#It feels debilitating at this point. It's literally taken over my life.

[iero]

Had a panic attack that literally woke me up in the middle of the night last night and lasted until the early morning and let me tell you, that shit is TERRIFYING. Needless to say, I think I'm ready to go back to work.

[gatheringbones]

genuine question: how do you stand the loneliness? i'm in my mid 20s and ive never been loved in a way that didnt hurt. i dont want to have to run after ppl begging for the smallest scrap of affection anymore but i keep turning up ppl who, even though they are interested in me and seem generally decent, arent ready to lower their walls and let me in, so its either that or nothing, and im so fucking lonely. i try to bury myself in work and going out as much as i can, but sometimes it hits me, and i dont know how to stand it anymore. i just want to be able to be kind to someone and treat them with all the love and affection i have, and not have to guard myself at the same time or be afraid of them or feel like i can never be sure with them. i think you've been lonely like that for a long time, too, and i dont have anyone who understands. i know the only advice you can give is probably "endure and continue to have self respect", but i dont know how to do that without also becoming small, and sad, and worn out from all the loneliness. if there's anything you can think of that helped you get through it, please tell me--i dont want to burden or overwhelm you, but i dont know what to do anymore, and like i said, you seem like you've survived a couple of those sorts of droughts and i dont have anyone else to talk to about this

so on those first few early dates with c when she was either driving an hour up north or I was taking the bus two hours down to see her, I was so rattled by the experience of building intimacy with someone else that I couldn’t really think of what we ought to do with each other on our dates. In the end I decided: we would just do what I ordinarily did to build intimacy with myself, which meant taking lots of long walks all over residential seattle. and I’d been living there for over ten years at that point, getting around either by walking or by bus. before that I’d lived in the sticks. before that I’d lived in the part of the sticks that wasn’t connected to the power grid. my earliest memories are long lonely walks. long lonely walks were my primary coping mechanism for debilitating post traumatic stress and survivor’s guilt. and with c it was wild because. it was exactly like going on these walks with myself, only I was more of myself and these walks were more of what they were. what’s more the internal map of the city I had built in my feet over a decade was suddenly of use. all of the time and neurons I had put into building it were relevant to the present situation.

i packed a backpack once. water and a cheeseboard with a little cheese knife and a can of prosecco and a can of kirin for c and lots of little cheeses and salamis and fruits and veggies and chocolate almonds. And I took c on a long meandering walk that I knew from memory; fremont to the crown hill cemetery to the stairs leading down to golden gardens to the beach at sunset. all places I’d been by myself and taken my friends to before. places I’d taken myself to after packing myself a snack and bringing my journal and quite literally staring across the water at a home that would kill me if I ever returned to it. all that time mattered. the time I had spent in that place making those friendships and mourning that life and building that intimacy with myself and the city mattered.

All the years before— giving, giving, gifts to those who could not care, would not give back. How well we made a feast together. Those years of waste were over.

[mono-red-menace]

before moving from home my attitude was "i'm not disabled im not i'm not i'm not i just hurt a lot all the time and i struggle to get out of bed and standing is extremely painful and i collapse a LOT because my knee just gives out and i have painful snaps and pops as i walk, especially when i turn, but im not physically disabled im just a whiner it's actually not that bad."

and then i moved here and i started using a cane so i would stop collapsing and i realised HUH. this helps. and my gf kept saying "you're literally physically disabled. please stop pushing yourself to perform at the level of an able bodied person" and like. yk i started to realise. maybe i am disabled.

but i LOATHE being disabled yk. i hate that i can't do things that i like to do yk. i hate that cooking is hard on me and i LOVE to clean the house but its physically painful. i struggle to do anything other than lay in bed a lot of days bc im in a lot of pain and its just.

i want to push past the disability and be able to operate the way others do yk? i want to do things i enjoy and feel accomplished and worthwhile and stuff. but im disabled and it makes me mad.

i'm like SUPER ableist but only toward myself bc like that's just how my family was yk? like i have ALWAYS had a lot of pain from my waist down, from since i was a little kid, but i was always told that i'm just a baby and it's not that bad and i'm just faking because i don't want to do things, yk?

and i wasn't allowed to go to a doctor about the pain or anything i was just supposed to deal with it and work through it and if i didn't i was being lazy and bad.

but then i went to a doctor when i got here and he's like.

"damn you've got some pretty bad degeneration in your hips, and a hip impingement caused by these can deformities in the ball of your hip joint. like this could potentially be early onset osteoarthritis"

and i'm just like. "😰 wait so i do have a physical disability?"

i'm in physical therapy to try to make it manageable and it's helping me a lot, but it's not helping me to be like. Able-Bodied, yk? it's going to help me get to a point where i am not constantly at a like, 5/10 on pain. and the goal is to get me to start operating at a point where im close to able-bodied level, but i will always be physically disabled.

and that's not even touching on the mental disabilities yk. i refused for a very long time to acknowledge that my mental disabilities were disabilities bc i was abused for not being able to perform at the level im supposed to. because im "really smart," so obviously me "not trying" in school is because im lazy, not because im disabled. i was literally offered to move on to like, college when i was like 7 because i was excelling so far beyond my level in the state standardised tests and stuff (they would do like, assessments and stuff, and my math assessment i was already on high-school level when i was 7, and my reading level was Beyond College.) and i turned it down as a kid because i had made my first friend. i'm wondering if i should've taken it now yk, but i think i would've instantly been made aware of exactly how debilitating my ADHD is. but also maybe it would be more one-on-one and would be easier on me, who knows.

anyways.

i'm physically disabled.

and i'm mentally disabled.

and both of these things affect me severely in day-to-day life.

and i'm finally starting to admit it to myself.

but i still haven't fully gotten over the hump, bc i often feel like im a failure, and worthless, literally just because im disabled.

and. i feel like if i don't try to perform beyond my capabilities at all times, im being lazy, and letting the disability win, yk?

and PT is helping me like, mentally get to a point where i'm like, okay. it's okay that i can't perform at the same level as others my age.

but it still sucks bc it doesn't just affect the things i NEED to do, it affects the things I WANT to do.

[susandsnell]

You're worth a kind word from me, if that helps. You're smart, kind and strong to keep on going through so much pain. I'm so sorry you can't see the good in yourself.

Fwiw, I'm a trainee therapist and some of the people I trained with really had their own blindspots and hang ups. Therapists are just people and (like all people) some of them just kind of suck and most of them make mistakes sometimes. Please don't take anything a therapist told you as objective truth: they're trained professionals but sometimes they fall short, the same way doctors sometimes misdiagnose people. It's not your fault.

I also think you might be primed to give yourself a hard time and interpret people's words in the harshest possible way. From what you said it sounds to me like your therapist might have been trying to validate your pain and misspoken. But whether that's true or not, you don't have to agree just because they have letters after their name.

I promise you: you're worth much more than you think 💐

I was busy taking care of some things tonight (and dealing with some other unpleasantness), so I apologize for the time it's taken to get to this.

Thank you for taking the time to talk to me about this. I've got...quite a checkered history of therapy (over ten years in and out of it, since much of my adolescence was lost to debilitating panic attacks, extreme grief, and other fun emotional dysregulation), so I do understand it is ultimately just a job and people bring their own foibles and make mistakes in their jobs. I've even come to a point where I'm able to laugh at a few really bad, and in some cases, hilariously offensive experiences I've had (such as one therapist I spoke to this past fall invoking the Holocaust as an example of "people can learn to be positive in any situation" to me, a Jewish person, when I told them my previous toxic work situation was not something I should "practice radical acceptance" towards). The words I previously heard were just difficult as the other experiences I've come to laugh at were difficult, because when I'm already in a vulnerable state, and spending time and in some cases way too much money on someone who's supposed to be of some help, and when I have a life quite literally devoid of any other support system, it can be, as you can imagine, really devastating to hear these things.

Thank you for your kind words and for taking the time to be so kind and reassuring. I'm going to try to take them to heart, it's just hard when I've never been treated as someone of worth, just as it's hard to feel accomplished for trekking through pain when there isn't much to life besides it. I hope you have a wonderful (time of day) where you are, and a great weekend. You're really too kind, and I appreciate you deeply. <3 Sending deep gratitude and love to you.

[handweavers]

honestly i think i would be much happier as a person and also healthier/more stable healthwise and more productive if i stopped trying to do university & academia/"school" in the traditional sense of the word in general but it's something i've wanted so badly and still want so badly because it's always been so far out of reach and it's taken years and years of trying just to get to the point of being an undergrad but my actual knowledge and skill level is that of a graduate student and it feels like i'm just putting myself through all of this just because i'm stubborn and desperately need something to give me some sense of legitimacy but the older i get and the more i just sit here spinning my wheels and not getting anywhere combined with the stress of school causing debilitating chronic fatigue flare ups that literally render me bedridden for weeks the more i become convinced that it just is not worth it and i don't need a degree to make a living as an artist and even if i did need one it still wouldn't be worth the damage it causes my physical health. i want the legitimacy and opportunities a degree/attending an institution would give me so badly, i love learning and want to write about things and do research and have these art world connections but i'm literally. this path is not built for people like me and i don't want to live the next 5 years of my life being fucking housebound constantly because i keep over-exerting myself and making my illness worse. letting go of that means having to chart my own course completely, without so much as a single diploma or degree to my name (including high school lol), and hope for the best, hope that my skill and knowledge are enough to pull me through, and also lose my only sources of income and upset everyone in my family except for my mom lol. it's a lot to think about

[ray-ray-writings]

i don't really know how this thought came to me but consider a reader who's a pillager hybrid of their whole family are pillagers but the reader doesn't really... agree with their lifestyle so they run away and move to the Dream SMP and no one knows they're pillager origins until their family comes looking for them?? also i've been binging ur stuff, i love ur blog, this is my first time asking :)

I really really love this idea, I’m such a sucker for things like this hahahaha.

But yeah. So you’re born and raised in a Pillager tower, your mother was a human that your father fell in love with once he saw her being cruel to villagers. Growing up you were always taken on the raids when your parents would go on and you would watch as Villagers were slaughtered left and right with no mercy. It always made you feel sick to your stomach while many others were having the time of their lives. When the raid was over and won, you would go back to the tower and people would marvel in their victories, and you would pretend you were also excited, but those nights were always plagued with nightmares of the villagers’ screams and fire that destroyed the towns. As you grew up, you were able to make your own decisions. So you went on less raids, still going on some to please your parents, but the guilt grew more and more with each town destroyed. So when you finally turned 18, you decided to leave for good. You packed up everything that you could carry in your inventory and wrote a small note to your parents explaining that you had to leave, you couldn’t raid and pillage any longer. You left the note on your mother’s nightstand, pressing a small kiss to both of their foreheads before leaving the only place you’ve ever called home. 

