become knights. Having Lancelot as first knight would be a great example of status not mattering, but only what was in your heart. But more than just that, Arthur was happy that Lancelot was taking agency as a knight with much potential.

Arthur came back to his chambers with food ready on the table and Merlin tidying his desk. He was still not allowed to do everything that he wanted to, but at least he wasn’t complaining a lot about it. Merlin was in a good mood today, Arthur noted, as the sound of Merlin’s humming reached his ears. Arthur could only wonder why, because his servant was often in a good mood for trivial reasons (last time Arthur had asked, Merlin had simply said that he was happy because the sun was shining). Merlin didn’t acknowledge that Arthur had entered the room, perhaps because he hadn’t noticed as he was standing with his back to Arthur. The prince watched the back of his servant for a moment. One would hardly think that he was recovering from two serious injuries with the way he was behaving.

Other than Merlin’s humming, the room was silent - so silent in fact that Arthur could hear when Merlin went through the papers on his desk, orienting himself on what everything was so he could organize it correctly. It was only then that it occurred to Arthur how much he let Merlin be privy to. Merlin was free to read everything Arthur left on his desk, Arthur confided in Merlin when it came to matters of state, and he let Merlin advise him on whatever the topic of the month was. And somehow the realization only put a smile on Arthur’s face.

Arthur was also in a good mood today, and when Arthur was in a good mood, he liked to mess with his servant. Arthur silently snuck up behind Merlin, until he was less than an arm length away from him. He then brought his hands together to make a loud clap, and watched with delight as Merlin jumped and threw all the papers up in the air.

“Arthur!” He exclaimed, and Arthur burst out laughing at the sight of his servant, “Not funny!”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Arthur said between laughs, and then he slowly composed himself again.

“You are horrible,” Merlin shook his head, “Now I have to start over,” Merlin gestured to the mess of papers that now covered Arthur’s floor.

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Arthur said and clapped Merlin on the back, “Now come and eat with me.”

“What?” Merlin said in disbelief and Arthur almost burst out laughing again.

“You heard me. You keep bringing up way too much food so I have to assume you eat everything that I don’t anyway. Might as well keep me company.”

Merlin squinted his eyes, trying to see if Arthur was joking (to be fair he had done that before), but then eventually pulled out another plate, cutlery and cup, and sat down with Arthur.

“Lancelot came up to me today,” Arthur said, studying Merlin’s reaction.

“Did he?” Merlin said casually, “What did he want?”

“He wanted to lead the escort of knights that Agravaine is taking with him next week.”

“That seems like a great opportunity for him,” Merlin said, and Arthur knew that if he hadn't known what to look for, he would never have known that Merlin was lying to him, or rather, deflecting from the truth (at least this time it was more in jest than anything).

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Arthur said and gave Merlin a little shove. Merlin smiled knowingly.

“I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Only three people knew that Agravaine was taking knights with him on his journey. I didn’t tell Lancelot anything, and I’m sure my uncle didn’t either, so who do you think let him know?”

“Probably Gwaine,” Merlin said and gestured into nothing, “He couldn’t keep a secret even if his life depended on it.”

Arthur shook his head, and Merlin smiled at him. One day, Merlin wouldn’t lie to him anymore, but Arthur could live with this. This was fine. Truly.

“You are close,” Arthur said slowly, “You and Lancelot,” Arthur didn’t know where he was going with this topic, but he was interested in knowing more about what made them such good friends. He was also quite interested in knowing what Merlin and Gwaine had in common that made them good friends, but Arthur didn’t think his brain was ready to wrap itself around that just yet.

“He saved my life the moment we met,” Merlin said, “Don’t really get better first impressions than that.”

“It definitely beats being called an ass.”

“Hey!”

“You’re still very close though,” Arthur continued, “You could have told anyone about the mission, but you told Lancelot, why?”

“He deserves it,” Merlin shrugged, “Besides, you look at him differently than you do at the others. Like you expect more of him. Thought I’d give him a hand, since you have high expectations.”

“Are you saying I’m hard to please?”

“Very much so.”

Dinner with Merlin was easy. There was no awkward silence, although they always seemed to have something to talk about.

"I've been wondering," Merlin said slowly, and Arthur rolled his eyes in jest.

"That requires thinking, Merlin, you think you can do that?"

Merlin groaned lightly and shook his head, "Honestly, Arthur, you're such an ass."

"I think that's well established by now, but what were you wondering? I am curious."

Merlin took a breath, perhaps to steady himself and Arthur braced himself for their conversation taking a turn.

"When I told you about Nimueh, you didn't question that I sought to magic for help," Merlin seemed resolute in his statement, "I simply wanted to know your thoughts about... everything I told you."

Arthur sighed. Were they really doing this now?

"I have a lot of thoughts," Arthur said truthfully, "But I suppose we can start with the magic. Honestly, I didn't think much of it," Merlin seemed surprised by this fact, and rightfully so. Arthur had grown up with a father who had beaten it into his skull that magic was evil to its very core, "When you told your story, I think it finally occurred to me just what you are willing to do to keep me safe – which I am not happy about by the way – and if I had had the knowledge you did, that I could exchange my life for someone I cared about, I would probably have done it too."

"But," Merlin pushed, "It's magic."

And that was another thing. Magic wasn't just illegal in Camelot and punishable by death, but just hearing the word sent his father into a frenzy. For a long time, Arthur had believed his father's words regarding the forbidden art. After all, he had only ever seen magic being used for evil. But slowly, ever so slowly, it occurred to Arthur why that was. Who would dare use magic to grow a plant, when it could get them killed? And who would shy away from it if they intended to kill the king? The idea of his father being wrong had been slowly growing, and evidence had slowly piled up. The light guiding him to safety as he had retrieved the antidote for Merlin. The magic that had cured Gwen's father. The keeper of the unicorns, Anhora. The druids going about their life peacefully.

And Arthur thought that in some ways, Morgana was proof as well. Morgana hadn't turned on them because she had magic, Arthur refused to believe that. She had turned on them because of how Camelot treated those with magic. Magic could do frightening things, but Arthur had to believe that it could do good things as well. When Arthur had thought Merlin's story through, it had made sense to him that Merlin wouldn't shy away from using magic. He hadn't grown up in Uther's kingdom, but in Cenred's. He had grown up in a place where magic was legal. So Arthur had not thought much of it when Merlin had told the story and when he had finally thought it through, it just made sense to him, so he had let it go entirely. To Arthur, the core of the story was that Merlin had sacrificed himself for him, and he wanted to avoid that Merlin would have to do it again.

"It was magic and I'm alive because of it, so there isn't really much I can say to that," Arthur ended up saying, and Merlin nodded slowly, perhaps processing Arthur's reply, "But maybe we should talk less about how you did it and more about why."

Merlin looked startled for a moment, before regaining composure and looking intently at Arthur: “I believe I already explained why. You can't already have forgotten, can you, sire?”

Arthur huffed, it was just like Merlin to make light of the situation. “Of course not. Do you really think so lightly of me?”

Merlin rolled his eyes dramatically, “I don't think you want me to answer that question, my lord.”

“But seriously Merlin,” Arthur said, getting back on topic, “You can't just... use yourself as a shield every time I'm in danger. Didn't it ever occur to you that I don't want you to die?”

“I...” Merlin hesitated, seemingly at a loss for words, “It's not that simple.”

“And why not?”

“Arthur, don't you get it? You have to live. If there's the tiniest chance that my life can keep you alive just a day longer, then I have to take it. You have no idea how precious you are. How important you are to this kingdom and its people.”

“Merlin, I understand well enough what my role as the future king-”

“No.” Merlin interrupted harshly, “Arthur. You don't understand. The actions you take. The decisions you make. Everything you do shape this kingdom and make it a better place. Look at your knights. Look at Gwen. Look at me . You give us something to believe in. Give us hope for a brighter future, because we know that you act out of the good of your heart.”

Arthur looked at Merlin in disbelief, “How can you be so sure? I ruled this kingdom for three months and it was overwhelming. It was harder than I could have imagined, and you must have noticed. You were with me every day. How can you have that kind of faith in me?”

Merlin forced a laugh, and looked at Arthur hopelessly: “You are an arrogant, royal prat, Arthur Pendragon, but sometimes I wished you were more confident in yourself.”

Arthur had nothing to say after that, and they finished dinner in silence.

“You didn't touch any of the chicken,” Arthur remarked as Merlin cleaned the table, “You need meat to grow muscle.”

“Ah,” Merlin said slowly, “I try to avoid meat. Not a big fan.”

“I would ask how a person can't like meat, but for some reason I assume that it's because you feel sorry for the animals?”

“Something like that.”

Arthur shook his head and it felt like they had never had that heavy conversation. The rest of the night felt normal.

And then came morning, and Arthur had to confront all the things Merlin had said the night before. Arthur wasn't sure if he wanted to see Merlin at this particular time. He wanted time to think, and it was hard to think about Merlin, when Merlin was there.

