#I did this because people were mistaking the words as a poem. I love poems. it’s not a poem.

[oof-i-did-it-agaaiiin]

Beautiful from Ordinary Days

[hoes4hoseok]

enhypen as the tortured poets department

pairings :: ot7 x gn!reader (if i accidentally slipped in a gender-related mistake please let me know!) genres :: angst & fluff warnings :: swearing, alcohol, mentions of food, sorta emotional cheating, reader being down bad ™️ word count :: 2.1k author’s note :: thanks to ogs @sunoosill and @fandomgirl489 for helping me hehe love you guys! also i kind of tried something new with this one, they're actual little fics this time so let's see how it's recieved 😭 that being said i lowkey hate this. i started doubting all my choices once i was like 60% done but this took an embarrassingly long time. also this is unedited because i'm sick of this draft. i hope y'all enjoy though!

ni-ki as my boy only breaks his favorite toys

“i felt more when we played pretend than with all the kens cause he took my out of my box, stole my tortured heart, left all these broken parts, told me i’m better off, but i’m not”

ni-ki swept 👏 you 👏 off 👏 your 👏 feet 👏 when you first met

because he doesn't seem like he'd necessarily approach a relationship the same way as everyone else just because everyone else is doing it

so when he asked you out he was pretty nonchalant about it (even if that wasn’t how he was feeling)

&& it all felt so romantic because you’d do things like get dessert in the middle of the night & then drive into the hills together 

especially because he didn’t treat you the same way as the other people he dated — a fact his friends confirmed.

he was passive about it all before you.

there wouldn’t be any doubt that he loved you because he most certainly did

not to be cliché but he made you see the world differently! & more importantly, he made you see romantic relationships differently

but you could tell that he had a sense of uncertainty around you

not because he was uncertain about his feelings for you

but an uncertainty that told him that he needed to spend each moment like it could be taken away from him in the blink of an eye

he knew he was feeling too much — he knew you were feeling too much

because ultimately, he was unsure about whether he was right for you.

so he left you, promising that you’d be better off without him.

you weren’t.

sunoo as down bad

“for a moment i knew cosmic love, now i’m down bad, crying at the gym”

sunoo would be such a good boyfriend on paper

he'd buy you flowers & give great hugs, of course, but he'd also be supportive & reassure you when you felt insecure and unsure about your place in the world

that being said, sunoo is not one to string people along

so the moment he realized that he wasn’t 100% in, he made a plan to end things & he did.

&&...losing sunoo fucked you up. it would fuck anyone up, to be fair.

finding out that he was leaving you when the relationship was everything to you would catch you off guard, to say the least.

he probably left feeling proud of himself for doing everything right too LMAO 😭 

&& yes, i don't think it's anything he did that made it so bad

it's just that break-ups suck & you really loved him! even if he “did everything right”

no matter how it transpired, you were still in shambles at the end 

you broke down in tears at the sight of anything that made you think of him

from the smell of gardenias in a grocery store

‘he bought me those 🤧! for our first anniversary 🤧!’

to the most upbeat song you’ve ever heard coming on shuffle while you work out

‘he loved that song’ (even if you couldn’t stand it)

&& you really hoped he was feeling a shred of what you were 

but it sure as hell didn’t seem that way.

jungwon as fresh out the slammer

“all those nights, you kept me going, swirled you into all of my poems”

you & jungwon had a lot of your own problems to deal with the first time you dated

likely because he had a lot on his plate at the time as an idol & you were just at different places in your lives

&& even though your brain was telling you not to, you fell in love fast

he’d taken you to a quiet spot in his hometown that he used to go to when he was overwhelmed as a kid

it was an old swingset at the park where, somehow, everything else had been renovated

the two of you sat there for hours with your hands entwined, talking about your futures 

&& the possibility of them ending in the same place.

it felt childish & implausible, but you wanted to believe it

&&, as the break up proved to you, it was, in fact, childish & implausible to believe that your lives could magically become compatible

you tried to move on, you really did. you dated other people for years. 

one boyfriend stuck around for four years. a coworker. your future with him felt written in stone.

he was good to you, but there was a part of your heart that yearned for more

the part that yearned for the type of connection you had on the swingset all those years ago

you didn't spend that time waiting for jungwon — you accepted that you were going to spend your life content with your boyfriend

but you sometimes thought about what it would be like if you met jungwon under different circumstances or another life where his career wasn’t so controlling and demanding of him

you would smile listening to his music (that you subconsciously hoped was about you) 

&& checked how he was doing online periodically

but then you were single. it was something your boyfriend said about not seeing a future here. not seeing a future with you. when you gave him four years of your life. 

you knew you should have felt more, that you should have been torn apart for months

but a week later, you picked up the phone & dialed the number that had been seared into your brain for six years

“y/n?”

his voice was almost a whisper.

“do you think you could take me to that park again tonight?”

“i’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

“thank you.”

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“i missed you.”

heeseung as the alchemy

“where’s the trophy? he just comes running over to me”

when you started dating heeseung, you knew it would be really easy for him to put you low on his priority list being an idol

&& you wouldn’t have blamed him for that 

because your careers are important, especially at this point in your lives (also your exes probably did that with much less demanding jobs)

but he didn’t! he told you it would be tough but that he’d try his best to make sure you had time together even with his insane packed schedule

&& try he did omg 🤭 that man put in the WORK

he would show up towards the end of your workday just to whisk you off on a date 🫶

which you not-so-secretly loved for two reasons:

one: it reminded you that he loved you & valued your career as much as you valued his

two: he’s really hot. so it’s fun to see everyone’s reaction to him showing up heehee

&& after your workday he’d take you wherever you wanted

but you’re indecisive at times, so he’d just guess sometimes.

it was usually your favorite restaurant or a massage parlor, but once he literally took you to the airport for a getaway? who knows what he has planned lmfao

you loved getting surprised by your boyfriend, of course, but the nights when you were at his concert to support him? those meant the world to you.

you swore that you’d never forget the look on his face when he realized you were in the crowd the first time you surprised him

but honestly? his excitement never faltered. he still wears that childish grin every time he sees you showing up for him

&& the post concert kisses are incomparable to all the others 

because he kisses you like you’re the stars in a rom-com. every. damn. time — whether it’s backstage or in front of 20,000 people.

jay as chloe or sam or sophia or marcus

“if you want to break my cold, cold heart, just say ‘i loved you the way that you were’”

jay was hurting you

with every instagram post he uploaded with a woman you didn’t recognize,

at every red carpet appearance where he had someone else on his arm,

with every polite smile he greeted you with when you crossed paths.

you broke up with him. years ago, at that. you had no right to feel this way.

his mind seemed scattered in your time together & he was unsure about most everything

at first, it had seemed like you were the exception to that.

until you weren’t.

when you broke it off, you told him you loved him. & that maybe you always would.

he might have loved you.

but if that was the case, he never told you.

on occasion, you thought about how he felt seeing you date around aimlessly.

had he done the mature thing & moved on?

did his jaw clench seeing another man kiss you the same way it did before you dated?

did he care about what you were thinking as much as you did about him? 

there were times that you’d stare at his contact, finger hovering above the ‘call’ button

almost hoping your finger would slip so you’d have the chance, the smallest chance to hear him say

“i loved you the way that you were.”

(i really want to write a oneshot about this actually? maybe?)

jake as so high school

“get my car door, isn’t that sweet, then pull me to the backseat, no one’s ever had me, not like you”

jake was so obsessed with you before y’all started dating HEHE probably from the first time that he had a conversation with you!

he was so enthralled by the way you think & see the world

&& he blushed and stumbled on his words every time he talked to you for months & his friends would tease him RELENTLESSLY

he got so nervous before following you on social media that he had to employ his friends to help.

“guys, just press it for me. i can’t look!”

he probably thought about asking you out on many occasions but chickened out for one reason or another every time

but then he saw you at the local convenience store while he was out getting ramen at 2 a.m. — or rather, you saw him.

"jake?" he'd know that voice anywhere. oh god oh god oh god oh god

he needed a moment to compose himself, but he pulled himself together enough to look up at you & greet you properly <3

his stress slipped away fairly fast after that & you found yourselves shopping for your respective midnight snacks together

"have you tried this one? it's probably my favorite limited edition flavor" you had said, pointing to your favorite candy

which, naturally, he responded to by pulling a handful into his basket 😚

you didn't know whether he wanted to try it because you liked it or he was buying it for you, but either way, you found it endearing

after you both paid, jake took your groceries in his other hand, declaring that he'd carry them to your car for you

which, of course, wasn't possible. you had walked.

😧...😟...😶...🤔...☝️😲 "i could give you a ride! i don't want you walking home alone at this hour. or i could call you an uber if you're not comf—"

"i'd really like that"

&& then his heart would damn near explode at the sight of your smile. because how could it not.

he fumbled with the bags before opening the passenger door for you

&& on the drive there he'd stare at you with heart eyes while you talked at every red light

you'd have to tell him it turned green because he was just so distracted hehe

oh my god not this being my second fic about jake driving you home,, 🫣 IT'S FUNNY BECAUSE I DON'T PLAN THESE I JUST GO WITH WHAT FEELS RIGHT

i'm just hilarious, this does not show anything about what i want irl, absolutely nothing.

sunghoon as i look in people’s windows

"what if your eyes looked up & met mine one more time?"

you & sunghoon had a mutual break up, but it didn't feel that way a month after it happened

especially not when you were walking alone down the street his friend lived on & noticed the light shining through the large window

contrary to what you told yourself (i don’t even care if he’s in there) you approached the warm light warily

you didn’t really know whether you were hoping to see him in there, but you did — he was laughing with a few people, glass of wine in hand

&&…you weren’t expecting a flood of memories to overcome you in the way they did.

memories from when you were invited. memories from when you called them “our” friends & not “his” friends. memories from when you were the one making him laugh.

you didn’t notice your mouth fall agape or the tears welling in your eyes until sunghoon met your gaze with a tilt of his head, his smile falling as he registered your presence

for a moment, your mind rushed to decipher the look on his face — the way his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, the way his mouth fell agape too — the same expressions you used to be able to read so well.

finally tearing your gaze from sunghoon, you noticed his friends turning back to look out for whatever it was that made their friend so unsettled

they never saw you. you ran before they could.

perhaps if you had stayed a moment longer, you would have heard the front door open.

txt version ☆ midnights version ☆ masterlist

[satellite-evans]

poets & soulmates

Pairing: Harry Styles x reader

Summary: Harry doesn’t know how to react when he learns that you don’t believe in soulmates.

Word count: a cute little blurb

Warnings: angst? Flufffff

A/N: heyyyyy!!!!!

It’s been ages since I last posted a fic, so I am soooo excited to post my very first Harry Styles one! I really hope you guys like it, I’ve worked on this for a while, so let’s see how it goes. I’m very excited and nervous to post this, but I am so happy to be back! Please tell me what you guys think and give me as much as feedback as you can so I can grow and be a better Harry fic writer for you all xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

~

If you had to describe the love you shared with Harry with a poem, you would probably choose the one from Edgar Allan Poe.

“We loved with a love that was more than love.”

It said so much in such few words; the best description of your love for him.

Because it is true, it is more than love. Always had been. If you took the love out of the relationship, you and Harry would be left with so much to survive. There was trust, for example. And also intimacy. Not to forget there was an understanding between you, too, that no one understood. If you were in a room with thousands of people, he would recognize you, every single time. Like you were a shining diamond between rocks. The effect you both had on each other, was beyond explaining in chemistry. Harry could touch you, and the breath that would escape from your lips oh so silently would already expose the effect he had on you.

Harry was no different, either. Seeing you smile proudly when you looked at him, made him turn into dust, that you blew away with your eyes. But he was afraid at first. To love.

He was afraid to love you.

For him, you were a stunning mystery. You carried things deep inside you that no one understood, and Harry was afraid to fail like the others. In his eyes, you were like the ocean and he was just a man who loved the waves but was completely terrified of swimming.

How couldn’t he be? At twenty nine, everyone had an idea in their head about how Harry was in relationships. Some said that he was single because he had commitment issues, others said the reason he was still alone was that he was too much of a playboy.

Yes, he had a few relationships before you and some of them did not end well, but Harry always respected and treated them with his kindness, always wanted the best for them.

He would do everything for his love, for you.

“Hey, love?” He asked you, clearly with hesitation. The way his voice shook a little didn’t go unnoticed by you in his London home where the both of you were lying in his bed. After spring came, Harry offered you to stay with him until summer so the two of you could enjoy long walks in the park with his favorite companion. You never said yes to an offer so quickly before in your life.

“Yes H, everything okay?”

How? How was it that every time Harry wanted to start a subject that was sensitive for him, you already knew by just the way he asked you his first question? Call it magic, call it luck. Harry liked to call it love.

“Do you think we’re soulmates? Like-I mean, we would be together and we will be forever?”

He didn’t know why that question was so important to him, but it was. He wanted to know your opinions and thoughts about the future both of you had. Every time Harry was dreaming about his future and how it would look, he realized you were always there. In the audience when he opened his biggest show ever, in the delivery room when he held his baby for the first time, everywhere. So your answer was very important to him. He wanted- no; he needed to know if he was present in your future as much as you were present in his.

