#and do them myself since i am ANYWAY. rips things to shreds

[serkonans]

rly considering dumping my personal trainer for a gym membership

[nyxshadowhawk]

A Retrospective on Harry Potter

Why did I like it in the first place? What about it worked? Where do I go from here?

I have decided to give up Harry Potter.

J.K. Rowling’s reputation now stinks to high heaven. At this point, she is quite indefensible. And even if that weren’t the case, she is not someone that I would want to associate with anyway. Meanwhile, the internet has not only turned against her, but against Harry Potter itself. An innocent question on Reddit, about which Hogwarts Houses the ATLA characters would be in, got downvoted to oblivion. Innumerable Tumblr threads insist that fantasy fans should get into literally anything else (suggestions include Discworld, Earthsea, The Wheel of Time, and Percy Jackson). And now that Harry Potter is no longer a sacred cow, there has been a recent slew of video essays that rip it to shreds, attacking it for its poor worldbuilding, unoriginality, and the problematic ideas baked into the original books (like the whole SPEW thing), etc. Those criticisms always existed, but now they’re getting thrown into the limelight.

It pains me to see such an ignoble downfall of Harry Potter’s reputation. If Rowling had just kept her damn mouth shut, Harry Potter would have aged gracefully, becoming a beloved children’s classic. I'd still plan to introduce it to my own kids one day (after Rowling dies and the dust settles). It’s not surprising that not all aspects of it have aged well, since it’s been more than twenty years since its original publishing date, and everything starts to show its age after that long. I acknowledge that most of the criticisms of the series that I’ve seen lately are valid, and I’ve read plenty of better books. And yet, when I return to the books themselves, even with the knowledge of who JKR really is inside my head, I still really enjoy reading them! There’s still a lot about them that I think works!

None of the other things I’ve read have had as collossal of an impact upon my identity, my values, and my own writing as Harry Potter. It’s hard to move on from it, not just because it’s something I enjoy, but because I have to literally extract my identity from it. I don’t know who I’d be without Harry Potter. I don’t know what my work would look like without Harry Potter. I don’t know how to carry it with me as just another piece of media that I like, as opposed to a filter for who I am as a person. So, with all that in mind, I have to ask myself why I liked Harry Potter so much in the first place. If I’m going to move on from it, then I have to be able to define and isolate the things about it that I want to keep with me. Something about it obviously worked, on a massive scale. So what was it?

It’s not the worldbuilding. The worldbuilding is objectively quite terrible, especially in comparison to that of other fantasy writers who knew what they were doing. At best, it’s inconsistent and poorly thought-out, and at worst it’s insensitive or even racist. Is it the characters? The characters are, in my opinion, one of the stronger parts of the story. But I felt very called-out by one of the many online commentators, who said that anyone who identifies with Harry is too cowardly to write self-insert fic. (I do not remember who said it or even which site it was on, but I distinctly remember the phrase, “Reject Harry Potter, embrace Y/N.”) The reason why people get so invested in Harry Potter’s characters is because they’re easy to project upon, and it’s possible that my love of Harry comes more from over a decade’s worth of projection than anything else. The incessant arguments over characters like Snape, Dumbledore, and James Potter ultimately stem from the fact that these characters do not always come across the way Rowling wanted them to. As for the writing itself, it’s decent, but not spectacular. Harry Potter is something of a sandbox world, with less substance than it appears to have and a crapton of missed opportunities, making it ripe for fanfic. For more than ten years, I’ve been doing precisely that — using Harry Potter as a jumping-off point to fill in the gaps and develop my own ideas, some of which became my original projects.

So what does Harry Potter actually have that sets it apart? Why are people so desperate to be part of Harry Potter’s world if the worldbuilding is bad? What, specifically, is so compelling about it? I think that there’s one answer, one thing that is at the center of Potter-mania, and that has been the underlying drive of my love of it for the past decade and a half: the vibe.

Harry Potter’s vibe is immaculate.

You know what I mean, right? It’s not actually a product of any specific trope, but rather a series of aesthetic elements: The wizarding school in a grand castle, with its pointed windows and torches and suits of armor, ghosts and talking portraits and moving staircases, its Great Hall with floating candles and a ceiling that looks like the night sky, its hundreds of magically-concealed secret doorways. Dumbledore’s Office, behind the gryphon statue, with armillary spheres in every single shot. Deliberate archaisms that evoke the Middle Ages without going as far as a Ren Faire: characters wearing heavy robes, writing with quills and ink on parchment instead of paper, drinking from goblets, decorating with tapestries. Owls, cats, toads. Cauldrons simmering in a dungeon laboratory. Shelves piled with dusty tomes, scrolls, glass vials, crystal balls, hourglasses. Magical candy shaped like insects and amphibians. A library with a restricted section. A forbidden forest full of unicorns and werewolves. That is the Vibe.

There are five armillary spheres just in this shot. They are unequivocally the most Wizard of tabletop decor.

There’s more to it than just the aesthetic, though. The vibe is present in something that writers call soft worldbuilding.

There’s a phrase that writers use to describe magic systems, coined by Brandon Sanderson: hard magic and soft magic. Sanderson’s first law of magic is, “An author’s ability to solve problems with magic is directly proportional to how well the reader understands said magic.” A hard magic system has clearly-defined rules — you know where magic comes from, how it works and under which conditions, how the characters can use it, and what its limitations are. Examples of really good hard magic systems include Avatar: The Last Airbender and Fullmetal Alchemist. If the audience doesn’t understand the conditions under which magic can work, then using magic to get out of any kind of scrape risks feeling like the writer pulled something out of their ass. It begs the question, “Well, if they could do that, then why didn’t they do that before?”

You may come away from that thinking that having clearly-defined rules is always better worldbuilding than not having them, but this isn’t the case. Soft magic isn’t fully explained to the audience, but that doesn’t matter, because it isn’t trying to solve problems — its purpose is to be evocative. Soft magic enhances the atmosphere of a world by creating a sense of wonder. If your everyman protagonist is constantly running into cool magical shit that they don’t understand, then the world feels like it teems with magic, magic that is greater and more powerful than they know, leaving lots of secrets to uncover. Harry Potter, at least in the early books, excels at this. The soft magic in Harry Potter is what got me hooked, and I think it’s what a lot of other people liked about it, too.

The essence of soft magic is best summed up by this scene in the fourth film, in which Harry enters the Weasleys’ tiny tent at the Quidditch World Cup, only to find that it’s much bigger on the inside. His reaction is to smile and say, “I love magic.”

That’s it. That’s the essence of it. You don’t need to know the exact spell that makes the tent bigger on the inside. You don’t need to know how Dumbledore can make the food appear on the table with a flick of a wand, or how he can make a bunch of poofy sleeping bags appear with another flick. You don’t need to know how and why the portraits or wizard cards move. You don’t need to know how wizards can appear and disappear on a whim, or what the Deluminator is, or where the Sword of Gryffindor came from. You don’t need to know how the Room of Requirement works. Knowing these things defeats the purpose. It kills the vibe, that vibe being that there is a large and wondrous magical world around you that will always have more to discover.

One of the best “soft magic” moments in the books comes early in Philosopher’s Stone, when Harry is trying to navigate Hogwarts for the first time:

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It was also very hard to remember where anything was, because it all seemed to move around a lot. The people in the portraits kept going to visit each other, and Harry was sure the coats of armor could walk. —Philosopher’s Stone, Chapter 8

Many of these details don’t come back later in the series, which is a shame, because this one paragraph is super evocative! It establishes Hogwarts as an inherently magical place, in which the very architecture doesn’t conform to normal rules. Hogwarts seems like it would be exciting to explore (assuming you weren’t late for class), and it gets even better when you learn about all the secret rooms and passages. The games capitalized on this by building all the secret rooms behind bookcases, mirrors, illusory walls, etc. into the game world, and rewarding you for finding them. The utter fascination that produces is hard to overstate.

Another one of the most evocative moments in the first book is when Harry sees Diagon Alley for the first time, after passing through the magically sealed brick wall (the mechanics of which, again, are never explained). This is your first proper glimpse at the wizarding world and what it has to offer:

Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they're mad....” A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium — Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of about Harry's age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. "Look," Harry heard one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand — fastest ever —" There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon.... —Philosopher’s Stone, Chapter 5

What works so well here is the magical weirdness of wizardishness juxtaposed against normalcy. Eeylops Owl Emporium is just a pet shop to wizards. A woman makes a very mundane complaint about the price of goods, but the goods happen to be dragon liver. Broomsticks are treated like cars. All of these small moments contribute to the feeling of the wizarding world being alive, inhabited, and also magical. It gets you to ask the question of what your life would be like if you were a wizard. What do wizards wear? What do they eat? What do they haggle over and complain about? What do they do for fun?

In Book 3, Harry enjoys Diagon Alley for a few weeks when he suddenly has free time, and we get to experience the wizarding world in a state of “normalcy,” when he isn’t trying to save the world. He gets free ice creams from Florean Fortescue, gazes longingly at the Firebolt, and engages with delightfully weird people. He’s a wizard, living a (briefly) normal wizard life among other wizards in wizard-land. And that is fun. It’s so fun, that people want that experience for themselves, enough for there to be several theme parks and other immersive experiences dedicated to recreating the world of Harry Potter.

One of the greatest things about Universal was its phenomenal attention to detail. You can hear Moaning Myrtle’s voice in the women’s bathroom, and only the women’s bathroom. The walls of the Three Broomsticks have shadows of a broom sweeping by itself and an owl flying projected against the wall, so convincingly that you’ll do a double take when you see it. Knockturn Alley is down a little secret tunnel off of the main street, and that’s where you have to go to buy Dark Arts-themed stuff. It’s really well done.

Another thing that contributes to the vibe, in my opinion, is that the wizarding world is slightly macabre. They eat candy shaped like frogs, flies, mice, and so forth, and they have gross-tasting jellybeans. In the film’s version of the Diagon Alley sequence above, there’s a random shot of a pet bat available for purchase. In the third film, when Harry is practicing the Patronus Charm with Lupin, the candles are shaped like human spines. In the first book, this is Petunia’s description of Lily’s behavior after she became a witch:

Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that-that school, and came home every holiday with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was — a freak! —Philosopher’s Stone, Chapter 4

I remember reading this for the first time, and it just kind of made intuitive sense to me. I suppose it fits into the “eye of newt and toe of frog” association between magical people and gross things, but somehow it works. Unfortunately, this is retconned later with the knowledge that wizards can’t use magic outside school, but before that limitation gets imposed, the idea of Lily amusing herself by turning teacups into rats seems like an inherently witchy thing to do.

That association between magic and the macabre shows up elsewhere, as well. In The Owl House, Luz’s interest in gross things is one of the things that marks her as a “weirdo” in the real world. When she goes to the magical world of the Boiling Isles, weird and gross stuff is absolutely everywhere. That world’s vibe leans more towards the macabre than the whimsical, but it works because you sort of expect the gross stuff to exist alongside the concept of witches, and that they would be an intrinsic part of the world they inhabit. You don’t question it, because it’s part of the vibe.

(The Owl House is one of the few things I’ve encountered that has a similar vibe to Harry Potter, but it’s still not the same vibe. In fact, The Owl House outright mocks the expectation that magical worlds be whimsical, and directly mocks Harry Potter more than once. The overall vibe is much closer to Gravity Falls.)

The Harry Potter films utilize a lot of similar soft worldbuilding with the background details, especially in the early films that were still brightly-colored and whimsical. For example, the scene in Flourish and Blotts in the second film has impossibly-stacked piles of books and old-timey looking signs describing their subjects, which include things like “Celestial Studies” and “Unicorns.” When Harry arrives in the Burrow in the same film, one of the first things he sees is dishes washing themselves and knitting needles working by themselves, taking completely mundane things and instantly establishing them as magical. In that Patronus scene with Harry and Lupin, the spine-candles and a bunch of random orbs (and the obligatory giant armillary sphere) float around in the background. One small detail that I personally appreciate is the designs on the walls above the teacher’s table in the Great Hall, which are from an alchemical manuscript called the Ripley Scroll:

It’s all these little things that add up to produce The Vibe.

Obviously, much of the vibe is expressed very well in John Williams’ score for the first three Harry Potter films. The mystical minor key of the main theme, the tinkly glockenspiel, the strings, the rising and falling notes that mimic the fluttering of an owl, the flight of a broomstick, or the waving of a wand. That initial shot of the castle across the lake as the orchestra swells, as the children arrive at their wizarding school:

If you grew up with Harry Potter, just looking at this image gives you The Vibe. The nostalgia hit is definitely part of it, but The Vibe was already there, back when you were a child and you didn’t have nostalgia yet.

In my opinion, only Williams’ score captures this vibe — the later films, though their scores are very good, do not. But the soundtrack of the first two video games, by Jeremy Soule (the same person who did Skyrim) absolutely nails it. This, right here, is Harry Potter’s vibe, condensed and distilled:

This is why I feel invalidated by the common advice “just read another book.” I have read other books. I’ve read plenty of other books, many of which are wonderfully written and have left an impact on me. But there’s still only one Harry Potter. To date, there’s only other book that has filled me with a similarly intense longing for a fictional place, and that is The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. That book deliberately prioritized atmosphere over everything else in the story, and actually lampshades this in-universe. The Night Circus has a plot and it has characters, but it’s not about its plot or characters. It’s about the setting and its atmosphere. It swallows you up and transports you to a fictional place that is so evocative and so magical that you just have to be part of it or you’ll die. And even then, The Night Circus has a different kind of vibe from Harry Potter. In this particular capacity, there’s nothing else like Harry Potter.