And whether by luck or design, Guinevere entered his chambers with breakfast, and while he was always happy to see her, he honestly couldn't say that he always got this delighted when she walked up to him.

“Merlin said he was behind on some chores, and I offered to bring you breakfast,” Guinevere explained, less to say why she was here and probably more to let Arthur know that Merlin wasn't slacking off on his duties. She was quite protective of him.

“Mind staying?” Arthur offered and pulled out a chair for Guinevere at the table, which she gladly accepted.

Perceptive as she was, Arthur hadn't even taken his second bite of breakfast before Guinevere asked what was troubling him.

“It's Merlin,” he said honestly, “He keeps getting hurt.”

Guinevere but her lip at that, and something occurred to Arthur. He had never asked her about the relationship between the servants, and certain knights and nobles.

“Did you know?” Arthur said quietly, “About sir Richard?”

Guinevere lowered her head as she answered: “I did, Arthur, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I-”

“It's okay,” Arthur assured her, “Merlin told me that he made everyone promise to keep it a secret.”

“He's usually okay,” She continued, “There was a boy, once, about three years ago, the man he was waiting on would beat him every night. He almost couldn't walk by the end of the week, so Merlin stepped in. It was the first time, at least that I know of. We were all so scared for him, but there was nothing we could do. And Merlin, he was fine. At first we thought he was just putting up a facade, but we checked him. Barely a bruise to be found. He's not always that lucky, of course, but it's never... He's never...”

“I know,” Arthur said, “It's not your fault.”

“For what it's worth, I think you were right to kill him.”

Arthur looked at her, slightly startled, “That wasn't my intention.”

“I know. I know, but anyone who treats someone like Merlin so poorly, I can't help but think the world is a better place without people like that in it.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur said slowly. He wasn't fond of killing. And especially killing his own knights, even if what he had done was unforgivable.

“Be more confident, Arthur Pendragon,” She sternly, “It would suit you.”

Arthur smiled sweetly at her: “Merlin said the same last night.”

“Of course he did. He always gives the best advice.”

Guinevere left soon after, having other duties to attend to. Arthur regretted not seeing her more, but there was nothing he could do. Not as long as they had his father's watchful gaze on them.

Arthur stayed in his chambers most of the day. He had paperwork to do, and it wouldn't do him any good to put it off. Besides, it looked like it would rain, so training could wait until tomorrow. Arthur made it way past lunchtime before he finally heard Merlin clumsily making his way down the hallway – hopefully with some food – but he still wasn't in the mood to see him, so, mature as he was, Arthur hid in his own chambers.

From Arthur's excellent hiding spot, he could see as Merlin put down the plate of food at the table, and set the table for Arthur to eat, even if he wasn't there. He half expected Merlin to leave after that, but was weirdly surprised to see Merlin do his job and do a quick sweep of the room. Merlin eventually made it to Arthur's desk where his papers were still scattered, and Merlin looked at them for a while, perhaps contemplating if he should put them away or if Arthur would come back to it.

Merlin never got around to make a decision as someone entered the chambers. Merlin turned his attention towards the door, clearly expecting Arthur to walk in as he smiled, but his expression faltered immediately as he laid eyes upon Agravaine. His uncle closed the door behind him and looked around the room before addressing Merlin.

“Where is Arthur?” His uncle asked politely, but Merlin just sighed.

“I'm afraid I don't know.” (At least that wasn't a lie.)

There were a couple of seconds of uncomfortable silence, and Arthur swore he could cut the tension between them with his sword.

“I know you think that Arthur is your friend,” Agravaine finally broke the silence, “But he is a prince, a future king, and he cannot be seen taking advice from servants. I would advise you to hold your tongue and stick to cleaning his chambers.”

“Of course,” Merlin said, the fake respect back in his voice, “But you should know that I am very bad at doing what I am told.”

Agravaine took a couple of steps closer to Merlin, and Arthur found his protective instincts kicking in as he almost leaped out of his hiding spot to interfere with whatever was going on.

“Come on Merlin,” Agravaine pushed, almost intimidating Merlin (or at least he tried to, Merlin didn't waver in the slightest), “You can't possibly believe that you can advise Arthur better than someone like me.”

“Oh, I think anyone could advice Arthur better than you, my lord,” Merlin added the last part mockingly, “Morgana must really have hit rock bottom to allow someone like you to work for her. She used to be smarter than this.”

“Be careful with your accusations, boy,” Agravaine hissed, “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course not, my lord,” Merlin bowed slightly, “I shall inform Arthur that you dropped by.”

Agravaine turned on his heel and slammed the door shut behind him. Merlin watched the door for a second, before casually turning back to Arthur's papers, which he began sorting through. Arthur could only watch his servant secretly as he went about his business as if nothing had ever happened – no, that wasn't true. Merlin was frustrated. Merlin was usually careful when handling paperwork, but he slammed documents on the table harder than necessary and his movements were more rapid than usual.

It had been perhaps ten minutes, when a certain piece of paper caught Merlin's attention. Arthur recognized it from his hiding place. It was a speech he had written only an hour ago about the new road he wanted to build. It was meant to sway the council and his father, since nothing else had seemed to work. Merlin read it through, and then sat down in Arthur chair and began writing all over the speech. Great. Now he had to start over.

Arthur was stuck watching – spying on – Merlin for almost an hour before the servant took his sword (presumably to clean and sharpen it) and left his chambers. Arthur silently slipped out of hiding and immediately looked at the speech Merlin had tampered with, only to find himself surprised by Merlin's work. Merlin had carefully corrected a few grammatical errors (errors Arthur had made entirely because he had been hungry), and added suggestions where he thought they were needed. At the bottom of the parchment, Merlin had added the suggestion to ask the citizens about the need for a new road in order for Arthur to prove its potential usefulness. It was a great suggestion that Arthur couldn't believe he had thought of himself, and he made sure to save the draft of his speech so that he may remember.

Arthur should have continued the paperwork or maybe even eaten the lunch Merlin had brought up for him, but once again his mind drifted to his servant and his uncle. At least now he knew that Merlin suspected Agravaine of working for Morgana, and logically Arthur knew he should be wary of such suspicions. Merlin had been right in the past and it would be wise to trust him, but the way the conversation had gone down made it seem like Merlin didn't have any evidence. It was almost like he had attempted to bait Agravaine into a confession as he had accused him of working for Morgana. And his uncle hadn't taken the bait, although his reaction was not what Arthur would have expected from him. And of course the effort Agravaine went through to try to stop Merlin's advice from getting to Arthur was quite suspicious in and of itself.

Arthur knew that he was putting it off, but it he felt conflicted about the whole situation. He was secretly hoping that Merlin would come up to him someday and give him the evidence he needed, but if there was no evidence to give, then what could Arthur do? Agravaine seemed to have his father's trust and without evidence, Arthur couldn't arrest him or tell his father that he suspected his uncle of treason based on the suspicions of his servant. It hadn't worked out for him in the past, and he doubt it would now. Especially as a family member was involved.

Tomorrow he would talk to Merlin, but today his mind needed some time to rest. Too much was going on.

Arthur didn't see Merlin that evening, his dinner brought up by some nameless servant and he went to bed trying not to worry about the people who could so easily kill him in his sleep.

Unfortunately, Arthur should have worried because he woke up to a stranger hovering above him, his eyes growing wide as Arthur stared back at him. He took hold of his dagger just as Arthur reached for his sword.

[eris0330]

♢ Soldier ♢

Pairing: Taehyungxreader

Genre: Fluff

Sum: After months of dating, you finally got the courage, to take your beloved Taehyung with you to meet your parents. Being the only daughter of the family, will your overprotective dad, let another man take charge?

Word count: 2.6k

“Are you sure you want to come? It’s a long trip” You excused, stuffing your handbag with treats.

“Of course! I’m finally going to meet your parents! I was surprised they even invited me, to their ‘family-get-together’” He responded, too excited to put his jacket on properly.

“Yeah… me too” You whispered, helping him zip up his jacket. His messy brown hair, tickling your forehead when looking down. Sensing the cologne, you gave him as a birthday present, mixed with flowers and manliness, was always a thing that made you feel dizzy.

“I’m going to meet the creations of this beautiful human being, that I finally got my hands on” He chuckled, kissing your forehead fondly. Your fingers bending of his cringe words, making him attack you with more loving kisses.

“Ya… Go out and start the car, so we don’t get stuck in traffic” You tapped him on the chest, feeling your flustered cheeks burn. Making the man in front, smile its incredible boxy shape, placing one last kiss before skipping to the exit. While you heard, Taehyung started up the engine, you took your bag and checked that your apartment wasn’t sent to be destroyed, while you were going to be gone the next few days.

“Seems like everything is in order” You exhaled, locking up the door to hear Taehyung’s angelic voice sing from the car within.