“No, I don’t think we are. But that’s because I don’t believe in soulmates.”

Ouch. That shouldn’t have hurt him, but it did. Blaming you would be pointless. You didn’t believe in the whole idea of soulmates, but that didn’t make him less insecure. He knew it was too good to be true. That you were too good to be true.

The whole aura of the room changed and Harry slowly got up from where he was lying between your legs. You saw that his demeanor changed and that the happy, slightly tired Harry got replaced with a sad Harry.

“Hey, hey what’s that all about? Why the sad face?”

Honesty was one thing you both took extremely seriously. So that’s what you wanted to do this time, too. But without realizing you broke slightly Harry’s heart.

“It’s nothing, really. You don’t have to believe we are soulmates. I don’t know why I’m sad if I am being honest.” He said with a slight smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. He was clearly devastated by your answer.

You sat closer to him on his bed, touched his cheeks with your hands, and stared him deeply into his eyes. Harry already felt his heartbeat going faster. It was going so fast that he thought he was going to have a stroke. He held on to your arm dearly, so if he fainted, you could hold him. Like you always had been.

“I don’t believe in soulmates, and I don’t think that you & I were meant to end up together. What I believe is that we fell in love & that we worked hard for our relationship. I mean, look at you, you’re an amazing person with qualities so great that an individual can only dream of having those. Every woman is lucky to have you. I am from another country and I am younger than you. Remember all the news that they made about us when we first started going out? They told me I was a gold digger, that you were too good for me, that you cheated on me, and so on. But we didn’t listen to any of them. We let our love grow because we knew, H. We knew that what we had was special, and not everybody was lucky enough to feel what we felt. So no, I don’t think we are soulmates. But you are the one for me; Harry. You were in my past when I didn’t even know. You are my person in the present, And you will be in the future. Because I will always, undoubtedly, love you.”

Without waiting for his response, you connected your lips with his. You knew he was sensitive and these bare confessions took a toll on him, so you just kissed him, to let him know it was okay. That you were there for him, always.

“Just give me 3-5 business days, and I’ll come up with even a bigger love confession, promise.”

Harry said, after he broke the bruising kiss.

He wasn’t lying. Harry had no words to say to you. He knew you loved him, but not that much. It was like his brain & heart were on fire and you just put them out with your words. Relief washed over him, and like a cherry on his favorite cake, you kissed him with adoration.

“Oh, I know you will. It’s a known fact that you were always better with words, but just so you know, you don’t have to. I feel your love every time you look at me. Hate to break it to you, but your eyes give it away how much you love me, Styles.”

He didn’t care about the idea of the whole soulmate anymore. He felt so stupid that he was thinking about that. The love that the both of you shared, was more special, and rare. The two of you were even better than soulmates.

“That I do, Y/N. That I do. I love you so fucking much. It sometimes hurts. It hurts not to touch you, not to be near you, not to kiss you.”

He closed the gap between you with a passionate kiss again, that knocked your breath away. Your whole body was on fire, not knowing what to do. With every touch of his on your skin, the fire started to get more and more aggressive. He released your lips, but stayed close, so you could feel his breath on your lips and he could hear your heartbeat going faster.

“I am no poet, Y/N but just know that if I was, you would be my biggest inspiration.”

You looked him in the eyes, trying to control your breathing, but it was a lost cause. His blue eyes were like ice digging into your heart, and the only thing you could do was surrender.

“That might be the best poem I’ve ever heard.”

[fireflyinks]

hiya!! :) wasn’t sure if you’ve written for charlie dalton yet & i saw u like niall (amazing taste might i add) but i just thought a charlie fic to one of his songs would be so cutie

you could start a cult

charlie dalton x reader fluff

summary : charlie reads poetry to reader and it’s painfully sweet

a/n : this was such a good req tysm for sharing this idea with me, please marry me. haha just kidding (i am not kidding). anywho i love this sm and im so glad to combine my favorite artist of all time and my favorite character of all time into a fi. hope you enjoy, love you all, drink some water today!

contains : pure fluff, no cursing, no use of y/n, pet names (sweet girl, baby, my love), charlie is down BADDDDD, literally just good vibes and tooth aching sweetness, not edited so lmk if there are typos or grammar mistakes pls and thank you!

“Baby, you could start a cult, you see. Anywhere you go, I’ll be. You are so much more than beautiful to me.” 

It was that time of day where everything felt romantic, when the sun had just begun to farewell and the sky was painted for two lovers to enjoy. And that, we did. 

“My love!” Charlie shouted, looking over the hill as I steered my bike towards him. I giggled, parking my bike as he ran up to me. 

Charlie and I had met at the library in town. He had been studying over winter break and I was people watching. We began to talk about the book I was reading. I entertained the conversation because he was the first boy I’d met that had read a book since elementary school. Soon enough, we began meeting at the library whenever we could. The library became the dead poets’ cave, and eventually we started to hang out whenever we could. It’d been a little over a year now, and we still couldn’t get enough of each other. 

I climbed off the bike, letting it fall to the ground as I jumped into Charlie’s arms. 

“Hi Charlie,” I spoke into his sweater softly, trying to cover up my blush. 

“Hello, sweet girl.” He cooed, rubbing my back softly before placing me back on the ground. We walked back over to the small picnic he’d set up before I’d arrived. There was a small, checkered blanket on the ground as well as a basket with chocolate covered strawberries and a few different poetry books. 

Charlie and I sat down on the blanket, and my eyes were automatically drawn to the sun setting before us. 

I pointed towards it, my eyes lingering along the horizon before us. “It’s so beautiful.” 

“Reminds me of you.” Charlie looked at me with a smirk, as if he knew what he was saying was corny, and yet he still said it. 

“You know,” I began again, now staring at the orange sunset, “I think sunsets were made to be looked at by me and you.” 

I blush, moving my eyes to him. “Are you going to read me some poetry or not, lover boy?” I teased him. 

He proceeded to read some poems he’d recently discovered, along with a few of our favorites. I watch as he looks up after every couple of lines to see my reactions. I couldn’t help but grin as he read. I swear, his voice was made to recite poetry. 

He finishes one of my favorites, “She Walks in Beauty” by Lord Byron, and looks up at me quickly. His pupils dilate quickly as he stares at me, waiting on a reaction. 

“That’s one of my favorites.” I take a bite of a strawberry, not taking my eyes off of him. 

“I know, that’s why I read it so often.” He chuckles before pausing for a moment, blushing, “I actually wrote something of my own… for you. If you’d like me to read it.”

I raise my eyebrows, not used to seeing Charlie this shy or bashful. “I’d love to hear it. I’d love to hear you read anything.” 

He smiles up at me before pulling out a small black notebook and flipping through it for a moment before landing on a page filled top to bottom with ink formed into words and doodles. 

Examining the page, he breathes in sharply before speaking, “It might be a little dumb, there’s some repetition here and there, I just thought it was a cool detail.”

I nod, waiting for him to read. 

Charlie clears his throat before the words flow out of his lungs. 

“Darling, I will give up everything.

Who I'll be and who I am.

You can have it all.

Baby, you could start a cult, you see.

Anywhere you go, I'll be.

You are so much more than beautiful to me.

Oh, I'll follow you 'til there's no tomorrow.

I'll follow you.

Swear you could start a war or two.

Kingdoms fighting over you.

To wake up by your side is all I want to do.

Oh, I'll follow you 'til there's no tomorrow.

I'll follow you .

Baby, you could start a cult, you see.

They will say that we're crazy.

But you are so much more than beautiful to me.”

I’m taken aback for a moment, I’d never hear something so beautiful come out of Charlie Dalton’s mouth. The moment he’s done, I press our lips together. We share a soft kiss for a moment before I pull away. 

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

He smirked, “It’s for the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Or heard. Or loved.” 

My heart fluttered as I scooted closer to him, looking back at the now almost gone sunset. The once orange sky was now turning black, and I couldn’t wait to look at the stars with the boy I loved.

[bloodcasket]

A BEGINNING, AND AN END

PAIRING: Vergil Sparda x GN!Reader

WARNINGS: Not proof-read, angst, mentions of readers death, depression, loss, loneliness, a relationship that is crumbling.

WC: 1,650

DESCRIPTION: Vergil wonders what exactly he did that made him lose you. He breaks as he realizes his mistakes, and that he will never be able to hold you again.

A/N: This work was rushed!!!!!!!!!! I literally just had a vomit post of all my sad little ideas. Currently hyper-fixated on Vergil! Probably will write more for him. I imagined this concept last night, and I kid you not, I cried.

Marriage was a concept created for foolish beings who wished to bind themselves to one another. When Vergil lived through his life, blinded by a pursuit of power, such things like marriage were nothing but a stupid scheme.

Why would he wish to be controlled by someone? Tied down to them? Love was nothing. Love was idiocy. That is what he thought, after all.

Then you came.

A human, young and kind. You placed your hand in his, pressed your silken lips along his bruised knuckles, and kissed his ruined skin. You promised him love. You showed him peace. You introduced him to light and laughter and mirth.

It was then, after the many days of holding you and growing to love you, that he realized why people did such “foolish” traditions. He grew weak with you. Became sensitive. Was not embarrassed to be genuine with you. He had finally decided.

He would propose.

You had tears swelling up along your waterline, slipping down your upturned cheeks as you smiled, you sobbed the words “Of course I will marry you”.

He married you.

The marriage was simple, no one but you two to promise yourselves to each other. He had found an old church to hold the ceremony, the ceilings tall and pointing to the sky. The tinted glass waned bright colors over your bashful face, your eyes glittering with devotion before you leaned in to kiss him. A kiss to ensure eternity.

Your fingers trembled against his as he slipped the wedding band on, he had not realized his cool façade has cracked along with yours. He was crying with you, so ecstatic to finally have someone who can understand him.

Someone who won’t judge him, someone who will tell him it will be okay. To hold him close in the night when he had nightmares. To lay their head in his lap as he read out his favorite poems.

“Vergil, stand over by the tree! I want to take a picture of you!” you giggled happily, face contorting into an expression that can only be described as glee. You held up your camera, adjusting the device to be suited for the brightened, summer day.

“And what for?” your husband seemed annoyed, looking at you with a nonchalant grimace. “Because I want to capture memories, now go, go!”. You shooed him away, begging him to find purchase near the weeping willow tree. It’s arms swaying in the gentle breeze, faded green leaves swooping overhead, tangled moss falling to the soil.

He obeys, acting as if this was something pointless, but internally, he was blissful, full of pride at the acknowledgement of your adoration. He stands, watching as you snap the picture, and then returns to your side gracefully.

“Well? Was that to your liking?” he asks, leaning down to see the picture, and you nod with a grin, telling him “thank you”.

This was something that became quite frequent. You had recently started to indulge in art, and had brought up to him that you would paint his portraits.

And paint you did.

Your works were wonderful. Your art room his secret sanctuary. A gallery of only him, painted with oils and acrylics, colors that portray him to be a god amongst this tiny Earth.

Inspired by a simple, small photo of him. A photo that is always captured by you.

You enjoyed comparing his white hair to the color of a rich magnolia. Consistently painting him alongside the elegant flowers. You had told him once that they reminded you of him. They were sensitive to the human touch, turning brown from the oils of a selfish finger caressing it. They were independent, and were beautiful while they kept to themselves.

Just like him.

Relationships are hard. He understands this. He knows that if he does not give enough, the ones he finds dear will crumble away. Loyalty, honesty, generosity, quality time, devotion….. so much he must do to keep you satisfied.

He tries, he’s a perfectionist, but when you two wander in public, see the other couples mold into one another, he feels ashamed. He does not like to hold your hand in public, and he feels tense when you initiate certain intimacy. You would get bored of him, wouldn’t you?

He admires how easy you make it look, how you strip him of his clothes, settle him in the tub, speak reassuring words of praise as you scrub the grime off his beaten skin. He relaxes under your touch, wonders why of all people, you chose to be with him. How you don’t hesitate to bend to his will, run miles to retrieve whatever he wants. Speak honeyed words, just enough to make him melt.

You’ve helped rid his nightmares, you’ve made him feel alive. He only dreams of bliss, of divine moments shared with you.

Moments like you and him, taking pictures under the willow tree.

But yet, he cannot even find the courage to move forward. To give you the smallest things you desire.

He grows sour. For once, he feels powerless. Inferior.

He can never give you what you want.

Recently he has grown colder to your touch. Shallow and incoherent with any simple notion.

You will try to reach for him, your pinkie grazing the side of his firm hand. He only tugs away, resisting your affection. You will plead to bathe him, massage the ache in his shoulder blades. He only denies your wishes to care for him.

Your paintings become more erratic than before, a sense of gloom in their glistening wake. A sheen of desolation hidden amongst the thick lines of paint. You have lost inspiration. His divinity and blue aura that was once captured by the bristles of your paintbrush are now fading into a melancholic art piece.

You are afraid you have lost him.

You two seem to get in an argument one night. It is after an awkward vent of your feelings to him in the library.