You wander for the whole night, the mobs leaving you alone (after all, like kind recognizes like) and then for half the day once the sun comes up before you stumble into the SMP. From far off in the distance you can see multiple beacons of light coming from inside a really really big stone building. So like a moth, you’re drawn to the light and wander inside this castle. You stumble onto a wooden plank path that seems to go everywhere are the new town you have found. As you’re walking through the castle just looking around, you aren’t paying attention and you stumble, literally stumble, into someone. You catch yourself before you fall and you look to who you just ran into. You see a man with a green hoodie, a white smiley face mask with blonde tufts of hair poking out of the top. “Woah there… Who are you, I’ve never seen you before” he questions, his tone kind of harsh. You don’t blame him though, a complete stranger wandering into this new place uninvited, you’re honestly surprised you didn’t get an axe to the head. “Hi. Sorry, I’m Y/N. I’ve just… I’ve just left home and I saw this place. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll leave now!” You rush out, attempting to turn around and run out of the castle, but a hand catches your wrist. “Hey wait a minute,” he commands softly, turning you back around. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I was just surprised… You said you just left home?” You give the man a shy nod, “Yeah, my people were… doing some things I didn’t approve of and so I left as soon as I was able to… I can leave now if you want” The man doesn’t let go of your wrist, “You said you just left home?” You nod in confirmation, “Well, if you want, you could live here. Well not here in the castle, but here in the SMP. I’m Dream and this is my SMP. There are a lot of people here that are actually very nice. You can build your house in the SMP and live here. But if you want to keep wandering, that’s okay too” the man called Dream offers. You think about it for a moment, “Do you think you could show me around before I make my decision?” Dream gives you a quick nod before letting go of your wrist, “Of course. Do you want to go now?” “Sure!” So Dream shows you around the SMP and introduces you to a few new people who all give you waves and friendly smiles and welcome you to the new land. All throughout the tour, Dream subtly asks you about where you're from, but you brush off his questions and for once in his life he doesn’t push it. “So what do you think? You want to stay here?” You give a quick look around and think about everyone you met, “Yeah, I would thank you!” 

And so you stay. You build your house, something with light wood that doesn’t resemble a tower at all. You also make friends with everyone else on the SMP. Somehow you reveal that you’re really good at combat with an axe and a crossbow, probably while sparring with someone, maybe Tommy because we all know he would definitely challenge a new person to duel him and then call you a coward so you would duel him and win and claim you cheated, but it makes everyone stare at you in wonder for a little bit and become just a little more afraid of you. You never tell anyone where you’re from or that you’re part pillager and that your family is made up of pillagers. You don’t think it’s important. That’s in your past and the SMP is your family now so now your family is made up of even more hybrids and more diverse people. Your past remains in your past… Until it comes knocking at your front door… 

You wake one morning to a pounding on your front door. You of course are very confused because you weren’t expecting anyone. But you get out of bed and answer the door and you find  a panicked Tommy and Tubbo standing there. “Boys, what can I-” “There are a bunch of pillagers here. They’re asking about you. They’re threatening to burn everything down if we don’t bring you.” Tubbo rambles. “We won’t let them take you and we were told to keep you here, but we just thought we should let you know.” Tommy chimes in. Your blood runs cold. Why? Why is this happening? You don’t answer the boys and you ignore their ‘keep you here bs’ before you reach over and grab your axe and crossbow and run out of the house. Tubbo and Tommy yell after you, share a look before, and run after you. You run up and find a few people, Dream, Techno, Wilbur, Philza, Sapnap, Punz, (Ya know, the best fighters… foreshadowing lol) and standing opposite of them your parents with a few other pillagers behind them. The sound of your footsteps caused all heads to snap to you. Everyone from the SMP seemed shocked to see you and stared past you and glared at the two boys. “You were supposed to keep them home” Dream hisses to the children. “They took off before we could stop them” Tubbo pants, trying to catch his breath. “Y/N go home” Techno demands, but you don’t listen. All of your attention is focused on those you used to call your family. “What are you doing?” You ask exasperated. Your father smirks at you, “Oh my dear child we’re here to bring you home of course.” And you can feel all eyes snap to you. A wave of disappointment flooded you, they all knew now. “They know” you’d think to yourself, “They know what a horrible person you are and what terrible past you come from.” You take a deep breath before speaking again, “I’m not coming home. This is my home now. Go away, leave us alone.” Laughter bubbles from the group in front of you, “Oh silly silly child. You are not home, home is back at the tower. Come now.” Your mother says, beckoning you forward. “No. I’m not going.” The smirks and smiles turn into angry stares, “No? Oh, I see how it is” your mother speaks up. “Too bad you are coming with us.” Your father barks before lunging forward for you and attempts to grab you. Before you can even react, you’re being pulled back and you’re now being protected. The two most powerful people on the server, Dream and Techno, have formed a wall in front of you with their weapons pointed at the pillagars. “Now,” Techno begins, his monotone voice two octaves deeper and threatening, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” Your father lunges forward once more, throwing his fist out, trying to punch Techno in the face. Techno simply caught your father’s wrist and smirked, “Alright, hard way it is” 

A full on brawl begins. 

Techno quickly takes your father while Dream takes your mother. Everyone else charges and begins fighting the rest of them. Fists are flying before arrows join the ranks in that as well. You begin fighting someone you barely recognize. Your whole energy and focus is on winning because you know if you lose it’s back to raiding and pillaging villages and you really don’t want to. You manage to down the person you’re fighting and you turn and see that all the other pillagers are either also downed or being fought by one of your friends. Your eyes catch Techno and Dream who were still fighting your father and mother respectively. You’re just about to approach when Techno gets your father in a chokehold and manages to completely debilitate him. “Call them off” Techno demands. Your father doesn’t say anything at first, his fingers desperately clawing at the arm around his throat. Techno squeezes tighter, “Did I hesitate? I said call them off” Finally your father comes to his senses, “Retreat!” He gasps out. Immediately all of the pillagers stop their fight and run back to where they were first gathered up. Techno lets go of your father and gives him a hard shove in the direction. Your father moves to stand next to your mother and all eyes fall on you again. “Leave. And never come back, or I won’t hesitate to let them kill you” your speak, your voice stone cold. You can tell your mother wants to protest, but your father catches her wrist and shakes his head no. Without another word, your father turns around and walks through the crowd and toward the direction of their tower. Confused and a little irritated all other pillagers turn too and follow your father back to where they came from. 

You and the rest stand there and watch them retreat until they are out of sight. And once again all eyes fall on you. You can’t help but look to the ground as tears form in your eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they would come for me… I understand if you want me to leave forever… Now that you know what I truly am… A monster” you spit out the words as if their poison. It is quiet for a moment and you figure that they’re all silently agreeing. You’re about to speak again when a pair of arms wrap tightly around you, and then another, and another, and another, until you’re pretty sure everyone there, even Techno, is in the group hug. The tears that had welled up in your eyes were now freely falling down your cheeks. “Y/N,” Dream begins, “We never want you to leave. Why would you think that?” A pathetic sob escapes your lips, “Because I’m part pillager because I raided and destroyed villages. I’m a monster, Dream. I don’t deserve you guys.” Everyone seems about to jump in, but through blurry eyes you see Philza give them all a look. All of the arms let you go, except for one pair that holds you even tighter, “Y/N, you’re not a monster. What you did today and what you have done in the past proves it. Today you refused to go with them, you ran away from them, you didn’t want to be a part of their lifestyle. You’re not a monster hun, you never were and you never will be” Philza comforts. His words hit your heart. You’re not a monster, no one thinks you’re a monster. More sobs escape your lips, this time they’re sobs of relief. They don’t want you to leave. You’re safe here. Philza lets you cry in his arms, he holds you for as long as you need. After a few moments you compose yourself and slowly pull out of the blonde man’s arms. “Sorry about that” you apologize, clearing your throat. “Didn’t mean to lose my cool there” Everyone around you laughs. “It’s okay Y/N. You’ve just had a big emotional thing happen, and you were pulled right of bed to experience it. It’s okay that you’re a little emotional.” Wilbur comforts, taking a step forward and resting a warm hand on your back. You completely pull away from Phil and give the tall boy a quick hug. “Hey are we doing individual hugs, because I want a hug too!” Sapnap chimes, marching forward and flinging his arms open. You can’t help but giggle and pull away from Wilbur, “We can do individual hugs if you want too” You claim, falling into his open arms. He lets out a triumphant lap and swings you around in joy. “Alright hog, let them go we want hugs too” Sapnap, still holding on to you, looks over his shoulder before picking you up and running away with you. “Hey selfish! Get back here!” And soon everyone is chasing you and Sapnap around demanding hugs. This wasn’t how you planned to tell everyone about your past, you’re not sure if you ever were going to, but you wouldn’t change it for the world.

[thepeakyfckingblinders]

Never Again || Thomas Shelby x reader

credits to @saralou23​ for the gif

⤠ MASTERLIST⤟

Anon requested/summary: “can I request a fic where the reader is found unconscious or faints in the shop or something and tommy freaks out? I just find protective tommy so ❤️💓💟!! Thank you, your writing is absolutely INCREDIBLE” (Thank you so much honeybun, you’re making me blush, pls, forgive me for being late ❤️)

Warnings: swearing, bossy Tommy, basically Tommy freaking out and being overprotective, me always loving him with all of my mangled soul

Author’s notes:

I hope you are okay darlings, I love you, please stay safe ♡

I’m so sorry for being this late, I have no excuses, forgive me. Also the end sucks, but I’m struggling with my writing lately, so, sorry again.

I love protective Thomas so much, he’s an ass, but he’s a softie, and I’m gonna lose my mind some day.

Behind each one of these works there are sleepless nights and something really close to multiple mental breakdowns, so, please, take a minute to send me a message about it, I need actual actual feedbacks to understand how to improve my skills and grow ♡

If you want to be added to my tag list, please, directly message me

I’m Italian, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for every possible mistake I made. Also, please, help me improve my writing by telling me if there’s something wrong

ENJOY!

Birmingham’s gelid air hit your sensitive skin with no mercy as soon as your red mary-janes crossed the doorway of the Garrison, only to disgracefully sink into the greyish muddy loam in which the whole of Small Heath seemed to be covered.

Your fingers felt like rigid appendages burdening your already wearied arms, while you tried your best to wrap them around your coat’s edges, in a disperate effort to keep that warm tissue on your bulging clavicles left exposed by the woollen dress you were wearing. No matter how many heavy clothes you decided to put on, that implacable cold still succeeded in making you feel constantly out of forces, debilitated to the core; it had always been that way, since you were nothing more than a little girl obliged to spend one every two months confined in your bedroom, afflicted by incredibly high fever and sometimes even bronchitis.

Truth was that your body had never got used to England’s humid weather, yet, even though you poor healt had previously put you in danger, for your sake, thanks to the enormous progresses made by medicine in the past fifteen years, it was now easy to fight against the ruthless chill of those endless winters. Plus, since the earliest days of your attendence, your wardrobe had been perpetually refreshed with high-quality pieces perfectly in step with the times, for your fiancée had been literally covering you in furs and duvets of all kinds, concerned as he was that you could’ve eventually caught another bad fever, whose deathly consequences he had already experienced on his own thick skin. And for no reason in the world he would’ve even risked to lose you too.

So, as everybody could’ve easily predicted, Thomas was perennially paying attention to your wellbeing: the most famous specialists from inside and outside the United Kingdom had come directly to your country house; if one thing could be taken for granted, it was that your medications would always be settled on your side cabinet, together with a glass of fresh water, every day and every night; and, come hell or high water, he would accompany you during your routine visits to the hospital, even when it meant leaving all of his business without any prior warning.

Needless to say, you were perfectly able to do those things on your own -pheraps except for getting a crowd of world renowned doctors in your living room- and you sure as hell had tried to persuade him that there was no need at all for being so preoccupied all the time; still, he was Tommy Shelby, he simply couldn’t help it. 