“Did you tell them about me, moving into your place?” A sudden question from the driver, as he tapped on the steering wheel. You pursed your lips into a thin line, while rummaging through your hand bag.

“Only that we have talked about it, but we never got further into that” You spoke, grabbing a snack bar. Picking at the red wrapping paper, you heard him hum along the radio.

“How come?” He asked curiously, looking at you for a second. His eyes capturing your hair swaying to each side, because of the window cracked open. Taehyung loved playing with your hair, when cuddling up on the sofa. How it smelled so nice and soft against his fingertips, how it shined at the dim light in the living room.

“Wasn’t that interesting, I guess” You lied. Your eyes scanning the scenery of tress and buildings passing by, not trying to seem suspicious. In reality, your nerves were out of control. If it wasn’t for the wind, you would have droplets of sweat running from your forehead. This is the first time, your parents are going to meet Taehyung. They have only heard about him, what he does for work. In fact, Taehyung was a ‘hot’ topic in your family discussions, whenever you called. Your family, was just overprotective and nosey. You loved them to the last bits of your heart, but sometimes, you wished they could just say ‘go for it’ instead of ‘What if’.

“I don’t get it…” Taehyung trailed off, making your gulp. Does he know?

“How am I NOT interesting??” He spoke confused, making your laugh loudly. His laughter filling the car with you, as he proceeded to lay a hand on your thigh. His thumb stroking softly on the fabric, sending waves of heart to your core and heart.

“That’s the smile I have been looking for… You have been kind of reserved the whole trip. I was scared you didn’t like me, because I wanted to go see your parents” He explained, eyes narrowed on the road. His muscles were tense in his arm, making you take your hand in his. Squeezing it lightly, you received a smile form his behalf.

“I could never dislike you, Taehyung. I love you, a lot. I’m actually happy you’re going to meet my parents, finally. It’s just…” You trailed off, biting onto your lower lip. His jaw clenching at the sound, of your voice cutting off.

“They don’t like me?” He bluntly asked, making his fingers twitch in your palm. Taehyung was the kind, who loved, to be liked by people. Surrounding himself with positivity, and love. It’s what kept his energy going, knowing someone was looking, and appreciating his efforts. He feels insecure, when someone he knows, doesn’t like him. Wanting to restore, everything he can, to make the person like him again. It takes a lot of work, but that’s how Taehyung liked it. That’s what made you fall for him.

“I don’t know” You mumbled, clearly sensing his nerves. Another target, he needed to impress.

“You can park over there” You suggested, making him park in the driveway of your old home. Shutting off the engine, he turned to face you. Your eyes widened, of his sudden action, taking your hand in his before you could walk out. Your eyebrow raised, waiting for a question.

“Trust me” He whispered, planting a kiss onto your cheek. His body leaving the car, getting your bags from the trunk. While your heavy beating heart, skipped a few beats.

“Y/N! Welcome home, we have missed you so much!” Arms surrounding your body, pressing you against a woman’s body and the sounds of giggles filling your ears.

“Me too, Mom” You responded, letting your own arms squeeze her once before letting your father intrude.

“There’s my little girl!” He chimed, hugging you tightly, almost closing off all air ways. Swaying you from side to side, you patted his back to not choke in his embrace. Without letting you go, his hand fell upon your shoulders, while staring down the idol in the back.

“You’re Taehyung?” He questioned, an eyebrow raised. Your mother smiling fondly at the young handsome man, while your dad probably figured out a way to scare him. “Yes sir.”

Taehyung spoke firmly, while reaching an arm out to greet. Bowing politely, you saw how your dad’s lips sewed itself into a thin line, before taking the hand of ‘Hello’.

“You’re so handsome! So young! Prettier than Y/N have described for us!” Your mother sang, while hugging the man with joy. Taehyung’s smile grew larger over the initial touch, before he was released. “Let’s get inside, I just finished making tea.” She continued to speak, walking inside, while your dad squeezed your shoulder once before following. Taehyung was baffled, and rather excited. You mimed a ‘Sorry’, before he shook his head and lifted the bags inside.

Seated inside the living room, with steam rising from the tea cups. You were sat in the couch with Taehyung by your side, letting a few centimetres separate you. Your mother and dad had their ‘seat of the house’ right across from the table. A significant silence creeped at your back, and the sound of cars driving by.

“So, Taehyung, you’re an idol, correct?” Your mother questioned, grabbing a cookie.

“That’s correct” Taehyung responded, while a smile grew on his lips. “That must be so tough, don’t you have a lot of things to do?” She continued to ask, while munching on the cookie.

“We do, photoshoots, concerts, fan signs, CFs, tour planning. It sounds like a lot, but you get used to it” An airy laugh escaping his lips, while gulping. He was clearly nervous, and if it wasn’t for the hard stare from your father, you would have hugged Taehyung immediately.

“Incredible, that you have time for my daughter. How many nights does she stay alone?” Your father spoke loudly, killing the smile on Taehyung’s face. His mouth gabbed open, almost unable to form words.

“Dad.” You commented, sipping once on the tea cup. It burned, but you thought the pain Taehyung felt at this point, was worse.

“I’m just saying, it looks like he has to take care of a lot.” He continued to speak, before taking a large sip of his black coffee. Clearly, your voice didn’t matter in this situation. This was a man, to man battle.

“Y/N, your cousin came in with her wedding dress not too long ago. She sent it here and since she is on vacation, but she can’t try it on. She asked me, if you could try it on for her? Since you have approximal the same body size.” Your mom clapped her hands, breaking the tense silence. Your hand taken in hers, while dragged along the slim hallway. Wanting to let go, you wanted to be by Taehyung’s side. No one knew, what could happen as you were gone.

“Taehyung, you seem like a nice guy” Your dad finally spoke, after the figure of you gone of his sight. Taehyung bit his lip, before looking the man in his eyes.

“Thank you” He responded, still feeling his nerves dance. His fingers tapping on his knee, getting prepared for every question. It was like an exam, he needed to pass with an A+.

“You didn’t answer my question before. HOW MANY nights, does my little girl stay alone?” The elderly man questioned, making Taehyung close his eyes. Did he want the truth? Or false hope?

“Twice a week, maximum.” The idol answered, making your dad’s shoulder tense up. His cup of coffee settled on the table, while leaning forward on his arms.

“Honesty. Can be positive, yet a failure.” Your dad spoke, making Taehyung’s eyebrow knit. “In this case, it’s important to be honest.” He finished, making Taehyung widen his eyes.

“You do know, the last thing I wish for my girl, is for her to come home crying in my arms, telling me that men are nothing but a player looking for the thrill of it” Your dad spoke firmly, looking into Taehyung’s eyes. The idol has probably gulped more than he could count, seated in front of the man, that could disconnect you. Taehyung knew of your previous boyfriends, how they treated you for heaven but left you for dead in hell.

“I’m not like her ex boyfriends.” Taehyung claimed, straightening his back. Your dad’s eyes widened, but quickly narrowed at the challenge.

“Y/N has told us about you moving into her place. How about when you go on tour for months, what happens to her?” Your dad asked, rubbing his chin.

“She’s coming with me.” Taehyung responded again, feeling his confidence grow of his answers. Your dad needed to know, that Taehyung wasn’t going to let this down.

“Looks like you have all the answers.” Your dad spoke, seated back in his chair.

“Looks like you have all the questions” Taehyung answered, regretting every word. If it wasn’t bad before, then it certainly is now. “Excuse me?” Your dad leaned yet again, on his thighs with his forearms. His eyebrows knitted, while struggling to keep his anger. Taehyung was back at square one, but quickly breathed before continuing to speak.

“Look, I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I know this kind of process, being invited to meet the woman of your life’s parents. The questioning of how I will take care of her, making sure I’m not like everyone else, I get it.” Taehyung explained, letting his muscle tense down. Your dad didn’t seem amused, but was captured by what the man had to say.

“I proposed to move in together, because I could stay at her place when I’m not at work. Close to our dorm, so I can sleep in the same bed as her. Tell her every night, and every morning how much I love her. Make her breakfast, hear about her day when I get home. Hear her talk about the future, with me in it.” He continued to speak, while the man in front nodded on his head. Every word absorbed, before asking for more;

“What if you can’t take care of her as an idol?”

“Then I’ll stop being an idol. Y/N is incredible, and supportive. Not giving up on my chances and letting me breathe. Making my mind less clouded and holding me till the minute I stop crying. Telling me it’s okay that I can’t come home that day, even though it means she will sleep alone. Forgiving me the days I can’t make it to dinner, or take her out on a date. Y/N, is worth it. I’ll work somewhere else, to make sure we have enough money. There is no one, or anything in this world, who can replace the happiness I get from her. Because, I love her so dearly. If she gets pregnant, or in an accident, I’ll work twice as much. I’ll take responsibility, to make sure she is okay. She can have everything, that I can offer.” Taehyung finished, feeling his heart race of the thought of you in his mind. Remembering every scenario, of you and him. Talking about the days you would get kids, or spontaneous dates. Every cry, smile, laughter and hug.