“I miss when you loved me”, is what you confess.

Vergil shouts selfish comments, says he prefers to be alone. Says you bother him too much. Says that maybe marriage was the wrong decision. He does not mean these things. But you have taken them to heart.

You start to cry, the whites of your eyes now bloodshot. Hiccups erupting from your lips. Sobs that beg him to take all his words back.

He doesn’t.

“Fine” you sniff, “I will let you be “.

A sickening feeling blooms in him when you leave, your bag tossed over your shoulder.

When you pass it is like no other.

He felt it burn through him. Regret. Guilt. Loneliness. He knew something had went wrong.

Your body had been found on the streets, bloodied, bones shattered, arms disfigured. You had tried to put up a fight, that was for sure. It made him sick. He felt numb. Practically in denial of your death. Of your murder.

He could have saved you…..he promised you. You have given him everything he wanted, and yet this…he couldn’t even prevent this from happening.

Your face, swollen and bruised. Eyes blackened and cheeks cut open. Your soft lips, never to kiss his again.

If only he hadn’t been selfish, you wouldn’t have went out that night. You could have been here, with him, embracing him. Telling him that you loved him for all eternity.

The wedding band was still firm on your finger, your blood thick over Vergil’s name engraved on the ring.

Vergil kisses you one last time before your body is sealed in it’s coffin, a wooden box that shall keep your remains concealed forever. Your lips are so cold now, lifeless and chapped. Lacking it’s warmth and tenderness that you usually carried.

A part of him regrets kissing you. Your frozen face and your icy touch will now haunt him for the rest of his life. Terrorize his dreams.

Just a couple of months ago you two had stood in the old Victorian chapel, the stained glass casting an array of colors over your gentle smile. The beginning.

The last image of you is an image of death. They are lowering you into the Earth, shovels tossing dirt over the wooden case. An end.

Dante has offered that Vergil should stay with him, get away from the home that he once shared with you. His brother figured it would be best, a solution to rid him of his sorrow. The elder refuses every time.

Your presence…your glow. It still is fresh, and alive in the walls of the home. He must stay. He must stay for you. Sometimes he swears he hears your voice in the halls, your sweet tone making him panic and get up, just to realize he is only imagining it. He is only imagining that you are not gone. That you are still here with him.

He still visits your grave, as often as he possibly can. In the meantime, he tends to the tree he has planted in your garden, a magnolia tree that is fresh and desperately trying to grow. He wished he could show you.

There had been one night where he had a nightmare, images of you screaming and crying his name, pleading for help as you died, crimson leaking from your lips as you sputter blood.

“Vergil! Help me!”.

He wakes in a cold sweat, so terrified that it genuinely shakes him. This vision had stayed clinging in his dreams ever since your death, never sparing him mercy.

On nights like this, he rushes to enter your art room, sitting amongst your wooden work chair, now too restless and shaken to attempt to sleep again. He knew if he tried, he would only be met with the image of your lifeless form again.

He sits there, your painting of him underneath the willow tree sitting proudly amongst your art desk. You had told him it was your most prized possession. Your best work. He thought so too.

He cries your name under the glum luminescence of the moon.

He decides this time, he will paint you. No matter how bad he does it, your beauty will always bleed through.

[toasterhasabucket]

Topic: MALEVOLENT PODCAST (PART 20)

TW : this whole thing is about !death and suicide! and very very much just me complaining and crying about the POEM TO HIS PARENTS

Starting off strong, Arthur's parents killed themselves when he was young. He wrote a poem about it, about his parents, about his grief and wanting it back, wanting comfort and boy, oh boy! I am SOBBING. I couldn't find a written copy of his poem so I just kept replaying it and writing it down in my notes app

This is the poem ( if I misspelled anything, don't tell me, just ignore it please)

"I don't recall how we met

as I was far too young

I knew you not as you are now

because to me you were the sun

and always present warmth and glow

a light that's always there

to wipe the teas from out my eyes

to brush my matted hair

and I would lie if not to say our relationship was pure.

I am young

a cause of grief of this I am quite sure

despite all this id be remiss to say there was no love

a calmness and a careful word

a nudge not a shove

there were nights I recall

I needed you the most

I'd crawl from bed and walk to you

and you would hold me close

between the love of both of you

to ail my sleeping strife

I never felt so safe

yet so cold

in all my life.

I too recall a time I was trying to impress

a goofy boy named Arthur dressed in his mother's best

was only dad who laughed with me

as mother you withdrew but

when he joined in dressing up

you cried in laughter too

and there was the time we all did find ourselves stuck in the rain

mother had her gown near soaked

and dad was much the same

and though we were miserable

mother found us a spot of dry

which we all ate a pretend meal

jelly and sea pie.

and now you're gone

and I can't explain the loss that lingers here

the size of a young boys parents

he wishes could be near

and there are nights

where he needs you

and he still crawls out of bed

and walks toward your bedroom door

before recalling you're dead.

and I want someone to tell that boy

to swallow all the hate

that nothing he could have said

would have changed his parents fate

and I want that someone to be you

as I write this

but alas

this pain will linger with me still

I pray this too shall pass."

Oh my God. That's emotional and so important to him I wonder if the people in the YouTube comments had anything to say about it?

NO THEY DIDN'T

One person said "glad we got to learn more about johns backstory" WHAT ABOUT HIS SOUL CRUSHING POEM

Sorry forgot some of your parents didn't kill themselves, my mistake, so so so sorry that you're crooked and evil and didn't sob your eyes out when he recited his poem. (I am completely normal and chill)

Another person said something like "Arthur, the boy who lived" and yk this could mean many things, maybe because he's survived many life threatening situations and actually escaped death, maybe it's because of the ending of the episode. OR it's because his parents are dead and if that's why

I am going to roll myself into a hole and throw UP.

There's nothing terribly wrong with the joke I'm just dramatic and a crybaby

I need to stop complaining so NOW I'm going to take in this poem like it should have been.

Let's point out my "highlights"

"because to me you were the sun" when you're young and have good parents you like them most the time, he was young when they died, he looked up to them still and saw them in such a bright and amazing way

"and now you're gone and I can't explain the loss that lingers here the size of a young boys parents he wishes could be near and there are nights where he needs you and he still crawls out of bed and walks toward your bedroom door before recalling you're dead"

This whole part has me in FUCKING SHAMBLES, IM SHAKING AND SOBBING, IM GOING TO BE THINKING ABOUT THIS ON MY DEATH BED.

"and I want someone to tell that boy to swallow all the hate. that nothing he could have said would have changed his parents fate"

God Arthur you just like to kick me right in the stomach don't you, this almost brought me to my knees I'm not even going, I almost went onto the floor. Put this into perspective, you're a kid who is around your parents ALL the time then one day they kill themselves, even as a kid survivors guilt is a thing, most the time survivors guilt is seen in like horror movies and shit but dude, when I found out my mom committed I thought smth like I wish I could have done something, it should have been me, even though I was ten I felt accountable for what happened because it feels like all the love you gave was never enough because in the end they left by choice. That will LINGER that will STAIN and it is forever, not matter how faint it seems at times it'll never really go away. So I know like first hand, a child who's parents killed themselves or even just have dead parents, all have thought at one time "why not me."

"nothing he could have said would have changed his parents fate"

I'll never get over this line, EVER.

Not only do I relate I FEEL this, this whole poem was like a slap in the face, hit after hit, I felt seen but in a way I didn't want to be. I felt like I was exposed and I don't think I've ever read anything that's made me feel so read to.

See this is the part where I explain that I am not complaining about people not caring about his poem and this very important part to him, it's more of me really complaining that I care and relate to much so it's overwhelming

I am not here to be like "you don't care about this like I do? Die" and if I sound like that I was joking or having a moment because I'm going off the rails with a crazy train (I love that song)

And obviously of course it's sad and everything but not everyone can relate and think about it from the way I do and I get that

Not everyone has experienced something like this and I'm glad!

But I guess since I related I was just so shocked and a little confused on why I didn't see anyone talk about it

Sure the poem isn't metaphorically fancy and is more blunt then most but it's gets the point across and I like that. I like that a lot

Anyways I'm going to draw Arthur angst, love you guys bye!

[greypetrel]

Hiii 👁️👄👁️💜 Maybe: 🎄 spirits follow everywhere i go - or alternatively:🎄 oh, you fool, there are rules

Hello! Bet you forgot you sent me this, uh? 💜

WELL, it's here! After much consideration because I love the album that contains both these songs, I thought that the Yawning Grave just yelled Morrigan. A minor possible spoiler for the Arbor Wilds/What Pride Has Wrought but well. I'm not explaining whys and hows anyway.

Tis the prompt list

Oh you fool, there are rules.

[ Morrigan x Female Mahariel | 3.692 words | No trigger warnings - Hurt/comfort ]

I tried to warn you when you were a child I told you not to get lost in the wild I sent you omens and all kinds of signs I taught you melodies, poems, and rhymes Oh, you fool, there are rules, I am coming for you (You can run, but you can't escape) Darkness brings evil things, oh, the reckoning begins (You will open the yawning grave)

Morrigan didn’t stall long in Skyhold, after Corypheus was defeated.

She had done what she must. That was it. She never meant to stay much longer.

She was grateful for Aisling, for her concerned expression as she told her that she would have tried to help her if she only had let her. Tried to fix whatever was done to her at the Well. Morrigan knew guilt when she saw it. It resonated deeply in her heart, and she was at the same time grateful and repulsed. It only made her want to run.

Run from that castle, run from another series of mistakes, run from companionship and friendship she still doubted she deserved.

Old books and ruins were much safer companions. They never talked back.

She wanted to believe the Inquisitor, be sure that everything could be fixed, that if they put their mind to it, they could have found a solution. Freed her from the cage of a past that wasn’t her own alone anymore, once again. She really did.

She wasn’t fool enough to actually do it.

Aisling knew not the extent of the magic that had been bestowed upon her. The extent of the control it could exert, how much she felt it deep in her bones, like the loose strings of a puppet. She knew, painstakingly well, for all the voices of the Well whispered it into her ears, that as talented as Lavellan was, as undoubtedly bright and creative with magic, she wasn’t powerful enough to break that spell.

None of her people was. No one else was, anymore. Save for… but he had vanished after the battle.

She thanked Aisling, told her words of comfort she didn’t feel, and of trust that in spite of herself she couldn’t convince herself not to mean. She at least owed her a nice goodbye. Kieran hugged her tight, and the elf stalled, caressing his hair and recommending him to listen to his mother. She whispered something in his ear, which made the boy giggle. Morrigan smiled: it happened much more rarely these days.

And before the first light of days could tinge the sky in pinks and lilacs, she took her son’s hand and left the fortress.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Leliana had waited for her, just outside the first outpost, before the descent to the valley.

She knew she didn’t have to go. She knew it well that right now, Skyhold was probably one of the safest places in Thedas. A place run by a person who knew her, knew partially the extent of what she did, could help her should something awry happen, should the Well decide to take full control of her. A person that loved Kieran and, she knew, would have gone out of her way to keep him safe and bring his mother back.

But she missed her.

She missed her and that choice of old, the separation, seemed now the biggest in a long list of mistakes she made. She had gained the knowledge she craved, and for what?

“I miss her.” She just told Leliana, too tired, to battered up to bite back something.

Leliana nodded, smiled in a knowing way that brought back memories, made her look like the young person she once was, and stirred some irritation.

“It was plenty of time you did.”

“Don’t tell the idiot.”

“Oh, I’m saving this bit of information for a special occasion, worry not.”

“If you hear from her…”

“You’ll hear first.” Leliana smiled. “You always hear first from her. You know it, yes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She sneered, the pang to her heart finally enough in bringing some old bite back. “I wouldn’t dare implying I know more than the next Divine.”

“It’s been nice to meet you again, Morrigan.” She looked down, and smiled at Kieran. “To meet you both. Come say hi if you are in Val Royeaux.”

She travelled south for a couple of days, just to mislead any possible person who followed her.

And then, she headed straight to Amaranthine.

---

Nathaniel welcomed her warmly and ruffled Kieran’s hair, complimenting on how much he had grown.

Morrigan saw him frowning as the boy answered with a smile that was there for politeness, but didn’t offer any explanation to the fact. She couldn’t, not now. Not with him first.

“Is she here?”

“No.” He sighed. “Still Maker knows where. The last letter came from the Anderfels, but it was five months ago.” A pause, he looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Of course.

It was no surprise, after all: when she came to bid her goodbye in Orlais, Alyra had said she would have been gone for a while, and that communications would have been difficult. She had built a net of spies, but it wasn’t so widespread as to reach desolate places. In the Anderfels, Morrigan knew she had a handful of people in Weisshaupt, but nothing more. And, she couldn’t risk getting found or tracked.

Hoping she would have been there, waiting to magically fix her mess, had been childish and stupid. She wasn’t living in a fairy tale, she was no Vassilissa, as much as she had liked to pretend she was, as a child. As much as Alyra had made her feel like that. Such mishaps had already happened: the first time she reached her in Vigil’s Keep, Alyra had been in Denerim, impossibilitated to move before a week. They had managed three days together. Nothing more, and it wasn’t the only time they had missed each other. It was foolish to hope things could go differently.