The concern for his loved ones’ lives kept stealing his sleep, even on those nights when there was no trace of imminent dangers on the horizon, it kept excoriating the insides of his drained brains, to the point that, more than once, you’d had to sleep alone in your immense king-size bed or reach for him in his study, curling up on one of his uncomfortable armchairs, ready to appease his fears as best you could. In short, for as much as you needed him to relax, you were still able to understand his protective behavior, against which, as a matter of fact, no one could do much; thus you at least tried not to give him more reasons to be worried by paying some extra attention to all those small things you could solve without Tommy even knowing about it. Regularly taking your iron tablets, for example. Nonetheless, it had now been already a week since the Peaky Blinders had started a brand new business involving in effect every metalworking factory in and around Birmingham, and the whole family, you and Tom included, had been so turbulently tied up with work to let every other thought and need slither on the back burner. As a direct consequence, your doctor’s latest prescription was unfortunately left lying on the bottom of your drawer, that being the fourth day in a row you’d spent without taking those pills, and, even though everything appeared to be going well until then, that one Thursday morning your period eventually came and stroke the fatal blow, having you feel so faint and aching that, all of a sudden, the few metres separating your side of the street from the betting shop seemed to implausibly dilate right under your blurred vision, a vexing sense of nausea assaulting your empty stomach led you to lean against a lamppost, your skin still crawling beneath all those heavy tissues.  Dizziness and lethargy almost took over your sore mind, before you shook your head with an abrupt move in a bid to dispel those unpleasent sensations; clients would’ve arrived in less than a hour, Esme had taken John’s kids on a brief fieldtrip, Michael was already in his office, the boys were making their usual rounds of the mills, Finn and Isaiah were dealing with a couple folks in need back at the Garrison and Polly was nowhere in sight, which made you the only available blinder for the opening and, with Friday’s race approaching, there was no way the box-office could remain shut. Hence, more determined than ever, you chocked down the knot forming in your throat due to queasiness and just forced youself to put one foot in front of the other onto the dusty road, until you reached the shop door, not without the risk of tripping over multiple times in the process. Your frozen fingers clutched to the small side-wall now carring all of your weight, whilst your lungs tried to let in as much air as possible. And it worked, each plodding breath seemed to fight your sickness, also your heartbeat was gradually slowing down, thus you shut your eyelids and continued to inhale deeply for a full minute, before your trembilng hand managed to finally turn the key in the lock, giving you free access to the place. 

However, the small click produced by the latch closing again did not live to reach your ears, for they were already brimful of ominous hisses, in a scant moment a bulk of hypnotic grey worms prevented you from seeing anything else, they relentlessly squirmed in front of your dilated pupils, that repulsing view sending brutal shooks straight to your clenched stomach, again. And, before you even had a chance to realize what was going on, your brain completely blacked out.

                                                    ~ ~ ~

Words would not be sufficient to describe the fright taking over Arthur’s features the second your inert silhouette entered his line of sight. Just returned from their daily patrol, he had indeed noticed a small crowd waiting outside the office, cursing and fussing because of the lacked opening, and that alone had been weird enough for him to punch and kick his way up to the entrance, profanities spilling from his mustached mouth every time somebody’s elbow digged into his ribcage, inducing him to hit back so to stand his ground, only to eventually find himself powerless in front of that ghastly scene. It took him a while to recover from the shock, yet the eldest Shelby eventually regained control of his limbs and moved towards your shape with a single step.

“Polly! Pol, come here, for God’s sake!” Those hoarse yells filled the room, reverberating through the brickwalls, so loud that they could’ve been heard from the other side of the city, Arthur fell on his knees right beside you, gently placing a hand under your nape in order to lift your head. Blind panic streaming in his veins kept him for thinking clearly, he didn’t know what to do, thus he simply shook you from your shoulders, hoping in vain to see your eyes fly back open, but your neck just bent backwards.

“Where the hell is that bloody woman when I need her?!” he grunted those words in between his teeth while tigthening his grip on you, then his chest raised in a sharp move: “Jesus Christ, Polly!” He shouted once more, this time conveying all of his breath and blood towards his larynx, his abrasive voice shriveled and insisted on the last letters of his aunt’s name, until swift strides frantically hit the creaking steps, announcing Polly’s arrive. Her eyes struggled to remain open, her left palm was pressed against her forehead in a silly attempt to soothe the tremendous headache resulted from the previous night’s booze, she didn’t even have the time to put proper clothing on, since her mad niece was apparentely going berserk. “You, son of a bastard-” cursed words died underneath her tongue when she understood what was going on, soon her feet took on a life of their own, as they picked up their peace, leading her next to your body now held in Arthur’s arms.

“She’s freezing, Pol, she’s a fucking chunk of ice!” Hiccoughs shattered his worried cries, he almost whined, shifting his gaze from yours to Polly’s face over and over again, she, on the other hand, used the whole lenght of her right arm to clear in one smooth motion the closest desk. “Quick, lay her here” The deafening noise produced by those items colliding with the pavement barely grazed her hears, whilst she nodded to herself in the effort to impose some order on her obfuscated head, searching for a prompt solution that was late in coming, to the point that Finn beat it to the draw and stormed in, pointing a loaded gun to each corner of the room with fear in his cerulean irises. “What the hell’s going on?” That hysterical question echoed through the place, even though the young boy was finding it hard to get his breath, due to the crazy run he had made to reach the shop immediately after hearing that insane screaming. Nonetheless, in the space of an instant, he saw you as well and fell utterly silent, violent dismay caught him off guard, his wide eyes hesitated on your motionless figure; all of a sudden he didn’t know what to think, nor he could get the thought of your death out of his brains.

“My God, she’s as pale as death” Finn let his mind talk through that throttled murmur, regretting it right away, for silty goosebumps crawled on his skin under the pungent pressure of his brother’s instantaneous lethal glare. “Don’t talk shit, kid! Just fucking go and get Tom!”

The redhead didn’t waste any time, he somehow managed to recollect his guts and steadily disappeared behind the door previously left open. While struggling for air and internally searching for the right words to say in front of Thomas, Finn covered the whole distance between the office and the Garrison. Labored gasps coming out of his slightly parted lips in louder groans as he slammed the heavy pub’s doors open, using only his strongest shoulder; both Harry and Isaiah watched him run towards the back room where Tommy was going through the books, they did not dare spill a word and, after all, the boy didn’t even look in their direction, such was his concentration. Still, once he reached the place, all of a sudden his tongue felt dry, his well-organised speech faded away.

“Finn?! What’s wrong?” Tom’s icy eyes were now staring at him through his round glasses, the paper he’d been reading was instantly dropped, although his tone remained steady. “Y-you need to come, now! She... she’s-” A frown formed upon Tommy’s marble face at his little brother’s furious rambling, something wasn’t right, that was crystal clear, yet he wasn’t able to keep up with those hasty and stuttered sentences, so he approached him, putting both his hands on Finn’s shoulders in order to give him a little shove and maybe get some decent information. “Breathe, kid, and tell me what’s going on” That deep, adamant tone somehow sounded scarier than usual roaring inside the boy’s head, hence anxiety definitively won him over, gaining complete control of his mouth too. “It’s Y/n! I don’t fucking know, Tom, s-she looks dead!” All at once, time and space seemed to collapse around him, one single second dilated, covering the space of a whole lifetime beyond his vacant blue irises now fixed on an undetermined spot of the white wall behind Finn’s back.   A gruesome, yet familiar sensation raided his petrified body, it felt like having a beast’s fangs gnawing his throat off, lacerating his flesh to the bone, he could sense every little laceration, his chest being plundered, till even his sable heart was eradicated and then mauled. A strangled wheeze barely lived through his plump lips, that being the only sound he uttered, then his black pupils shrinked and immediately twitched, nailing his sibiling’s gaze. Without receiving an order from his brain, his fists violently gripped Finn’s jacket at the height of his biceps, bringing him a span away from his gnashed teeth with a sharp pull. “Where?” He snarled liked a rabid dog, striking, if possible, geater terror in the young man who struggled to spit an almost inaudible “The shop”, before being shoved against the doorframe as Tommy dodged him and rushed out.

                                                     ~ ~ ~

Polly held the bottle of her almond parfume she’d just put under your nostrils as if her life depended on it, Arthur’s rough palm, instead, began to pat your pasty cheek. “C’mon, love, wake up! Don’t play games, c’mon!” The dorsum of that same hand now poking the left side of your face, and then going back to the other, at incredible speed. You started to feel your face again when his nudges grew in intensity, until he was practically slapping you; soon a tremendous metallic taste invaded your mouth, or rather, you finally sensed it, whilst your eyelids battled against gravity to get back up. Arthur noticed it, he detected that brief flinch and it felt like being pampered with a fresh breeze after days of unsustainable heat. “Oh, fuck, I think I’m having a stroke” His tone held extreme urgency as he grasped for air, tugging with two fingers at his shirt collar; sure, he was great at knocking people off, maybe the best, yet, unfortunately, after that he’d never tried to bring somenody back with the living.

Blinding light rended your shrouded eyes, everything appeared blurred to the point that you couldn’t distinguish Polly’s features, although she was right beside you; nor your hearing was working, since the loud thud produced by the wooden door hitting the brickwall, and then your name barked by your fiancée’s coarse voice, sounded muffled to your ears. With a superhuman effort you succeeded in tilting your face towards the entrance, you recognized the navy-blue suit Thomas had chosen to wear earlier in the moring, still those nebulous images reached your brains with extreme delay, it was like watching vague movie scenes stream in slow motion. Your eyelids blinked as if a plumbeous burden was anchored to them, each flutter seemed to last a full minute, so that you perceived Tom coming to you in multiple shattered motions, while he kept calling you. The moment Tommy furiously jostled against Arthur, in order to take his place by the desk, you gradually went back to see and hear clearly, now being able to seize pure dread sailing those mesmerizing ocean eyes. “Thank goodness, y/n” His big palms envelopped both your cheeks, slightly squeezing them as he lift your neck, revealing all of his hidden delicacy that you, and you only, were able to bring out. “Y/n, love, talk to me” That order came out like a prayer, his voice betraying him once too often, his fingers shaking with worry, while one of his hands held your chin and the other went to caress your locks. Those loving strokes brushed against your skin, slowly infusing a little warmth into your gelid body, he touched you with the unbearable fear of watching you pass away in between his arms, having him struggle to breathe properly. “Do you hear me?” a single, salty drop fell from his long eyelashes and poured your lower lip, you heard his voice crack, distorting, until it became nothing more than a faint whine: “Please, love, talk to me” When his forehead pressed against yours, he finally gave in to the tears that had been held back with drastic ostination, shutting his eyes for a few instants he allowed brutal sobs to trounce his already aching chest. However, that moment of raw weakness was soon restrained, so that you returned to stare into his blue irises. Then, a small grin crossed your pale mouth and, even though your throat felt like gasoline on fire, preventing you from pronouncing a single syllable, you managed to guide your tiny hand to cup his sharp cheekbone. A burning kiss was pressed on its dorsum, before Tommy completely leant into your touch, giving you a look halfway between relief and disperation, he covered your hand with his own, holding it tight. “You’re okay, you’re safe” Those soft murmurs escaped his lips, probably aimed to placate the axphyziating terror still intoxicating his veins. Indeed, as hard as it was to conceive for everybody in that room, although you were the one just recovering from a sudden collapse, Tommy was now the one trembling like a fallen leaf, his arms rested on each side of your shape, sustaining his weight, as he barely stood on his own two feet. Slowly, you regained the necessary strenght to lift your bust, leading him to flutter in your direction, promptly enlacing his forearms around your waist in order to support your movements. “Hold onto me, darling, take it slow” His raspy voice was still unsteady and full of concern, he was holding his breath out of fear, gazing at you with wide eyes and tightening the grip on your hips as if to make sure that you wouldn’t vanish in his palms. You, on the other hand, gave him a rassuring smile, caressing his face mutliple times and placing a brief kiss on his mouth. “I’m fine, Tommy, I’m here with you” you eventually spoke close to his ear so to keep that conversation between the two of you “Let go, my love, I’m here” Your lips accidentally brushed against his forehead once he listened to you and abandoned himself to your tender embrace, gradually drowning into your soft chest while his arms clung on to your figure, his fingertips almost piercing the thick material of your dress as your cheek covered his head, totally annihilating the distance. “Don’t you ever do that to me again. Never again”.

tag list: @spidey-pal​, @shadow-of-wonder​, @stassaurus​​, @peachlle​, @livvtheangel​, @myjbphase​, @namelesslosers, @crazyonesarethebest​, @vxxn128​, @keithseabrook27​, @spaghettirogers​​, @writingstudent​​, @hp-hogwartsexpress , @eggingamazinglove​, @geeksareunique​, @cailoleaf​, @simonsbluee​ , @hereforsmutandfluff​, @starxtt​, @jenepleurepasbaby​, @staygold-bebold​, @marvelschriss​, @captivatedbycillianmurphy​

[wevegottogetaway]

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone. 