The thing is, I don’t think Rowling was being as deliberate as Erin Morgenstern. (In fact, given many of Rowling’s recent statements, I question how many of her creative choices were deliberated at all.) She was throwing random magical stuff into the background without thinking too hard about it, which works when you’re writing a kids’ story, but stops working when you try to age it up. Actually, scratch that — soft worldbuilding is definitely not just for kids! The Lord of the Rings has a soft magic system, for crying out loud, and Tolkien is the original archmage of worldbuilding. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you that prioritizing atmosphere over meticulousness is bad worldbuilding. That is a valid way to worldbuild! Not everything needs to be clearly explained, not everything needs to make sense. The problem is that Harry Potter doesn’t balance it well. Certain things do have to be explained in order for the magic to play an active role in the story (and the setting of a magic school lends itself to that kind of explanation), but no rules are ever established for the kinds of magic that need rules. When you begin thinking about the rules, you’re no longer just enjoying the magic for what it is. At worst, you begin running up against the Willing Suspension of Disbelief.

It wasn’t actually the “aging up” of the story that did it in, per se, but rather, the introduction of realism. The early books were heavily stylized, and the later books were less so. A heavily stylized story can more easily maintain the Willing Suspension of Disbelief. That’s why, for example, you don’t ask why the characters are singing in a musical — you just sort of accept the story’s outlandish internal logic, and the inherent melodrama of it doesn’t take you out of the story. Stylized stories are more concerned with being emotionally consistent over being logically consistent. The later Harry Potter books changed their emotional tone, but without changing the worldbuilding style to compensate.

In addition to the more mature themes and darker tone, Harry Potter introduced more realism as it went, but Rowling did not have the worldbuilding chops to pull this off. There’s the basic magic system stuff: When you begin thinking about it too hard, something like a Time-Turner stops being a fun magical device, and starts threatening to break the entire story. Then there’s the characters: Dumbledore leaving Harry on the Dursleys’ doorstep in the first book is an age-old fairy tale trope that goes unquestioned, but with the introduction of realism in the later books, it suddenly becomes abandonment of a child to an abusive family. The exaggerated stereotypes of characters like the Dursleys become tone-deaf. The fun school rivalry of the House system is suddenly lacking in nuance. And then there’s the shift in tone: The wizarding world that we were introduced to as a marvellous place is revealed to be dystopian. You start thinking about how impractical things like owl messengers are, you start wondering if Slytherin is being unjustly punished, the bad history appears glaringly obvious, the quaint archaisms become dangerously regressive. Oh, and the grand feasts are made through slave labor! The wizarding world suddenly feels small and backward instead of grand and marvellous. J.K. Rowling’s bigotry throws it all into an even harsher light.

This is why I’ve always preferred the early books and films to the later ones. There’s a lot of things I like about the later ones, but they’re not as stylized — they don’t have The Vibe. Thinking about things too hard is just a necessary condition of adulthood, but it’s still possible to tell a dark, mature story that is highly stylized. I really think JKR could have better pulled off that shift if she was a more competent worldbuilder. But it is painfully obvious that she did not think things through, and probably didn’t understand why she had to. In her defense, she did not know that her story would end up being one of the most scrutinized of all time. As it stands, her strength in worldbuilding was in the softer, smaller, deliberately unexplained moments of magic that were there just to provide atmosphere. And there were less and less of those as the books went along.

Pretty much all the Harry Potter-related content released since the last film — including Cursed Child, Fantastic Beasts, Hogwarts Mystery, Hogwarts Legacy, Magic Awakened, and that short-lived Pokemon Go thing — have been unsuccessful attempts at recreating The Vibe. In fact, the only piece of supplemental Potter content that I think had that Vibe down pat was the original Pottermore, back when it was more of an interactive game. And of course that got axed. That was right around the time things started going downhill.

Some of the art from Pottermore’s original Sorting quiz.

So what now? Well, that’s the question.

I think I can safely say that The Vibe was the reason I liked Harry Potter. It’s the thing I still like the most about it. I’ve spent years chasing it, like an elusive Patronus through a dark wood. If I can capture and distill that Vibe, and use drops of it in my own work, then perhaps I won’t need Harry Potter anymore.

I'm gonna write the story that I wish Harry Potter was, and when I'm a famous author, I won't become a bigot. I'll see you on the other side.

[thesunshineriptide]

Hello!!!

just wanted to pop in and say I love your writing it’s so good!!!

I’ve been seeing you works since the our world au first crossed my dash and I gotta say your works just keep getting better and better, which is crazy considering our world was already phenomenal. Your ideas and aus are just so creative, I find myself drawn in and excited to see what you do with each new au. Like the one where some of the students were like, put into a sitcom style tv show by a students UM, that’s so interesting!! You’re so good at making suspense and intrigue and fluff and everything it’s incredible. Arms Tonite is a work I keep coming back to, who doesn’t love a good sickfic and the way you wrote each character getting to the point of passing out was just so in character I could 100% see them all doing what they did.

(as a side note I appreciate that with like prompts that aren’t romance focused or like lend themselves to that kinda dynamic you write in a way that could be, at least maybe to me I might be misreading lol, taken platonically. Personally I’m a big fan of platonic Twst content, the cast is just silly little pal shaped to me, and there’s not quiet as much stuff like that so I really appreciate anyone who writes a Drabble like that : D ((ik this blog isn’t the only to write things that can be platonic or romantic but it’s the one I’ve read most recently so it’s sticking out to me rn haha, if any other writers see this and also write works that could go either way I appreciate you to the sun and stars 🌟 ))

aaa ok back on topic whoops! speaking of characters you write the Twst cast so well, I really enjoy reading your works and seeing your takes on them. I always find it interesting to see how the little details of each character are handled from author to author, what gets emphasized, what is less focused on. I also love your works that have the cast interact with each other like the hotel room sharing split thing. The visual of Ace, Floyd, Kalim, and Jack just having a blast running around the hotel at 3 am is fantastic.

Oh oh and quick shoutout to your oc Howl, love that funky little mischief maker. I adore the way you gave them a custom blazer, that was so creative and it looks so nice!! They’re dynamics with everyone are also super cool to learn. I love just everything about when they just, wandered away from the Octavinelle, I don’t think after sorting party is the right word but I can’t think of another oops, and just all the interactions with them and Octotrio. The ending with them running from Floyd was so fun, and the last line of just “They could not outrun Floyd” is so funny it makes me lose it.

Whats also making me lose it is this recent whumptober series 😭 it’s so wonderfully written as always but also I am in so much pain. Each new work in the series just leaves me wanting more, the potentially happy conclusion juuuust out of reach. It’s been so fun each day seeing how you will rip my heart to shreds next lol. I need a sequel for each and every work asdfg

anyways, apologies for the giant slab of text!! Again your work is just so fantastic and I look forward to seeing everything you think up next, keep up the fantastic work and have a great day!!!!! :D

(and also thank you for not having my eternal enemy, word limit on for anons on, or else I would have to do the worst thing imaginable ever, be concise 😨)

Okay first off, sorry for not responding to this but I was enjoying seeing it in my inbox every time I looked over requests because it just made me smile and it makes me so motivated to see someone enjoying the stuff I post

Second of all THANK YOU SO MUCH

I'm always a little nervous when I post au stuff because it can be pretty hit or miss but I'm so glad that you like it!!!

Also, yes!!! I try to write stuff that can be seen as platonic or romantic because personally I think it's just more fun that way. They're just silly little guys doing silly little things! I also enjoy platonic headcanons too because sometimes I wanna know how the dorm leaders would react to me handing them a rock without it being flirty, yknow? And I also feel like relationships aren't 100% romantic all of the time? But who knows maybe I'm wrong! Point is yes yes platonic headcanons/fics are great and I adore writing them

And thank you!!! I try to write them somewhat true to the source material but exaggerating certain things is pretty fun. I think it's incredibly funny to have Riddle just be completely clueless about basic information but an absolute WEALTH of knowledge about academic shit, or to have Idia be nervous around big groups of people but a total confident nerd bro the minute he's alone with someone/comfortable. And I love to think about how characters react to one another and their dynamics we don't get to see a lot of in game. (Bonus headcanon: Trey, Jade, and Jamil all gossip with eachother in their spare time)

Also this reminds me that i still need to write the second part of arms tonite oops

AAAA yes howl. My beloved self insert. Absolute menace to society. Thank you for all the soft comments about them because dfjkshkfshdfkshf /pos they're a little shithead and also me and I have so much more content of them sloooowly coming

also OOPS i skipped two days in a row and accidentally forgot I was doing whumptober I will be getting back on that today skfdjlhfkgjsdfh but thank you for the kind words regarding that too because I do get a bit nervous when posting that dfkjghkdslhfkjd /gen /pos

This has really been making me want to keep writing (even if i took a couple days off) so thank you for this its really really sweet and im all like. UwU I would die for you anon <3

[andtheghost]

01/11/24 - Disappointed Idealist

I quit a what most people would consider a good job back in 2022. Higher than average pay, guaranteed vacation, a 401k. There were a lot of things happening at the time, but the breaking point was when I had spent the entire twelve hours killing myself trying to keep up with a machine because no one was willing to shut it off to fix it. Downtime means no production. No production is bad. Can you keep up with the work a machine can produce? No, but I don’t give a fuck what your fragile little human body is capable of doing, do it anyway because my numbers are worth more to me than you.

And FINALLY the machine broke down on its own. And after a whole day of constant alarms going off and panicked running back and forth and watching as the product came out at a pace I knew I could never possibly keep up with, everything was quiet, and nothing was moving, and I looked around for the first time in almost twelve hours. Bins everywhere, overflowing with product that was going to need to be fed through by hand. Hours of time that literally nothing got done, because THE MACHINE CAN NOT BE TURNED OFF!!!!!!!! THERE AREN’T ENOUGH EXCLAMATION POINTS IN THE WORLD TO PROPERLY EMPHASIZE HOW IMPORTANT THIS POINT IS!!!!!!!!!

If you die on this floor, so be it. But your coworkers are going to have to work twice as hard now to make up for the production time we lost because of your death. We’ll give a speech about how sad your passing was even though I’ll have to look at my cue cards to remember you even had a name, and mention what a valuable asset you were to the company, but never mention how much of your life you missed in the process.

I ran into the clean room and had a panic attack.

And decided at that moment that I was done. I was never going to be a THING for some corporate fucking piece of shit because I am worth so much more than that. Everyone is, but somehow we all kind of forget that, don’t we?

But I can’t forget it anymore. I had another job briefly later that year, but I felt like the worst kind of traitor the whole time. Fucking liar. The anxiety was constant and, eventually, unbearable.

I haven’t had a job since August of 2022. I would rather slowly bleed the system than prop it up, but I don’t want to do that, either. It’s not really DOING something. Its like passively standing by glaring as the CEO parade comes by with their smiles and their floats and their confetti because they know my existence has no effect on them. A single cog worked its way out of the machine, and there are millions waiting in line to take its place. It’s not helping the system, but it’s not hurting it, either. I want to rip it to unrecognizable shreds with my fucking teeth and set it on fire.

And maybe there’s a third option, but I’m not sure what it is or how to access it, if it does exist.

But the reality is that until someone finds that third option, I would rather drain it than prop it up. There are a lot of people who won’t like that idea, myself included, but I’m just being honest.

That might make me selfish. It’s okay, I am selfish. Humans are inherently selfish animals. They’re also inherently loving animals, but it’s a lot easier to focus on that part than admit the other, and in turn we create a toxic existence where a whole part of our very nature is evil and wrong.

I realized I’m not a pessimist, and I don’t hate people. I’m an idealist. I can see how much better everything could be, for everyone, and I see most people actively working against it, and I can’t read minds. I don’t know if they actually believe they’re doing something good or if they’re just trying to make themselves feel better because they think there’s nothing they can do. I certainly don’t know if I’m doing something good. George Carlin said:

“Inside every cynical person is a disappointed idealist.”

I don’t know if that’s true of every cynical person, but I know it’s true for me.

[hologramcowboy]

I know this isn’t a Chris evans account lol, but am I the only one that gets the ick from his new relationship??? I mean, he’s 41 and she’s fucking 25. And I get that they’re both “consenting adults”, it’s not like I’m trying to claim he’s a pedo or anything like that, but it doesn’t erase the fact that he’s old enough to be her dad. Like the pap pics and videos of them together look like an uncle out with his niece or something. Also the fact that he’s a way bigger name than her, has more money/fame…it just makes it even more icky. I guess it’s not as bad cause this is the first time he’s dated so young, so it’s not like it’s a pattern with him, but still, it’s strange. I also hate the argument of “well he’s in the industry so it’s normal/fine”. Being “in the industry” doesn’t excuse it. Just imagine all the people he meets and gets to interact with on a daily basis through his work! Chris Evans could pretty much have whoever he wants. You’re telling me he couldn’t find ANYONE in their thirties or closer to his age to connect with or be with?! It’s such a red flag. And the fact that I know she’s 25…but she looks much younger than that , like 18🥴. And a lot of ppl have been saying “well he’s said he wants kids so maybe he just wants a younger woman to have kids with”…. as if a 30 year old can’t have kids??? Yes fertility starts to decline with age, but not THAT soon. 30 year old women are very much still fertile lmao. I also hate the argument of “well young girls/20 year olds fans online are constantly fantasizing about him, so they have no right to judge”. Like HELLO?! A young fan having a harmless crush on an older actor is not remotely comparable to said actor pursuing someone in real life that is significantly younger than them. That argument is so dumb. Anyway, I’ve been so afraid to say this stuff in the cevans fandom bC everyone will just be like “you’re just jealous that it’s not you!!” Which is not true at all. I’ve supported/been fine with all his other relationships, but this one gives me the ick. I’ve never like big age gap relationships, bC some of my friends irl have been in them, and they’ve not gone well. So I guess it’s a personal experience thing. I’ve always liked Chris, but I’m not going to lie, this has turned me off a bit and I’ve lost some respect for him. Pls don’t hate me for this lol, I just wanted a sage space to share my opinion where i know I won’t be ripped to shreds like the cevans fandom

No one should hate on anyone who candidly expresses their opinion. It's a diverse world and people have different perspectives. What makes someone happy might be someone else's idea of hell.