“Very well. Can we stay the night, before leaving again?”

Kieran looked at her, snapping his head quickly with a face of disappointment. Morrigan knew perfectly well what he was about to say, and shook her head at him.

The room was found, and there were not many things left to do save opening the window, get a fire going, and bring their bags there, their cloaks to be washed. The same room she had occupied every time she had visited, finding it in the same level of readiness to be occupied.

She observed a dapple of sun shining over the white of the fresh linens. The air smelled like clean, as clean a that place -the whole castle actually- was. Kieran shook Nathaniel’s hand, very politely, and Morrigan wished him a nice afternoon and thanked him for his hospitality. He scoffed the formalities, but hesitated on the door before leaving. He turned towards her.

“She left orders, you know.” He told her, with a smile. “You both can stay for as long as you wish. Not a word of your presence will leave the walls, she described in no lack of details what will happen to snitches to all the recruits and the staff.”

“It sounds like mamae.” Kieran convened.

“The recruits still have nightmares.”

Morrigan joined the other two laughing at that, in spite of the glomp in her throat that rose knowing that Alyra had, in fact, thought of her. Of them both. She clutched one hand in the other and told Nathaniel that she would have thought about it, when Kieran asked her if they could stay.

“Just until mamae is back. Please, mother.”

The room was warm and comfortable, and no servant batted an eye when she asked for dinner to be brought in her room, leaving Kieran to go dine with the others in the great hall. She just walked him there, watched him taking place on a bench close to Nathaniel and in front of Velanna, answering politely to the question the others asked him. Smiling.

Some normality, at long last, or whatever normality she could ever hope to offer him.

The image only made the glomp in her throat grow.

And the glomp grew further when, back in her room, the servant returned with her favourite dish.

“Lady Warden-Commander left a list of what you and your son like to eat, my lady. Just in case.” The old woman smiled, sympathetically. “If you have other preferences, please let me know.”

Morrigan closed the door behind the maid, thanking her, and with all the dignity she had left, walked to the bed and sat down, elegant as a queen.

And then she let go, falling heavily back on the bed. It was fresh and plush: a room well taken care of, as if she was expected. Alyra left orders. Alyra said to the cook what to prepare her.

She wished she never went through that eluvian, all those years ago.

What god to pray for Mahariel to come back to her safe and sound and please, come back soon, she didn’t know anymore, but she was tired. Bone-deep tired.

Maybe she could rest. For some days, at least.

Kieran would benefit from a familiar place to cope with the lack of part of his soul. Faces he knew and who loved him to help him through the change.

Yes, she decided. They both would use some rest.

For some days, at least.

If that was yet another mistake, at least Kieran would have been happy about this one.

She ignored the voices telling her to go.

---

The days became weeks. And months.

Morrigan thought they were past hospitality, but looking better she realized both her and Kieran were a part of the Keep. Expected and wanted. Kieran had his spot in the Library, and everyone in the Keep, Wardens and not, automatically started to teach him whatever knowledge they possessed as if the child was a part of their environment too.

It wasn’t Skyhold, with the Inquisitor and Lord Pavus struggling to cut a free hour for lessons in busy schedules. No, here he was welcomed and expected during activities, at very regular timings Morrigan knew were something Alyra had started in the Keep. Everything happened at a precise time, as she would have wanted.

Her absence was a presence in itself, and it was soothing. It relaxed her, and the boy as well.

Kieran still cried because at night he felt the air too silent, and often crawled in her bed, to be soothed with a hug. He was growing old for that, Morrigan knew, and yet she had not in her to shun him away, nor to scold him because it was unbecoming for a young man his age to seek his mother when he had a nightmare.

No, she hugged him tight and caressed his hair until he felt asleep against her shoulder, like she did when he was but a baby. Everything felt more bearable, more worth it, when she held him like so, alive and breathing and free.

She missed him tenderly when he was a baby, those days. She soothed him and soothed herself as well.

She missed tenderly the exact look Alyra made when she first saw him: she had melted down, the usual air of harshness crumbling in something tender and marvelled. She never looked smitten, not with her and not with Alistair. She had looked so with Kieran. She had smiled, and poked the baby’s nose with such delicate tenderness that Morrigan had burst in tears.

“If you haven’t heard from her… But I’ve written her, too. Told her you’re here.” Nathaniel said, one day when she asked again whether he had news or not. “You know her safe spots, she’s gonna return as soon as she’ll read the letters.”

“Is she?”

He sighed, deeply, stopping to look at the Wardens training in the courtyard, at Velanna crouching in front of Kieran to correct his grip on the staff. Everything went on like normal, like one would expect. A clockwork fortress that stood its ground, brought to discipline by a missing Commander and kept so by her lieutenant. Nathaniel looked that much older, and it wasn’t just the Blight paling his skin, starting to paint his black hair in grey at the temples. Command didn’t really suit him: he could do it, he had been grown for it. It was clear as day, knowing him, that he didn’t like it.

“I hope she is.” He answered, tone lowering. “What are we going to do if she isn’t?”

Morrigan considered. She didn’t want to, but it’s been seven months since the last time anyone had any news from Mahariel. The whispers in her ears told her nothing useful: tales and whispers of Deep Roads, and creatures slain, something stirring, deep down. The possibility that it was too much, even for Alyra, was concrete. More than concrete.

But she knew perfectly well what she would have answered.

“We stop being stupid about it and go on.”

He laughed, bitterly, and couldn’t but agree with her.

They went on, but Morrigan still didn’t feel like leaving, even if everything told her she should not stay any longer, she was being stupid about it, waiting for a person that would have never come back.

She once thought that her plans wouldn’t have allowed her to stay more than a handful of months in one place, but as per now, she wasn’t sure what were her plans anymore.

So, she just listened to the voices from the Well, concentrated on them and tried to interpret them.

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but all she could devise was one word.

Stay.

It seemed a fitting excuse to be stupid about it and listen.

---

Something was  on the bed, crawled into her arms.

She sighed and shifted, still more than a half asleep, she shifted her arms on the figure, rested her chin more comfortably on the head, thinking it was Kieran.

“Another nightmare?”

“He had one, but he’s asleep, right now.”

It was enough to make Morrigan jolt awake, every trace of sleep instantly gone. She snapped her fingers and a ball of fire started in the air, balanced on the palm of her hand to illuminate the rest of her bed.

Red hair, glinting orange and golden in the firelight, carefully braided in an intricate motive to stay out of her face. A practical style, a travelling one. Dark tattoos marking her brow, making her features less minute and delicate than they were. Beside her eyes, usually, but tonight those eyes were mellower than their usual.

“You’re-” There were at least ten thoughts in her head, but the whispers were loud and insisting, hissing about alarms and danger and wrongness, and she grew distracted. “Am I still dreaming?”

It was all that she managed to spit.

Alyra Mahariel, the Warden-Commander, the Hero of Ferelden, survivor of yet another mission everyone with some brain would have deemed impossible, frowned at her. She rose on one elbow, the shoulder of her nightsuit daintly slipping off a shoulder. Muscly, but less than Morrigan remembered. She looked thinner, more ghastly, the bags under her eyes were darker and her cheeks looked hollow, and the Witch knew it wasn’t just the light. If all, the light masked how more grey-ish her skin had gotten.

“it depends.” Alyra extended a hand, hesitating just a moment, just to see a nod from the other, before cupping Morrigan’s cheek. “Is it a good dream?”

A thumb caressed Morrigan’s cheekbone with tenderness, the pressure barely perceptible. The elf slid forward, very slowly and carefully as if she was afraid of startling a wild animal. Her face grew closer, her lips parted, but still she stopped at but a breath space from a kiss. She brushed her lips with her own, and waited for the other to consent. As she had done from the start, inviting but never pressing.

It made the glomp in Morrigan’s throat only bigger, as she realized that it was really Alyra, not an impostor. Her breath on her lips, the gentle pressure of her hand on her cheek were not a dream. The whispers were more pressing, insisting on the verge of deafening: they spoke of decay and death and wrongness, and danger. Morrigan had seen her slice so many throats, kill enough people in cold blood to say the Well was wrong.

But that wasn’t the whole of it.

The Well knew many things, but the Well didn’t know everything. Not the care in which she cupped her face, not the love in which she still waited for Morrigan to take the first step, without forcing her or making her feel trapped or pressured. That little choice she gave her, knowing how important it was for her.

She waited in Amaranthine for 7 months, and for 7 months she endured and kept strong, hid under the carpet all the negative.

Only then, 7 months after Corypheus had been slain, 9 since she drank from the Well and lost her freedom yet again, in front of that little tenderness, Morrigan allowed herself to cry.

She folded forward, and the fact that she was met with a solid shoulder and arms that held her, made her cry more. She circled the other woman’s bust and held her with all she had in her. She didn’t remember the last time she cried like that, so loud and intensely. She held Alyra like she would have disappeared again if she let go, and squeezed her past the point of comfort. She had missed her, missed her so much that the voices in her head felt more distant, more quiet.

“What happened?”

She asked her, tenderly combing her hair with her fingers -stiffer than her usual, Morrigan didn’t want to know whether she was just tired or her mission had failed and the Blight was starting to get hold of her. She couldn’t face it, now. As the elf patiently waited for an answer. Morrigan felt the deep, satisfied sigh, her frame melting against hers, as if she too hadn’t relaxed in ages and was waiting for it.

“I-” She started, but the words died in her throat. She didn’t want to know, but she had to. She needed at least one thing to go right, in the grand scheme of things. “… Did you succeed?”

She didn’t need to specify in which exactly. And she hated the whiny tone the question came out from her mouth with. It was pitiful and pathetic, and she wasn’t a person who begged. She could care later, tho.

“Avernus has it. A last round of control.” Alyra answered, her arms holding her tighter. “… I have the Cure.”

Morrigan started crying again, fat tears surging instantly to her eyes, as some weight she didn’t realise she was carrying lifted from her shoulder. Alyra disentangled from the hug, still as quick and agile as ten years ago in her prime, and moved to cup her cheeks and delicately pull her head so she was looking in her eyes. Her eyes were shiny too, and she looked tired. Bone-deep tired. But less stoney than she had seen her ever since she first met their son. She pushed forward and gently nuzzled her nose with her own, stopping as usual but a breath away from her lips. Morrigan, this time, didn’t hesitate: she filled the distance and kissed her, her taste all so familiar and soothing. Finally, after three years.

“What happened to you?” She broke the kiss, but didn’t stray far, delicately kissing tears away from her cheeks. “You’ve missed me before, but you haven’t ever cried like so. Not even when I told you I couldn’t follow you through your mirror.”

Morrigan sighed, pressing forward until her face drowned in the crook of the other’s neck. Alyra shifted, urging her to lie down after a while that they hadn’t moved. Her back ached, she said: she had ridden fast and hard all day, and they weren’t all that young anymore.

She settled them under the covers, tugging the hem on Morrigan’s shoulder with just one hand. The other arm held her close all throughout, as if she knew she needed to be this close, hear her steady heartbeat under her ear, when she moved.

Satisfied, she settled more comfortably around the witch, holding Morrigan as she kept combing her hair with her fingers, absent-mindedly. Tracing circles on her skin. Pressing a kiss where she could, every now and then. On her cheek, jaw, neck and shoulder. She even started to humm a song: a familiar tune she had sung to Kieran every time she was there to tuck him to sleep.

Three years since they last saw each other.

Morrigan could have written more, or could have travelled to meet her. She could have travelled with her, even. She could have stayed in Amaranthine, 10 years ago when they met for the first time after the Blight. Alyra couldn’t move, but Morrigan could have stayed. She wondered what could have been, if she had. Kieran growing up happy with people he could have called family.

She could have done so many things more for the woman in her arms, the woman she loved.

And yet, as cruel and ruthless and unforgiving as her fame said, Alyra Mahariel never put an ounce of blame on her. She was crying, so Alyra held her and soothed her until tears stopped.

She wondered if she would have done the same knowing what she did at the Well of Sorrow. Knowing that she took the Well away from two Dalish. The Well and the voices whispered she was theirs, that the illusion that she belonged with her was just that. She belonged to them, now. It was foolish to hope anything else. Such was the price she paid.

Bile rose in her throat, the thought of losing her love unbearable and anguishing.

But once again, she had to know.

Hunger for knowledge was what would have brought her demise, ultimately. And it was better now than later, she thought. Even if it was the most terrifying thing she had ever done.

Her hands fisted in the cotton of her shirt, a silent plea not to go, to stay where she was. Four words that weighted like the whole castle slowly creeped out of her lips.

“I made a mistake.”

[persephone11110]

Trust In Me

tom kazansky x reader

warnings: abusive relationships(not Ice/Reader), talks of injuries, blood, curse words, self victim blaming,low self esteem, derogatory words used ,suicide attemp angst w/happy ending??