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind. 

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and  a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?" 

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins. 

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-" 

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

                                                       ***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.  

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it. 

                                                       ***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm. 

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!" 

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before. 

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place. 

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?" 

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me." 

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?" 

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation." 

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order. 

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

                                                        ***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once. 

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test. 

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

                                                       ***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

                                                         ***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in? 

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

                                                       ***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming  and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer. 

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether. 

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides. 

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics. 

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that. 

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence." 

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!" 

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming. 

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go. 

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits. 

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows. 

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

                                                       ***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place). 

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm. 

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why. 

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop  for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes. 

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head. 

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

                                                       ***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her. 

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building. 

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant. 

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know. 

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be. 

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them  however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place." 

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection. 

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’." 

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is. 

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper. 

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n." 

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own. 

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear. 

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink. 

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his. 

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."  

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?" 

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words. 

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss. 

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans. 

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right." 

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?" 

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek. 

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead. 

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties." 

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra.  Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach. 

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips. 

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment. 

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways. 

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good." 

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough." 

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths. 

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness. 

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?" 

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering. 

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly. 

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind. 

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell. 

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry  doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused. 

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."  

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was." 

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference. 

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

[sepublic]

God I hope Grimes did permanent damage to Andrias's ankles, I hope him trying to squash Polly broke his hand, I especially hope Anne fucking broke something in him, I hope the motherfucker is on bed for weeks and each time pain flares up he remembers he got his kicked by a toad that comes up to his ankles, a tadpole who just grew legs, and a feral gem powered teenage girl

           Years from now, Grime is going to lie in his bed awake, in the middle of the night. He’s going to stare up at the ceiling, and think to himself, over and over, for the rest of his life;

           “I should’ve smashed that newt’s head in when I had the chance.”

           BUT YES, I agree with you 100% anon! Let Andrias suffer physical scars and wounds… Let him be forced back to that memory of every little loss, every bit of pain he went through, from people he thought beneath him. Let him relive every little bit of humiliation, for a long while, if not for the rest of his life (and here’s hoping THAT will be rather short)… I want Andrias to try and ignore that, to focus on his victory, but his own body aches and hurts in protest, constantly forcing him to remember. To dwell, to agonize no matter how hard he concentrates…

           Let it debilitate him! Let it haunt and SCAR him, the way Sasha was scarred… The way MARCY was scarred, the poor girl; The way he scarred and inflicted bodily trauma on her that might last for the rest of her life! I want Andrias to suffer. I want him to understand what it’s like to have his own body fail on him, to have it marred by someone else, to have to deal with physical pain for the rest of his miserable existence… Let his pain be outward as well!

            I want Andrias’ long, long life to be interrupted by this physical agony that for centuries he went without… I want that to be irrevocably stolen away from him, like he stole so much from others; And I want him to remember THAT scar, the x-shaped one, in his side… And I want that pain to remind him of that scar, to haunt and terrify him, to make him dread the possibility of it sticking with him for the REST of his pathetic life…

           …Assuming the rest of his life doesn’t last long; If it does, then I want it plagued by humiliation, by agony, by trauma and pain, with the full knowledge that his enemies, that MARCY, they all get to live on, move past that, and be happy with one another… Happy to the point they can forget their scars, if they even have physical ones! I want Andrias to be left out… If he really was a Heart who felt betrayed, WELL, my pity for him stopped long ago when he committed child murder, on a kid he manipulated, gaslighted, and killed. 

          And if Barrel WAS the Toad who was his friend… Well, that just makes it extra peachy, doesn’t it- To feel the physical pain of his friend’s posthumous betrayal in a sense, to be haunted by his old friend’s hammer, like he’s being ‘betrayed’, over and over again; So that even in death, Barrel continues to inflict scars upon him! Let Andrias be haunted by that ghost, and many others, until HE is a ghost… A lone, forgotten one.

           Imagine… Every strike from that hammer reminds Andrias of Barrel fighting him; Imagine if Barrel HAD struck Andrias with that hammer, well! Like his old trauma and pain is being reopened, that ancient wound, over and over, like he never moved past it… Because Andrias never DID move past that ‘betrayal’, I wager. So each swing by Grime causes Andrias to see Barrel in his place, and panic, because it’s happening again; He’s reliving that moment of betrayal each time, and Grime is adding to it, extending that moment, over and over again!

           Not just Barrel, either; I want Andrias to remember that GRIME wounded him. That in a one-on-one battle, it was Grime who surprised him; It was Grime who DEFEATED him, had Andrias at his utter mercy, and then imprisoned him within his own dungeon! It was Grime who came closest to defeating him, to foiling his centuries-long plan… And it was only because of Anne and the others that Andrias won! 

          Andrias had to rely on OTHERS to survive, there was nothing of his own action he could do, he lost agency in that moment and had to be the one rescued. And now, all of those people whom his victory is owed towards, THEY’RE against him, Grime is out there, and Grime now has even more reason to swing that hammer in without mercy, the next time Andrias is beaten down.

           And I want Andrias to feel shame and humiliation, to feel the anger of an entitled someone who has something stolen from them, when he remembers Anne’s power! If it’s true that he was a Heart, then perhaps he sees Anne as using the power that should be HIS, but against him! To have his own power turned against Andrias, to have it ‘betray’ him in a sense… 

          I want Andrias to realize that Anne has taken that from him, it’s the least she deserves considering what he took from her; And I want Andrias to realize that even after seemingly losing all of his trusted friends, he still has more to lose. That even the things he thought he could hold onto or get back; They’re leaving, and never returning. He’s never getting it back, no matter HOW much he yearns for it; Unlike for others, who will get things, he will heal and recover and move on...

           If Polly is the descendant of his other friend, even better! To be reminded of how his small friend’s little size and maneuverability was used against him, used to steal the music box and ruin his life… And like Barrel’s ghost, it seems his frog friend has reincarnated, literally or metaphorically, in the form of this little tadpole who will give him hell! 

          And she’s out there, growing, she escaped him, she LEFT that humiliation and earned that victory, and she’s out being happy and alive and being loved by HER friends and family who will never leave her… I want Andrias to wallow in not just bitter loss, but bitter envy, realizing that others he despises, that the descendant of his friend he loathes, will have what the Heart always yearns for.

[bloodwarmed]

list of my favourite dual-meaning TMA episode titles

MAG 001 Angler Fish: Apart from the monster, it’s been widely observed that, as the very first recorded statement, it functions as an angler fish luring the archivist into setting the Eye’s plans in motion. As the pilot episode, it also lures the audience into the series.

MAG 054 Still Life:  The reference to still life as an art form which, taken literally, is very appropriate for the practice of taxidermy. It is ironic in the sense that the taxidermy pieces are eventually also not 'still' and all begin to move. The double meaning of the word 'still' may also be to question whether the Stranger and its human-like manifestations are 'still (considered) life'.**

MAG 082 The Eyewitnesses: While it’s a reference to Daisy taking Eyewitness accounts, it can also be read as The Eye Witnesses, meaning, the Eye sees. This is apt because it’s the first episode that really demonstrates the Eye’s omnipotent clairvoyance: Elias / the Eye witnesses Daisy’s past crimes.

MAG 092 Nothing Beside Remains: A line from the poem Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley. The title could be taken to mean Barnabas Bennett himself is now nothing, beside remains, and because he died completely alone, there is nothing beside his remains.**

MAG 094 Dead Woman Walking: I just included this because I really enjoy that the title can refer to both the un/dead woman who catalyzed Georgie’s trauma, as well as Georgie herself, whose loss of fear led to a kind of dissociation from reality / life and turned her into a dead person of sorts.

MAG 101 Another Twist: I cannot get over how the title refers to 1) the plot twist of Gertrude being the one responsible for sacrificing Michael Shelley 2) the plot twist of Michael being usurped by Helen 3) the fact that the original Spiral / twist has been replaced by another

MAG 123 Web Development: This statement is about a web developer designing a website for Annabelle Cane. The title could also refer to a development in the Web’s plot line, as it updates us on the development of Annabelle’s plans since her transformation 5 years prior.**

MAG 155 Cost of Living: The statement-giver has to pay the blood price of sacrificing another human each time she wants to continue living. At the end of the recording, Melanie reveals her decision to sacrifice her eyes to quit. The cost of Melanie’s survival and freedom - the cost of her life - are her eyes.

MAG 159 The Last: The title is a direct reference to Jon being the sole survivor of sorts, “You’re alone, Archivist. The last one standing”, as Peter mocks. Cruelly, we learn in the next episode that the title references how the Lonely is the last mark Jon has to receive to complete the ritual.

MAG 172 Strung Out: The title references both the puppet strings / web that entangles Francis, as well as their addiction. Strung out means to be addicted to a drug, and suffering from its debilitating effects.

**thanks Will @venom-and-mania for pointing these out to me

will add more as they come. FEEL FREE TO SHARE YOUR FAVES ;__;

[blueprint-han]

☆⌒ hilltop — bang chan | fluff, boyfriend au | 1394 words | slight kissing

“Hey, you mint-head!”

Chan stops in his path halfway through, turning around to squint through the lush green trees and bushes when he spots your ruined and debilitated form trying to catch up with her overly-active boyfriend. He chuckles when you hesitantly place a hand on a tall tree’s bark, crouching down on the moist, wet floor to catch your breath.

“I’m not as fit as you are, did you forget?” You heave out, shifting from one foot to the other because the trekking shoes Chan had given you were one-size-too-small, and now your feet felt like they were enclosed with molten-hot-lava. Yikes, not cool. 

“Did you just call me mint-head?” Your boyfriend raises an eyebrow, sauntering towards you before taking a seat on the random wooden bench that’s littered here and there on the pat to the top of the hill.