I had no idea who Chris was dating so I went and had a look, she looks like a baby compared to him. People usually prefer to judge the women involved saying "oh but they are willingly dating these guys out of interest", while I am sure some do, some are young and in love and let's all put themselves in their place, I'll use myself as an example. When I was ridiculously young, I had the biggest crush on Jensen, let's use our imaginations now, let's say Jensen was into me and did everything in his power to sweep me off my feet. Him being my ideal, do you really think I wouldn't have fallen? Especially since he would have the advantage of being older and much less naive than me so he could probably manipulate me easily. My point is some of these women fall in love because those men were their ideal to begin with. So before judging consider your own celebrity crushes, just because you eventually become a celebrity yourself doesn't mean you become immune to your ideals.

So I don't judge these women without first finding out what they are all about. Because I know that when you are deeply in love with someone you can get blindsided and if they are anything like me and believe powerfully in love, they are probably just looking to find their "fairytale" ending.

I really hate it when people throw tags on women easily, sure some are gold diggers like Danneel Ackles but some are just young and in love.

I agree with you, relationships with huge gaps don't work unless there is true love there. Unfortunately, most people pat men on the back for always looking for fresh meat and call the women wh****. Older men are always looking for younger women and derailing their life.

That being said, I hope Chris is different and yes, his girlfriend looks much younger (she stars in Warrior Nun, I believe?) and, personally, unless there is true love there on both sides, I am deeply offput by men who seek out much younger women. Leo di Caprio is another example and people often like to blame the women. Not saying some don't date him for fame or whatever but this doesn't mean we should encourage sociopathic tendencies such as only viewing women as objects and discarding them once they "expire".

I know this is an unpopular opinion but it's my mine so feel free to ignore anything that doesn't resonate and thank you for being vulnerable. I am sorry to hear that even within the Evans fandom people try to police opinions. There's absolutely nothing wrong with having preferences and, at the end of the day, people should do what makes them happy. I could never, ever date someone younger than me, just as I could never trust someone older than me. That's just me, someone else might be completely different and that's fine. It doesn't mean we should ignore our intuition and reasoning so my advice is, if you are into someone older then please make sure that person truly loves you, don't derail your life over someone who's just looking to use you.

Sorry, Anon, I hijacked your post with my thoughts. 😊 Please know you are not alone in your perception, I look deeply into older men's motivations when I see them date younger women and I even have friends that married young to older men, it's a miserable path because that person gets your youth and the best of you and might not exactly be into you for all the right reasons. Not saying all relationships of that type are that way but we definitely should be balanced and cautious.

Sending you a big hug, sorry you had a not so ideal experience within the fandom.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 328: Pandora’s Box of Discourse

Previously on BnHA: DEKU TOOK A BATH.

Today on BnHA: 

Also Naomasa grew a beard. Goddamn. 

please let this be a cool chapter that plays nice with my ADHD lol

(ETA: lol I feel guilty because a lot of people hated this chapter, but I’m just happy there was a lot of stuff to make fun of, and also that I have another week to work on my backlog of meta posts since the kids were MIA.)

around one month ago?? ah, okay, so we’re gonna find out what was in that Tartarus security file huh

I love that they just randomly set the place on fire

was it necessary to do this in order to escape? no. was it a good idea to set the island they were occupying on fire while they were in the midst of still occupying it? uh. was it cinematic as fuck? fuck yeah

wow it’s a pervert!!

that’s so great that the villains set loose this fine fellow who I’m sure is definitely not a serial rapist. truly the LoV is so noble and misunderstood. they’re just trying to free society from its chains people

oh my god??!

SHANKED!!! oh my god I cheered for Stain before I realized what I was doing. time to have an identity crisis I guess

so he’s all “hey what’s going on.” which, while a respectable question, is something I personally would have waited to ask until I had put a bit of distance between myself and the fiery murder island. but that’s just my personal preference

Stain you really are tenacious I’ll give you that

“what’s the point of escaping prison if you’re not gonna be smart about it” well shit. anyways yeah you’re dead right, society is in the process of collapsing and the outside world is in total chaos, good call there

oh shit

I mean it’s not like we really expecting anything otherwise, but still. fucking brutal. I feel like these guys’ fates were decided the minute that one guy called AFO “scum” back in chapter 94. AFO is unmatched at getting long-term revenge

??

ahh, was it the security footage??

fdsdfk he’s still alive??

and he’s immediately launching into an inappropriately theatrical monologue even as the darkness closes in on him fdlfksjdlk. you know, was it ever confirmed that the other guy back in chapter 297 was Seiji’s dad? I’m just saying

very impressed that he’s still coherent enough to weigh the pros and cons before making the decision to gamble on giving this info to Stain, who at the very least has his own moral code and isn’t allied with AFO. it was definitely still a risk, but as we now know it was also the right call

what a weird alliance. so Stain tells him that he’ll give it to a just person, and the guy is all,

okay for real though I’m gonna need someone to run a DNA test on this guy. maybe it was some kind of cuckold situation?? the other guy had the family resemblance, but this guy absolutely 100% raised Shishikura Seiji and you are not going to convince me otherwise

anyway, so Stain is all,

PRISON GUARD: “???? ??????? what the hell. what the fuck does that fucking mean. I’m dying here, jesus christ, whatever man fuck you”

(ETA: I kind of feel like this might have been Stain’s last appearance in the manga, given all the fanfare. there’s not really much else he can do for the story at this point, and he seems to have gotten all the character development Horikoshi was planning on giving him. so if this really is it, hasta la vista and good riddance I guess.)

DWLFDKSLDK MEANWHILE, OUTSIDE

(ETA: I feel like this is meant to be evocative of that Sermon on the Mount painting, but in a really fucked up way lol.)

if it were me stumbling upon this scene I would just shake my head and walk right back into the flaming building. not getting involved in that mess. sorry not sorry. I’ll take my chances with the fire, especially given that it’s half-assed neutered BnHA fire lol

blah blah blah and so he decided to pass the info on to All Might -- HOT DAMN, HOLY SHIT

NAOMASA HOLY SHIT. THE APOCALYPSE LOOKS GOOD ON YOU, BOY

“I really like that facial scruff thing Aizawa’s got going on, I think I’m gonna get in on that” yes sir. “also thinking of ditching the tie in favor of the bulletproof vest look. also thinking of getting totally fucking jacked.” good lord. except I’m pretty sure that’s just body armor, but also I don’t care. anyway I should probably stop staring and actually read the fucking speech bubbles here lol

“All Might first handed this information over to Nao, and then went to see Deku, and then came back to Nao” thanks for that tidy little summary Horikoshi. we are capable of piecing events together in sequential order, I just want you to know that. but thank you

“so has Deku finally gotten a bath? also, sucks that Stain saved the day, but what are you gonna do” Nao I missed you so fucking much and didn’t even realize. how am I just now realizing that you are the perfect man

for a second I was gonna ask why Tartarus’s security systems would be cut off from the outside world, and then I remembered that’s a basic security control, and then I actually got impressed by how sensible that is. like, it’s been a while since I could genuinely say that the good guys (excluding class 1-A) did something smart. not that it helped them much in the end, but still

anyway so they’re talking about how AFO was able to coordinate the attack by communicating between his horcrux self on the outside and his ugly peanut-faced self on the inside

huh

okay you have my attention. I am taking notes here lol please continue

ah okay so he says that prior to Jakku, the transfer of information between him and his Vestige self was only one-way. but post-Jakku when Deku was in the hospital, he was able to tell what was happening inside the OFA Radical Lisa Frank Dead People Book Club Realm when he touched him. I feel like we established that before, actually. but he didn’t talk about how it actually felt, though

boy we already know this lol. yes AFO can talk with his horcrux self. and he can also communicate with his little bro in OFA too, let’s talk about that sometime why don’t we. what exactly does that imply, based on the rules we’ve established here

my god I cannot get over Naomasa and his fucking facial hair

no wonder All Might was in such a hurry to leave Deku and get back here

like I have no idea what this radio waves nonsense is but my god, people

that jawline. also so it’s a quirk, I see. except last I checked Deku didn’t have a radio waves quirk, so that doesn’t really explain his connection to AFO. but whatever, hopefully we’re at least getting closer to some kind of reveal here

(ETA: since I sometimes forget that other people’s lives don’t revolve around my theory posts, here are the two relevant links if you by chance want to know my thoughts about this.

Hagakure is still The U.A. Traitor™ regardless of whether Deku is passing information on to AFO through his psychic link, which he almost certainly is.

speaking of said psychic link, Deku is a horcrux.

just posting these now, because whenever trippy OFA stuff happens I tend to get an influx of theory asks. so hopefully this will be a bit of a time saver lol.)

-- wait, what

THAT’S what the recording was??!? holy SHIT. I genuinely was not expecting that. y’all wiretapped his fucking telepathy. fucking quirks, man. wild

AND THEY USED THAT POWER TO DETERMINE WHAT WE ALREADY KNEW, HUZZAH. GOOD SHOW

-- oh shit wait lol, except I forgot we’re not talking about 38 days from the present, we’re talking about 38 days from the date the conversation was recorded. heh. um

yeah that’s the face I would make too if All Fucking Might just casually told me we had eight days left until the end times

oh, pardon me. three fucking days

r.i.p. anyone who thought we were going to have another band arc sob. I sure hope Deku is enjoying that nap

(ETA: I realize people were hoping for a longer rest period here, but given that the man warned us all the way back in chapter 306 that we were entering the final act, you can’t really blame him too much when that turns out to be true. anyway but I do recognize that we’ve reached the point in the story where this kind of discourse is going to become a weekly occurrence, simply because there’s no possible way for Horikoshi’s actual endgame to line up perfectly with the variable headcanons of millions of fans, all of whom have wildly differing and in many cases contradictory expectations which can’t possibly all be fulfilled. anyway, so I’m already bracing myself for that lol. this coming year is going to be a wild ride.)

damn, U.A. out here looking like the motherfucking United Nations

-- is this U.A.?? I actually just realized, U.A. is four interconnected buildings, not two. wait holy shit is this Shiketsu?

wait holy SHIT

based on the overwhelmingly powerful vibes of bureaucratic incompetence, I’m thinking this really is the (future) U.N., or whatever organization it is that deals with international hero stuff

“just let them handle it themselves I’m sure they’ll be fine” yeah okay, thanks guys. appreciate it

wait oh shit did he say that it’s not just Japan?

soooo, what you’re telling me is that AFO is this close to bringing about the end of not just Japan, but the entire world, and you guys don’t think it’s a good idea to help the Japanese heroes stop him? so, genuine follow-up question: are you guys already planning your rich people exodus into space a la Wall-E, and that’s why you don’t give a fuck?? like, what??

omg international heroes

these guys are from World Hoodie Mission, right? is this Horikoshi’s way of reminding me to buy tickets

(ETA: and it worked too lol.)

WHO??? WHAT???

don’t tell me you’re introducing yet another badass new female character for me to fall in love with only to watch as you dismember them and/or blow them up, Horikoshi. I’m getting tired of playing this game my dude. don’t lie and tell me this time will be different. we’re not doing this again goddammit

noooooooooooooooooooo

god fucking dammit lmao. [sighs and rips the previous paragraph into shreds]

on behalf of Americans I apologize for our superheroes always being Like This

I also apologize because I love her already and I’m gonna be shameless about it. so fucking shameless you guys

is her fucking hair red white and blue. it is, isn’t it

this is the volume cliffhanger, 100% lol. it will take every ounce of Horikoshi’s willpower not to put her on the volume cover. he’ll have to settle for the spine or the inner cover this time because Deku VS his class 1-a superpals takes precedence. but it will be a close thing let me tell you

tbh it’s that smile that does it for me. she’s definitely All Might’s protege. get out there and show them how it’s done girl. and maybe call Salaam and BRD and see if you can’t convince them to play hooky from their governments as well. why not. world’s ending in three days you guys. “sorry, I’m busy this weekend” ain’t gonna cut it lol

so while I am not fully caught up with Vigilantes, I have read far enough to know that there’s an American hero named Captain Celebrity whose superpower from what I recall is being a humongous douchebag. and while I haven’t read far enough to know what happens to this guy, I can’t say I’m very disappointed to learn that he’s no longer the number one hero in the U.S. (actually, didn’t they kick him out and that’s why he moved to Japan to begin with?). anyway, so my thanks to Horikoshi for having a marginally higher opinion of Americans than Furuhashi, even though we have definitely not done anything to warrant said opinion lately, and you may have inadvertently opened the door to a pandora’s box of discourse lmao

(ETA: lol I went into the tags and they don’t disappoint. “why is she dressed like a flag” because she’s an homage to Captain America and Major Victory and literally every other character on this list. again, I apologize for fictional American superheroes being Like This. “oh boy another thicc waifu to make the fanboys happy” look, tumblr fandom never seems to have a problem thirsting over Dabi or Tomura or Aizawa or Nao, lol, I’m just saying. “where is Captain Celebrity” idk, probably murdered by the exploding bee cartel, let’s just be grateful for our good fortune and try not to Beetlejuice the man.)

anyway, so let’s see if Horikoshi’s recent character development with regards to making Mineta not terrible anymore will apply to other aspects of his writing as well. I know I was making light of discourse just now, but I do think the complaints about him introducing yet another new character at the 11th hour to be cannon fodder in the final battle are absolutely valid. and again, it wouldn’t be a problem if he didn’t keep maiming/killing off his female characters one by one instead of developing them and letting them kick ass long-term. but that said, I will never complain about Horikoshi adding another female character to the series, regardless of how clumsy the attempt may be. go ahead and pander away, just give us more girl power lol

anyway so we’ll see how it goes, but I think I’m gonna be optimistic and let myself hope once again, even though I’m probably gonna regret it lol. it is what it is. she is standing on an airplane just chilling for fuck’s sake. I’m only human. anyway fingers crossed

[sidespromptblog]

The Goodbye Letter

Warnings: Crying (Logan), Hurt/Comfort, goodbye letter, talk of fading (past tense- Logan), and general angst. 