• Please tread lightly as this story is heavily about abuse. •

Summary: Ice knew the signs of abuse, when he was a young boy he watched his mother get covered in black and blue bruises, and he’s not letting that happen to Hound. Not Again

callsign:Hound | Last Name:Miller

- -

The great Hound Miller, Lieutenant Commander in the navy, the first woman in history to be indoctrinated into top gun. The first woman to graduate and successfully be the top of her class.

Hound Miller was strong, scary, cold-hearted on the oustide. The woman never broke a sweat during missions, always face death with a straight face, yet on the inside was as broken as anyone could be.

In the inside she was a woman who faced the abuse her boyfriend put her through. The bruises that covered her back as Josh spent morning, even and night punishing her for the mistakes she made.

She had developed a cold exterior as a consequence of the pain and suffering she had endured.

Who’s knows maybe she’ll get the guts to leave him. Maybe she’ll realize her worth and leave him.

But she can’t, because under all that aviation shit all she is a weak little bitch, not directly her words but Josh’s. A weak little bitch, who wouldn’t leave because she has nothing, not inch of space to claim as hers. She sure as hell no one to take her in, no one wants her, no one going to put up with her like Josh does.

But he’s right.

What strong woman can deal with almost dying everyday, but not be strong enough to leave.

- -

She finally got guts to leave him. What a mistake.

Hound never thought he lose it in public, where other people could see his facade crack and break.

To see were he isn’t the perfect boyfriend.

“Are you fucking dumb Y/n, did you really think you could leave me?”, venom laces his voice as he shouts at her, his facade slowly dropping.

His backhand flys across her face, she whimpers as she’s feels the stinging.

She knows better, Hound knows what to say, when to say and how to say it but she’s fucking exhausted. Has been for awhile, she’s knows love isn’t supposed to be like this, it’s not like that in poems, rom-cons, and novel.

She doesn’t care anymore, Hound is done being his broken toy, she doesn’t care if he beats her to death atleast she’s in peace.

She flinches harder than before, even though she knows whats going to happen. Hound thought she could take it, like she does all other times but this time the hit knocks her back a couple inches.

She stands there cowering under his angered gaze as the left side of her face burns. Her cold hands grab at her stinging cheek, soothing the burn.

“You think you can leave me Y/n!, who’s going take care of you?”

“Hm, what man is going to deem you worthy of his time?”

She whimpers, as he shakes her like a rattle toy.

“Stop, I’m sorry Josh” she begs him, his eyes turn dark, his hand runs up her neck, gripping it tightly.

Hound feels stupid, Why did I think I could get away?

Her throat starts to hurt, as his grip gets tighter.

He’s getting angrier.

Tears drench Hound’s eyelashes, as they fall down her cheek—damping her face as they drop.

“Please” she trys begging again, normally if she submits to him in defeat, and in weakness he stops.

Sadistic piece of shit.

She can’t see anything, the tears blurring her vision. She can’t see if this is the end of life, if this is the end of her suffering.

Josh chuckles darkly and it sends fear down Hound’s chest, she listen to his heavy breathing.

She done for, there no way she’s getting out of this relationship alive.

“I give you my home, my car, my love and you think you can leave me!” he shouts loudly into her ear.

She chokes on a sob.

“I-I’m sorry, please no”

“I’ll do whatever you want”

He starts laughing in her face. literally, “I always knew you were whore”

I’m just whore, dirty piece of meat that belongs to you.

“Answer me slut” he re-grabs her throat pressing harder than earlier.

Hound was supposed to be stronger than this. Why can’t she break out his grasp. Why didn’t she leave when he first got violent the first time.

Her airway is starting to close and she feels the neee to cough, but can’t.

She starts to choke, body starts convulsing from the lack of air.

“Look at me Y/n and allow me to remind you of who puts up with your shit”

A broken whine leaves her mouth.

I guess this is goodbye.

I guess this is me getting peace. It feels nice.

She starts to feels the darkness succumbing her, the sounds of blood rushing in her ears.

“Let go of her—”, a familiar voice she knows by heart. A man Hound hates humanly possible yet is happy he’s here. His voice just as cold as his personality

Somehow Hound felt so humiliated. But shouldn’t she feel relieved?

She’d already knew who it was by his ice tipped hair, his stone cold face. She recognized his cologne from anywhere.

Iceman Kazansky

Funny enough Hound is known for her elephant memory, yet she can’t remember what happened and how she ended up in Kazansky’s house.

- -

Ice never thought he’d ever see his enemy look so fragile and nervous in his life.

Bruises covered her arms, her legs and back. A mean purple bruise was forming around her neck.

He choked her, like actually tried strangling her to death.

He and Hound weren’t exactly friends, they also weren’t enemies either.

She and him don’t see eye to eye majority of the times, Hound flys like her life isn’t worth shit, and Ice flys to confident.

He may dislike her, but Ice sure as hell wasn’t leaving her die like his dad did with his mother Anya.

He was pulled out of his thoughts as concern entered his mind about her. She had been gone a long time.

He gently knocked on the door,“Hound you okay there?”

She could feel herself letting go, the water started to fill her ears.

Life left her body.

“Hound, you all right?”

She could feel herself letting go, the water starting to fill her ears.

There wasn’t any movement going on in the bathroom, there wasn’t noise either.

“Hound Miller?”

Hound started to slip underwater, the water was slowly claiming her lungs, her life.

Hound wasn’t worth anything. She doesn’t deserve the help Iceman giving her.

She could hear muffled sounds coming from the otherside of the door.

Bang.

Bang.

The door was ripped open.

“Hound!”, Ice hurriedly grabbed her body out his tub.

“Come here”, he beckoned with arms, his eyes closed out of respect. Hound slowly wrapped herself in the towel.

She was shivering in pain, her entire body was numb.

“You can open them Tom” Hound whispered to him. She was ashamed of herself, first Kazansky open his house up to her after saving her from Josh. Now she’s returning the favor by being suicidal.

Maybe Josh was right, she truly is worthless.

No man will ever love her. She’s broken, unfixiable.

Iceman slowly ran his eyes over her, inspecting the bruises that were casted all over her body.

A jagged knife scar. dragged down her lower back.

A knuckle ring imprint bruised her thighs, burns mark from cigarettes.

Stitches on her shoulder.

God he hated himself with everything, he could’ve given her the help his mother was denied.

He felt horrible, it explains everything about her.

The dark emotionless eyes, the angry tones, how she flew in the air. This woman had been going through hell for god knows how long.

Hound had been suffering and he had only added to it.

She clinged to him,like her life depended on it.

“I-Im sorry” Hound sobbed loudly into Ice’s shoulder.

“Shh, your okay— if not I’ll help you get there”, Ice promised her and he’s never the man to break his word.

“You’ll be okay”

“Oh, your shirt is soaking wet” she lifted her face from his shoulder.

Of course she’s more worried about his shirt, worried about his reaction.

“It’s fine Hound I got loads of Navy shirts, price of being the Navy’s favorite”, he joked with her.

A small smile appeared on her face, she quietly laughed.

“Funny—very funny Kazansky, me and you both know I’m the better pilot” she chuckled softly.

She plucked him gently , in return Hound earned a soft kiss on the side of her forehead.

Ice gave her his hand, and she took it willingly.

Lieutenant Commander Y/n “Hound” Miller has never has never felt safe before, but the way Kazansky held her felt safe and protective.

He made her feel safe— a man who was once her enemy is now her safe place.

Tom“Iceman” Kazansky isn’t cold, he’s warm.

[wisecrackingeric-2]

“New Years”

Rating: G

Word Count: 3,540

Summary: Leon falls asleep on the couch during a New Year’s party with their friends, so Luis takes it upon himself to carry him outside and cuddle him on the couch while watching the rain.

And all the while, Luis reminisces internally on the life he lived, the person he’s become, and his love for Leon.

A/N: I’ve left everything I wanted to say to all my readers in the notes of the fic on AO3, so if you could go and read it all, that would mean the whole entire world to me :) <<<33

Fic under Cut!!

Luis wondered a lot what death would look like.

He kind of had to, really- it always felt like an inevitable. Unavoidable. He always imagined himself dying young; drowning in a pool of his own mistakes, choking on the blood he caused with his own hands. Maybe he’d inhale too much smoke, maybe he’d toy with the line between curiosity and danger a little too harshly-

Either way, Luis never planned very far ahead. He could never imagine himself settling down or finding somebody to love forever and ever. He accepted that long ago; that as long as he was alive, death was close to follow suit.

He just hoped that death would be peaceful. Like falling asleep and waking up in a crowded room full of your loved ones.

So adjusting to the opposite- adjusting to a new life full of people who cared about him, a man who’d love him until the end of time, a stable home, a steady job- it didn’t come naturally to Luis. Far from it, in fact.

He had to fight tooth and nail to get the people in Leon’s life to trust him fully. That he was OK with, though; he was used to getting his hands (nonmetaphorically) dirty to survive. But what he wasn’t used to was seeing his efforts actually pay off.

Rebecca worked in the BSAA’s laboratories close by his side completely by choice. Chris offered for him to stay the night at his place when Leon was away. Hell, even Jill loaned him the keys to her car when his broke down;

It was almost domestic in nature. Like Luis had his own circle of support outside of Leon.

No- he did have support outside of Leon now. He had people who cared about him. People who wanted to see the best in him. People who looked past his mistakes. People who loved him.

Luis needed to keep reminding himself of that.

But he wasn’t alone, at least.

He has Leon to help with that seemingly oh-so difficult task every single day of his life.

Even when Leon didn’t realize it- he was reminding Luis that he was loved and cared for with every little action he gave. From soft morning kisses in bed, to cooking him a small breakfast before work, to picking him up in the afternoons to take him on little coffee dates;

Sometimes it felt like the smaller, more menial moments meant far more to Luis than any loud declaration of love ever could.

Which was ironic, cuz loud declarations of love were Luis’ specialty;

He’d taken after his childhood hero Don Quixote in that way. He’d taken after him in many-a ways- but performing flowery speeches and winding poems of love were one of the dozens of talents Luis had picked up from his beloved book. And, hell, they clearly worked- because people adored them.

Even when he wasn’t trying to be painfully romantic, they still worked- and the evening Luis found himself in was no exception. He could spin jokes and tell tall tales to Claire, Rebecca, Chris and Jill like there was no tomorrow- and they hung into his every word with an almost childlike curiosity. Ashley saw through this, though. It was far from an act Luis was putting on- it’s not like he was lying about any of his stories- but she of all people knew how genuine Luis was in the way he expressed his emotions. Ashley of all people knew especially how much being perceived as chivalrous and quixotic meant to him.

It was one of the few things he could control in life. And one of the few genuine things he could give back to people. He liked seeing others smile; it made him feel like he was doing something truly good.

But as much as Luis was a talker; he was equal parts a listener. Moreso, even. The longer the New Years Eve party went on, the quieter Luis found himself becoming, ironically- choosing to lean against the wall in the corner of the kitchen and watch his friends laugh about their own inside jokes and lates mishaps on missions like it was only yesterday they’d just come back from them. Hell, maybe it was only yesterday- Luis lost track of the conversation after letting his eyes dip close one too many times. He’d lost track of time entirely, in fact; which was a very new feeling for him.

He’d always kept track of time. Minutes. Hours. Days. He had to keep track of these arbitrary numbers or else he ran the risk of succumbing to the Plagas or his own madness. It was a tiring cycle; a cycle he didn’t even realize was so exhausting until Leon pulled him out of it.

For the first time in years, Luis let himself loose track of time.

He felt safe. He felt at home.

He’d lost so much throughout his life. Every home he had- His Grandfather, and every home he built for himself- His Dream Team at Umbrella… it’d all come crumbling down around him one way or another eventually. And Luis would be lying if he said he didn’t miss it. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss his Grandfather’s baritone voice or the makeshift Birthday Parties Umbrella would haphazardly throw for their employees.

But Leon brought that all back to him.

He loved Luis like he was apart of him. His other half. His person. And Luis did the same.

Leon built him a home he could feel safe in; a home that wouldn’t be destroyed. Leon caressed him every night and listened to him ramble and read him stories in his terrible attempt at Spanish whenever he asked-

He woke Luis from his nightmares and dried his tears with gentle kisses. He’s put Chris or Rebecca on the phone to tell him a stupid joke just to cheer him up.

Leon gave him everything. And Luis just prayed to God that he could give him the same back, too. Even if it was just in little ways.

Speaking of…

“You’re Husband looks dead to the world, Luis,”

Claire playfully jeered from the other side of the room, her smile hidden behind a glass of wine as Luis was practically snapped back to reality, blinking his big brown eyes like a newborn deer. He almost forgot they’d gotten married- that Luis had proposed to Leon with one of his own rings.

“¿Q-Que-?”

“Leon,”

Jill chirped up and gently jabbed his side with her elbow, nodding her head towards the couch on the opposite end of the small and homely apartment where, past Rebecca and Chris standing beside a doubled-down-with-laughter Ashley, was Leon; his head propped up with the heel of his hand and his eyes already closed as he seemingly instinctively curled up against the throw couch pillows sleepily.

It took pretty much every muscle in Luis’ body not to audibly coo and melt into a puddle right then and there. Claire and Jill were right; Leon was fast asleep in the middle of a New Year’s party. To say that was adorable would be an understatement.