“Well,” You take a deep breath, uncapping the water bottle — thank god you’d brought one — before taking a nice gulp of the liquid. It feels cool and refreshing when it runs down your throat. Once you cap the bottle back, you speak again. “You deserve it, for dragging my ass to this —” A clapping sound echoes throughout the space and you separate your hands, pushing off the dead mosquito on your hand. “— wild forest, even though I told you we could’ve just taken the photos on the apartment’s terrace.”

“Oh come on,” Chan laughs heartily, slinging an arm over your shoulder before dabbing his handkerchief over your sweaty forehead. “It’s just a fucking hill, stop being such a drama llama. It’s literally just a straight walk up.”

“But we’ve been walking for hours!”

“Actually, we’ve only been walking for five minutes.”

“Sorry, you’re the one who literally carried me against my will from my comfortable bed and into this weird ass place, and all for dumb —” you swat at another mosquito. “Photos. Yeah, I think I have to right to be mad.”

“Hey, now let’s not get too angry there.” Chan runs his hand through his mint green hair. “The view from the top is magnificent, just give it a chance, babe. You do remember what I promised you once we’ve successfully reached the top, right?”

You scowl and then that gradually morphs into a pout as you shove your water bottle back into your backpack, slinging it over your shoulder. “It doesn’t even seem worthy anymore — all this climbing for one kiss?”

“Oh please,” Chan smirks, crossing his arms against his chest. “You’ve always told me I’m a good kisser, so you can’t tell me that you aren’t the slightest bit excited for this.”

“Yeesh, stop being so cocky—” A slap at his chest and you get up, ignoring the fiery feeling in the apples of your cheeks as you walk further up the hill. “You better catch up or no kiss for you!”

“Hey that was my deal!”

Once you and Chan both reach the top of the hill — albeit with a lot of groaning and complaining — the first thing you do is kick off your damn shoes and revel in the feeling of the cold grass under your feet, and finally, finally, some circulation to let your feet breathe! You feel as free as a bird, as calm as a swan in a lake —

“Why are you standing over there like you’re in the Titanic movie?” Chan asks, biting his lip to muffle out his giggles while you scowl at him once again.

“Because someone —” You smile, pointing at your boyfriend who’s trying hilariously hard to not laugh at how silly you look right now. “Decided to bring me here when I was totally—”

“Oh shut it, don’t start again.” Honestly, Chan isn’t even offended over how dramatic you’re being. You’re overly loud, chaotic, and look at the fun sides in life (expect for now, surprisingly) and Chan is calm, patient and more diplomatic in his approach. You two are opposites, but that’s what attracts both of you.

Plus, he finds it absolutely adorable, and all he wants to do is throw his camera away and cradle you into his arms and shower you in praise. Your dorkiness only brings out his affectionate side more — and Chan’s an affectionate person already.

“Ugh, fineeee...” You whine. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Okay, so — stand there.” He points to the railing that surrounds the hill and you nod, moving to take your position. The cold grass and the air feels oddly nice, so you feel energetic. Maybe this photoshoot will go well after all.

The next two hours is spent with you and Chan taking pictures of each other, the scenery, and you also throw in a couple photos of Chan stuffing his cheeks with the sushi you’d picked up on the way — those were private and confidential though, because your boyfriend looked so cute when his cheeks were filled with food, and you were selfish and wanted all that serotonin for yourself.

Honestly Chan doesn’t even care about the photos — neither do you, but you’ve made it clear since the beginning — he just wants to spend quality time with his girlfriend, and college’s been an absolute pain in the ass — he misses going on silly yet nice dates with you.

Even Chan manages to catch a few portrait photos of you when you aren’t looking, and for all intents and purposes he will be keeping it to himself — because your beauty deserves to be admired, and just like you, Chan is selfish to share it.

Seems like you both fit together perfectly.

When the photoshoot is done, you decide to separate from the cameras a bit and gaze at the sun that’s going down bit by but, bestowing it’s existence with a magnificent view. The sky is tinted the slightest orange, mixed with a hint of pink and blue, and the scenery itself is picture-worthy.

“So...” You say, having calmed down from your burst of energy from before. “Today was nice.”

“What —” Chan says with sarcastic intent, gasping and clutching at his heart like he’s in grave shock. Now he’s the one who’s being dramatic. “— Didn’t you say it wasn’t worth my kiss?”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes playfully, quirking your brow before gazing off into the afternoon-evening sky.

“Pfft, I’ll shut up after we finish the one more picture we have to take.”

“What picture, didn’t we have all of them already?”

“Nope, stand here.”

Chan runs to fix his tripod stand a few feet away from where you’re standing, setting the timer before rushing back to his place.

“This one’s special, so please get rid of the grouchy face.” You frown, but nonetheless smile at his excitement.

“Okay so, close your eyes.” 

A raised eyebrow is thrown in his direction, but you still comply, extremely curious to know what your boyfriend was up to.

“I swear to god, if you pull that thing you did to me last time when you put a bug in my hand I will —” Hey, you were just being proactive! The bug incident had freaked the fuck out of you, so much that you didn’t go near Chan for a whole two days until he’d apologized and bought you McDonalds.

But oh god, what you felt was so, so much better than that prank. 

Soft lips press against your own and efficiently shut you up, leave be for the muffled nose that rolls off your tongue in surprise. His lips move with synchrony, and you barely notice the camera flash behind you when Chan cups your cheeks and you wrap your hands around his waist, delving deeper and deeper and deeper until you ran out of breath. Not that you didn’t feel breathless when Chan got like this, and you loved every bit of it.

When you pull away, you gasp for air, panting as you rest your forehead against Chan’s.

“So,” He says, rubbing his thumb against your cheek and kissing the tip of your nose. “Was it worth it?” He cocks an eyebrow, and you giggly softly, pulling him into a hug.

“You know it always will be.”

And the framed picture of you and Chan kissing under the medium-orange toned sunset looks ever-the-pretty on your room’s wall.

*:･ﾟ✧ find the other fics here !

[poychachi]

How to Write About PTSD

@writinghaven on instagram [source: https://lisahallwilson.com/how-to-write-about-ptsd-in-deep-point-of-view/]

PTSD is featured in many fictional works, primarily as a source of internal conflict for a character. However, many writers simply research symptoms and run with it. There is so much more to PTSD than flashbacks that can add emotional layers, depth, and connection to readers, as well as increase the accuracy of the representation. Here are some important things to remember/consider when writing about PTSD! 

What do writers get wrong about PTSD? 

Giving characters a traumatic past and an ongoing condition that hinders their ability to move on is great for character arc if you can pull it off. Otherwise it can come off sounding trite or melodramatic. The character struggling with PTSD is facing overwhelming odds, and any character who stands up to a bully of any kind (even when it’s a mental illness) is someone readers will cheer for.

Do more research than just symptoms. Flashbacks seem to be the most appealing aspect of writing a character with PTSD, but actual recurring flashbacks are a symptom of very severe PTSD which is absolutely debilitating in every way. Try talking to someone who struggles with this. Read blogs written by those who live with or struggle with this, or have a loved one who struggle with this. Know that the symptoms don’t encompass the whole struggle but are simply the tip of the iceberg.

What else is there to PTSD other than flashbacks? 

Yes, flashbacks can happen with PTSD, but here’s the truth about flashbacks – not everyone has them frequently or even at all. Most writers love the idea of using flashbacks, I’ll admit they’re fun to play with, but where writers often miss the mark with PTSD are all the OTHER symptoms that are debilitating and soul-crushing. Far more common are triggers which require more subtlety and art to really convey how devastating they can be.

PTSD is a filing problem – basically. Where most brains are able to process and appropriate file away a traumatic memory, for whatever reason – a particular memory or file gets left out and never gets filed away (processed). It’s kept front and center for easy access essentially rewiring the brain.

When triggered, (a smell, a place, a feeling, a person, etc.), the inner-most part of the brain (the amygdala – stay with me) sounds off like a fire alarm. When that fire alarm goes off, the rest of your brain diverts all power/energy to that alarm center. So, once the fire alarm goes off, you’re incapable of “thinking” your way out of a situation. Instead, you’ll instinctively react in the way that’s most likely to “save you” whether it’s fight, flight, or freeze.

When PTSD rewires the brain, that fire alarm (which is useful, which is necessary) is now super super sensitive. It’s like placing a fire alarm over your toaster. You’re going to get a lot of false alarms. So, in real life we might take the battery out of the alarm, move the alarm or move the toaster. But with PTSD, because the brain can’t figure out where to file that memory, you’re kind of stuck with these constant false alarms. So most or at least a lot of energy goes into avoiding setting off that fire alarm.

This creates a near-constant hyper-vigilance that is exhausting. Utter, soul-draining, bone-weary exhaustion. To the point where you can’t think clearly – you struggle to order your thoughts or prioritize things correctly. It’s debilitating and can very thoroughly undermine your self-confidence. Every small task or outing gets weighed against the emotional and physical and mental toll it could exact. And let me tell you, this foggy thinking makes life seem pretty hopeless pretty fast.

And while only the most severe cases have persistent flashbacks, that hyper-vigilance and exhaustion is pretty common. The mental fog caused by the hyper-vigilance or a trigger is common. The frustration and internalized shame of not being able to sort your thoughts, or trust your own thinking is intense.

Give your character a coping mechanism

Most people learn coping mechanisms to manage the symptoms of PTSD simply to function, but those mechanisms wear out, their effectiveness wanes over time, our tolerance of them grows thin. If a trigger is the fire alarm, the coping mechanisms are essentially the broom being used the fan the fire alarm to prevent it from going off.

If that “broom” is the only way you can manage life at all, you’ll go to some pretty extreme lengths to prevent having it ripped from your hands. Now, that “broom” can be expressed in a wide variety or combination of ways: anger or violence, self-medicating with drugs or alcohol, workaholism, eating disorders, becoming a hermit, suicidal, etc.

At the same time, someone with PTSD is going to cover up their pain at all costs. People stare. They avoid you. They whisper. And all of that gets internalized over time. They’ll be fine in a social situation until they aren’t and they react in (what might appear to be) an irrational or erratic way, but internally they’ll have clamped down and “soldiered up” as long as possible.

Show the consequences of how ineffective that bloody broom strategy is! Show what happens when the broom is taken away (alcohol, a person, a schedule, etc.).

Show don’t tell a PTSD Trigger

You want to show and not tell, right. The person struggling with these kinds of anxiety or PTSD is going to go to great lengths NOT to think about the original traumatic event. Who consciously relives traumatic events? Nobody.  

More likely, the traumatic memories are shoved to the very back of the mind and actively avoided, and numbed when avoidance isn’t possible. They’ll be ruled by emotions, and unless they dig down into the WHY of their strong emotion, the PTSD may go untreated for a very long time.

Instead, show the coping mechanisms (the broom) used to control the symptoms or turn their mind off (escapism, fantasy, porn, drugs, alcohol).

“For me there’s a predictable progression that happens that tips me off to that fire alarm detecting smoke. I feel it in my gut first, a clamping down, a tension, a tightness, and a feeling like I don’t want to be in that place. Then I start to blush, my face feels like it’s on fire. Then I start to tremble. I’ll look down and notice my hands trembling, but at times it won’t feel like I’m looking at my own hands at all. Then my last warning is profuse sweating – regardless of the environmental conditions.” - Lisa Hall-Wilson

When PTSD is triggered you’re at war with yourself quite literally. It will seem to come out of nowhere or can build up slowly to a crashing crescendo. A moment ago you were rationally able to recognize there wasn’t any danger, but then the switch is flipped and your body is absolutely convinced you’re in mortal danger.