Summary: After months of planning and thinking, Logan decides to finally leave the light sides for good. Through a letter.

AO3 LINK

Word Count: 2188

The desk lamp next to Logan clicked on, illuminating a corner of the logical side’s room on pale yellow light as the figure of the logical side sat hunched over his desk a pen clasped tight between cramping fingers. 

It was late, so late that even Virgil would have been asleep by now. 

Which meant that it was the perfect time to do this.  

“I can do it...” Logan softly chanted to himself, as he rubbed his temples only giving the clock on his desk a wayward glance. It was late, way too late for the emotions he was trying to wrangle right now. But it had to be done now, or else he wasn’t going to get it done at all. “We talked about this ahead of time, and we know that I can do this…” 

All things considered, Logan started his letter off pretty eloquently given the state of his emotions. 

“I hope, that when you finally notice that I am no longer around. That the silence where I once stood is deafening.” He began, finding that once he started it was almost impossible to stop. “I hope that you try to fill it in whatever ways you can possibly think of, be it your singing, dancing, or probably more accurately… the arguing that never seems to go away whether I’m there or not. Whatever way you try, I hope that they all fail and I hope that you remember the time where the silence wasn’t there. I hope that you remember that it was once me, and I hope that you remember how I once was.” 

Logan didn’t feel at all angry, despite how his letter may make him seem towards those it was directed towards… he wasn’t angry about any of it. He hadn’t been angry about it in such a long time, he was more…

Comfortably numb at this point, despite what the words scrawled on the page spelled out. It was easy to default to this past anger he’d felt, rather than attempted to write out how they’d made him this way and how’d they’d made him so empty, to begin with.  

He’d need longer than a few hours to explain that, it would take days… days that he didn’t have right now. 

He had long since passed the stage of being angry or even being sad, he’d shed so many tears that it had hurt to cry and it had hurt even more to just be sad without being able to cry. He had tried trashing things, burning all of his notecards, and just ripping everything that he had once worked on to shreds. Now there was just… nothing. He was just tired at this point, and that was left was that tiredness that made him feel as if that was all that there was at this point. He couldn’t recall a single morning where he woke up not feeling this constant tiredness. And not feeling like it would be better off to not leave his bed, let alone his bedroom. 

It was just easier to write this letter, rather than having to go through the struggle of having to explain himself without being interrupted or argued with. 

“I hope it hurts,” He added without much malice left inside of him. “I hope it hurts to realize how far you’ve pushed me. I could have gone an eternity existing beside all of you, had it not been for the belittling. I’m sad to say that I probably would have stayed a little longer even if that was the case, I loved all of you so much. But after recent events… something inside of me is broken now, and I don’t think that it will ever be fixed properly.” 

Much to Logan’s surprise, he felt a stripe of wetness streak down his face at his next words dotting the page that he was writing on. 

At the admission of weakness that he now felt.

But even so, that didn’t stop him.  

If anything it only spurred him on now, even as it became hard to see throughout all of the tears.

“I am far too damaged now to come back to you all. I don’t remember when I wasn’t.” 

Taking in a shaky breath, a whimper crawled up the logical side’s throat at the finalization that settled in his chest. He loved them… truly he did. He loved Roman’s energy, and how he put everything he had into every project he took. He had always given his whole heart to them regardless of how he felt. He loved Virgil’s mellowness and the way that he thought about things as realistically as he could despite how the world scared him. He loved Patton and his cheeriness, and his drive to keep going and to see the best in things… even if it wasn’t for the best in himself. 

“When did you first break me? And when could I no longer put myself back together?” 

But right now… it was so hard to love them. So hard that it felt almost impossible at this point. It was possible he knew… but not necessarily healthy. 

It was so hard to love them when they saw him as something optional, as something that was so boring that they couldn’t be bothered to even try to listen to him. Every single time they made a comment, every time they rolled their eyes, and every time attempted to ignore him once again…

It hurt. 

Every time it hurt more and more. 

“Logan?” 

The said logical side felt his shoulders stiffen at the hand that rested on his shoulder, gently cradling him as he went through wave after wave of tears that threatened to choke him if he didn’t let them out all at once.

It most certainly didn’t stop the shaking of his shoulders as he felt the tears that he had thought were once gone and dried up, rise up again with a vengeance. They ran down like a rainstorm, dripping onto the page and smudging the ink that hadn’t even begun to dry yet. Not that it mattered to him much anyways, it wasn’t the neatness he cared about now, but rather what the words had meant to him. What the emotions that had been locked away inside of him had tried to say after all of these years, and… what he had convinced himself that he had been alright with for years upon years. 

He wasn’t okay. 

Burying his face in his hands Logan tried to choke out an apology. “S..Sorry.. Sorry.” He mumbled out behind his mess of tears, “I thought that I was okay enough to write this. I thought.. I thought that it wouldn’t hurt as much… I’m sorry.” The apology was constant, despite the hand that released his shoulder instead curled around him, pulling him into a warm hug. 

A part of him wanted to pull against it, to finish his letter and everything that it entailed. Part of him wanted to rebel against the warmth from the other side, and from the hand gingerly petting his hair as his breathing hitched and a near-silent sob bubbled out of him. But…

He didn’t, as much as that part of him wanted to… he sank back into the comfort that was so freely given to him.

Why did kindness hurt just as much as cruelness? 

“It’s okay,” That gentle voice murmured again, “We both knew that this wouldn’t be easy, writing a goodbye letter is… very hard to do. It involves a lot of digging up old emotions and putting them on display for others to see, and that’s scary and hurtful for you. You’ve been hurt, and you have a lot to say.” A soft kiss pressed against the top of his head. “It’s okay Logan, you’re doing good.” 

Taking in a deep breath he nodded before leaning his head back enough to look back at the side that had come at the sign of his smallest discomfort. Janus’ mismatched eyes stared down at him with a sad kind of understanding, it was the kind of look that anytime before he understood would have made Logan very confused. But now… now he reached up, gingerly taking the hand that had resumed the petting of his hair and placed a tiny kiss on the palm. The tears on his cheeks hadn’t even dried as Janus swiped them away, the softness was unbelievably evident in just about everything that he did for Logan. 

“Thank you,” Logan whispered, his voice cracking with each word. “I’m okay, it’ll be tough to finally finish this… but I’ll be okay.” 

Janus’ eyes searched his for a long terse moment, before finally nodding.

Leaning down the dishonest side placed a simple kiss on the logical side’s forehead, the smell of his cologne lingering. “Okay,” He slowly began. “Be sure to take a break if you need to. Call me or Remus if necessary. He’s almost done completing your space in the imagination, just a few more hours and it’ll be fully complete.” A tiny smile lit up the serpentine side’s face, “He’s very excited to show it to you…” 

Oh, Logan was sure about that. Remus had spent the past few months creating blueprints for Logan’s new home ever since the logical side had brought up his idea of just leaving. At first… Logan had brought up the idea of leaving as a last resort, as in leaving the other sides as well as Thomas. Of just leaving the mindspace and never looking back, of finding his place in the real world even if he technically wouldn’t be able to survive as anything more than a phantom of a man. He had been prepared to make that sacrifice, even if it had meant that he could begin to feel better about where he was. 

It had really scared Remus and Janus when he had talked about it…

Apparently, he had been almost manic about the idea of it.

He wasn’t exactly in the best place back then, so their fear wasn’t exactly unwarranted.   

He’d even contemplated fading into the subconscious, and just becoming one of Thomas’ baser instincts. Still acting as logic, without being present and visible for him to be summoned at will. It had been a very tempting idea back then, but now… he had better plans, with a future that wouldn’t be nearly so painful as the past. 

“Yeah,” Logan smiled, his hand reaching up to card through Janus’ loose hair. “I can’t wait.” 

“This is goodbye, I am certain that I will miss all of you. It would be impossible for me not to miss any of you, I’ve grown up with you all and seen how you’ve all changed throughout the years. I will always hold a bit of fondness for you all. Patton, Virgil, and Roman. I love you all dearly so, but… I cannot continue. I cannot last how I have been, so this will likely be the last you ever hear of me. I will not show myself to Thomas, in fact, I will not be capable of being summoned. So for all intents and purposes… this is a final goodbye. So finally… Goodbye. Sincerely and with love, Logan ‘Logic’ Sanders. For the last time.” 

With a sigh of relief, Logan neatly folded the letter that he had spent the better part of the week writing. Sealing it with a glob of hot wax, that Roman would most certainly find ironic, Logan sealed the letter before finally rising to take it to its final resting place where it would be found by the others in the morning. Rising up in the living room, he moved silently and quickly, he placed it on the kitchen counter that connected to the dining room. 

Most certain Patton would come in the morning and find it, he’d be the first to read it and thus the information would spread to the others as well. They would all know well before the morning had even begun.  

“Janus?” Logan softly called out as he rose back up into his bedroom, “Do you think it’s ready yet?” 

The excitement on the other side’s face told him everything that he needed to know as he extended his hand to the logical side. “Yeah,” Janus murmured softly, the warm smile on his face growing. “Are you ready to see your new home?” 

With a nod, Logan sank down with Janus.

Just to rise up to feel the warm sunshine on his face, and the sight of a homely cottage that had been made just for him well within in his sight. Remus had really outdone himself this time. The long grass tickled his feet, and the smell of wildflowers graced his nose, letting him know right away that place was safe for him and not a single thing would hurt him here. The babbling of the stream in the distance, and the swaying of the windchimes in the distance almost made Logan want to weep from the pure joy of it all.  

He was home. 

He was safe. 

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

euphemia volpe has never wanted for very much; a safe place to sleep, a soft place to land. to love someone, and be loved back. she has all of those things now, but it's most unfortunate for her that she has fallen in love with a man who will never be satisfied with what he's got.

pt. i: contact is crisis

words: 3.3k

warnings: language, some depictions of a relationship that is not entirely healthy, extensive use of my very basic knowledge of italian (padded with google translate, thank you google!), and an unfortunate amount of endearments and pet names. this does not deviate from john wick chapter 2's canon ending, so please bear in mind this will contain major character death.

rating: m for mature language ??? probably closer to t, but will change later on.

notes: as some of you may know, this has been (unfortunately) sitting on my drive since i first watched john wick chapter two almost a year ago--maybe over a year! i can't remember. all i remember was seeing santino and going "SOMEONE has got to kiss that man". so you know, here i am. this short-fic (only a few, short parts) will take place over the span of the events of john wick chapter 2. yes i built some tiny amount of lore for the camorra. yes i had the opportunity to write a fix-it fic and did not. no i am not taking criticism at this time !

special uber big thank you to my beta and my wifey @starcrier who read this a year ago and when i casually said, "hey, so what if i posted this" told me to do it. also @faithchel, who through the occasional sly prompt slid in from ask games (i see you) has been a true angel while i sort through this, and equally as encouraging!

and of course thank you to you all, who read this. i know this is not the usual content you followed me for but i appreciate you all the same. <3

“I cannot believe that I will marry a man so stupid.”

Euphemia is practically frothing at the mouth, she’s so mad; she storms into the chic New York loft, tossing her purse onto the nearby counter, her heels clipping against the polished floor decisively. It’s late; the silk slip of a dress draped across her body brushes the floor in a sweeping train, and she balances herself on the counter with one hand while she steps out of the stilettos with the assistance of the other.

“Euphie, luce della mia vita,” Santino says, striding in after her and completely at ease. He is, infuriatingly, as he always is; perfectly composed, his dark curls in place and his suit immaculate. Euphemia eyes him through the mirror of her vanity as he sidles up behind her. “We’re not married yet, princesa, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Luce della mia vita,” Euphemia drawls mockingly. She drips the words in honey on the way out of her mouth, sliding a dainty, glittering bracelet from her wrist and dropping it on the counter. “You sound like a fucking idiot, Santi.”

His gaze darkens, but his voice is still silky when he says, “Watch your tone, cara mia.”

“What for?” Euphemia thinks she wouldn’t be able to watch her tone even if she wanted to; not anymore, not with this hanging over her head. She turns to stare at her fiancé, pressing her index finger to his chest. “You’re going to get killed by Baba Yaga anyway. No point in behaving myself, is there? Idiota.”

“Euphemia.”

“You leave John Wick alone, Santino,” she bites out. “You don’t ask for a thing from him. Of him. About him. I don’t want John Wick near my life.”

Santino grabs her wrist, the hand with the engagement ring sitting on it—snatches it out of the air like a cobra striking, grips it with hands that usually are much kinder.

“Everything that you have now is a gift from me,” he warns her, voice pitched low. “You like your nice engagement ring? Your nice dresses? This nice loft we live in?”

His fingers grip, nearly bruising; these are the only times that he doesn’t handle her with care, that his elegant fingers don’t splay against her skin reverently—when she’s pissed him off.

“I’ve given it all to you, all of these things, this life that you like having and don’t want John Wick near, so I would suggest watching your tone for that.”

There is a brief moment where Euphemia thinks she might finally, right now, resort to the violence of slapping Santino in the face. The threat is not lost on her; it’s Santino’s favorite thing to do when he’s angry. And for her to commit an act of violence against her fiancé would be unthinkable almost every other time, in any other situation. Euphie would not have considered it in the least, but there are times—on occasion—where she thinks for a second that she doesn’t recognize him; that he’s become some amalgam of all of the men who have grabbed her too hard or told her she owes them. Men who have used her meanly.

And Santino has divulged his plan to push John Wick for a favor.

So, yes: she thinks she might, but then her hand is moving of her own volition, sliding the engagement ring off of her finger and stuffing it into his jacket pocket, the more pacifist choice than what her mind is screaming for her to do.

“You have never had nothing, Santi,” she says, biting out the words, “so allow me to enlighten you; I have had nothing before you, and I will be just fine having nothing again.”