“Gracias, señorita,”

Luis playfully flicked his wrist at Jill, causing her to scrunch her nose up with a smile.

“I’ll go rescue my Prince Charming from his slumber, eh?”

“Don’t let him miss out on the countdown!” Claire raised her glass towards the clock on the wall. 11:45 PM, it read. Luis shook his head and gave her an affectionate wink as he passed,

“Oh, no, I’d never let him miss out on such a monumental moment”

“He’ll bug you about it for weeks if you don’t”

Luis shot the both of them a quick grin,

“I’ll take my chances.”

Luis wasn’t sure how much better he knew Leon compared to his friends, but he knew for certain that his partner would infinitely rather sleep though the New Years Countdown than force himself to stay awake for it- he hardly got any sleep, after all. Missions kept him on his feet like a waking zombie.

Luis gently sat down next to Leon on the couch, carefully positioning himself so his weight didn’t dip the cushions enough to wake his Sleeping Beauty up.

He couldn’t help but just… stare at Leon for a few moments.

Seeing his partner so genuinely at peace was such a rarity for the both of them. Even early in the mornings when the two still had time to lie in bed, Leon would still insist on waking up first and getting himself dressed for no particular occasion.

Pure rest was hard to come by for the both of them- so Luis didn’t dare move a muscle to try and wake his lover. Despite the fact that the music was blaring and the people walking in circles around them were cackling louder than the showtunes on the radio.

“ Oh my gosh,” Ashley practically gasped at the sight; he voice lowered to a whisper despite it not being necessary. Luis flashed her a smile.

“ Is he asleep??”

“Yeah,”

Luis was practically giggling like a teenage girl, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of Leon’s face- his eyelashes fluttering against his freckles cheeks.

“ I might take him outside. Y’know, where it’s a little quieter”

Ashley made a noise that was somewhere between a squeak and an ‘ aaaaaawwweee!! ’, her hands clasped over her toothy grin.

“ That is so cute, oh my gosh!! He won’t wake up if you carry him, will he?? Wait, no- do you need help carrying him out?”

Luis huffed a laugh at Ashley’s genuine worry- giving her a quick peck on the cheek to ease her woes.

“ Your Príncipe will be just fine, Mariposa- And if he does wake up, I’ll just kiss him to sleep again”

Ashley gently shoved his arm, “ I don’t think that’s how the story goes… I think it’s the opposite way, Luis”

“Nah. You’re mad. Mad as a crazed man”

This caused Ashley to double down into laughter- clutching her stomach as Luis couldn’t help but giggle along at her amusement. He took the opportunity to slip his arms under Leon’s knees and back while Ashley was distracted, lifting his partner up with a slight grunt bridal-style.

Luis still struggled with his back from time to time. Most of the time, actually- and while tonight seemed to be one of his ‘better days’, those were, unfortunately, very few and far between.

Most of the time it just… ached. A guttural, bone-deep kind of ache that he could never assign a name for even on the best of days. Sometimes it was easy for him to stand on shaky legs and make his way to the other end of their shared apartment- but on other days, Luis genuinely couldn’t get out of bed. The pain gripped him so harshly that even his own medications wouldn’t provide him any relief.

There was a time where Luis refused those medications, too. Penance, he had said; a worthy punishment for his crimes. He knew now that it was just plain and simple self-harm, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

And oh, how he tried.

But, as always… Leon pulled him out of those endlessly deep waters tooth-and-nail. He spent many-a sleepless nights at Luis’ bedside just cooing to him and softly trying to convince him to just take his medications. And eventually, his struggles paid off. Luis didn’t think he’d have as much confidence and self-worth as he did now without that gentle push from Leon. But never once did his partner complain, no; he loved him back like it was as easy as breathing.

Hell, even on nights where Luis tossed and turned- back wet and eyebrows knit together as he dreamt of the knife to his back, the Plagas wriggling around in his chest, the machine that tore his skin apart to remove it- Leon was always there, always by his side, to hold his hand and be there for him when he woke.

So carrying his lover Bridal-Style away from the crowded party and through the fly-mask screen door outside onto the balcony was the least he could do.

The screeeeeeeeeeck of the plasticky door handle was enough to get Leon stirring- because, somehow, picking him up and moving him halfway across the room wasn’t enough already- and Luis noticed near-immediately that his boyfriends eyes had started fluttering. So, as much as he wanted to dust the cushions off, Luis swiftly took a seat on one of the outdoor couches that sat tucked up against the corner of the balcony- it smelt old and it was far from soft. Weather-worn from spending years outside. Bugs buzzed around the blueish overhead light, occasionally flying close to Luis’ hair.

But he didn’t mind. As long as Leon didn’t wake up.

“ Luis…?”

Ah, damnit.

“ Amoooorrr,”

Luis cooed, placing an arm around Leon’s side as he coaxed his head back onto his lap, running his free hand through that dusty-blonde hair he’d gotten familiar with gently grasping onto.

“You should be asleep, no?”

“ Rrrwe outside…?”

Leon’s words were slurred and probably almost entirely intelligible if it weren’t for the fact that Luis knew him well enough to know what he was trying to say. He nodded,

“Sí. You were falling asleep on the couch inside. Figured being out here might be a little nicer for you”

Leon didn’t respond at first. He just rubbed his eyes and yawned; and Luis felt his heart squeeze at the sight. Leon instinctively curled against Luis’ lap even further, and his lover took that as a sign to gently drape the thin-fabric blanket over his body and card his fingers through his hair lovingly.

“ It’s nice,”

Leon finally mumbled.

“ ‘S quiet. But, like, I can still hear everyone inside.. just… muffled.”

That much was true. Through the fly-screen door, the distant sound of music and laughter and drinks being clinked together bounced off of the ceramic-tile floors and echoed along the balcony. It was nice. Comforting. Comforting to know that the people who loved them both were just a door away.

Luis couldn’t remember the last time he experienced something quite like this. Maybe when he was a child, after late-night Church ceremonies, when his Grandfather would pick him up and drape his tired body over his shoulders while waving goodbye to their neighbors- the distant sounds of bells and singing and laughter growing more and more distant the closer to their little cabin they got. Laughter would be replaced with the soft swooshes of water lapping against the shore, yet those bells could still be heard if he listened out hard enough. Even as he fell asleep Luis could swear he could hear the scratches of his Grandfather’s pen against paper from the other room.

It was funny how some things just… never changed.

‘Funny.’ More like terrifying.

Guilt and anxiety were very, very powerful feelings, Luis had learnt. He’d spent a very large majority of his life totally convinced that he was a bad person; that he’d hurt everybody and everyone around him and that the cycle of death and destruction that seemed to follow in his wake everywhere he went would never end. He’d forced himself to accept that, a long, long time ago- that there was no opportunity of forgiveness for him. That he was always doomed to make the same mistakes over and over and hurt everyone who’d ever loved him and never be worthy of change. Never be worthy of love. But that didn’t stop the deep, nagging voice in the back of his throat that longed for hope. That crazy, almost quixotic desperation for a better life- a life he would fight tooth-and-nail for. That he’d get his knuckles bloody and bruised over. That he’s loose teeth and morals for.

And learning that his cycles could be broken, and that he was deserving of love was… hard. It was hard to accept change. It was hard to sit with and come to terms with all of the people he had hurt and still accept love from others- from Leon. But once again…

Leon loved him so easily, it felt like breathing. And Luis would be a damned dishonest liar if he didn’t admit that loving Leon back felt just as easy as spinning his lighter between his fingers.

It was just hard to understand why Leon loved him. It was hard to carry around reminders of the things he had done and still live a good life in spite of them all- it was hard to accept good things in life, and even harder to pick up and carry the good things that had happened in the past, too.

But he wasn’t alone anymore. He didn’t have to be alone anymore- he knew Leon faced many of the same trials and tribulations as he did. But just like his nicknamesake Sancho Panza, Luis would never leave his side as his Don Quixote, and vice versa. No matter what adventures their lives took them on, they’d always have each other.

They were completely, and utterly devoted to each other. In every way, in every universe.

“The rain is nice…”

Luis jumped slightly; not expecting Leon’s voice to break him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even noticed that there was any rain at all- but once he noticed, he couldn’t tear his eyes off of it. The thundering against the plastic shutters and the slow, methodical drips of water dipping past the cover was enough to make Luis himself feel sleepy. But he had a Prince Charming to keep an eye on.

“I thought you fell asleep, ¿mi vida?”

“M’ tryin’ not to…”

Luis couldn’t help but chuckle; Leon’s sleepy and relaxed voice made his chest feel soft and pliable in all the best ways possible. He continued running his fingers through Leon’s hair, subconsciously pulling out his lighter from his pocket and twirling it in small circles between his fingers.

“You can fall asleep if you want to,” Luis assured, “I can wake you up when the countdown starts, if that’s what you’re worried about..”

“Don’ care about the countdown…”

Leon let out a big, long sigh and snuggled his head further into Luis’ lap, curling the blanket around himself further.

“I jus’ wan’ be with you..”

“But I’m right here?”

“Yeah, but like… I don’t wanna, like, fall asleep, an’ just leave you all by y’self on the couch here”

Luis had to physically restrain himself from sobbing and kissing Leon right then and there.

“I’ll be fine, amor,”

He instead chose to lean down and gently place a kiss on top of Leon’s messy, mop-like blonde hair, his eyelashes fluttering shut for just a moment.

“I’d rather you get some rest. You clearly need it”

“Y’ sure you don’t mind?”

“ Sin duda.”

“But what about-“

“ Leon, Sancho, love of my life,”

Luis grinned boyishly and ruffled his lovers hair,

“Get some rest, por favor. For me?”

Luis heard Leon let out a big, long, and expectedly tired sigh.

“…Ok. Thank you, dove”

“No need to thank me,”

Luis leaned down once more and kissed the side of his head once again,

“ I’ll be right here when you wake up. Te lo prometo.”

And just like that, Leon fell back asleep quicker than Luis could finish the twirl of his lighter. He clearly needed the rest.

His gentle snores, soft rising of his shoulders and the pitter-patter of rain was enough to make Luis feel totally at ease- and the distant, muffled and warm sounds of laughter from inside of the house had just about sent Luis into his own slumber himself.

Yes, Luis wondered a lot what death would look like. But he was no longer scared of it. He hoped it was like falling asleep on the couch during a house party as a child and being carried to your room by your parents to be tucked into bed.

He knew he lived a good life. He knew he had people who loved him, and that was more than enough for him.

If Luis died tomorrow, he wouldn’t mind all that much. He’d be happy with where he was, and who he loved.

He’d be happy that he chose love. He’d be happy that he chose Leon.

And he’d be happy that Leon chose him back, too.

“The countdowns starting!!”

A voice from inside- Ashley, if he had to guess- yelled out through the walls. Luis instinctively snuggled Leon in closer, his eyes fixated on the rain.

Leon didn’t wake up. But he didn’t need to.

“3!!!”

“2!!”

“1!”

“Happy New Years!!!!!”

Luis leaned down to kiss Leon on the forehead once more. He was still asleep.

“ Te amo, Leon..”

He whispered into his ear. Barely audible above the rain and the cheering from inside.

‘ I love you ’ felt like too weak of a sentence to describe just how Luis felt about Leon. It didn’t encapsulate everything that man meant to him.

But it didn’t have to. It would be enough.

Leon loved him back. He knew that. And that was enough.

They’d always be enough.

“… And Happy New Year.”

[calaisreno]

Point of View in Fiction: Some Observations

I did a poll on point of view in fanfiction a while ago. The results didn't surprise me; I knew that some people just don't read 1st person stories, and most people don’t care about POV. I was more interested in the reasons people gave for their preference.

It's a personal thing, how someone tells you a story, and if you don't like the narrative voice, you will associate it with other things. Readers don’t often think about voice, but it is one of the most important ways a story draws you in, or sends you to the back button. I suspect it's narrative voice that is affecting some readers more than POV.

I’ve never hit the back button on any fic because of the POV. I have hit that button because of format, paragraphing, and a few other issues. I’m an English teacher who taught creative writing for many of those years. Now I don’t read things that feel like student writing-- simply because I can’t enjoy reading something if it feels like I should be grading it. If there are spelling errors or common grammar mistakes that I see over and over in student work, I don’t read it. It might be a good story, but I can't put myself in the right headspace to appreciate it because it feels like work.

Judging from the replies to the poll, some people associate first person POV with bad writing, but there are many other things that flag a story as badly written. And a badly written story isn’t necessarily a bad story. (Barbara Woodhouse assured us that there are no bad dogs; this may be true for stories as well, but choice is an individual matter. There are some breeds I would not choose as a companion.)

I was given the task of teaching creative writing because the admin in charge of the schedule at my school needed another English elective and I had a hole in my schedule. I was an avid reader and had written a lot of original fiction at that point, and thought having students write poems and stories might be a nice change from essays and book reports. My feelings about it were not relevant. Nobody cared whether I was qualified; it was either Creative Writing or Study Hall (i.e. Purgatory) for me. I did not hesitate.