Know what your character’s primal goal is when they’re triggered. Is it safety? Is it survival? Is it escaping? Have them seek that out at all costs.

They could have a mantra they recite to control their thoughts. They might have a safe person, someone they trust to watch their backs in new or upsetting situations. The slow removal of their dependence on their grounding techniques or coping mechanisms is a great way to show growth.

Those who know what their triggers are will actively avoid situations that might set them off. This is a potential for conflict – force them into a situation where they’re uncomfortable, where they feel threatened or unsafe. Spring it on them. Put them in new situations. 

“I wasn’t aware that exercise fatigue mimicked my PTSD symptoms, so I was triggered by a jerk at the gym and couldn’t feel it coming on because I was in the middle of a workout. The times when you’re triggered without warning are the worst. Being blindsided sets you back days, weeks, even months.”

A blindsided character could be an “all is lost” moment

Being blindsided by a trigger at any point. A situation that’s been fine a thousand other times can trigger you that one day because someone new is there, because you can’t get your usual seat by the door, because someone’s wearing the cologne that your attacker wore. This is a great device to save for a pivotal conflict.

It’s like a two-by-four to the head. Show their emotional wounds bleeding all over the floor and have them keep going anyway. Show them growing stronger, trusting people again against their instincts, forgiving themselves because they couldn’t get a hold of themselves again, etc. Let the whole process be messy, two steps forward and one step back. The stories that end in a pretty bow and leaves everyone “cured” simply aren’t authentic.

SOURCE: https://lisahallwilson.com/how-to-write-about-ptsd-in-deep-point-of-view/

[newhologram]

I've been doing some thinking and realizing just how far back this all goes. Those of you who know me and my family IRL may have a hard time believing the emotional abuse and gaslighting because whenever you've met them, they seemed fine. They may have even bragged about me to you which made you think that they thought very highly of me. They also may have neglected to inform you that I have been disabled by chronic illness the past 10 years (many of my other family members had no idea until they spoke to me personally. It's... really fucking weird? To just not tell anyone that your offspring is in bed all day in horrible pain and constantly at the doctor/ER?). Unfortunately this is also part of the gaslighting, putting on a persona of parental perfection so that no one believes me when I try to talk about it. Instead people, even within my family, make excuses for the abuse and say that I should just be grateful. Behind closed doors it's always been very different. In the event that me processing this in private spaces gets out to them (which WILL endanger me): This isn't about *~exposing~* or *~revenge~* or *~punishment~*, it's about putting the pieces together and saying, yeah, I'm right to finally put my foot down about the way I have been treated. This is my experience. This is my trauma. I'm finally claiming that after a lifetime of being told that these experiences and my pain around them are apparently "not real" (gaslighting). By talking about this, I am not victimizing myself, but empowering myself. Because none of this treatment was ever my fault. None of it was ever deserved. And none of this is to be blamed on my "response" to abuse. I hope that by talking about this I can paint a picture of the dynamic and inspire investigation into the health of your own family dynamics too. "But they're family" is literally what enables this kind of abuse to continue. And I'm done. My health and survival is more important than upholding a toxic family system. They're learning that the hard way, finally. I don't think my family members are bad people. I truly do love and care for them. They have some amazing qualities. They love animals and they've come a long way to now being LGBTQ+ allies even if they don't always use the right words. But they have a lot of flaws that most likely come from their own trauma... But these aren't just self-contained flaws. Because I am the one who will be undoing the damage for the rest of my life. I don't know if they will ever go to therapy themselves, but I certainly won't be waiting around for them to work on themselves if it means I'm going to continue to be mistreated and re-traumatized. - It's always been this way but things definitely got worse in my home when I became disabled (possibly bc it triggered insecurities in them?). Both parents ignored me to my face all my life. I'd say or ask something, and there'd be no response most of the time. If I said, "hey, I'm talking to you, that's rude" they would blow up at me about "WHAT. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY. I HAVE THINGS ON MY MIND OKAY I HAVE MY OWN LIFE". This happened even when I was a literal child. I grew up believing that nothing I had to say was worth hearing and that if they ignored me that it was because I was unimportant and annoying. But if I ignore them or take too long to respond because I'm thinking, they scold me me about being rude, that they are my parents and I need to respect them. My emotions and pain have been invalidated since I was a child too. I would get picked up from afterschool care, or my bully's house, and of course I'd be crying from enduring a day of bullying. I would say, "I didn't do anything to them, it's not fair." And my dad's response was always, "WELL GUESS WHAT LIFE'S NOT FAIR. WAIT UNTIL YOU'RE AN ADULT IN THE REAL WORLD." He has continued to say this to me on a regular basis whenever I am struggling, either with work, friends, relationships, a death, or my chronic illnesses. I wonder why he has never considered my world to be real? Why is my reality not real to him? What

makes that even more painful is that I was still sent day after day to the school where I was bullied, to afterschool care with my bullies, and to my bullies' homes. No matter how much I was always crying when they picked me up, they just kept sending me back. And then a few of my dad's girlfriend's had children who bullied me too. I literally could never escape it. If it wasn't that, his response to me crying about something would be, "YOU HAVE NOTHING TO CRY ABOUT. YOU'RE LIVING THE LIFE OF LUXURY HERE, YOU DON'T PAY RENT! JUST WAIT UNTIL YOU'RE OUT THERE HAVING REAL PROBLEMS!" Again, he said this to me when I was a 24 year old who was suddenly in the span of a year so disabled that I could barely work. I was scared for my future, because I had taken the time to educate myself about my illnesses, and I knew that things were going to be hard for me. What I needed was support, not "tough love" and emotional invalidation. I was also scared of the situation I am in now. I was scared that I was going to be too sick to afford to move out and that by age 30 I would still be stuck at home with a parent who did not see my reality, my pain, as real. I am living that and it's not fun. Whenever I tried to talk to him about this invalidation, it just turned into a fight, because he refuses to admit the things that he said, and says things like "That's a You Problem" which he has said since I was a child in response to him hurting my feelings. I have always thought it was worth the effort to communicate to my loved ones this sort of issue, because that's what I was taught at school. If there's an issue, you talk about it. But my family doesn't believe that I guess. - When I first got sick, I was throwing up a lot. It had built up over several years since I was 19 but then after I was officially diagnosed with my Big 4 (colitis/fibro/ME/narcolepsy) I started having really dangerous vomiting attacks. The first attack I had lasted 6 days. I lost 12lbs. I overheard my dad complaining on the phone to a friend that I was keeping him up all night throwing up. I felt so bad for bothering him, I had learned to value his comfort over mine. But after the third day of nonstop vomiting, I told my dad I needed to go to the ER, that something was wrong. He sighed and rolled his eyes and said I didn't need to go. He was so annoyed with me for being sick. I was completely pale. I hadn't eaten anything. I could barely keep water down. I argued but he wouldn't listen. I went back to throwing up, at this point just dry-heaving. A while later I said, "I'm taking myself to the ER." I grabbed my car keys and my dad stopped me. He said, "That's ridiculous, you aren't driving yourself to the ER, I'll do it." But he still wouldn't take me for some reason. I don't know if he just didn't want to pay the copay or what. But I was literally trapped. I tried to fight it and said, "If you're going to take me, then take me. If not, let me take myself." I kept throwing up for three more days before he finally agreed to take me. The ER was packed so I ended up going to urgent care, where the nurse scolded me. She said I really should've gone to the ER after the third day of vomiting. She said that if I had gone a 7th day I could have collapsed. I didn't know how to tell her that I had tried. She asked where my family was and I said my dad had to go to work so he had just dropped me off. She had tears in her eyes and she held my hand. She said, "he should be here with you." THAT is how sick I was. That year, I went to the ER three more times. Each time I would be sobbing and ashamed of myself just for bothering my dad and for him having to pay the copay since I was too sick to earn the money myself. Again, that's how little I had learned to value myself and my health. By my birthday that year, I was suicidal from this shame. A few months later, in the new year, I started having vomiting attacks again. My dad stood over me while I was hunched over the toilet gagging and he said something I will never be able to forget, "You need to snap out of it

because I can't go through this again." He was the victim of my illness. He was the victim of my pain. This year was when my dad told me that he and his gf had been "talking" and that they had decided it was "time for me to be independent". He said they'd even help me find an apartment. I cried and said, "Dad, I'm sick. I've been so sick the past year. How am I supposed to afford even splitting rent with a roommate when I'm in bed in a neckbrace all day long?" and his response was, "But your dad needs his bachelor pad." I couldn't even identify what I was feeling. I was so shocked. Did he really think having the apartment to himself so he could have girls over was more important? But he was always telling me that I was the most important person in his life. I was so confused.

He gave me a time frame to move out and I was terrified. I thought my life was over. But most of all, I thought, "it's not fair to my dad that I'm sick." I thought so little of myself and my pain because that is what I learned as a kid. I blamed myself for not being "strong enough" to power through these debilitating illnesses. I blamed myself for my dad's money troubles. I literally could not live with myself knowing that my dad had to support me. I was so ashamed that I learned to vomit quietly so that he wouldn't notice. I was in a constant state of suicidality for several years after this. And it's no wonder, because year after year my dad has barged into my room to harass me about "it's time to be a Real Adult! It's time for you to Contribute to the household! You need to Make Money! I'm HEMORRHAGING money supporting you! I'm having to use my savings!" and because I was too sick to do this, I felt like a complete failure who did not deserve to live. I was self-harming constantly because I hated myself for "doing this" to my father. He had convinced me that I was the villain. I would start freaking out about money, forcing myself to work even if it meant vomiting literally on set (and almost being sent home bc of it, but I insisted I was fine to work). But I still couldn't make enough to afford my medical expenses. So I would shame-spiral and be suicidal again and then suddenly the story would change. My dad did a complete 180 and said, "Why are you even worried about money? We're doing fine. Even if I didn't have to support you, it wouldn't make that big of a difference in the money that I spend on this household. Don't worry about it." And then as soon as bills were due, he was back to telling me that I needed to make money. Back to saying we spent too much money on food despite me not eating that much. Back to refusing to try shopping somewhere cheaper when I suggested ways to save money. When I brought this up to my therapist back then, she said, "He's giving you mixed messages. Maybe you should bring this up to him so he realizes he's doing it." But when I did bring it up, of course my dad denied doing this and called me ungrateful even as I worked two jobs. When I eventually got a third job (fucking up my health more) to pay off my medical debt, my dad patted my back and told me how proud he was. When I told my therapist that he denied it, she suggested I bring him in so she could help us communicate. When I asked him to come with me to therapy, he got angry and said, "I am NOT going to therapy with you, that is ridiculous." But even with those 3 jobs it still wasn't enough and I was constantly being pulled between "YOU HAVE TO MAKE MONEY RIGHT NOW END OF THE WORLD" and "uhh why are you even worried about money, you need to work your mindset..." When bugged about money I would ask, "What else do you want me to do? I'm working 3 jobs. I'm not hiding money from you. I'm sending you everything that is leftover after I pay my own bills. I've even been buying a lot of my own food, I've been living off ramen and cans of ravioli." And he never had an answer except "just make more money." -- Now to the dynamic I'm currently living in. My dad moved his gf and her dog in without talking to me about it to see if it was going to impact my health. She was only supposed to stay here for maybe 4-5 days while she figured out a new home situation. But when I asked my dad about it in the days leading up to her arrival, suddenly the answer was "oh, she's staying indefinitely." I had no say in it. But we had a talk about what I needed to make this work. I said to my dad that the most important thing was that I have some scheduled quiet time. If I'm recording content or editing audio, I'm going to need quiet that morning so I can get my work done. If I'm resting, I need there to not be shouting or slamming doors happening in the house. He assured me that this was fine and that it'd all be easy for the three of us. The first weekend she was moved in, I let my dad know that I was editing audio that morning and needed