His eyes narrow, gemlike slits that sit heavy on her. She yanks her wrist of his grip and says, “And it is a good thing we are not married, si? A divorce would have been so messy.”

“Euphie,” Santino says in a sigh that lacks venom, as though he weren’t just threatening to take everything from her, as though she were the hysterical one, “don’t fuss.”

Don’t fuss, he says, because Santino has only ever had women before that bend themselves over backwards until they break for him; don’t fuss, he says, because he likes and maybe loves her, she thinks, but he doesn’t like or love when she talks back. Santino has always had someone to wait on him, to serve him, and Euphemia has never seen his parents together but she would that his only vision of marriage is that of a subservient, dutiful, loving wife.

“Oh, but my darling,” she coos, very undutiful and decidedly not subservient, “I wouldn’t want you to have to worry about all of the nice things you give me. You can enjoy them all yourself, for the brief time before Baba Yaga kills you for asking him to do a job he does not want to do, when he has announced his retirement.”

It’s a terrible way to feed the monster inside of her. That monster is a pusher, a puller, the kind that picked and chipped away at Santino until he lost that shred of his manicured control and gave her something, anything she could work with. It was impossible to love a man who was so buttoned up there was nowhere for her to put her love.

His expression tightens in the way that she recognizes as his controlled fury; bottling it, merchandising it, saving it for later. Santino is not incapable of killing his sister himself, but for some reason—a reason that Euphemia is sure is only known to him—he won’t. Some stupid shit about blood and family, probably.

“Take the ring back.” Santino’s voice is smooth, belying the danger lurking just beneath. He fishes the engagement ring out of the pocket of his suit jacket, where she’d dropped it, and picks up her hand again; this time, his fingers don’t grip with bruising force, but cradle. Euphemia thinks she might have pushed him, then, right to the line, because his eerie calm is unsettling as his fingers meticulously slide the engagement ring back into place.

He says, “There, you see? This is where your engagement ring belongs and will stay. Here, on your hand. Just like this is where you belong and will stay—here, with me.” His hand comes up to her face; she turns away, and he catches her chin and forces her to look back at him.

“You know I will get you anything you want,” Santino murmurs, “but you have to ask.”

Nicely, is the implied word. A good fiancé, a good wife, wouldn’t storm out of the car after he mentions John Wick in passing, ripping through the loft, calling him names. She knows all of this and she thinks, then maybe I’m not a good anything.

But she can tell when she’s pushed Santino’s buttons just enough—enough to make a point, and not enough to incur his wrath. Not entirely.

“Please, Santi,” she says, her voice still hard but softer than it was before, and already Santi is shaking his head so she plunges on recklessly, “do not cash in John Wick’s debt to you. Ascoltami, I know you—I know you will do something to put yourself and John Wick on opposite sides of the playing field.”

Santino’s gaze is sharp and clear. He drops his hand from her face, shrugging, and says, “So what? I will be playing chess, and John Wick will be playing checkers. You worry too much, Euphie.”

“What you mean to say is that I think before I act.”

He shrugs, and threads his fingers through her hair, reaching up with the other to brush loose strands of it from her eyes. He rumbles pleasantly, “Don’t you trust me?”

Euphemia grits her teeth. Her hands come up to grip his wrists, watching him with a prickle of dread in her chest. “Don’t you trust me, Santi?”

Santi’s gaze darkens. Like that, he drops his hands from her, tucking them into the pockets of his slacks as he turns and wanders further into the bedroom, taking all of his warmth with him and leaving Euphie to marinate in the cold glow of the vanity’s lights.

“You can say no,” she says after him, frustrated. “You don’t have to keep an air of mystery about it.”

“What do I do then, tesora?” Santino demands, turning to look at her from the foot of the bed where stands. “Kill her myself? You know I can’t. You know that you cannot ask me to do that.” A pause, and then, with an added air of entitlement: “And Wick owes me.”

There are complicated feelings wrapped up in the whole of it, she knows; Santino, who wants what his sister was given, but cannot bring himself to end her. Euphemia, who only wants Santino, who doesn’t care if he has a seat at the High Table or if he’s a sister-killer or not, who only wants him to look at her longingly like he did when they first met, just for forever instead of a brief moment in time.

And both of them, intrinsically linked, because Santino isn’t wrong when he says that he’s given her everything she has now and Euphemia isn’t wrong when she says she would be okay with nothing again.

She doesn’t ask it of him; he is right, that she can’t, that she wouldn’t. Gianna has only ever been kind to her, at least face to face, and if Santi’s sister had any reservations about Euphemia, then Euphie would find herself in a completely different situation. Not engaged to the only other heir to the D’Antonio empire, that was for certain.

Instead, then, she says, “I cannot ask you to do it, you’re right. I cannot ask you to do it, and I cannot keep you, and I cannot throw you away, Santino. I was less tired when I had nothing.”

She turns away and walks herself into the bathroom, fingers trembling as she undoes the delicate zipper of the gold dress, letting it pool at the floor in a whisper of fabric. The engagement ring sits heavy on her hand. It’s beautiful—and just what she wants, and also the thing that she fears the most, because she doesn’t know what it means to Santino and only what it means to her.

“Euphie.”

His voice comes from the doorway of the bathroom. She turns on the hot water in the tub, a beautiful porcelain clawfoot that she picked herself. It was one of the first things that Santino gifted to her, the first essence of her in the loft that is now almost entirely half-and-half the two of their tastes.

Euphemia doesn’t say anything, because she doesn’t know what to say, so she ties up her hair and shimmies out of the last of her clothes. She can feel his eyes on her, waiting for her to flower into submission and turn around and beg, oh, please Santino, forgive me, but he should know better because she has never and will never do that for him.

“Cara mia.”

“Do not.” Euphemia’s voice wobbles. She slides into the bathtub before it’s full, the water stinging her skin where it touches. “I can’t stand to hear your voice saying sweet things to me when you are willingly walking yourself into your grave.”

“You are being a little dramatic.” He makes his way over to her, kneeling down beside the porcelain tub, ghosting his fingers over her forehead and then the bridge of her nose, fluttering in a way that treasures her and causes her grief all at once. “Just one job, Euphie. That’s all I’m going to ask of him. And then it’s done, and you won’t have to be worried about the Boogeyman.” The pads of his fingers dip into the hot water and then skim along the slope of her collarbone, raising goosebumps on her skin. “And John Wick, whose lifelong peace you are very concerned about, can go back to his dog and his car.”

Euphemia thinks, it’s never just that, with you, because she knows Santino—she knows he’s hungry, has always been hungry, a boy magicked into a man’s skin all hurt and needing and starved, unable to inhibit himself properly. No self-preservation telling him when to stop, never telling him when enough is enough. Not really.

I see you, though, she thought, her gaze flickering over Santino’s face to trace the handsome lines of his expression. She would have never agreed to marry a man before she saw him without his face off; without knowing the monster underneath.

But while she knows this, and she sees Santino D’Antonio for what he really is, she is an idiot and a fool and loves a man sick with the magic of his own perceived destiny, a destiny he believes he is owed, so she says softly, “Promise me, Santi.”

“On my life,” Santino replies with that boyish charm she knows so well. He speaks as though he is not going to leave her in the morning to visit Baba Yaga, as though she doesn’t fear he won’t ever come back. “Now give me a kiss, princesa.”

“I mean it, Santino—”

“I do, too.” He cocks his head to the side. “I won’t ask twice.”

Euphemia acquiesces; not because she fears what he’ll do if he does feel he has to ask twice—because he does hate that—but because as much as she says she would be happy to have nothing again, she is content to bask in the something that she has now, while she has it.

She kisses the corner of his mouth. He slides his damp fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and says, “Do you love me?”

“Of course.” Her voice feels rough with an emotion she doesn’t want any of. “Of course, Santi, that’s why I—”

“All I need is a yes or no, my little fox, not an essay.”

Her eyes narrow. She turns her face from him; he shifts his position at the end she’s leaned against, dragging his hands along her shoulders to ease the tension in her muscles. Her body reacts instinctively to him. She is a long cry from the girl scamming rich men out of their wallets and time, but there are some things she is still weak to; touch, the acknowledgment that she has a body, that she is real, to be reassured that she is alive.

Santino is so very good at that. He leans over the end of the tub and kisses her cheek, fingers working into the knots of her shoulders.

I am so afraid, she thinks, her eyelashes fluttering shut. I am so afraid that I will never see old age on you.

“Tesora.” His voice is a lull. Pulling her back in, pushing her back under, reminding her that to relinquish herself to someone is a luxury she does not want to go without anymore. To let someone else take control, to not have to worry about making decisions all the time; this is something that she always wants.

“Yes,” Euphie says, “of course I love you, Santi.”

She can feel his smile against her cheek.

“Good girl.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Tell me your favorite words.”

It’s both early and late; the clock’s cool blue numbers are keeping her awake; Santi’s hand slides along the curve of her hip admiringly above the silk of her nightdress, and his nose brushes the bump at the base of her neck. Euphemia shifts. When she does, the edge of her engagement ring catches on the silky pillowcase, but she doesn’t care—it will always do that, because Santi won’t pick another and Euphie won’t ask him to.

Goosebumps prickle along her skin with the air conditioning, cranked as high as she likes, whispers across it when her shoulder slides out from underneath the comforter. She rolls over to look at him. It’s unsurprising that he’s still awake, and he doesn’t look surprised to see she’s awake, either.

“My favorite words?” she prompts. Santino brings his hand to her face, his thumb dragging absently along her lower lip.

“Si,” he replies. “You are always reading. You can speak a few languages. You must have favorite words, no?”

His request does bring a smile to her face, tired as it is. They may have spent the rest of their waking evening wandering around each other like wounded dogs, wary and licking their wounds, but they are here now, together, in their bed.

Euphie says, “It is late, Santi.”

“And I cannot sleep.” He brushes his nose along her jawline. “But perhaps the soothing voice of my one greatest love will lull me.”

She laughs. Her hand finds his, their fingers interlacing, woven together. He pulls back from her and kisses the engagement ring, but he is waiting. He means it.

“Tendresse,” Euphemia says, the word rolling soft out of her mouth from misuse. Santino quirks a brow expectantly and kisses the pulse point of her wrist. “Tenderness.”

He nods sagely. Against the soft skin of the inside of her wrist, he murmurs, “You are a most tender creature, Euphemia D’Antonio.”

Her fingers slide out of his, running along the slope of his cheekbones and then the bridge of his nose. “That is Euphemia Volpe. If you’ll recall, we’re yet to be married.”

Santino leans in, captures her fingertips playfully with his teeth, and then kisses her palm with a warm, rich chuckle that sends pleasant heat spiraling down her spine. “You will never forget that I was fool enough to say that to you, will you?” he asks. “Tell me another.”

His eyes are just as warm as his voice, and twice as earnest. In these moments, Santino is the most charming; boyish and quick-witted, unburdened by the elements of the world, by his own desires. He thinks of nothing except them. Euphemia feels like she’s in her own little world with him, in their bedroom at three in the morning, while the air conditioner whirrs and ticks and he asks her something so unimportant, like what her favorite words are.

And then, Santino leans in and kisses her cheek, the corner of her mouth, and the underside of her jaw to prompt her.

“Amore,” she murmurs, feeling like the breath has been sucked out of her lungs by his longing. His tenderness.

“Oh,” Santino says, against her temple, “I know that one.”

When his stubble tickles her neck, she squirms, shifting away from him so hat she can take a breath; but he chases her, leans in and captures her in his arms so that he can nose the hair by her ear and kiss there.

“Euphie, my gorgeous girl,” he says in the way that wrenches her heart; drenched and drowned in adoration. “Perfetto e tutto mio.”

Santino wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest, his fingers tracing constellations on her back where the night dress slips away from her shoulder blades. Sweet Santi, covetous Santi; she is his greatest art piece, his favorite collector’s item, and in these moments she has never felt more treasured. There is something equal parts safe and selfish in wanting someone to treasure you.

“Say it for me, Euphie. You know I love when you do.”

She buries her face into his neck. Her eyes burn. He will go to Baba Yaga tomorrow, and she will have to pretend not to know, or it will wreck her. Euphie considers ways to keep him in bed in the morning; delay him, make him forget about John Wick and this glory that he is chasing forever.

“Sono tuo,” she murmurs. Tears sting at the corners of her eyes If he feels them against his skin, Santino makes no indication than to card his fingers through her hair. “Always, Santi.”

Always, always, always yours.

[iwillbeinmynest]

Safer Behind It - Newt x Reader(f)

Authors Notes: Well here it is my first Maze Runner fic! Hopefully y'all like it, or at least don’t hate it. This is based on moments from The Scorch Trials (book). Bold words are direct quotes from the book. I do not take any credit for Dashner’s work.

Word Count: 1.7k

Notes/Warnings: mentions of injuries, mentions of violence, mentions of trauma (from the maze), some fluff and angst if you look hard enough.

Masterlist

 Jorge found them after the lightning storm. Eleven new faces in the building on the outskirts of town. You listened as Jorge gave them the rundown of how things were going to go. When he called for the rest of you, you followed Brenda close.

You and Brenda hadn’t known each other too long but she was good and you trusted Jorge more than anything.

One of the new kids- a boy with dark hair- asked for a few minutes with Jorge.

“Me and you,” The kid begged. He stood over another boy who looked like he had been fried by lightning. Maybe he had, that storm was brutal.

“Ten minutes. Alone. That’s all I ask.” He went on.

You were surprised when Jorge agreed. He must have seen something in the kid you didn’t.

He told you and the others to watch this new group and to kill them if they made any moves. You knew he was being dramatic, adding the threat of death to remind the other Cranks behind you that he was in charge.

One of the boys you were supposed to be watching caught your eye. He was blonde and thin. He had a limp - you’d noticed it as he walked over and checked on the others in his group.

Brenda caught you staring at him. “Careful, Y/N.” She said quietly so the Cranks couldn’t hear her.

You rolled your eyes. “I can handle myself.”