The reality: I loved it and hated it.

Many of my young writers were reluctant, having been placed in my class to fill a hole in their schedules; they did not enjoy writing in the least. A hundred words was an accomplishment for some of them; if they could break this barrier, they got smiley faces and exclamation points. Others were wildly enthusiastic, producing pages of badly spelled and punctuated narrative, a chaotic jumble of scene and dialogue with random flashes of brilliance.

Grading a story is not like grading an essay. The fledgling writers who are serious need to know that spelling, punctuation, and grammar matter: it’s the suit you put on for the interview so you get the job. The ones who dislike writing need encouragement to see that it doesn't have to be punishment. It can be play.

A few observations from my years working with student writers:

Inexperienced fiction writers tend to use POV 1st person more often. Most of these writers are also enthusiastic readers. First person POV helps them find the camera eye focus they realize fiction needs. However fantastic, the story they write is their story, intimate and personal, and 1st person feels most comfortable to them. They need encouragement and a few friendly suggestions, not a paper bloodied by my red pen. In writing process, first drafts are allowed to be horrible.

The non-readers in my class were the most reluctant writers; they often failed to understand POV and wrote from an outsider third-person POV which ended up being more of a summary than a story. My job was to show them how to pull scenes out of the summary. People talking, doing things.

We all start somewhere.

Publishers note that first submissions are often written in first person. It is not that they reject these stories because of that; the stories have other amateur flaws and the POV is just a flag for other issues. First person is not bad, it’s just harder for new writers to pull off well.

Several novels I’ve recently read use first person narrator to good effect: Piranesi comes to mind, The Rule of Four, and Moriarty. The Left Hand of Darkness is a story I can’t even imagine in third person-- and it has two narrators! The original Sherlock Holmes stories (all but a couple) are written in first person, with Doctor Watson narrating.

There are choices even within a first person narrative. The main character doesn’t have to narrate. Watson isn’t the main character in ACD’s stories, Holmes is. Watson is an involved/interested observer (a common use of first person); he stands in for the reader, seeing the mystery unfold, not understanding what all the clues mean until— surprise!— Holmes reveals the solution. I have read mysteries where the first person narrator turns out to be the murderer; the shock value of this fades if you use it every time, but it’s effective on some stories. First person is not bad, if chosen for a good reason.

And third person has its own set of problems. The multiple “he” and “his” that need clarification. The accidental wandering out of limited point of view into semi-omniscience. Even a close, third-person limited narrative provides some distance from the viewpoint character.

Second person is rare and considered gimmicky. I wrote a story in second POV once; the only comment from my most admiring reader: NO. Just, NO. Since that horror, I’ve used first person with second person address in a couple stories (Blessings and The Story of Us, if you’re curious). It’s not a choice I’d often make, but sometimes it’s the right one.

Several of my favourite fanfics use the first person brilliantly. (Pointing to ivyblossom’s The Progress of Sherlock Holmes and The Quiet Man.) When reading, I generally don’t notice point of view unless I think about it; if the narrative flows, the choice obviously works. I don't read much in other fandoms, but think that the Sherlock fandom has a lot of really talented and experienced writers, better than many published stories I’ve read.

I use first person in some of my stories, usually because I’ve found a narrative voice I like. I’ve also rewritten stories after the first draft, changing POV (first to third, or third to first) because I thought it would work better. My feeling is that neither is better in general; in a specific story it should be a deliberate choice, not an accidental one. It’s one of many things to think about when writing a narrative. Voice is one of the most important.

My conclusions:

Reading for pleasure means that the best story is the one you love. It’s a personal choice, not a debate.

Writing well develops over time, as a product of many things. If you’re writing for pleasure, not pay, you should write what you love. Do not change your story because of what a poll says.

If you’re unsure or unhappy about what you’ve written, find a beta reader. Ask them questions. Pay them in adoration. Return the favour; it’s a great way to learn.

Polls are useful only for provoking thought. My thanks to all who participated!

[jeff-from-marketing]

The next person who says anything like "oh you and [person] would make a great couple!" or "you and [person] should totally date!" is going to get bit. And not in the friendly way that a cat might bite someone to show affection, no I'm 100% going for blood and tearing out flesh.

At the cost of breaking one of my personal rules of being on a social media platform, imma be real and go through my personal history, because there's a number of reasons I'm extra prickly whenever someone brings up anything like that and context helps.

So throughout a lot of my years in the hellscape that is highschool, I was actually very lucky to have some very close friends. Highschool was shit, but the people I got through it with weren't. Now, an important detail about me is that my preferred method of telling someone I care about them and love them is through physical affection. I suck with words like a vacuum attached to a kazoo, but I'm a god damn fucking poet writing... fancy poems, when it comes to communicating with physical affection.

Now, this isn't a problem... Unless you're Big Society. Because I, according to highschool dickhead logic, made the mistake of having friends who also just happened to have boobs. And as well all know, if you're close friends with someone that's the opposite sex to you, that obviously means you're romantically interested in them! Definitely can't be that I just actually really enjoy their company and think they're cool people that I'm glad to have in my life. God forbid I also hug them or anything...

... years I had to deal with that. I didn't know I was aromantic, I didn't even know that was a thing back then. In hindsight yeah it's fucking obvious I didn't want a romantic relationship, but I didn't know that then. All I knew was that I was fucking inundated with people trying really fucking hard to get me to date the people I hung around with. Fucking christ, I couldn't even go watch a fucking movie with some of my friends without everyone going "oOoOoOh YoU wEnT oN a DaTe!!1!!!11!" and it actually fucking ruined me for a while.

So many other people doing this shit to me, and I really enjoyed spending time with said friends and was happy around them, so maybe there's at least something to it? At least that's what idiot teenager me thought, and man do I wish I could slap them at times. Long story short: no, that's just called having really good friends who care about you and put effort into their relationship with you. But, because of just how people reacted and just were, I eventually conflated "friendship with good human" with "romantic interest" which, I shouldn't have to tell anyone is not even remotely correct or even healthy thoughts. It definitely had some very bad results mental health wise on more than one occasion.

It would take many years (and several crises) after highschool for me to actually figure out "actually, I don't do the whole romance thing." Now you'd think once I actually settled down on the fact of "no, I do not want a romantic relationship" combined with just not being in highschool anymore, that the bullshit I was describing earlier would stop.

Ha.

I mean sure, it's happened far less since then, but the number isn't zero so therefore it's too fucking high. I've had a friend try to set me up with another friend WHO HAS ALSO SAID THAT THEY DON'T WANT A ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP. THE FUCK EVEN?? And like, that was their main basis on why we should be in a romantic relationship???? The fuck???

And I've had one person mockingly say to me "awww, what a lovely couple!" just because I was cuddling up with them on the lounge in a fucking queer space of all places. The one fucking place where I'd expect my aromanticism to be understood and respected (and yes, the person who made the comment did already know about me being aromantic, so that's not an excuse)

Even now, I have a friend who keeps getting pushed into romantic relationships that they don't fucking want because other people in their life keep going "oh my god oh my god oh my god you should totally date them!" and doing the same shit I went through. Only they're still figuring things out, and let me tell you it's not a fucking easy journey.

Even ignoring how fucking childish the whole thing is, why the fuck is the default assumption of spending time with or having any sort of physical affection with someone just "oh they're dating/should date!" Are people not allowed to have fucking fulfilling relationships without it being romantic? Are people not allowed to just be fucking happy with their relationship as it is? Do people really have to push their fucking standards on how certain social dynamics work on everyone else?

God I'm fucking tired of it. Just let people fucking be happy. Let people be happy together the way they are.

So like I said: if you dare say that I should date anyone I spend time with or display any affection towards, I will be tearing chunks of flesh out of you with my teeth. That is a threat and a promise.

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

Celeste, the angel

Sherlock. You don't have to answer to me. That's between you and God.

That is a long word, but it has a short history: it comes from a German, a late Christian writer named Schiller. The name means "spiritual," but only the German meaning, and I am going to use the name Celeste for the purpose of this essay. The word has its origins in the Book of Genesis, in one of the world's first accounts of the creation of the world, where the word is used of God's first act, "Let us make man" (Gen. 1:26). God calls his first man after Himself, "Celeste," then lets him run free, to "rule the earth."

It is, in itself, a noble word, but it is a very old one. The first known use is in a poem by the German poet Gottfried August von Leibniz, and the poem is called Der Steppenwolf ("The stepping stone wolf"). (Googling "Celeste von Leibniz" will give you some more details about the poem and its author.)

It was a long time before other people started to use the word in a textual sense. I do not mean to disparage the people who had to be first. I do not mean to diminish the importance of their work. But by the time the der Steppenwolf was translated and used by English-speaking writers, the poem was a thousand years old. I am not sure if the Book of Genesis was much younger when the word "Celeste" got its start in that book, though my intuitions say yes.

I feel like I know more about Gottfried August von Leibniz because of the poem, which was not so far from the German for me, a language I do not speak. He is a more distant and more revered figure, and more of a German. I have a vague feeling that it was a lot more difficult to translate a poem about a wolf and a woman into English when the name of the woman was a phrase like "the most noble of women" and the language you were translating into was a language that did not exactly look like it had been written for this exact purpose. Gottfried August von Leibniz was probably very good at poetry, but he didn't know how to use English in the best way: he would have written a word like "Celestina," which is a perfectly valid English name if you're in the habit of transliterating foreign names to English, but a mistake if you are trying to do the name justice.

There is a certain dignity to being the first person to try to capture a poem or a word with an English name for it, but there is also the other side of the medal: being first is not an entirely safe position, in this case because it took a long time. You can't just pick up a word, any word, and use it to name a new subject. Once a word has a textual history it is almost certain to have many other textual histories behind it, from translations to misinterpretations to uses you never knew about. I was reading an article about the word "Celeste," and I realized that it came from Leibniz's poem Die Zauberflöte (Magic Flute), a kind of fairy-tale-as-opera with some fairy tales as instrumental (not as incidental) parts. It was probably not the first place the word "Celeste" showed up, though.

You may feel that this is rather a personal, even childish interest, and that is true. This is the sort of thing that children get deeply fixated on. There are a few possible explanations for this, but the one I believe is that children have a natural tendency toward pattern recognition, toward thinking about connections and patterns. That means that they're inclined toward stories and symbols and patterns and relationships that can be seen and understood by a child. They love these things, because they are the basis of their world.

And they want to know where everything comes from.

Celeste is a perfect word, and people have been wanting to talk about what kind of a word that is ever since there have been human beings who cared enough about what kind of a word that is to write anything down at all.

And then the internet came along. For a long time, the most important feature of the internet was not its speed or its convenience or its anonymity, but its abundance. On the internet you could find almost anything. Anything you could think of, you could find. Anything you could think of could be put online, by someone, somewhere. For a time, it seemed possible that all the thinking, all the talking, all the reading, all the art, all the entertainment, all the ideas, all the beauty and the terror of human life could be put online.

Then that ended. The internet became a place for the things people could not put online.

It became a place where people could share their lives, and their deepest pain, with the entire world, but still do it with the security of anonymity. It became a place that the police could not use against them, a place you could be as evil as you wanted while still hiding behind the screen, and you could be as alone as you wanted while still talking with others.

But that kind of anonymity has costs.

No place has perfect safety. We all know this. No place has perfect security. We all know that, too. The internet has been used since its creation for all sorts of harmful acts, all sorts of cruel things.

But that doesn't mean it's not useful.

There is a place on the internet where people can speak to one another without the risk of being exposed. This may seem like a simple fact, but it is actually kind of astonishing in the way it is so often ignored. The internet has become a place where people can say what they want to say, and know they will never be exposed (not in the sense that they are not observed, or not reported).

The internet has become the perfect place to say and publish what you don't want people to read.

And that is very useful.

Some of you have read my essays about Tourette Syndrome and Tourette's-related social difficulties; some of you know my family's story. My uncle used to have tics (now his tics are under control), and people who didn't understand that kind of difficulty could not understand him. The internet created a place for him to say what he wanted to say, and to know that people would never read it. Now he can make the kind of jokes that he wants to make without people being scared by the prospect of tics and Tourette's being used against him in court.

That's not true for everyone,

[thetetra]

So I want to talk to you all today about poetry.

When I was growing up I had it expressed to me that poetry was a very narrow thing. Two roads in a yellow wood, or a sonet about a beautiful thing... maybe an expression of sorrow for something beautiful.

I learned about the Vikings. They have a very special sort of bard called a Skald. The Skalds are most famous for spouting an insult so cutting it can kill a man... or at least finish him off. I wanted to explore this power and I tried to find examples for years to no real luck.

I watched an interview with R. Lee Emery. He was the guy who played the Marine Drill Sargent in Full Metal Jacket. He was famously supposed to only be the advisor but he was so much better at it than the actor they got that they used him instead. During the interview they asked Emery how he managed to insult these guys and not sound stupid. Emery responded that he had taken a class on poetic composition in college and so he constructed the insult in his head using the same rules and they all worked because of it.