The silence growing in the room, after finishing his sentence. The way his face became angrier, and tense muscles building on top of each other. Taehyung was afraid, because this could turn out differently than he expected.

“That Taehyung, is what my daughter needs.” Your dad finally spoke, after the silence. Seated back in his chair, he palmed his face to exhale.

“Wait, what?”

“My daughter needs someone to love her. She doesn’t care of how everything turns out, or if bills won’t get paid. The way, a man can love someone, like you, is special. But she’s still my little girl. I only wish for her to be happy, to be taken care of. And that, is what I hear you can do. You’re brave and ready to drop everything, for her.” Your dad recapped, finally letting a smile plaster on his face. Taehyung felt the joy rise in his belly.

“You really love her, Taehyung” He finished, chuckling lightly sipping on his cup of coffee.

“I really do, from the bottom of my heart” Taehyung responded, making his boxy smile shine. The two men laughing lightly, finally coming to an agreement. They both loved you.

“But, if you do anything that will break her heart, I won’t hesitate to break you.” He spoke determent, making Taehyung smile and nod. “Please do.”

“Guys you need to see Y/N! She is absolutely beautiful!” A woman from afar, singing loudly. Both men standing up from their seat, to see something shining coming closer.

Your figure coming a close, in a white beautiful princess dress. Your skin matching to the fabric, and the way it shaped your figure to perfection. Taehyung was baffled, yet too shocked to speak. Your mother almost crying, finally seeing you in a dress like this.

“It’s almost like it’s my little girl that is going to get married, what do you think Taehyung?” Your dad commented, coming closer to give a kiss on your cheek. You smiled heavily, seeing your beloved’s reaction. The way his eyes shined and loss of words, while imagining him in a tux.

“You never know, life is full of surprises” Taehyung winked at your dad, while stepping forward to kiss your cheek. His fingers intertwining with yours, sending chills down your spine. Your dad stepping back, to let a hand grace around your mother.

“Oh, honey, we need to get the turkey up and grill running!” Your mother spoke loudly, taking your dad to the backyard.

You were left with an exhausted man, holding you close by the waist. “I’m sorry for whatever my dad has said” You whispered, kissing his perfect shaped nose. His smile growing, and bubbly feelings building in his stomach.

“Don’t be… I told you to trust me…Because, I love you Y/N” He whispered against your lips, before indulging the sweet taste. Your stomach turning and cheeks heating, by the sound of his groan.

“And I love you, to infinity” You whispered back against the plush flesh, feeling his heart race against your palm.

“And beyond” He answered, placing one last kiss.

“Taehyung, come out and help me with the grill!” A manly voice calling, making your bodies separate. Chuckling at the scene, Taehyung winked in your direction.

“Coming!”

[dbapm1-blog]

The best Hummus in Israel

A weekend ago I was remaining in a long queue of individuals outside of an unbelievably decent eatery, situated in the old Jaffa (Yafo) port by the name The elderly person and the ocean, holding back to get a table to this nourishment processing plant of brilliant administration and radiant server administration, that now and again resemble a move.

 I couldn't help myself from over hearing an uproarious talk between a gathering of individuals that were standing directly before me in line.

 Those noisy individuals were discussing a humus dish, a basic humus dish that they ate a couple of days prior.

 Le'nagev humus

 The humus dish they were discussing, is one that you don't go to a café to eat it or as it's brought in Israel "le'nagev humus" as there is no eatery, and very one realizes who is making this humus or where is coming from.

 The intriguing part I picked from over tuning in to their discussion about the humus, is that it is set up by a person who calls himself "ha'bore", in English it implies the maker.

 Nobody knows the character of the individual behind ha'bore, it is kept behind a drapery. The main known method for reaching him and request the slippery humus dish is by entering a mystery WhatsApp gathering.

 The Whatsapp bunch status is "on a need to know premise".

 Moreover, the individuals who think about it, pass it starting with one then onto the next with extraordinary mystery.

 Moreover, it is passed starting with one then onto the next with extraordinary mystery.

 In case you're fortunate to get to the talk gathering, you should make a request, and, the request is worked by a request bot, he was a clever bot, he makes Marvin style wisecracks while during the time spent requesting, there are no menu alternatives, you can pick either humus for 1 or for 2.

 When you're set, you should send your area and next, pay (indeed, is an expensive dish) and, a human bike conveyance rider will be en route once the humus dish is finished.

 Presently you supplicate, you ask that ha'bore will discover time in his bustling calendar and, prepare your request in a convenient way and before your stomach juices bubble.

 A covered conveyance fellow

 At that point, following 20-30 minutes of stomach turns a covered conveyance fellow discovers you, hands over a dark colored pack, says nothing and rides away.

 Subsequent to pulling a few strings and conversing with a nearby Israel specialists visit manage, I was fortunate enough to discover a path into that mystery talk gathering, and went over the entire procedure, almost certainly that it was extraordinary compared to other hummus dishes I had while in Israel, as well as, I comprehended the virtuoso personality behind the entire activity.

 as well as, I comprehended the virtuoso personality behind the entire activity.

 It isn't the humus that your purchasing here, it is an incredibly all around idea baffling nourishment conveyance experience that your purchasing here, and it's working, it got me snared.

 The best humus in Israel/Tel-Aviv

 The humus dish is currently part of Tel-Aviv culinary features and a persona that the entire city discusses.

 Ayla shomroni, a dependable ha'bore humus client and a Tel Aviv night life master stated:

 ha'bore is a popular all around beautified gourmet specialist in Israel that everybody knows, except for this new serving specialty he chose to keep a window ornament of puzzle,

 plus, it appears as though it is working bravo.

 Ayla shomroni

 Ha'bore designed an entirely different nourishment specialty I haven't seen anyplace yet aside from Israel, it's a mission to discover something, it's a sustenance departure room.

 What's more, similarly as with numerous things imagined in Israel, this one will definitely take Europe and soon the US by tempest.

 Until distribution of this article there was no remark from ha'bore in respects of the inquiries that we sent him, keeping the puzzle on.

[gyrlversion]

Ex-Big Brother Caroline Wharram should not have been allowed on show

Any suicide is a tragedy, so the two deaths linked to the reality show Love Island should shock me. But the awful truth is this: I’m not surprised at all.

It is seven years since I appeared on the 13th series of Channel 5’s Big Brother, and in that time, I’ve become ever-more convinced that the type of person who wants to hand themselves over to a TV production team is especially vulnerable.

I know quite a few people who’ve appeared on shows like this, and they all have a horrible story to tell.

They’ve become alcoholics, turned to drugs, lost themselves to depression or anxiety, developed eating disorders or pursued obsessive, attention-seeking behaviour on social media.

Caroline Wharram struggling to cope in the Big Brother diary room during her time on the show in 2012

Of course, these tendencies existed before – the problems weren’t created by programme makers, but they were certainly made worse.

The toxic nature of reality TV, the manipulation by producers who are little more than puppeteers, and the instant, snarling effects of fame, can have a devastating effect.

It is a world of self-obsession driven by insecurity – and I should know. It happened to me.

I was an anxious, lonely and sad young girl with a crippling eating disorder and a family history of mental health problems when, at the age of 19, I applied to join Big Brother 2012.

What then took place could – and should – have been predicted.

I crumbled in front of the nation, exhibiting increasingly erratic behaviour. Then, excruciatingly, I was branded a racist after referring to a fellow contestant as a gorilla.

The four years that followed were among the worst of my life as I struggled to rebuild my shattered world.

How I passed the psychological assessments to get on the show continues to baffle me. I should never have been allowed on. And yet, staggeringly, I was. I can only conclude the producers just didn’t care so long as I was entertaining.

I have wonderful, supportive parents and enjoyed an upbringing that most people would call privileged, including a place at a private boarding school in Surrey.

Since the age of nine, however, I had suffered chronic anxiety.

I’m quite academic and had ambitions to be a writer, I’d dropped out of my university degree – after failing to attend a single lecture for six weeks.

Instead, I spent the time in the comfort of my student bedroom, alone, eating masses of food while crying and obsessively weighing myself. I was an anxious, paranoid mess.

None of my peers suspected a thing. When they saw me, I exuded confidence and charisma. I was so good at hiding my misery that when, in January 2012, Big Brother held auditions for a new series, a fellow student told me I’d be perfect because of how ‘wild and fun’ I was. I lapped up her advice.

But today, pictured with her dog Theo, she says: ‘I’ve come through it and am genuinely happy. At weekends, I enjoy walking my dog and writing’

Today it sounds incomprehensible, but I genuinely believed that appearing on television would answer all my problems. I thought it would open a door into a world of celebrity parties, boys, popularity and fame – things I coveted.

More importantly, I could prove to everyone, including myself, that I was the carefree party girl I had always wanted to be. It felt like my happiness depended on getting on that show.