“He’s not gonna like it if you don’t keep up the facade.”

“What’s he gonna do, have you run me through?” You tested.

You saw the twitch of a smirk at the corner of her mouth. “Just don’t be stupid.”

 You tugged up on the thin, tan, scarf that covered your nose and mouth. You didn’t like it to be down.

You walked over to the limping boy. You say boy, but really he was near your age if not a bit older. “You need to sit down,” you told him.

He looked at you carefully. “I’m just making sure these guys are alright.”

His voice sounded funny but you kinda liked it.

“I’m not going to ask again.” you drew the makeshift dagger you had from where it usually was sheathed at your lower back.

 He sighed but sat on the hard concrete next to the fried boy. He pulled a knee to his chest and mumbled, “Bloody shank girl.”

You smirked at that.

“What’s your name?” You asked him.

He looked up at you and there was no hiding the annoyance in his eyes. “Newt.”

“Newt?” You almost laughed. “Like the lizard?”

The boy next to him chuckled.

“No.” Newt huffed. “Like Issac Newton.”

 “I think I like my reason better, lizard boy.”

“Hey!” One of the Cranks behind you caught your attention. It was an older man, you didn’t know his name but you knew you didn’t like him. “What are you talkin’ so much about?”

“None of your business, old man.” You turned to him and left no room for him to think you might be afraid of him, which you weren’t.

“Back off, Murph.” Brenda said calmly as she whacked the flat side of her machete on his chest. “Let her have some fun before we rip them to shreds.”

It seemed to tide him over and he walked away but not before he stared you down again.

You rolled your eyes when his back was turned and exhaled a silent groan. You looked to Brenda.

She had her eyebrows raised and was clearly waiting for you to say,

“Thank you.” You muttered.

“Mhm.” She grinned. You knew she’d never say it out loud but she was starting you like having you around.

You turned back to Newt and crouched down, your sharpened letter opener gripped tightly in your hand. “So, tell me, Newt, What brings you out into the Scorch?”

“Don’t tell her klunk, dude.” The burnt boy said with spunk.

“I bet you’re the fun one.” You teased him, “You look like garbage. What happened to you?”

“He got struck by lightning,” Newt answered, “Or close to it anyways.”

“Yikes.” You responded. You’d been right.

“Didn’t even hurt.” He lied.

“Shuck off, Minho. You’re not fooling anyone.” Newt rolled his eyes.

“Screw you, man.” Minho all but pouted.

 “Why do you cover your face?” Newt asked, ignoring his friend. “No sun in here.”

You paused but tried to cover it and said, “So you don’t get distracted by how pretty I am.”

He smirked at that.

He had a nice smile. It lit up his eyes.

You stood up quickly and walked back to Brenda. Why did you care what his smile was like?

“You good?” She asked low again.

“Fine.” You lied. Actually you were scared by how much you were starting to like Newt. No sense in hurting yourself by getting attached.

Jorge and the dark haired boy reappeared from down the back hall.

Jorge told everyone that he, Brenda and yourself were going to take these few to get some food and that you’d all meet back up at the tower.

You didn’t know what he was planning but it had to be something, because he was putting on quite a show. He mentioned cutting off Minho’s fingers for punching him earlier and you honestly thought he might be serious about that part.

The other Cranks left and you walked behind Brenda as she led the way to the tunnels where you had hid the stash of food.

You helped pass out cans of food and watched as Brenda sat by Thomas - you’d recently learned his name.

You looked around, wondering where to settle amongst these new boys and found Newt looking at you.

“Here goes nothin’” you muttered to yourself beneath your mask.

You made your way over and sat against the wall beside him.

“Enjoying the meal?” You asked. He sure looked like he was.

He nodded, mouth full of cold beans.

“When was the last time you ate?” You realized that he, and everyone else that he’d come with, were eating like they’d been starved.

“Not but a few days ago,” He said when he’d finally swallowed. “But we were out in that bloody heat for so long.” His eyes stared into nothing for a moment and you could tell he was reliving something awful.

“How long were you actually out there?”

“Three, four, five days,” he asked himself. “I’m not sure.”

“Where did you come from?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” He returned to the present and out of the bad memories he’d been replaying. You watched him plaster on a smirk.

There was that smile again. You were glad your cheeks were covered because you were pretty sure you were blushing.

“Do I get to ask you any?”

You nodded, “Sure.”

“Why do you wear that over your face?” He repeated.

“Why do you care?”

His head ticked to the side. You’d asked another question.

You relented. “I already told you.”

“But we both know that wasn’t the truth.” He said before taking another bite.

You sombered and sighed. You were trying to find the words.

“I only partly lied.” You finally said.

 Newt stopped eating and shocked you with what he said next. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business if you don’t want to talk about it.”

It was so...considerate of him to say that. It had been a long time since anyone other that Jorge was considerate to you. Even Brenda was harsh when you’d met her and she still makes comments about it.

The look in your eyes must have revealed something to him.

“You really don’t have to tell me.”

For some reason you did, though. Maybe it was his soft voice, maybe it was the random kindness he’d displayed, but suddenly, you wanted to show him. Almost like a test to see if he was genuinely kind at heart.

You slipped your index finger under the cloth near your nose but before you pulled it down you said, “Just...brace yourself.”

You pulled the mask down below your chin, revealing the angry red scar that ran from your upper lip, just below your nose, all the way to your ear, which had a notch missing from it.

Newt barely flinched. He just looked at you.

Your scar had healed thick which made it distort your lip slightly.

“When I was first sent here, after finding out I had the Flare, a crank attacked me with a shard of glass. He got me pretty good but Jorge was there and he saved me. He couldn’t do much to make me look better, though.” You pulled your mask back up. “Most people just stare at it, instead of me. So, I cover it up.”

“You shouldn’t.” He offered a hint of a smile as he switched to his second can of food. “Nothing wrong with the way you look.”

You sat stunned.

“I broke my leg in three places. That’s why I have a limp. Do you only see the limp when you look at me?” He asked.

You shook your head, unable to think of anything to say.

He shrugged his shoulders. “See?”

 You bit down a smile that threatened to spread across your mouth. Good thing your mask was on.

“I’m sorry I called you lizard boy.” You felt bad for teasing him, now.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been called worse.”

The two of you sat in silence for a short while. Then, you wondered something.

“What’s a shank?”

He chuckled, “Just something we say. Why?”

“Back in the building you called me a ‘bloody shank girl’.”

His cheeks flushed and he stared down at the can he was eating from. “Sorry.”

“So, shank isn’t nice then?”

“Depends…” He smirked, almost embarrassed he’d said that about you.

“And here I thought you were soft.”

He looked at you. “Nope, just wrong on occasion.”

“I’m Y/N, by the way.” You suddenly realized you’d never told him your name and now you wanted him to know it. To say it.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He paused a moment before adding, “ I have a feeling I won’t regret it.” He glanced over at you again.

“You won’t.” You promised.

 *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

TMR Tags: 

@mo320 

[worldserasingandcreatinginmymind]

Unfaithful | Part Two

Series Summary: After dreaming of your perfect wedding since you were a little girl the big day is almost here. But after meeting the priest you start to question your relationship.

Pairing: Hot Priest x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3243

Warnings: abusive behaviour, mentions of ‘bedroom activity’ 🙈

A/N: Please be warned there will be some themes of toxic/abusive relationship in this series. Also, spelling and grammar is not my strongest skill so please be kind :)

Part One | Masterlist

- - - - -

I knew weddings took a lot of planning, but I never realised they took this much. Every single tiny detail requires a decision and more often than not that decision falls on the bride’s shoulders. 

Purple or yellow flowers?

Napkins folded as swans or roses?

Which table can we sit Uncle David at where he won’t start a fight?

I try to get Dan involved in the decision making but his response is always the same.

“It’s up to you babe”

Speaking of Daniel, I still haven’t told him we have to meet with the Priest again today. I tried a few times to bring it up but his mood changes instantly. I’ve still got a slight bruise on my wrist from the aftermath of the first meeting, but I keep it covered. I know he didn’t mean to hurt me. 

I pull the sleeve of my jumper down over my wrist as I approach Daniel in the kitchen. 

“You look nice, where you going today?” He asks as he makes himself a cup of tea. 

“Actually…” I take a breath “we’ve got our second meeting with the Priest today”

“What do you mean? We’ve already met him once why do we need to go again?” He doesn’t look as me as he swirls the teabag around in his mug with a spoon.

“It’s just church policy, he has to meet with us a few times before the wedding”

“Well I’m not going” 

“Dan-“

“I SAID NO!” He erupts, swiping his mug off the counter so it smashes and tea spills everywhere. He storms out of the kitchen, leaving me stood in the mess he’s made. I stare at it bewildered for a moment as it sinks in what he’s done and I feel my blood start to boil.

“Daniel!” I shout as I follow after him. I find him in the hallway taking his coat off the hook as he heads for the front door “where are you going?”

“Pub”

“Dan, the priest is expecting us in half an hour! Both of us!”

“Then I guess he’s doing to be disappointed. Or not. You two got along just fine the other day, it was almost as if I wasn’t even there”

“We both tried to include you in the conversation multiple times but you just… weren’t present”

“Well then today won’t be any different will it” 

He walks out and slams the door behind him. 

I stand alone in the hallway for a few minutes taking deep breaths to calm myself before taking out my phone and sending an email. 

‘I’m really sorry father but I’m not feeling well so I need to reschedule today’s meeting. Sorry.’

— — — — 

45 minutes later. 

I clean when I’m stressed. And right now I’m the most stressed I’ve been in my life so I’ve decided to stress clean the whole house. Everything. Apart from the broken mug and spilled tea. Daniel can clean that shit up when he eventually gets back from his sulk. 

I’m in the middle of vacuuming the living room when something catches my attention in the corner of my eye. My heart stops for a moment when I turn and see the Priest waving at me through the window.

I turn off the vacuum and open the front door, placing my hand over my chest. 

“You startled me!” 

“I guess now were even” he laughs awkwardly “I bought you these”

He pulls out a small bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

“Why?” I ask, not meaning to sound as ungrateful as I do, as he hands them to me.

“You said you were ill, I hoped these would cheer you up” 

I don't quite know how to react so I end up just staring at him blankly. The truth is I’m speechless. He watches my face and the smile fades from his own. 

“You don’t like them. Shit! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even come, I’ve overstepped my boundaries.” He rambles

“No! No! I love them I’m just-” I pause as I look down at the flowers in my hand “I think this is the nicest thing anyones ever done for me. No one ever buys me flowers” 

“Well they should.”

For some reason I suddenly feel like a shy little school girl. I smile at him and he smiles back. 

“Anyway I just wanted to make sure you're okay. Get well soon” he turns and begins walking down the driveway. I think for a moment.

“Father!” I call after him and he spins around to face me “would you like to come in?” 

He nods and walks back to me, going past me into the house. I shut the door and gesture for him to go through into the kitchen, forgetting about Daniel’s mess. 

“Oops” he says when he sees it “what happened there?” 

“Daniel had an accident. He can be really clumsy sometimes” I laugh it off as I busy myself making us some tea.

“Can’t we all” he says, taking a seat at the dining table “will he be joining us?”

“No” I respond, a bit too quickly “he uh, he had to go out. I don't know when he’ll be back” 

I carefully carry our cups of tea over to the dining table and take a seat opposite him.

“Never mind. Thank you” he smiles and takes a sip of tea “I actually wanted to talk to you about something without Daniel, if that’s okay?” 

“Sure” I shrug, stirring some sugar into my tea. 

“I hope you don't take this wrong way but-” he pauses, I can tell he’s nervous to say what he’s going to say next “Are you safe?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just… I saw what happened in the car park the other day”

“I don't know what you're talking about” I say casually as I remove the spoon from my tea and place it down on the table. The priest reaches over and goes to touch my wrist but I pull it away quickly, instinctively pulling my sleeve down over my hand as his eyes search my own. 

“He hurt you, didn’t he?” He asks quietly and I shake my head “I saw the way you held your wrist as you walked away from him Y/N and I could see the bruises just now.”

I can’t bare the way he’s looking at me anymore so I cast my eyes down to the table, but he continues to stare at me. 

“Y/N? Talk to me, that’s what I’m here for. If he’s abusive to you-”

“He’s not” I finally speak as I look up at him again “he’s not like that, he’s kind and caring and… he would never intentionally hurt me. I just caught him on a bad day”

“And what about today? With the tea?” He gestures to the shattered mug on the floor “That wasn’t an accident was it? Is that why you cancelled today?”

“No! It’s just the stress of planning a wedding is getting to us both. But we’re fine! Honestly” 

I take a breath as I smile at him, but I can see he’s not totally convinced. He looks at me for a moment before speaking. 

“Give me your phone” he holds his hand out across the table 

“What? Why?” 

“I’m giving you my number, no one emails anymore” he jokes “So you can contact me whenever you need a chat, okay? Any time. Well apart from Sunday mornings, cause you know, church.”

“Of course” I smile

“And preferably not late. I’ve been really enjoying going to bed at 9.30 recently” he winks and we both laugh “I’m kidding. Well not about going to bed at 9.30, I do actually do that. But you can call or text me anytime and I will always get back to you. I promise” 

He gives me a really sincere smile and I feel a weird flutter in my stomach as I smile back. 

— — — — 

Almost two hours later the priest is only just getting ready to leave after we got carried away talking. We talked about all sorts. Our childhoods, our hobbies, our fears. He told me about his fear of foxes, and how they’ve apparently stalked him throughout his life. He even told me about his first ever wedding and the drama that surrounded the family. We’ve been talking for so long we didn’t realise its starting to get dark. He opens the front door and steps out just as Daniel comes walking toward the house, I see the anger in his face as he spots the priest. 

“What the fuck is he doing here!” He yells as he stomps towards us

“Daniel!” I warn but he ignores me, squaring up to the priest. I try to get between them and smell the stench of booze on him “are you drunk?!”