some quiet. He was cheerful and said, "No problem!" I thought wow, this is different. This is nice! This is going to be great for my productivity and health. As soon as I started editing, his gf was blasting music in the kitchen (right next to my room) and they were both laughing and talking loudly just a few steps away from my door. I thought, okay, we talked about this. But I'll just power through. When I was done, I went to my dad and said in a calm manner, "Hey, so this morning I let you know ahead of time that I was editing audio but there was still a ton of music and stuff in the kitchen, so it made it take a lot longer for me." His eyes immediately went dark. He put on an angry parent voice and said, "Okay, I am about to pop. I have enough going on without worrying about making too much noise for you." I said, calmly still, "We talked about this, though, and you assured me it wasn't a problem that I needed this quiet time for editing. So I'm not sure what to do. I'm just letting you know that there was still loud music right next to my room even though we had talked about it." He responded, "Then you need to be more specific because I don't know what you're doing in there." I corrected, "But I told you this morning that I was going to be editing audio and you said it was no problem to have some quiet in the kitchen while I did so." He got more aggressive, "No, you need to be more specific." Again, "I was specific. I told you the time frame that I was going to be editing audio in. You said you understood. I don't know what else to do to fix this other than by openly communicating to you about it." I started crying because--I mean, uhh?? This is gaslighting. I couldn't believe that mere hours after I had specifically told my dad that I was editing audio and that he had assured me it was no problem to have some quiet, that he was accusing me of not telling him what I needed, and that he had not agreed to it or something. Like wtf. He got nastier and blamed me for his stress. But me crying triggered his guilt so he tried to soothe himself by hugging me like he does and I pulled away. I tried to emphasize to him that I'm not just making content for fun. I'm literally trying to make money and contribute to the household like he has told me I need to do for the past 8 years. And when he disrupts my editing process, it just makes it take longer, and it makes it harder for me to earn extra money. His gf was also super rude to me when I tried to be friendly and have a conversation with her. I was telling her about how great it felt to have my sister initiate a conversation about my gender identity and she interrupted me (like she does constantly) to say, "YOU KNOW YOUR SISTER DOESN'T ACTUALLY GIVE A SHIT, RIGHT?" (wtf...) After this, I didn't speak to them for three days. I was feeling the urge to self-harm that whole weekend and all I could do was stay in bed crying after that. I knew if I spoke to them I would just get triggered so I was protecting myself. My dad felt guilty and tried to talk to me in my room. I tried to explain how triggering this whole situation is for me and he said he would do anything to make it easier for me. I had told him what I needed but that he had gaslighted me about it. - This next and last part is going to illustrate the priorities in this household. A few years ago, I started having problems with hives. I spent almost a whole year having very painful breakouts all over my body. It kept me up all night and caused me so much discomfort during the day. I kept telling my dad about it (no response, or annoyed responses), I went to the doctor several times about it (useless ointments), and suffered month after month. I tried so many things, I thought maybe it was bugs, spiders, etc. My asthma was also acting up and I remembered that an ex-neighbor had been suspicious of mold because of their health issues getting better the second they moved out. They had told me back then that we should test for mold. I brought it up to my dad that I had been suffering from this for

long enough and that we should do something about it (mold also makes fibromyalgia and ME way worse). He angrily snapped, "What do you want me to do about it?" I suggested we ask the landlord to mold test the apartment. He refused bc he doesn't like to bother the landlord. I said that I would just order a mold kit myself and he said, "No, let me do it, I'll pick the right one." But he wouldn't even after I kept reminding him. Even after I sent him links to mold kits that we could order. After I got rid of my mattress, my hives got a lot better but I still have issues every now and then. For years I have just lived with this because I couldn't get him to even care about the fact that I was spotted with these big pink hives. When his gf moved in, we had a random rainy day, which seems to have activated the mold. His gf got one tiny little hive and the sniffles. She said to him once, "Hey, I think you have mold in this house." Want to guess what happened after that? You're right. He immediately ordered several mold test kits. I said to my therapist, "How am I supposed to feel about that? Is it really unreasonable, am I really in the wrong to feel hurt by that?" My therapist said, "I mean, I would feel completely invalidated and like I didn't matter." This isn't the first time empathy has been withheld from me obviously (above examples during my flare ups), but sometimes even when it's right in front of him he just can't bring himself to care for some reason. One time a big piece of glass was in my thumb. I said, "Ahhh, glass, help! Glass!" He was eating snacks in the kitchen and just glanced at me, didn't move or say anything. I realized he wasn't going to help, so shaking and bleeding, I managed to pull the glass out with tweezers very painfully. It bled so much and I stood over the sink trying to stop it. My dad just kept eating his snacks, not asking if I was okay or anything, he didn't even look at me. After 5 minutes I still couldn't get the blood to stop and asked my dad if he could help, maybe get me some gauze. He put food in his mouth and sighed, "Just put pressure on it" and walked away. It feels like he's just disgusted with me. I know that he does love me and that he's trying the best he can with all of his mental/emotional/personality flaws but he thinks that just because he puts a roof over my head that he can treat me however he wants and not work on his issues, that it's my fault for being hurt. He thinks that his issues are all on me to learn to endure and it's not right. I know that he resents me for getting in the way of him having a relationship because that's the only message I have gotten since childhood, with every woman he's brought into my home. But in the end his relationships always fall apart because the woman ends up realizing, and stating to him, that he is "emotionally absent". And every time, I comfort my dad through the break up. When he has tried to blame his ex I said once to him that therapy can really help him with his emotional issues and relationships. But he refuses, so. That's on him. But I refuse to believe that I am in the wrong here for saying enough is enough. But he's going to keep trying to make me believe that the problem is just me and my feelings, not his behavior. Nope. Boundary is up. I just have to keep to myself and do what I need to do to stay safe until I can move out. Because I guarantee you he's going to realize he doesn't get enough validation from his gf and then come running back to me as always and then be angry that I'm still holding my boundary strong. I know that this will hurt less as I get distance from it, but I don't like the idea of my pain being my fault when I grew up with this toxic stuff. I'm working so hard to make it hurt less but I can't heal if it keeps happening, so all I can do is back away from what is hurting me instead of being surprised when I'm hurt again. THAT is on me 100%. Hopefully he doesn't grab my desk and slam it against the wall again like in 2014 when I first tried to set this boundary. And of course when he

"apologized" he accused me of "punishing him" by not spending time with him. Jee-zus, dude. Get therapy. I can't be the only one in this family bearing this weight and working on my shit.

[lucielovekj]

Oh yeah I had a bit of an epiphany last night!!

So back in the latter part of last year I was put onto new medication at my own request, because I wasn’t happy with how my meds at the time were making me feel (very numb)

So I got put onto a stronger antidepressant, and over the course of the months I was taking them I very slowly started to get worse and worse until I was in the worst state of my life. My anxiety was so debilitating I literally couldn’t do anything, this might sound melodramatic but I pretty much just sat on my bed shaking most of the time. It was A Lot. The few things I did do then took huge effort and would peak my anxiety. Sleep became almost impossible and I was only sleeping via knockout sleeping tablets. At one point my dosage was increased and I had a horrific panic attack from the tablet which lasted the entire night.

So anyway, I came off of those meds a month or two ago, because although it had taken me ages in the state I was in I eventually figured out that my meds were making me worse, and I requested to be put back on my original meds because I couldn’t handle any more experimentation, at least I knew how those ones worked for me

Anyway, a few weeks passed on the new (old) meds and by complete coincidence I stumbled across a condition called “serotonin syndrome”, which I’ve never been told about before. It’s basically your body overdosing on serotonin, and it fit every one of my symptoms, completely spot-on. This condition is very dangerous, and can be fatal. It is usually only happens as a result of multiple antidepressants being prescribed at once, though, so I just assumed it was just my body couldn’t handle this specific tablets dosage or something and put it to rest.

But now that I’m on the ADHD meds, I’m seeing that, while my depression is still an issue, many of the severe day-to-day problems I’ve been having have been as a result of my ADHD and not my depression. This means I don’t need anywhere near the dose of serotonin that I was being prescribed, what I needed was ADHD treatment.

This pretty much confirmed to me that I was suffering from serotonin syndrome, as well as how important getting my ADHD diagnosis was. It’s also made me kind of sad, both in how much my depression has been fuelled by my undiagnosed, untreated ADHD and how my doctors surgery and the professional mental health services they assigned me to were so willing to sweep me and what I was going through under the rug.

I’m traumatised by what I was feeling, I’m not recovered from it even though I know it was 100% the medication doing that to me, and thinking about how much I and other mentally ill/ND people fall through the cracks (bc every step of my treatment has been spearheaded by me and only me, not a professional) just breaks my heart. Just goes to show how hard it is for us, ya know?

[afreakingdork]

Review: March Comes In like a Lion (Seasons 1 and 2)

What a wild ride this has been. It’s funny seeing the posters side by side because they really illustrate how I feel about seasons 1 and 2 of this series. To me, season 1 felt disjointed and season 2 just made me feel so good and light even while it was dunking me straight into emotional turmoil. The thing is, one cannot exist without the other and I’ll tell you why: 

I struggled at first to even finish season 1. I started once many years ago (I’m not even sure when) and gave up after about 2 episodes because I just couldn’t get my self synched with what was happening. When I started again a few months ago, I felt like every episode was a slog. I wasn’t sure why I even kept watching, honestly. The aesthetics were beautiful and haunting. The imagery reminded me of both Hyouka and Flowers of Evil. I could tell Rei was going through some really dark emotions, but I also wasn’t sure what was going on. There would be flashes and abrupt shifts away from the topic. It seemed to capture the sensations of depression really well, but also not in a way that translated to also telling a story to which, I think, it also had a duty to do. It seemed like Kyouka had sexually abused Rei at some point based on the flashes of her character straddling him and even after finishing both seasons, I’m not sure if that was the case. The dark and brooding artistically-charged emotional overtures of Rei are then just super-cut with intensely fluffy slice of life-esque sequences that gave me emotional whiplash. The show goes from Rei self-isolating to Nikaidou teaching the two younger Kawamoto sisters how to play shoji with animated cats. I remember trying to recall this information to my partner and not being able to explain it adequately because I just hadn’t even had enough heart in the series to learn the characters’ names. I felt bad, but I didn’t know what else to do. The show was fine, entertaining enough, but I just felt lackluster about what was happening. I applaud that they actually used the word depression when discussing Rei’s dark periods. I don’t know much, but I do know that mental health is extremely stigmatized in Japan and it was refreshing to hear it just laid out. However, I can honestly say that Shimada is what turned the show around for me. His introduction and the charisma of a beaten down exhausted pro just really resonated with me. By the time they were doing the train sequence in that final episode of season 1, I felt like everything was just too open ended and I had to go on because I had finally remembered Rei’s name. 