I queued for hours at Wembley Stadium, where the auditions took place among thousands of hopefuls. And I was pleased to find the producers wanted to talk to me, zoning in on my ‘posh’ accent. In fact, it was all they cared about.

A few months later, after more interviews, I was called in for a psychological assessment.

Yet, in my view, the programme makers had little interest in assessing my mental suitability. They failed, for example, to ask me a single question about any mental health problems I might have had.

They didn’t ask whey I’d left university, why I wanted to go on TV or what I thought it would provide for me.

Would I have been honest had they asked these things? Would I have jeopardised my chances of appearing on the show? Probably not. But to me it remains mind-boggling that even the basics were ignored.

‘You’re thick skinned,’ I was told. ‘You don’t care what people think.’ It was so inaccurate I could have laughed. When, finally, the producers told me I’d been successful, I’d never felt so appreciated, so confident and so completely understood.

My parents, though, were devastated. They warned me I wasn’t strong enough, that it would ruin my chances of a career and that the broadcast footage would be manipulated. I didn’t care.

Sure enough, the anxiety and depression returned almost as soon as I entered the Big Brother house.

My behaviour was bizarre. I was eating entire pots of Nutella with a spoon in the morning. At one point, I stuck a toothbrush down my throat to make myself sick in clear view of the cameras. No one on the production team asked if anything might be wrong, or if I needed to speak to someone. Yet, the producers were all too eager to pay attention when I made a casual and thoughtless comment likening another contestant – who was black – to a gorilla.

It was unacceptable, yes. I was perturbed by the fact that he had spent time in prison for robbing elderly ladies and holding them at gunpoint.

But, however stupid I had been, the remark was not intended to be malicious.

The producers, meanwhile, were delighted and played it repeatedly on adverts and on the spin-off show.

After that, I could hear the crowds shouting their hatred for me at each eviction, and I started to hate myself so much that I believed they might be right.

During the week leading up to my departure, the binge-eating escalated. I was crying every day. I couldn’t sleep. My heart palpitations were unbearable. Still there was no offer of psychological help.

When, after seven weeks inside, I was propelled in front of the booing crowds, I was completely unprepared. I was so unwell, in fact, that I couldn’t answer the most basic questions as I was interviewed on live TV.

My attention span had diminished. People assumed I was under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

Next, I was ushered into a meeting with someone from the ‘care team’, but no one mentioned that I’d gained two stone in seven weeks, that my behaviour was extremely odd, or that I was now a public hate-figure. Instead, they said: ‘You’ve provided us with so much entertainment.’ A pile of articles featuring my name was thrown at me. Then, that was it.

After three days of interviews, I was released back into the real world to fend for myself. It would be months before I heard from the programme makers again.

And now I became completely reckless and wild, attending all-night parties, drinking so much I was barred from three nightclubs.

Hoping to prove that I’d risen above the abuse I was receiving on social media, I started re-tweeting the death threats that flowed in.

In private, however, I was in a dark place where nothing mattered, where I would cry hysterically into a pillow. Each day I took enough laxatives to give me crippling stomach cramps. My eyes were bloodshot, my cheeks marked with burst blood vessels.

There was one follow-up meeting with the Big Brother care team, six months later. I acted extraordinarily, yet still nothing was said.

I went back to university but was thrown out as I couldn’t stop interrupting lectures.

I was still living in a fantasy world where I was watched by 44 cameras and five million viewers.

Relations with my parents took a turn for the worse when, at my 21st birthday party, I vomited over the dinner table and passed out. Any chance of rebuilding a normal life had gone.

Online footage from the show was all over the internet, portraying me as a crazy person even though I was clearly unwell. My reputation meant there was no prospect of a job.

I called the production team and begged them to delete the clips. But the woman on the other end of the line said: ‘Nothing has changed. You have always been that person. That is just who you are.’

Huge changes are needed if we are to continue broadcasting reality shows without ruining yet more young lives or devastating families. The programme makers must ensure their ‘care teams’ work in the interests of the vulnerable applicants, for example, instead of serving the interests of the producers.

The psychiatrists and health experts should be truly independent of the production companies.

Psychological assessments must involve a thorough examination of contestants’ mental state and their emotional history.

I’m convinced people who want to go on reality shows are, in fact, the last people who should appear on TV because they’re so insecure, so much in need of validation. Those brave enough to take part must be reminded – and often – that they are free to leave. Today I’ve come through it and am genuinely happy. At weekends, I enjoy walking my dog and writing. I am incredibly grateful to those who have stuck by me. But it could have been so different. Had my parents not been there to pick up the pieces, I dread to think where I would be now – if anywhere at all.

This exploitation has to end.

l In a statement, Big Brother production company Endemol Shine said: ‘We do not recognise Caroline’s account of our support processes. Big Brother has always taken contributor welfare extremely seriously and had a robust assessment and welfare system in place.

‘All contributors were thoroughly assessed by an independent psychiatrist and a psychologist before being considered for the show and a thorough evaluation of a potential housemates’ health and medical history taken into consideration.

‘A team dedicated to contributor welfare, including mental health experts, was on hand to support housemates both during and after transmission.’

The post Ex-Big Brother Caroline Wharram should not have been allowed on show appeared first on Gyrlversion.

from WordPress https://www.gyrlversion.net/ex-big-brother-caroline-wharram-should-not-have-been-allowed-on-show/

[mrmichaelchadler]

Short Films in Focus: Bartleby

It’s hard to believe that in all the years of covering short films that I had yet to write about one based on a classic short story. Herman Melville’s “Bartleby” (first published in 1853) has been adapted into two features, but the story works perfectly well as a 10-minute, wordless, animated short. True to the original story (mostly), this new version offers no clues into the inner workings of one of the most frustrating and baffling co-workers anyone could ever encounter. He’s an anomaly, a paradox and seemingly not from our world, except that he looks human, knows how to land a job, where to show up for work and can wear a tie. 

But he's functional: When Bartleby shows up for his first day at work in a Wall Street office to do some mundane data entry, he does so at great speed that puts all the other workers to shame. He talks to no one. He has nothing to say, but he can do the work, at least until he “prefers not to,” a phrase that will haunt the boss man in charge for the rest of his days. “I prefer not to” is the only answer Bartleby will give when asked to do his work or show up for a meeting. He has simply stopped and refuses to budge. He also never leaves the building. He remains stuck in the corner and requires no help from anyone. 

Directors Laura Naylor and Kristen Kee have modernized “Bartleby” for the age of computers and email, making Bartleby’s behavior that much more confounding. They have also smartly chosen to tell the story almost entirely visually—when characters speak, letters spill out from their mouths, sometimes forming words, while we hear the sounds of old printers and fax machines take the place of human voices. This reminded me of another claymation marvel, Aardman’s “Shaun the Sheep Movie,” which also did away with dialogue in favor of grunts and mumbles. It works especially well here, because what else do we need to hear from them besides those four annoying words? 

Naylor and Kee have made a wonderful adaptation that is laced with dark humor and a real sense of tension and despair at having to deal with this oddball. The character renderings are perfect. Bartleby himself looks like a human blank page and the boss looks like the kind of guy who has seen it all—until today. “Bartleby” is a story maybe we’ve seen or read before, but this version, like Melville’s original story, will still have some mysteries and unanswered questions by the end, but nothing that will feel unsatisfactory. Decades after first reading Melville’s story and seeing the 1971 version, I still have no idea what Bartleby’s deal is and that’s just the way it should be. 

How did this project come about?

KRISTEN KEE: We were both smitten with Melville’s “Bartleby” and with the medium of stop-motion. One thing Laura and I bonded over early is we were both raised Mormon, but dropped out as young adults. Right around the time I was thinking about leaving the church, I found Bartleby—the idea of preferring not to make a ton of sense from that angle. In a stubborn, teenage way. Fast forward several years, both of us out of art school working drab office jobs in midtown, with art as a side hustle. We both definitely preferred not to spend all day in cubicles, and almost literally rediscovered Bartleby as a kind of self portrait. So that’s how we came to the story. On the medium, Laura’s background was in film, and mine was in sculpture, so stop-motion seemed to be this perfect intersection of our skill sets. And with Bartleby as stop-motion, there’s also a beautiful rub: you have a lead character who prefers, by the end, to essentially do nothing, and we’re telling his story in this incredibly time and labor intensive medium. It’s a perfectly backwards choice because there is no “preferring not to” in stop-motion. Plus Melville’s Bartleby is so open-ended, and so ambiguous in its visuals, it was ripe for an experimentation-friendly, build-your-own-reality medium like stop-motion. We kept asking ourselves, “how does this not exist already?!”

Where did the idea of the floating letters and dialogue come from?