“So what if I am? Huh? You got a problem with that?” his breath on my face makes me want to gag “cause you know, I got a problem with this asshole being in my house”

“We just had some wedding stuff to discuss but it’s all sorted now so I’m going” the priest tries to diffuse the situation “I’ll see you both soon” 

“Like fuck you will” Daniel spits before going into the house. 

I mouth “I’m sorry” to the priest and he just shakes his head and smiles at me before leaving. 

Back in the house I ignore Daniel’s drunken ranting, going straight to the kitchen to clear away the left over cups of tea. Aggravated that I’m not paying him attention, Daniel follows me into the kitchen. He picks the flowers up from the counter.

“Did he give you these?” He asks but I ignore him, angering him more. He rips the flowers to shreds, dumping them on the floor. 

I step over them and I place our mugs next to sink, grab a cloth and some cleaner before going back to wipe down the table. Suddenly a mug flies past me, just missing my face as it smashes against the wall. I slowly turn to look at Daniel and stare him out before I dropping the cloth on the table and walking out. I grab my handbag and throw my jacket around my shoulders as I walk out of the house, slamming the door behind me. Daniel doesn’t dare to follow me, he knows he pushed me too far. 

I’ve been walking for about half an hour before I realise, I have no idea where I’m going. I’m just wondering aimlessly, letting my feet carry me wherever they want to go. Eventually I find myself standing outside the church. I place my hand on the wooden doors and pause, contemplating whether to go inside or carry on walking till I find a bar to drink at. To my surprise the doors gently swing open, but theres no one stood behind them. I take this as a sign that I should go in. 

As I enter the silent church and walk down the aisle I can’t help but imagine myself here in a few weeks wearing my white dress. I reach the front and turn back to stare out at the empty pews, picturing my friends and family smiling back at me as I stand with the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with. 

A thought that used to fill me with excitement, currently filling me with dread. 

I grunt with frustration as I flop down to the floor, sitting on the step with my head in my hands. Frustration turns to anger, which turns to sadness and soon I can’t stop the tears rolling down my face. I sit there silently crying until…

“You can’t be in here!” 

I look up and wipe my eyes as a very grumpy looking middle aged lady stomps towards me.

“Sorry”

“No ones allowed in at night”

“The door was open, I just presumed-”

“Well it shouldn’t have been and you need to leave” she ushers me back to the doors.

“Okay, I’m going. Sorry!”

“Y/N?” A familiar voice calls and I look back to see the priest emerging from his office “what are you doing here?”

“She’s just leaving Father, I’m sorry for the disturbance” the woman answers

“It’s alright Pam, she can stay” 

The woman I now know is Pam looks from the priest to me, then back to the priest again before backing off slightly. 

“Okay…” she says slowly, like she suspects something “I’ll just be upstairs if you need me. Goodnight Father” 

“Good night Pam” he replies.

She gives me one last look before disappearing out a door. I look at the priest, who just rolls his eyes and laughs as he gestures for me to follow him. 

I walk into his office and take a seat.

“So, that was Pam” he says, closing the office door and taking a seat opposite me.

“I gathered” I nod my head “She’s a bit…”

“Insane” 

“I was gonna say intense, but yeah” I laugh, feeling self conscious as I notice he’s studying my face. My cheeks are probably still blotchy and eyes blood shot from crying. There’s a small silence before he finally speaks.

“Are you okay?”

I look at him, not sure how to answer. 

“Did he hurt you?” He changes the question

“No” I shake my head “but he did break another mug. I’m gonna have to get insurance out on the ones we’ve got left at this rate” I joke but he continues to study my face, before finally jumping up out his chair.

“Do you want a drink? A proper drink. I’ve got some cans of G&T hidden away in here”

He opens a cupboard and grabs a Marks and Spencers plastic bag, pulling out two cans. 

“Are you sure you're a priest?” I laugh as he hands me a can “I mean you drink, you swear.. what other rules do you break?”

“I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you”

“Murder too?” I say a bit too loud, flinching as I hear a banging above me

“Oh shit, Pam! She doesn’t like me being loud. Or having fun in general. Let’s go outside”

“What about the foxes?” I tease and he shakes his head at me as he opens the door and gestures me to walk out. 

— — — — 

We sit on a bench just outside the church overlooking the graveyard and talk for about half an hour before I realise something. 

“You know what’s strange?” I say, suddenly changing the subject “This is only really our third time meeting. I haven’t known you for very long at all but when we talk I feel like I’ve known you for years!”

“That is strange” he humours me, taking a sip of his drink

“Our conversations remind me of how Daniel and I used to be. Back when we could talk to each other properly. These days I’m lucky if we don't end up in an argument”

“And you wanna marry this guy?” 

“Of course I do” I reply, slightly taken aback by the forwardness of his question “We’ve known each other pretty much our whole lives. We’ve been together so long- I wouldn’t know what to do without him”

“That’s not a reason to stay with someone, especially if they don't make you happy anymore. Being in love with someone and being dependant on them are different things.” He pauses, studying me “Do you love Daniel?”

I stare at him, replaying the question in my mind over and over again. 

“Y/N?” 

I realise I don’t know the answer and a feeling of panic begins to bubble inside me. I jump up from the seat.

“I have to go” 

I quickly begin walking down the path to the front of the church, followed by the Priest who calls after me. I don't stop walking.

“It’s really late, Dan’s probably wondering I am so…” 

“Y/N, wait please!” 

I stop and turn back to look at him.

“I’m sorry if that was too much, but these are things you need to think seriously about.”

“I know! I will.” I nod and flash him a quick smile “thanks for the drink” 

I hold my can up in a ‘cheers’ before turning and continuing my walk back home. 

— — — — 

As I walk up the driveway of my house I can see Daniel through the window fast asleep on the sofa in front of the tv. I finish the last bit of my drink and hide the can in my handbag as I unlock the front door and sneak into the house. I hang my coat and bag up and slip my shoes off before quietly climbing the stairs and getting into bed. 

Laying in bed my mind can’t help but wonder to the Priest. I feel bad for the way the conversation ended. I shouldn’t have freaked out and walked off like that. He just looking out for me.

I grab my phone and send a text. 

‘Thanks for not letting Pam kick me out tonight, I really appreciate it. Good night’

I put my phone back on the beside table, not expecting a reply anytime soon because its so late. To my surprise it vibrates almost immediately. I pick it up and read:

‘No problem, here for you anytime! Sleep well x’

A small smile spreads on my face as my eyes fixate on the small ‘x’ at the end of his text. It probably means nothing but I cant help but feel a flutter in my stomach. 

The feeling a quickly taken over by dread as I hear footsteps up the stairs. I put my phone back on the table and roll over in bed, making out like I’m asleep. The mattress sinks as Daniel climbs into bed next to me and I feel his breath on the side of my face. At least he doesn’t smell of beer anymore. 

“I’m sorry” he whispers as his arm snakes over my waist and he plants a kiss on my cheek “I’m really really sorry”

I turn my head slightly to look up at him, but I don't say anything. 

“I shouldn’t have reacted like that. You know what I’m like when I drink”

“That’s no excuse Daniel” 

“I know, I know! I’m sorry. I’m going to change, try harder for you. Okay?”

I nod my head, knowing full well its bullshit. He’s said this before, said he’ll be different but the next day he’s always back to his same old self. 

“No more shouting. No more lashing out. No more hurting you. I promise.” He plants kisses on my skin with each sentence. “I’m going to be the perfect husband for you and im going to make it up to you. Starting now.”

He kisses down my jaw, to my neck and down my shoulder as he gently pulls me so I’m lying on my back. Then he kisses down my chest and slips under the duvet, kissing all the way down my body till he reaches that place only he has ever been. 

I close my eyes, enjoying the pleasure that’s rippling through me as my breathing gets more ragged before I realise…

In my imagination its not my soon to be husband with his head between my legs…

It’s the dark haired, brown eyed man who’s supposed to be marrying us.

Oh my God, I fancy a priest. 

part three

(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_domestic_violence_hotlines)

[nationalharryleague]

Portfolio

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: AU, Angst, Boss!Harry

Word count: 3.5k!

Warnings: Domestic violence mention, boss/employee dynamic

A/N: Hi! I decided to write another fic after Overnight was received so well! Again, thank you to anyone who read and enjoyed it! I’m not sure how I feel about this one lol but I think it’s good enough to post. Please let me know if you enjoyed it and send feedback! Thank you for reading!!! More of my writing can be found in my masterlist! 

Part 2

You had always been a teacher’s pet. Growing up, you were the kid who worked hard to get a 4.0 GPA just for the rush of getting a compliment on your intelligence from your teacher. You craved that validation for all the hard work you put in and you just wanted people you admired to like you. And not for nothing, you deserved the compliments. At work, you were the first one there and the last one to leave. You loved your job and it showed.

You were currently working your first job with any real power at an up and coming public relations firm, Styles Public Relations. SPR was quickly growing in size and recognition and being brought onto the team was a dream come true. You loved everything about working there. The offices were beautiful, it paid well, and your ideas and proposals were finally being heard and brought to the public. Well, you loved everything except one glaring, irritating, and gorgeous problem: your boss.

Harry Styles was a striking man. He was tall, impeccably dressed, and obscenely attractive. His skin was perfectly tan and when it got warm in the office you could see  beautiful tattoos revealed by his rolled up sleeves. Those sleeves were worth more than your life and his head-to-toe Gucci ensembles usually showed his wealth off well. He looked like he should be on the front of a magazine, not behind a desk. Well, he was on the cover of Forbes that one time. While he was so nice to look at, the man was anything but nice. He had an abrasive attitude and not much care for pleasantries or mincing words.

Today, you found yourself on the opposite end of his brutal disposition. You had brought a campaign proposal to him for a newly acquired client and he began to rip it to shreds.

“I don’t know why you thought this campaign was a good idea, Y/N,” he told you sternly. “It’s childish, silly, and unprofessional.” Every word he said dug into you. You tried to attribute his harshness to it being Monday, but you knew he would say this to you any day of the week.

“The client said they wanted something more playful to soften their image,” you defended yourself. “I was doing what they asked for.”

“Well, you did a terrible job at it.”

That stung. You had dedicated your life for weeks to this proposal and had expected him to love it. You hoped this was finally the proposal that would secure your position in his good graces. Apparently, not.

“Okay. I’ll restart the project with a different angle.” You moved forward to grab the binder off the conference room table and flee the room back to the safety of your office. You were shocked when he put his own hands on the binder and slid it away from you.

“You’re off the account. I’ll have someone else do a better job,” he spat. Now, that really hurt. Your ego was closely related to your career and you knew you deserved better than this. You did everything you could to hold back your tears, but one betrayed you and fell down your cheek. You believed you saw his hard exterior soften for a split second before his ruthless demeanor returned.

“Fine,” you breathed, never breaking eye contact with the cruel man. “I’ll leave you now, your highness.” The words left your lips before you could fully register them in your own head. You turned on your heel and rushed back to your office, thinking about the insubordination complaint coming your way.

“Did I just get myself fired?” you asked yourself softly when you were finally in the safety of your own office.

The rest of your week passed in a blur. By Friday, you had accepted your fate and decided to get every passive aggressive dig at your boss you could before you carried your things out in a cardboard box. When you saw him around the office, you made sure to make direct eye contact and shoot daggers his way and you responded to his emails with one word answers. You were also producing the best work you had in years. Turns out, spite was a fantastic motivator for you. If he was going to fire you, he would feel bad about it.

As usual, you spent your Friday night typing away in your office. You were a workaholic and had no problem with staying at work late. Unfortunately, so was your new nemesis.

You caught your first glimpse of him after-hours on a trip to the copier. Your next was on your trek to the coffee pot. Later, on a walk around the office to stretch your legs. Each time you saw him, he was in the same spot. He sat at the conference table surrounded by spreadsheets and graphics and stared perplexed at the piles of paper encompassing him. You knew you could go in and ask him if he needed help, but you wanted to watch him suffer. According to him, you would just do a terrible job anyway.

It was about 7 o’clock when you heard a firm knock on your office door. You expected it to be the cleaning crew asking to vacuum your office. With a ‘come in’ your door opened and your boss’ large body leaned up against the door frame, careful not to enter the office he knew he wasn’t welcome in. While you were shocked he was coming to talk to you, you stayed quiet. If he wanted to talk to you, he would have to break the silence. After a few awkward moments, he did.

“Um, I was thinking about ordering dinner if you wanted to join me.” This was by far the nicest thing he had ever said to you other than ‘you’re hired.’

“Well, what are you getting?”

“I’ll buy you whatever you want for dinner if you take a look at the investor relations portfolio I’m working on.” You were taken aback. He was asking for your help. He needs me, you thought as you smirked to yourself.

“Make it the Italian place down the street and we have a deal,” you countered. You didn’t want to spend anytime with him at all but you were taking this as a sign that  1) he wasn’t firing you, and 2) he thought you did good work. Also, their spaghetti bolognese was calling your name.

Soon you were both knee deep in documents and investor information packets. You absolutely could not believe it but the two of you were collaborating well and making real progress on the portfolio. This was the working relationship you always wanted to have with your big shot boss; the opposite of his constant criticism and belittling of your work.

When the food arrived, you both decided to take a break and eat like an entire company’s stock shares weren’t resting on your shoulders. While your conversation stayed surrounding work, it inevitably steered towards the account he had taken away from you.

“So, how’s my campaign doing?” you asked. You knew it was a risky question but you two had been getting along and you decided you needed an update on the account that had become your baby.

“I gave it to Marcus and-”

“Marcus? Really?” You interrupted  him. “Marcus is a shithead.” Your baby deserved better than Marcus.

“You didn’t let me finish,” he said in a joking manner, with a small smile. The smile was just big enough for you to notice that he had dimples. He had never smiled in front of you before. “He’s doing a horrendous job and I was going to give it back to you on Monday.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the second chance,” you confessed. “Can you level with me for a minute?” you asked after a moment of silence. “Why did you rip into me like that? You could have just told me that it wasn’t right for me and taken it away.”