Everything turned around as I started to watch season 2. They pretty much immediately dove into a bullying arc with Hina and the whole series turned around for me. I was absolutely invested in everything that was happening and it was so heart wrenching and realistically portrayed. I found myself unable to pull away as Hina led the episodes and explained how her classroom dove into a dark black swirling pool of hateful energy. Suddenly, the artistic sequences now seemed succinct. Each portrayal of an emotion made my heart tighten and I could perfectly see how each character saw what was happening around them. It felt too good to be true. Even when a brand new character took over, I’m talking about Yamazaki in "Silver Wings," I had a moment where I was like, ‘What do I care about this guy? Why are we interrupting the narrative for him?’ By the end of his chapter, I was ashamed I ever felt that way. For once the narrative was larger than Rei and, while we knew Yamazaki through the lens of Rei, we didn’t know Yamazaki’s feelings during his match with Nikaidou. This is where I say that the doldrums of season 1 are absolutely necessary to get to the greatness of season 2. Rei was closed in season 1, he had met the Kawamoto family, but he was still deeply in the thralls of his depression. This is represented by what we see. Everything is disjointed because that’s how Rei feels. The Kawamoto family is disrupting his otherwise miserable mindset with their warm feelings. He actually says something along those lines and how he is afraid that if he stays in that warm house for too long, that he doesn’t feel like he will ever be able to leave. The episodes that focus on anything outside of Rei’s perspective are basically non-existent in that first season because Rei can’t see anything outside of himself. By the end of season 1, everyone has wedged a crowbar in the closed door of Rei’s heart and is craning it open by season 2. We get to see all these other people and perspectives because narratively, Rei has taken the blinders off and is not oblivious to the world around him. In a grand storytelling sense, this must have been the author’s intention. It’s almost a travesty to break this show up into seasons because the narrative is on such a grand scale, you can’t even begin to fathom the scope until you are at least 30 episodes deep. It’s downright genius storytelling and I will forever be grateful that I never stopped watching so that I could get to the point where I am now. I’m absolutely going to read the manga so I can see this story through to it’s true end. 

Verdict: 

P.S. I didn’t want to interrupt my grand explanation, but I think it’s so incredible how the timeline is also realistically portrayed. Take Chiho, for example, she was bullied so violently that she had to be committed. Several months down the line, she hasn’t recovered from this trauma. Even seeing her close friend who never bullied her, Hina, can only be done in a short spurt because emotionally she is still healing and will be for an unforeseen amount of time. I just can’t applaud this realistic representation of mental health enough. It’s treated with such delicacy. 

P.S.S. Why is everyone so mean to Shimada!? He’s so sweet and he’s working so hard. All the outreach he does for the elderly community back in his home town and even just for the shoji community is mind boggling on top of the severe and debilitating gastritis that he has. I remember thinking when he was going up against Yanagihara, that even though I liked Yanagihara, I’d just invested too much of my heart into Shimada to be able to root for anyone else. This show loves proving me wrong because I was completely swayed to Yanagihara and literally pushed back a deadline so that I could watch the finale of their match. I’m so glad he’s the eternal Kishou, I’m sorry Shimada!!! 

P.S.S.S. The revelation that Souya is partially deaf was so stunning to me that I actually had to stop watching and take a walk. It is incredibly genius. I never saw it coming a million miles away. The comparison to when you’re a prodigy at something that people are able to look the other way when it comes to idiosyncrasies is mind boggling. I was right there with Rei as I watched Souya come down from being a shoji deity to being a regular person and it was such a delight to watch my perspective change along with the characters. It’s an incredible hand that crafts a story that can sway a reader so accurately. 

P.S.S.S.S. 

IT WAS CALLED MARCH TOWN THE WHOLE TIME!? I shit you not, I had just told my partner around episode 20 of season 2 that while the show had skyrocketed in quality, I couldn’t figure out why the hell ‘March’ comes in like a lion! I’m so mad at the reveal.

[seamistan]

if it is not selfish of me to ask, i would like pregnancy headcanons and also parenting headcanons bc i’m SCREAMING 🥺

SO this took about 2/3 days to think and plan out and I even got really excited and even did research efjknefjkfsdnkbsdf

this ended up being more about the actual pregnancy BUT I will totally write more specific to Parents!seamista if anyone wanted me to  🥺

(Putting this under a read more because it’s long as hell snfldfnk)

Okay so from where I last left off in this post, Salineas is now expecting an unexpected heir! 

At this point, It’s like I wanna say around ~2/3ish months into everything since I assume she would have found out at around 5 weeks, so they’re at the very end of the first trimester (12 weeks) anyway, Mermista is still nauseous as all hell but for whatever reason I don’t think she’s not going into full vomiting territory and again, big suffering. However, at this point Sea Hawk has taken a leave from adventuring to be there with his girl to support her in whatever she needs- including helping out with some royal duties. Now normally, Mermista would never ever trust him with this level of responsibility but at certain points she just feels so shitty and tired there is literally no other choice but to give the responsibility to someone who’s not her. So sometimes Sea Hawk settles some disputes between citizens and opens a few rebuilt buildings, and attends princess council meetings with Mermista on the other side of one of bow’s tablets. (unrelated, but I found out that the theorized cause of morning sickness would be the body’s reaction to Hcg and since Sea Hawk is (assumed) fully etherian and mermista is like, not I would think she’d have a more adverse reaction to it asjdbjaddansd but again, she’s not like violently throwing up -I think because of her connection to her runestone protecting her from it being as bad as it could be)  

Also, Mermista gets real bad mood swings early into the whole endeavor (they eventually go away when the nausea does). Poor Sea Hawk even temporarily stops singing shanties to keep her spirits from dampening. Upon realizing that she made him stop singing she bursts into tears, only to later be soothed by a shanty about how lovely her hair is. Go Figure. To cope with the mood swings, Sea Hawk suggests she pick up knitting again since she loved it so much whenever she first tried it. She’d dropped it whenever the war with Horde prime began since it was so hard to find yarn and to care about generally anything else other than the impending doom. So, mermista picks up knitting again, and holy shit,,, she loves it. Something about just checking out for a while and just concentrating on every stitch and being able to make something beautiful is just. everything she wanted. So throughout the entire 9 months she’s just dropping off random baby blankets, clothes, socks, even a little knitted Sea-Ra doll and a knit Dragon’s Daughter replica into the basket she keeps next to their bed. She even attempts to knit Sea Hawk a bandanna for shits and giggles but he ends up loving it and wears it around Salineas despite the sweltering heat of the summer. Towards the end of it, she gets really complex and knits some beautiful little sweaters that whenever Sea Hawk shows them off to everyone (swift wind and bow) they kind of shyly ask if they can have one. And that’s how the Best Friend squad ends up with matching sweaters.

So in my last post I kinda just said that the doctors/midwife/etc equivalent was the sorcerers on Mystacor and you know what? I stand by that lmao. Anyway so either they have to go up to Mystacor every week or they have a sorcerer come to live in Salineas for the whole pregnancy, either way they use ~magic~ to basically do an ultrasound (again, I literally cannot decide if there’s doctors on etheria??? I don’t know but this is what I’m going with) So anyway. Both of them collectively lose their minds and completely ugly cry whenever they both see the child ™  for the first time, but then evemtually Mermista kinda accepts it and is (mostly) okay whenever they see the baby, but Sea Hawk cries every. Single. Time. It kinda drives Mermista a little mad but it’s so sweet that she can’t get actually upset.  After all, these appointments and all the little things they do to prepare are what he has to really remember they’re bringing a whole new little life onto Etheria. 

 Something neither of them really expected is the fact that Mermista gets horrible pregnancy brain around 5 months and from then on. It’s never really super debilitating, but for her, and her usual sharp wit and ability to see whatever’s coming next, it gets real annoying real fast. It’s mostly just her forgetting little stuff, like her next appointment with the sorcerer, or when there’s a meeting scheduled, or whenever she has plans with her friends. The worst of it was when it completely slipped her mind that she had a major meeting with the rebuild salineas group and she had to the next week pretending she knew what was going on with all of that. She eventually figures it out, and she and Sea Hawk end up forming a system- the system being that Sea Hawk is with her during all meetings, appointments and important conversation, and he reminds all of the staff when she has a major appointment. However, she still has trouble concentrating and remembering stuff like where she left her trident (next to the bed) and where her earrings went (Sea Hawk actually took those)

Around 7 or 8 months in the princesses (mostly Glimmer’s idea)  throw her a surprise baby shower to not only congratulate her on the baby but to also for the work she had been doing to rebuild and maintain Salineas. They receive so many lovely gifts, but none as lovely as the gift from Sea Hawk himself- He commissioned an absolutely lovely crib decorated with pearls, shells and sea glass and painted with all of Mermista’s favorite Sea Flowers, and little boats with mermaids swimming next to them. And In the middle, in first ones’ writing it read simply “Adventure”. Upon seeing it, Mermista cried for about 20 minutes. and then got upset with him for keeping the shower a secret, realized how sweet it was; then cried again. 

Well into her second trimester, and close to the third, Mermista is still on her feet after recovering from the initial nausea of it all and running around to meetings, appointments, and all over the kingdom. Sea Hawk, while he had been trying his best not to be over-protective of her due to her condition, really couldn’t ignore when Mermista collapses on the way to Sea Elf village. When he discovers so and confronts her about it, she confesses that she knows she had been absolutely overdoing it for weeks now, but really really wanted to prove that she could still do all of her princess duties. Not really for anyone else, the war had pretty much proved to everyone how capable she is, but  mostly for herself. Sea Hawk has a long talk with her that he hopes she knows how capable she is, how brave and wonderful and a fantastic leader she has been; but taking care of herself and their child has to come first. Grudgingly, Mermista tells him she had a hard time admitting to herself overdoing it for her meant overdoing it for both of them. They agree that Sea Hawk would become her proxy once again.

Whenever she has to deliver, Sea Hawk is the picture of support. No shanties, drama or anything but pure warmth and empathy. He’s stoic and calm and attentive to everything going on. Mermista actually ends up being the one in (mild) hysterics suddenly completely realizing again that she’s going to be a mother and crying and freaking out about it. It takes Sea Hawk looking sternly into her eyes and reminding her that she’s literally the coolest and most wonderful person ever and also is the great and mighty Sea-Ra. Nothing could keep her absolutely being fantastic at this too. Wasn’t this the most epic adventure they’d ever go on? 

and here’s some one sentence hc’s I couldn’t figure out how to fit in here sdjkjksdn;

-They don’t find out the sex beforehand they want to be surprised

- Whenever Mermista goes into her knitting habit, Sea Hawk picks up sewing again, as he had when he was younger and sews toys and clothing for the little one, while Mermista knits. between the two of them, the baby’s wardrobe is almost completely handmade. 

- When the due date gets close, Sea Hawk is literally walking on air. Cheery, excited absolutely lovestruck and exhilirated to be so close to being a father. 

- In the delivery room, before her freak out, she quietly asks sea hawk if he could tell her some stories of his escapades to distract her whenever the pain gets to be too much to bear. He obliges, and recalls their first time meeting, their first battle together, and loads of other sweet stories that almost drive her to tears again (god, she’s so excited to not cry every 2 minutes)

- Spinnerella and Netossa, and even Micah give their baby some hand me down toys and clothing. It’s the sweetest gesture. 

safbjkbsdfkbjsdf this is so long if you read all the way down here thank you so much