LAURA NAYLOR: We wanted to layer in repeated references to the physical world of text, to Bartleby and Melville’s world and to the way we both first experienced the story. On a more abstract level we were also trying to have the text effectively become a character of sorts. The animated letters were also this great tool we could play with to express the mounting tension between Bartleby and his boss. The mutated, evolving text hive also points to some of the liberties we took with the story itself (setting it in ~2011 Wall Street, adjusting names/genders of characters, changing the ending). Frankly, it was also a kind of elegant and hacky solution to one of the constraints of stop-motion—specifically, it’s incredibly time and labor intensive to animate speaking parts in stop motion, so making the film “silent” enabled us to actually, well, make it at all.

What sounds are we hearing in place of dialogue?

KK: The audio you hear when the characters are speaking is sampled from old, early tech printers. That was another way for us to subtly allude to Bartleby’s literary and textual origin story. The printer sounds were actually the brainchild of our amazing sound and music team, Deniz Cuylan and Brian Bender of Bright + Guilty. We were kind of shocked by how rich the collaboration with them was. We would give those guys notes—a couple of artists and a few tonal descriptors (minimalist, dissonant, occasionally wistful, saggy with ennui)—and they’d consistently come back to us with clearer, purer, better versions of what we’d tried, but largely failed, to describe. We felt like we lacked the vocabulary to articulate what we wanted, but they understood us anyway. They made the film so much better.

The lighting here looks very specific. What were some of the challenges (if any) related to the lighting?

LN: Our wildly talented DP, Zach Poots, lights a stop motion set like you would a live-action film: lots of practical lights (all of lamps and computer screens actually emitted real light), lots of lights shining in windows from all angles, just all teeny tiny. One of the main challenges with stop-motion is the tight quarters (working on a set ~1/8 the size of humans), and Zach had to figure out a place to put all the lights while still leaving our awesome lead animator, Josh Mahan, room to manipulate the puppets. When you’re lighting 20,000 photographs that will be stitched together to create a film, consistency is key. Bumping a light during the middle of an all day 8-10 second shot could mean starting over from the beginning! Zach was a master at the fun technical stuff, too, like creating lightning and TV flicker by calculating shifts over a series of photographs. Kristen's and my directorial vision was to create the rich, subtly moody, jaundiced palette you see in the final film without over-indexing on those dark creepy vibes—and ending up in some uncanny valley of horror or pastiche. It was also fun to use lighting shifts to echo the interior world of the characters. For example, as the employer starts unraveling, the lighting breaks from realism and reflects his exaggerated, fractured fears.

I like that you kept the original names. Were there any other elements of the original story you felt you had to get just right?

KK & LN: So many things! One big one was maintaining Bartleby’s enigma-like nature. We didn’t want to over-explain him, or narrate away the many possible interpretations of the original story. We also really wanted to retain the dynamic between Bartleby and his boss that Melville drew so well. Bartleby’s boss—who does not have a name in the book, thus we named him REM after Melville’s description of him as a “rather elderly man”—has a wide and complicated range of reactions to Bartleby’s refusals, and we were really trying to capture the full spectrum. We also loved some of the little details, things like the Roman statesman bust, Nippers’ irritability, Turkey’s drinking problem, and the little partition that separates Bartleby from the rest of the office (“the green screen” as we called it). The things we felt comfortable tweaking (time period, gender, REM’s death fantasies, ending) were the components we felt weren’t integral to those core character traits or to the meat and bone of the story. Our editorial adjustments were meant to extend and amplify, more like asking vs answering questions about Bartleby’s story. What does “preferring not to” mean in contemporary Wall Street vs the developing Wall Street of the mid 19th century? Questions like that.

What’s next for you?

LN: I’m in post-production on an observational documentary feature following a group of laborers who harvest grapes every year at a famed champagne domaine, but am eager to jump into another stop-motion project soon.  

KK: I’ve been focused on (non-animated) neon sculpture and learning Javascript for an upcoming generative art exhibit, but am also working on a stop-motion script about young mormons. Would love to dive back into animation when this wraps!

from All Content https://ift.tt/2Dnw9hh

[yeshuah-yahveh-blog]

The Nightmare at Silverlight Manor.

This will be my final testament to what truly happened at Silverlight Manor during August 30th 2010. I have disclosed the truth many a time to all who would listen, but, due to the fantastical events that took place, none has yet to believe, not that it matters to me anymore. The madness, which infected me that night, is devouring me from within, and only oblivion can set stop to its infernal rampage, if I am so lucky that existence cease after one exists through the gates of death. This nightmare of mine began on the August 28th 2010, in the city of Yahire, Ireland. I am, or was, but a simple bartender, working away as many hours as I was allowed behind the bar in the Green Legend Pub. This I had done for many years, it was ordinary, which was nothing I complained about, neither then, even less now. It was a quite picturesque pub, small and filled with that famous Irish atmosphere, and I loved it. My shift that day ended 8 in the evening, and as I left the pub I lighted a cigarette and filled my lungs with its delicious smoke, and began my usual walk home. 

The Green Legend Pub lied on Shadowfyre Alley, and my home on Ash Street, and it usually took around 20 to 30 minutes on foot. I was caught up in my mind while I wandered, thinking on irrelevant things, aye, such as the supper of the evening and if I had any beers at home. Whilst my mind was preoccupied by these thoughts, I accidentally walked into someone when I turned right from Harrow Street onto Tempest Street. The collision dragged me back to reality, and I then gazed upon the person with whom I had collided with. It was an elderly gentleman, dressed in a dark grey suit, black shoes, and a grey hat. His face was wrinkled, in a wise and awe-inspiring way, his eyes were icy blue and seemed to pierce my very soul, and a grand, thick, grey mustache. 

“I'm sorry, mate” I said with a mechanical voice. “No, it is I who should be apologizing, my dear sir” 

The old gentleman said with a tone filled with warmth. He saw my confusion with his piercing eyes, and continued: “But, say, are you not Mr. Gregory Templeton?”

 Now my confusion fused with the surprise that was born from those words. 

“Y-yes, yes, I am” I said, “and who are you?” 

The old gentleman chuckled, and then said:

 “Oh, please forgive me, Mr. Templeton, my name is Jonah Harlington, I serve House Tzeraux”

House Tzeraux? I thought baffled. This old man work for the Tzeraux family? Why the hell would he know my name? That last thought I uttered, though more politely than in my head. Jonah chuckled again, then answered:

 “Well, you see Mr. Templeton, Baron Atreus Tzeraux has sent me to find you, I was on my way to your place of work, and I was running late, which is not something that happens a lot, I assure you. I thought that I may have already missed you, and I would not want to bother you at home, but as luck would have it, we collided with each other.”

 “But why would Doctor Atreus Tzeraux, 10th Baron of Yahire County, want with me?”

 “This” said Jonah and brought forth an envelope from the inside of his jacket, and handed it to me.

 “He wish you to attend his party at the Tzeraux residence, Silverlight Manor, on August 30th, the letter will contain all the information you will need, and answers to any question you might have, my master assured me that was the case.”

 I had never been as bewildered as I was at that moment, but before I could get any more answers from Jonah Harlington, he crossed Tempest street and disappeared around the corner to Blacklight Street. I hesitated if I were to follow him, but decided that that would not be wise, besides, he had said that the letter contained answers to any question I might have, so I decided to take him on his words, put the letter in a pocket on my jacket, and continued my walk home. My mind was like a storm during the remainder of the walk, nothing of my conversation with Jonah Harlington made any sense whatsoever.

 I did not even notice when I entered my apartment on Ash street. When I eventually noticed that I had arrived, I immediately went into the kitchen, took a beer out of the fridge, went into the living room, fell down onto the couch, opened the beer, took the envelope out of my pocket and finally opened it. I wanted to know what the hell was going on, and why someone so high up on the social and academic pyramid would want me to attend one of their so called parties, which, in fact, would surely be a very dry and boring gathering of Yahire's elite.

 “Dear Gregory Templeton, I know this might come as a shock to you, but I would like you to attend my little party at Silverlight Manor, on August 30th. The reason is really quite simple; I would like to discuss a business proposal with you, something I can guarantee you would be interested in. I believe it is too delicate to write about it in a letter, nor would I want to talk over the phone, and I strongly feel that the party would be the optimal place for such transaction of words of opportunity. The party shall begin at 7 in the evening. I am really looking forward to meeting you in person, and I hope life fares you well until then. - Doctor Atreus Tzeraux, 10th Baron of Yahire.” 

The words of Dr. Tzeraux truly took me aback. Why, of all people, would he want to discuss a business opportunity with me? Is this some sick joke the rich and powerful like to play on the much more unfortunate? Some sort of social game they so revel in playing? I must admit, many devious thoughts flooded my mind after reading the letter. But I concluded that, even if there was some insidious agenda hidden in this proposition of Dr. Tzeraux, I decided that attending such a party and meet the elite of my fair city would outweigh any social embarrassment I might suffer at the hands of the very same people gathering at Silverlight Manor to exchange stories of all the lives they have annihilated and worlds they levelled to the ground, because such an opportunity would surely never reach my grasp again. Who knows, maybe I even might join their ranks, if Dr. Tzeraux is sincere, though I would never become like them, apathetic deities only interested in the value of their creations in the eyes of their divine brethren.