This struck me like lightning. All of those things fell together in my mind and I understood that poetry could be used to make cutting insults that are devastating. I got a book on poetic composition and I got a general idea of what I was doing.

Flash forward to me having a job where my supervisor was an incompetent sexist shithead. He hated me because I wouldn't let him pick on female coworkers, a thing he constantly tried to do when either his wife or girlfriend was mad at him. Well one day BOTH his wife and girlfriend were mad at him and he was literally sleeping in his car. So he was really laying into the staff. He also wasn't very smart so he would say what he had to say then repeat himself twice more. So I had a habit of listening the first time then zoning out till he was done. He noticed that day and snapped at me to pay attention so I repeated back to him exactly what he was talking about in 20 words or less.

This pissed him off more so he started talking about respect and how I should do that in his direction and I just immediately composed an insult just for him that made me realize the elements of a good insult.

It needs to have truth in it about their weaknesses.

It needs to imply more than it says

it needs to invoke the worst interpretation of a thing like a vulgarity does. (fertilizer is a useful substance for crops while shit is a slime that crawls out of an asshole and into a sewer)

These are the elements of a good insult... and I will share my insult I thought up for my boss as an example.

"Rick when you clawed your way out of the abortion bucket and they were forced to hand you to your mother... did you mistake the look on her face for love? Because that might explain why you're so emotionally retarded "

he claws his way out of a bucket, and are forced. These all support worst interpretation of a thing (shit not fertilizer).

I don't just call him a failed abortion and unloved I imply that. Its like a twist on a joke but malicious.

I point out his inability to read a room and imply a cause. These elements are too interwoven to properly separate, and I could probably improve upon the rules.

In any case thinking up that insult made me happy and I had a good month. I read more about poetic composition and I came to realize that you can also do this for compliments. you can up your game from "Thank you very much you saved my ass" into really heartfelt thanks and a meaningful expression of your emotions.

This is about when I realized that is the point of poetry all together. An expression of emotion that really is a better vehicle for emotional content than normal. Haiku Bot is cute and all but really poetry is about putting your soul on the line so that you feel emotional satisfaction into what you said.

So I say that we need to express poetry as a deeper vessel than just beautiful things being respected. We need to teach people that poems are about spite and sadness and vitreol and anger and happiness and the whole range of human condition. Not just the appropriate and civil parts but the ugly parts too.

[plastictreehugger]

First Sentences and Other Expectations

     I find that whenever I write, no matter what for, I can’t put anything on the paper unless I have a first sentence. An essay, a story, a poem, anything…my brain won’t let me continue unless I have the perfect first sentence; my mind curbs any progress; my fingers move by themselves and always seem to find their way to the Backspace key over, and over, and over, until nothing's left. Looking back, I’ve probably eradicated multiple novels’ worth of opening thoughts because they weren’t right. Some have called me a perfectionist, but I don’t care for perfect things – my hodgepodge haircut made with safety scissors and class notes with more doodles than words can attest to that. I think my problem is that I care for meaning. I don’t care if my writing isn’t flawlessly crafted – I am human after all – I just want it to mean something. I’ve come to multiple teachers with this trouble – every teacher I’ve ever had to write an essay for – and every response I’ve gotten so far has been some variation of Well, sometimes you just have to write. They all say it in that sweet tone only humanities teachers seem to muster that makes me think that maybe this time will be different, but it never is. I seem to be better at writing emails begging for extensions than I am at doing what I’ve been assigned to do. With no solutions for truly solving the problem, I am opting to try to find the root.      Maybe it was all those years of English classes that I held so dear to my heart that was the complication. Even after the zeroes and the F’s on my report cards, I still haven’t let go of my love for it. My first time reading a real novel for school in seventh grade, my excitement spilled out of me; I couldn’t contain it. Finally, I could breathe – no more sucky state-test-prep packets without substance – we were reading something real. I felt the same for my first creative writing project. Maybe that’s where the problem started, the years and years of English classes for telling me that good stories start with good hooks. They’re what make the reader want to keep reading. Now I fear that without that first sentence, nothing I write will ever be worth reading at all.      Maybe it was the first time I won an award for my writing. I won an award though I never thought I deserved one. I was in disbelief when I saw the Congratulations! sitting in my inbox – I didn’t realize that I was capable of making something that was actually... good. Even as more congratulations flooded in from my friends and family, I don’t think I ever really processed it. I thought my stories were subpar at best, nothing noteworthy. I still cringe showing them to people who ask and refrain from ever reading over them. Since then, I’ve never finished a piece of creative writing. The furthest I’ve gotten is three paragraphs. That seems to be my limit before my whole body freezes and the deletion cycle begins again. People ask me everytime award season comes around if I’m going to submit something this year. I might…depends if I can finish something, I laugh. I know I won’t – I think I’m scared of writing. Maybe I’m scared that if I write something else, everyone will realize what I knew all along – I was never good at writing.      Maybe it was my mother. My mother was so proud of me that she cried when I called her to tell her that I had actually won something for what I had written. She told me that I was a writer just like her. That moment burned a mark on my mind and never seemed to leave. I wondered if one day she’d realize that she made a mistake. She is a real writer, nothing like the facade I feel I have put on. The word writer always terrified me; her calling me one did nothing to ease my anxiety. Maybe I was scared that I’d disappoint her, that she’d realize I was never any good at writing, that I wasn’t like her after all.

     Maybe it was the stories themselves. Even this essay was one attempt of many. Many. From familial problems to the best night of my life to old regrets – no ideas stuck. I have pages of first lines that weren’t good enough; I stared at the words hoping that maybe they would rearrange themselves in an order that made sense. Everyday for the past month, I wrote a new first line until the document was ten pages long, but the blaring siren of fears filled my mind. I couldn’t shake them and replaced that document with a new one – this one. I cried with frustration more times than I can count. All I needed was the right few words, and I couldn’t understand why that seemed so impossible. Maybe I’m not capable of coming up with something good enough to be written at all.

     Or maybe it was never anything at all. All stories are just words no matter how good or bad. I placed so much weight on what I should be writing that I forgot how. Until I decided to write about what was happening to me when I tried. The alarms in my head slowly faded as I laid them on the paper. Giving them a voice seemed to quiet their neverending nagging. As each paragraph concluded, I began to realize what all those English teachers meant when they told me I just had to write. I was doing it – I was writing. The words first trickled out of me, then began to pour, then burst out of me like a dam that couldn’t contain the water anymore. As the words spilled through me, I realized that the only voice I could hear was that of the sentences I was putting down. The expectations of those around me, the longing to be meaningful, the terrifying title of writer – none of it seemed important anymore. I just had to start. I had to write the words down, not the first perfect sentence, just the words, the other words – the second and the third sentence, and then more and more. 

     Maybe all those teachers were right – sometimes you just have to write. 

[kazumiwrites-originalfics]

Not a Phase

SUMMARY: My sexuality won’t change to fit your ideals. WORD COUNT: ~800

WARNINGS: Internalized homophobia, homophobia, more internalized homophobia, etc

A/N: Is this about my pansexuality? Yes. Is this how I came out to my language arts teacher and like a couple of her classes (because she loved it so much that she asked if she could share it out to the class on Google Classroom as one of the best pieces of writing that quarter)? Yes. Even six months later this still hits hard I-

© kazumiwrites - All rights reserved; please do not steal, edit, copy, repost (etc) my work without my express permission.

they’re so pretty (my first thought) but it’s not love (my second thought) …right?

not talking about guys (though they are pretty too) i’m talking about girls (not like you didn’t expect it)

but it’s not as if it’s real

or that’s what i thought.

never thought i’d feel this way; wouldn’t have ever believed i’d be gay.

if you asked a younger version of me, she’d stare up, blinking, not understanding: what does that even mean?

never even knew what it meant, not until fifth grade; never even knew a person who was “that way,” not until sixth.

it wasn’t until the end of seventh grade that i figured it out; that the mere presence of a girl could make my heart race without doubt.

i still remember the day when my eyes were wide open, realizing that these weren’t just some random thoughts; that they weren’t

normal.

that most people didn’t think girls were pretty; maybe a guy would. (my gender is a mess; that’s a different story)

it was as if all the years of ignoring it, of hoping it would go away, of denying it, (whether intentionally or not) didn’t work

like sappho and her poems was my queer awakening

aphrodite, goddess of love: her affections pulled me to a girl, not only guys.

do i really even like them? analyzing every bit to try to see what was so special about them, about girls.

(was there anything special?) (why did i feel this way?) (am i broken?) (why don’t i only like guys?)

even after i realized that my feelings were real, i still didn’t believe myself.

maybe there was a mistake, an error.

something wrong deep inside of me.

am i a joke? is this a game? why am i like this?

the confusion in me as i research seeing the multitude of names for different types of love finally making me realize and even accept the fact

that

i don’t care who i fall in love with i don’t care about what gender they are a guy, a girl, neither, or any—

that the heart wants what the heart wants, and it only depends on personality, not the looks.

but then again, i feel like i never fit into one place never gay enough, never straight enough never fully accepted by either group

“you have to have it rough, and you have to choose a side.” “you can’t have both, you can only be gay or straight.”

even now, i worry that it’s just a phase that i’m just going through something that it’s just not real

that i’m faking it. that i’ve been pressured into thinking this way

the words people say don’t help; hurts even worse when it comes from someone i know, maybe even care about (a classmate) (a teacher) (a friend) (a crush) (a family member)

their opinions drag me down; a hurtful word, a downward glance, even a quiet noise of distaste can make my chest ache, my heart hurt, tears threatening to spill from my eyes.

even though i know (i’ve known for more than two years now), i just don’t get accepted by everyone, especially not the people who matter the most.

“it’s just a phase.” “you’re too young to know anything.” “you need to find a good husband.” the implications that a wife would not be accepted.

it’s really amazing to be queer, isn’t it? always happiness and rainbows.

no one talks about the shame, the fear, the hurt, from both yourself and others.

forced to be hidden in “the closet,” a shell, only showing a glimpse of my true self, of who i really am

but i just remind myself no one can drag me down. that a flag with pink, yellow, and blue shouldn’t make me want to hide.

and just because people want to hurt me doesn’t mean that i should just let them.

still, some days i feel bad ashamed pained

like i shouldn’t be gay, that it’s just plain wrong. falling prey to their sharp words; listening to it, accepting it as truth.

but on other days? i feel better prouder stronger and that’s a good thing to feel, to

know.

able to be confident in who you are without any regrets. tentatively stepping out of “the closet;” starting to tell others the truth. happiness as they accept, not caring if they don’t because i was born this way— and nothing anyone says will ever change that.

knowing deep inside you that you are who you are

—and accepting it—

is much more important than having someone else acknowledge it, accept it, be happy with it.

pride in who you are is the first and most important step to accepting yourself.

[harrison-abbott]

I had a music teacher in high school who belonged to what you might call the old class style of teacher; somebody who believed in offensive discipline. But somebody who was obviously deeply unhappy with their life.

When I was a child I didn’t understand this latter point^. So I took her meanness personally and her snooty comments seriously.

Anyway. There was one time when the students had to compose some material as part of the course. I.e., ‘Composition’ was part of the coursework and we had to make up our own stuff as part of the overall mark.

I already had my own stuff: because I recorded songs at home – music being my main artistic outlet at the time.

And I played her my songs on a CD that I brought in. It was just she and I in this little room, listening to my tunes. And she just slated them, with these curled lips. She picked up on the one mistake in the entire E.P., which was when I blunted a guitar string or something. And then she said, after the whole set, “Do you ever write any happy songs?” Oh, and the crowning quote was, “That wasn’t a good melody.”

These blunt insults. I was fifteen at this time. And when you are that young you tend to take slights in a different manner; they abuse you deeper than when you’re, say, a 30 year old, as I am now.

So I understand, fifteen years later, that she was just being mean. There was nothing instructive about what she was saying. And there aren’t many teenagers who write songs as their artistic passion and are brave enough to show somebody else them.

But what I did as a teen – was to lose confidence in my musical ability. And I stopped songwriting for around four years.

A lot of it was down to this woman. Not just her: there were other people who took digs as well. And I thought I had no knack for melody, or ability for writing catchy music.

When I went to university I got back into music. Slowly, and unconfidently. But I picked up the guitar again and learned the keys a little bit and restarted songs. Mostly in my early twenties. Loads of them: and I began showing my stuff to people once more.

And, do you know: lots of them would say things like “Hmm, that’s a real catchy tune,” or “that’s a great wee melody.”

I haven’t been musically involved for a while now. Not for much reason other than that writing (of prose and poems etc) is my predominant focus these days. Of course I love music. I also find it a bit mathematically limited compared to the boundless possibility of language – how you can take words anywhere you want and there are no limitations or borders on the power of language.

The point of this essay was to wonder what was up with that music teacher, that woman? Why would you be so cruel to a boy who was showing you his songs? Spite? Envy? Or that she just didn’t think you were that good.

Maybe all of those elements.

But I think: to damage a boy’s confidence like that is the ultimate crime. I don’t understand how you could be mean to a kid. It would never occur to me to do something that or replicate that type of behaviour.

Anyway. Just passing thoughts.

Hope yal are well.