I would be a deity like how Christians always preach their god is, though with deeds backing my words up, something the Abrahamic god is missing, aye, the god of the Abrahamic religions seems to be quite the opposite, if one takes their holy books as proof of his existence and goodness, as they wants us to do. This remark is neither here nor there, but I felt it had to be said, before I continue with my testament. As I stated before, I decided I would attend Dr. Tzeraux's little gathering on the 30th, and see exactly what sort of treasure the dragon is guarding. The remaining of the 28th flowed like normal, except the state of my mind and the thoughts that occupied it, and the 29th vanished from reality, as it felt like there never was such a day, neither then and even less now. 

I did not work on the 30th, not because I cleared my working schedule so I could attend the party, but simply because I did not have any work that day. I woke up around 9am, and from then to 5pm I just watched TV, drank some beer and ate a sandwich. From 5pm to 6pm, I took a shower and prepared myself, physically and mentally, for the party. I took a cab to Silverlight Manor, which was located on the eastern outskirts of Yahire, and I arrived there at around 6:50 pm. It was a magnificent building, an architectural masterpiece. I had never rest my eyes upon such beauty in my life, and I was excited to enter this awe-inspiring manor. If I had known what was about to unfold, I would look upon that damned manor with nothing but dread and disgust. Even though I arrived a little earlier than anticipated, it seemed like the party was at its zenith. The giant twin doors stood wide opened and let all who stood outside its paradise to look in and see the delights of the dwellers of this architectural Eden.

 I entered, and was greeted by Jonah Harlington, the servant of Dr. Atreus Tzeraux. He shook my hand and said, with a blinding smile, how glad he was that I decided to attend this gathering his master had arranged. I only nodded agreeably and gave him a slight, and somewhat forced, smile, and then I left Jonah at the entrance and dived deeper into the manor and the sea of Ireland's social and financial elites. I snatched a glass filled with, what I hoped, an alcoholic beverage.

I swept the liquid in one smooth move, and let it fall through my mouth and throat into the stomach. I grimaced and shuddered with repulsion. It was some disgusting, and probably incredibly expansive, champagne. I left the glass on a table and continued exploring. As I wandered around the manor, eavesdropping on several groups, hearing them talk about their different business exploits, trying to top each other, I laughed bitterly to myself. I knew I should have brought with me a flask of whiskey, as the champagne they served was was horrible, and the alcohol it contained was not worth its hellish taste. My eyes also searched Dr. Atreus Tzeraux. The party was not as I had hoped, and if I did not have my meeting with Dr. Tzeraux within the next 10 minutes, I was ready to leave. I reached the door which led out to the gigantic garden behind the manor, in which beautiful statues and sculpted hedges, as well as a fearsome maze, spoke of their owner's wealth and taste. 

Even the garden was flooded by the other guests, all talking, laughing and dancing. Aye, those in the garden seemed to be of the more relaxed and warm kind than those living statues that claimed the first floor of the manor. To my delight I found a bottle of whiskey standing on a table in the garden, and I made my way to it, excited. I took it for myself, for I did not intend to share it with any of the guest, neither the warm and loose nor the cold and rigid, because, as I saw it, they could choke on that hideous champagne which they seemed to enjoy, most likely because of the price tag that came with it. While I drank that divine whiskey, I ventured, through the rooms of the first floor of the manor, through the swamp of deified devils, and out through the front entrance. 

Once outside, I rested my back against the wall beside the door, smoked a cigarette and drank more whiskey. I felt that it might had been a mistake, either on my or Dr. Tzeraux's part, for me to attend. I imagined that Dr. Tzeraux would be there to greet me, and lead me into an office of some kind, where we could discuss this business proposition he had, but, as both you and I know, that was not the case. It was at that time my nightmare began. The sound the guests were emitting suddenly stopped, and silence fell upon the manor, a deafening silence, and it took me aback. It was not something I was expecting to happen, for obvious reasons, but I was not alarmed at first, as I did not believe anything was amiss, instead I thought that maybe the guests had been summoned to the garden at the back of the manor, by, perhaps, Dr. Tzeraux himself? If that was the case, which I hoped, then that meant my meeting with this allusive man was indeed to take place soon. 

That thought made me dash for the garden, as I did not want him to think I decided to decline his offer with my apparent absence. When I went through the gateway which led to the garden, I was paralysed in the manner in which I entered the garden. It was empty. Not a single human being, apart from myself, was found, and the heavy, hellish silence began taking its toll on my hearing, and my sanity. Something was horribly wrong, something outlandish was at work. Once I got my mobility back, I turned around and went inside, shaking and tried to keep my balance. I had only taken a few steps inside the manor when the lights went out, and complete darkness devoured the manor. Fear of unknown terror and unspeakable horror began devouring my mind, corrupted my sanity, and gave birth to the madness which all believe was within me from the moment of my birth, only dormant. 

The light then returned, and chased away the darkness to, once again, regain dominance over the manor. I thought that the return of the light might have been what I needed to vanquish the madness and horror from my mind, but, as it turned out, the effect was opposite. What my eyes witnessed, as the light returned, and which stated the inferno that raged through my entire being, was something which freezes the blood in my veins by the very thought of it. The guests had indeed returned, but not in the manner I so desperately had hoped. The floor, the walls, even the roof, was covered in the rotted remains of the guests. If the mere sight of this product of hell did not sated the hunger of the madness inside, then the stench certainly did. From the other rooms came millions, aye, maybe even billions, of insects and arachnids flooded into the room and began to eat on the corpses of the guests. I really thought I must have fallen asleep against the wall beside the front entrance, and that this was just a nightmare which plagued my mind, and I tried to wake up, aye, I even tried to control the nightmare, but to no avail. 

With panic eating away at my heart as a cancer, I knew that the only action I could take was to escape this Citadel of Hell, so I turned around to run out into the garden. What my eyes met drained the quantum of hope I had left. The door was gone, and so was the windows which once rested on both sides of the door. There was no escape. I felt resignation conquering my entire being. The sight, the sound, the stench of the nightmare, from which there was no escape, were welcomed by my broken resolve, and I awaited oblivion. Once again, the gods of fate and death had other things in mind, for as I stood there, a shallow husk, waiting for death, the entire atmosphere in the room, in the entire manor, changed. This change was so sudden and so great, that it shattered the resignation which had its grasp on my heart, and resurrected my soul, and brought forth the survival instinct I thought I had lost.

I slowly turned around, and saw that the room had returned to normal, or, as normal as it could be, though the guests were still residing in the void; the corpses, the insects and the arachnids, all gone. I knew this was my only chance, so I began running around the first floor of the manor, searching every room for clues and people, as well as some way out, negative on all accounts, I am sad to say. Panic once again rose inside, but this time I did everything in my power to keep it contained. When I had searched the kitchen, with no result, and was about to return to the room where the door to the garden once was, I saw something happen in the corner of my eye. I turned around and saw, to my utter astonishment, that a door, which had not been there before, had appeared. I started to walk toward it, but suddenly stopped, and began to wonder what might lie behind it. Whatever the cause of this nightmare was, me falling asleep, the result of my madness, or something different entirely, surely what may lie behind the door could only contain the most feverish nightmare of Satan himself, and not my salvation? 

Why else would it suddenly appear? But, as I concluded, did it really matter? Either I stayed and awaited another wave of horror, or blissful death, or I could push on, and face whatever may lay ahead. I decided on the latter, which, I must confess, I believe most would, or maybe only I, in my crazed state, would. I opened the door with shaking hands, and stared into the abyss that now was before me. There was a light switch on the right, which I pressed, and lo and behold, light vanquished the darkness and showed me what truly lied within. It was a stairwell which led down, farther than the light could shine, into the basement of Silverlight Manor. When I, after much hesitation, took my first step down the stairwell, something answered my intrusion. A growl out of this world, and please forgive me, but I can not describe it, even if I wanted to, because I know of no words which could adequately describe the unutterable dread, the terror of otherworldly origin, aye, even Satan himself would cower in fear if he heard it. 

You might think that this growl would deter me from continue down, and so did I, but it was something mesmerising in the sound of utter madness which the growl emitted, and which drew me further down, attracted me down to its source. I ventured down the stairs, as in a hazy dream, with no real autonomy left in my body. When I reached the bottom of the stairwell, and sat my feet down upon the floor of the basement, my eyes scoured the darkness, fervently searched for the source of the growl. Finally my gaze rested on the centre of the basement. I could not see what resided there, but I knew there was something there. A blinding light erupted from the centre and lit up the basement, showing me everything, and assured the end of my sanity. There, in the centre, stood an entity which was not, could not, be of this world. It was something which no human mind could ever imagine, and, I think, therein lied the true reason for my sanity's demise, as I could not comprehend what I saw, yet, I knew that it was the very personification of horror and fear itself. 

Like the growl, I can not describe this abomination of reality itself, as there is nothing which the human mind could weave into existence in the universe of the mind which could even begin to describe such monstrosity. I said before that the grow would make Satan himself cower in fear, but the very sight of the entity would drive God mad and turn his omnipotence to impotence.

This was the conclusive evidence I needed to indeed confirm that this was not any nightmare conjured up by my brain during the event of sleep, and that my very existence was as futile in the presence of the entity as an ant is to the whole universe. I regained my autonomy, thank God (even though I no longer believe he neither exists, nor, if he did, could do anything against the entity which resided in the centre of the basement), and I ran faster than I had ever run before in my life, I would not be surprised if I ran faster than any human has ever done since the species' birth (either from creation or as a product of evolution, as my rationalistic and materialistic philosophy had been shattered by what I witnessed that day). 

When I returned to the kitchen, I slammed the door to the accursed basement shut, and then continued to run toward the main hall of the manor. Why? I had no idea, but I felt it was the safest place in the manor. When I arrived, I fell down to the floor and rested my back to where the main entrance once had been, then I began crying violently. With my face in my hands, I knew despair was all that was left, despair and madness. A soft and tranquil voice suddenly spoke. The voice came from in front of me, and I listened attentively to it, for it was the first time since this nightmare began that I had heard a human voice. 

“We finally meet, Gregory Templeton.” 

I looked up, my face drenched in my tears, and my eyes sore from the crying, and beheld the man that stood in front of me. The man was dressed in a black leather robe with a high collar which covered his mouth, and the robe was covered in spikes, and a hood covered the man's head. He wore a pair of crimson pants, and a pair of black leather boots. What could be seen of the face, I could see that the facial features of the man was of divine beauty, his wavy hair was pink, and a lock hanged down over his face and reached his chest. But the eyes, they were completely white, more white than anything on this earth. 

“W-who are you?” I managed to ask with a voice broken by the nightmare I had suffered through.

“Oh, what a very excellent question” the man said with a laugh. 

“What an excellent question! I am Damien Dionysus, the Lord of Fantasy and God of Imagination!” 

Damien Dionysus then brought down the hood from his head, and I saw what the hood had hidden from my view. I recognized that face, and I finally began to piece together why I was enveloped by this nightmare. I had seen this man on TV, his picture in the newspaper. This man, who called himself Damien Dionysus, was the one I, and the rest of the world, knew as Dr. Atreus Tzeraux, 10th Baron of Yahire. 

“Y-y-you!!” I managed to scream.

“Yes, m-m-me!” Damien Dionysus answered mockingly. 

“B-but, why!?” I continued. 

“Why me!? What have I done to deserve all of this!?!”

 Damien Dionysus then began to laugh maniacally. 

“Why?” He said with a chuckle. “Why? There is no why, my dear Gregory. You are nothing, of no consequence. I saw you slaving away at that pathetic bar you so apathetically serve, with no reason to continue existing, without any real imagination, and I thought it would be fun to play with you. That's all!”

 I just could not believe it. Was that the reason why I had suffered through worse than anything the human mind could conjure up!? Sure, the corpses and the insects and arachnids, they were mere parlour tricks, nothing special, I knew, but that entity in the basement, that, THAT was where our brains failed, and where the maliciousness of Damien Dionysus succeeded.

 “You see” Damien Dionysus continued. “I become easily bored, and you brought a little happiness to my heart, and for that, I am grateful. I will tell you a little secret; I can control reality itself with my imagination, and this little passing of time is truly nothing compared to the things I can do! I have created civilizations, worlds, gods, with mere thoughts, and erased them from existence just as easy. If I were you, I would be honoured that such a cosmic God as me chose to play with you. Take solace in that, Greggy.”

 Damien Dionysus then began to levitate a couple of meters off the ground. Then, with his arms stretched out on either side of him, Silverlight Manor began to disintegrate. 

“Good bye, Greggy” he said. “Have a great life!” 

A blinding light then began to shine, rendering my sight useless, and, finally, made me lose consciousness. I woke up on the 31st of August, lying on a bed in a hospital, with my right hand cuffed to the railing of the bed. It took my eyes and ears a few minutes to re-calibrate to the world, and then I saw a police officer that stood guard in front of the door. When he saw that I was awake, he made a call. I tried to speak, but could not utter a word. But I saw that the face of the police officer was contorted in disgust while he watched me. It took around 15 minutes for me to regain my voice, and I began shouting questions to the police officer, asking him why I was cuffed. 

My questions remained unanswered by the police officer, and, after a while, a detective entered the room, and sat down on a chair beside my bed. 

“Mr. Templeton, I am Detective Jonathan Hurley, and I would like to ask you some questions regarding what happened yesterday at Silverlight Manor.”

I poured out everything I had experienced at that accursed manor, including the entity in the basement and Damien Dionysus, aye, I told the detective in a very similar manner I have written down here. When I was done, I saw bafflement in the face of Detective Hurley.

 “Mr. Templeton” he began, with a restrained voice, as to not set off a madman. 

“Nothing of what you just have told me happened. But something else did.”

 He paused for a moment, then continued. “the 150 people that attended the party at Silverlight Manor, you excluded, were found dead this morning. It seems like they all were poisoned, presumably through the champagne. We are still awaiting the result of the test on the champagne, but we are fairly certain. From what we could gather, you were the one who delivered the champagne, as part of your employment of Mr. Richard Drow, for whom you usually worked for as a bartender at his bar, The Green Legend. Mr. Drow also owns a delivery company which mostly delivers alcohol to private parties and events. We have already interviewed Mr. Drow, as well as your co-workers, and the picture is quite clear. It seems like you have an intense hatred towards the upper class, and especially toward Dr. Atreus Tzeraux. Why you hate the upper class is the classic reason; 'they poison the world with their greed and apathy', and you, who are an 'anarchist at heart', thought they should be 'wiped from the face of the earth'. Now these are your words, which you have both said to your co-workers as well as written down in your diary. But why you especially hate Dr. Tzeraux, what we found while we researched you, was that Dr. Tzeraux, who was Europe's foremost brain surgeon, and who had operated on your mother to remove her brain tumour. Something went wrong with your mother's surgery, and she died. You thought that Dr. Tzeraux was guilty of malpractice, and even that he was drunk when he operated. An investigation was launched, but found nothing, but you was not satisfied, because you had made yourself believe that it was Dr. Tzeraux's carelessness that caused your mother's death, and not her brain cancer and the extremely complicated operation that was needed, which you and your mother were informed on long before the operation itself. I am sure that the test of the champagne will show that it was indeed poisoned, and I am sure that we will find evidence that it was you who poisoned it, so that you are guilty is beyond doubt in my mind. What I want to know, Mr. Templeton, is what did you do with Dr. Tzeraux?”

I was completely astonished by these bizarre accusations which hailed over me. None of it were true. My mother was alive and well, she never had cancer, hell, I could not even remember if she ever had so much as a cold. Everything Detective Hurley said was absurd. I said so to him, and he just sighed, tired and disappointed. I also asked what he meant with 'What I did with Dr. Tzeraux'? He said that the body of Dr. Tzeraux has not been found, and no one has neither heard from him nor seen him since before the party; Atreus Tzeraux had vanished. Detective Hurley was certain that I had done something with Dr. Tzeraux, either hid his body or taken it with me, even that I have him locked away alive somewhere, awaiting the torture I had in store for him.

 I objected to the horrendous accusations that Detective Hurley let rain over me from the clouds of his mouth, but to no avail. Then I remembered what Damien Dionysus had said, and I told Detective Hurley of it, that Damien Dionysus, who also was Atreus Tzeraux, had the power to control and change reality with his imagination, and that is why everything seemed to be so surreal compared to the original reality which they had existed within before. Detective Hurley sighed and then told that I had already said this, and that it does not make it any more true to repeat it. I lost all hope, and I resigned to whatever fate Detective Hurley, and this warped reality, had in store for me. I was tried and charged with the murders at Silverlight Manor, and sentenced to life in jail. 

Atreus Tzeraux never resurfaced, which, even though they never actually could charge me with his death or disappearance due to lack of evidence, meant that even his life was put on my scales of guilt. I have tried to tell anyone who would listen what really happened, but none believed me. I managed to get my hands on a pen and some paper, and then began to write my last testament in which I am writing in this very moment. I live not continue to live in this reality warped by Damien Dionysus no longer. I will end my sad existence and walk through the gates of death, and pray and hope that neither Damien Dionysus nor any of those cosmic deities to which Damien Dionysus belong, has any power over the realm of death, and that they cannot snatch me from the eternal oblivion. I hope that, at the very least, one of those who will read my last testament will believe me, that is the only solace I can bring with me when I end it all. I bid farewell, and I sincerely hope that this world, or anyone within it, will never have to play a game with Damien Dionysus.