You watched him think for a moment. He scratched at his five o’clock shadow (that was more like a 9 o’clock shadow now) and you could tell he was searching for the right words.

“Because it got you fired up, but I could tell I hurt your feelings and I apologize.” You never expected an apology for the way he acted and you no longer regretted showing him your emotions. He had hurt you and he should feel bad for it. “I thought you were getting complacent in your ideas and you’ve been killing it since Monday.”

“Thank you for the apology. Here I am thinking you did it just to be a dick.”

“Is that what people in the office really think of me?” He looked genuinely hurt and you felt slightly guilty for being the bearer of bad news. But you hoped if he saw it from his fearful employees’ perspective he would lighten up a little.

“Do you want me to be honest?” He nodded his head. “You act like you have a stick so far up your ass it’s touching your brain and that you’re better than everyone else because your suit costs more than my rent.” If he never minced his words, why should you?

“Oh Y/N, tell me what you really think,” he said after a pause with a light chuckle. You were surprised by his reaction. You never expected him to take something like that so well.

“Listen,” you began again. “I understand and respect your toughness on us. But there is a line between criticism and just being mean.” You decided this was a time to call him on his shit, during this very very rare moment of comradery between you. You wanted to have a healthy relationship with him, maybe even a friendship.

“I understand that I can get a bit harsh. It’s just the whole ‘is it better to be loved or feared’ thing. I’ve always thought fear would be the safer option.” You felt like you were getting to pull back the layers of his hard shell and see the human being underneath for a brief period of time.

“But if you were truly loved, no one would ever betray you,” you whispered softly, always the romantic.

“Love has never been reliable, has it?” Your heart broke for him and you realized someone doesn’t become as hardened as he is overnight. Something did this to him.

“What about love being the most powerful force on earth?” you wiggled your eyebrows at him, referring to the slogan for an engagement ring campaign you were both working on.

“Well, when your wife tries to steal the company that you built together and run away to Spain with her personal trainer, love gets a little bit more complicated.” There it is, you thought to yourself. This was the first time he ever felt like a real person to you; not like a teflon shell of anger, wealth, and ambition. His features looked softer and he seemed less like your evil boss, and more like someone dealing with a painful trauma.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” you said softly, genuinely meaning it. “Oh shit, sorry. Mr. Styles,” you corrected yourself. He laughed at your mistake and you watched his dimples reach their full potential. He looked down at the table, obviously a little uncomfortable with his rare moment of vulnerability with the woman who was probably the biggest pain in his ass in the office. Before you knew it, you had decided to share your own uncomfortable vulnerability.

“My ex put me in the hospital while I was still living in New York,” you began, watching his eyes immediately jump to yours and listen intently.

“Oh Y/N, you don’t have to talk about this… I didn’t mean-,” he tried to stop you but you figured if he shared with you, you could share with him.

“No, it’s okay. It’s been a long time,” you reassured him, shaking your head softly. “We were fighting because I found out he had been cheating on me. I had packed a bag and was trying to leave when he pushed me down the stairs of our apartment building. I broke my arm in two places and I had to have a few surgeries.” You rolled up the sleeve of your blouse and showed him the scar that ran down your forearm. You scanned his face and it looked like he genuinely cared about you for a moment. You brushed it off. “After that, I decided I needed to leave New York.”

“Why London?” he said gently.

“I was obsessed with this English boy band when I was growing up,” you laughed. “I guess I romanticised London in my head and decided it might be a good place for a fresh start.”

“While I’m incredibly sorry you had to go through all of that to get to London, I’m very glad that you found your way to me,” he spoke tenderly. His face was serious, but not the seriousness you were used to while getting scolded about your work. It was gentle and like he meant every word he said. You were happy you found your way to this version of him too.

“To the firm, I mean,” he corrected himself and you felt a weird pang of sadness inside of you. You are just his employee, remember that, you thought to yourself.

“I’m happy I found the firm too. If only I could figure out how to deal with my hellish boss?” you asked sarcastically, rolling your eyes dramatically and laughing at him. You realized that this could definitely be taken as flirting, but you decided were okay with that.

“Maybe they’re just trying to push you because you are by far the best campaign director they have,” he said nonchalantly, leaning back in his seat and watching your every movement. You felt your cheeks heat and the rush of adrenaline from finally getting his validation. This was all you ever wanted from him.

“Oh, I know,” you smirked, leaning back in your own chair and studying him as well.

He really was gorgeous. His quaffed hair had fallen over the course of the day and a few stray pieces hung on his forehead. His black dress shirt fit him so well. You were fully able to appreciate the tailored fit after he had shrugged off his blazer and removed his tie, unbuttoning the top few buttons to reveal glimpses of two swallows that sat on his collarbones. A chain that you had never gotten to see hung around his neck, a cross and the Star of David resting on his chest.

“We should get back to work,” he murmured after a few extended moments of staring at each other.

“Probably.”

You two worked for another hour or so before you let out a small yawn and Harry insisted you both call it a night. Although you protested and told him you were fine, he was firm in his demand that you go home and rest. As you packed up your things in your office, he hovered in the room and watched your every move. Conversation was relaxed and casual, not stained with the malice you usually had towards each other.

He took your briefcase from your hands, offering to help as you struggled to carry a poster and a few proposal binders, and carried it as you walked in step with each other out of the office. When you reached the front doors and went to go your separate ways, you were met with a puzzled look on his face.

“Where are you going? The parking garage is this way?”

“Oh, I don’t have a car. I take the tube wherever I have to go.”

“Let me drive you home,” he offered. When you denied his proposal, you were met with a stern, “Let me drive you home or you’re fired.”

Although you fought him the entire walk to his car, asserting that you were fine to take the train, you climbed into his beautiful jet black sports car with a huff and a pout. He had a triumphant smirk on his face that you were tempted to slap off, but decided to take this as a sign from the universe that you just weren’t meant to get blisters from your heels walking home tonight. You watched as his long fingers gripped the steering wheel skillfully and you both sat peacefully, the silence between you only interrupted when you gave him occasional directions to turn right or left. The soft sounds of a Fleetwood Mac song you couldn’t remember the name to flowed through the speakers and his mouth silently lip-synced the words. You admired him the whole drive home and you didn’t want to get out of the car when he pulled up to your building.

You both departed the car, walking around to the trunk where he had stashed your briefcase. Your casual conversations had long passed, both of you beginning to mourn the night you had together. You had enjoyed this night far more than you anticipated and you hoped this would be the first of many late nights at the office that he would join you for. You looked up at him when he handed you your briefcase and you both stood there in silence for just a few more fleeting seconds, neither of you wanting to be alone yet. You were first to break the noiseless night.

“Thank you for dinner and the ride home, Mr. Styles.”

“Please call me Harry,” he said with a subtle smile, stepping up on to the curb, closing much of the space between you.

“I can do that, Harry.” His first name felt foreign on your lips but it was a welcome change.

“Thank you for all your help tonight. I needed your fresh set of eyes on that portfolio.” This interaction felt so intimate; his words hushed and complimentary, intensified by his body’s proximity to yours.

“Whenever you need me,” you breathed, refusing to break the eye contact you were both desperately holding on to.

With one swift step he pressed your bodies and your lips together, backing you up until your body pressed against his car. You dropped your briefcase to the ground and your hands flew up to the base of his neck. He tasted like the lemon cookie he had ordered for dessert and you smelled his intoxicating cologne as you drank each other in. His hands snaked their way under your blazer and rested on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to him. His kiss was deep and demanding and you weren’t sure if you ever wanted it to end.

This morning you couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him and mere hours later you were ready to bring him up into your own. He was infuriating and rude and knew just how to push your buttons. But, he also seemed to be gentle, kind, and thoughtful when he wanted to be. Harry Styles was an enigma. You couldn’t wrap your head around him and it drew you to him even more.

Your bodies flowed in perfect sync with one another and your open-mouthed and hungry kisses were so hypnotizing you couldn’t think. Harry was the only person that existed to you anymore, tuning out the murmurs of a passersby, and anywhere your skin touched his was lit on fire.

Finally coming up for air, you breathlessly peeled your lips away from the other. You both refused to break your eye contact, your hands gripping tight to his biceps to steady your weak legs, and scanned each other’s faces.

“You have a little something,” he murmured, reaching to wipe your smudged red lipstick from your bottom lip with his thumb. You leaned into his touch and smiled up at him.

“So do you,” you panted, staring at his lips that were now stained red.

You both just stood there for a little while, soaking up the other’s company before you pulled away and things got more complicated. He was your boss after all, was this even allowed? Did he want to be something more than coworkers? If things ended poorly, would you still be able to work together? Would he be nicer to you now?

“It’s late. You should get some sleep,” he eventually broke the silence and your spiraling thoughts.

“I agree. You worked me real hard today,” you smirked at him, unable to pass up the innuendo. An amused grin spread across his lips and he took a step back from you, releasing you from his grip against the car. He gathered your things you had dropped on the ground during his assault and handed them back to you.

Harry leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek that lingered a little too long to be considered friendly. It made your cheeks burn.

“I’ll see you Monday, sweetheart” was the last thing he said to you before he climbed back into his car and drove off into the night.

Part 2

[jeagerism]

okay, @heytherestilinski updated heat waves, and ive been harbouring quotes since i started reading it every chapter, so here's some of my favorite quotes from chapter 10 + thoughts

heat waves chapter 10 spoilers under the cut

"He didn't think it'd hurt so much to hear his name leave George's tongue. All the moments it's been spoken with kindness, annoyance, patience, or frustration blink by him in fleeting recollection.

He's dreamed of this. He's yearned for this."

now, i am always always blown away by whatever you've written, it always leaves me this wonderful type of tongue tied - speechless at the mercy of your words. and this chapter was no different. i like that dream is coming to terms with all of this. he's already realised he's changed things - whether that be good or not. and now is the time he's finding out that it may not have changed for the better.

"George", comes Dream's weightless breath, "some part of me needs you."

the pain. now i'm all for not needing anyone to survive, okay? im a big believer in not needing anyone to be happy, or to make your life meaningful. so i don't think dream needs him for that. but i think he needs george because he's a part of him. he could lose george, and it would suck, but he'd be okay. but that doesn't mean he wouldn't lose that part of himself that george has given him, made of him.

"When we met", George says with unexpected, tender caution, "I was so enamored by you."

Dream stills, his socks falling silent against the soft carpet. His calves and stomach and shoulders tense.

"Everything you said", George continues, "everything you did, every time you so much as talked to me or said my name. I wanted to make you laugh. I wanted to be with you, every second, of every day."

Chilling warmth blooms from Dream's cheeks down his neck, and collects in his chest with vivid sensation. His lips part helplessly.

The small wobble in George's voice grows, "and you looked right through me."

i don't think dream has really allowed himself to hope since he came to terms with sending that text. i don't think he's really allowed himself a chance to sit and ponder the what ifs after he spent ages over pondering the bad. he's moved onto the oh wells and ignored the what ifs. and now, hearing george admit to being obsessed with him like dream had been obsessing since that game of chess, he pauses. he allows himself to hope. it lifts the rest of the weight off his chest.

and then it's all over. because george and dream both held that admiration for each other, even if they both held it at different times. and it's different now. that admiration is still there. but now it's scorching to the touch. it's gone from leaving them weightless, to being almost painful.

"I have so much", George says, "for you. I can't explain it. It's like it's - it's bigger than me, and I taught myself to deal with it. I was okay, dealing with it."

"This is just too fast", George continues shakily, "you said it, too, that you're angry, and...and undone. Because of me." Dream recognises the strain of tears in his fragile voice. "I don't think I'm ready for that. For you."

"I'm not ready for you."

for me, it seems like they're accepting the faults of this entire situation. they've hurt each other, even if they didn't mean it, even if they tried so hard to avoid it. because love can do that. love can be messy and horrible and it can rip you to shreds. and you can love that love anyways. you can love it, even when it's tearing you apart.

there's hurt and there's venom and there's suffering, but they still feel so much.

and it's too much for them right now.

"This isn't a 'no', Dream," George continues, "it's a 'not yet.'"

and there's that hope again. sometimes we bring love into places where that love isn't meant to be yet. sometimes we bring love in before it's ready. and that may be the case with george and dream. just because that love is too much now, doesn't mean it'll always be that way. sometimes, all that love needs is time.

n e ways, this isn't really what this all means, this is just my personal interpretation of it all ! so !! there we go heh

[dcbutinamrev]

Yo can i get some hurt/comfort historical lams please

You want more angst? I gotcha! This is going to be based off of when Laurens found out about Hamilton's marriage to Eliza. I used Nora from Duty and Inclination because she's the only person/name I could think of-

***

Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens sits at the dining room table in his father's house in Philadelphia. The house empty only but him in the room, the candle light flickering on the table as Laurens narrows his eyes on it. He leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the table as he ponders about something. His expression, anyway, dark and exhausted, seems to be pondering on something.

Laurens frowns with his lips pinched together as he leans forward against the table so his chest is pressed agaisnt the table with his arms folded on top. He stares down at the piece of parchment before him, blank. His quill and and inkpot beside him. He thinks about writing a letter to his Hamilton, updating him on his health and safety during his time on parole as prisoner of war. It's been almost a year since he last laid eyes upon his beautiful Hamilton and to be quite honest, Laurens has almost forgotten what he looked like. Which is what his portfolio is for.

Laurens reaches for his portfolio nearby and flips it open. He sighs through his nose as he pulls out a rough sketch of Hamilton, of when he was his and his only. In the sketch, Hamilton beams back up at him, his eyes closed and the corners of his eyes crinkle, his nose scrunching up. Mouth opened. He appears to be laughing at something, probably a joke Meade had said or a sarcastic comment from Harrison.

Laurens smiles as he stares down at the sketch, laughing himself a little as he traces over Hamilton with his thumb, resting one hand on his cheek while the other grips the paper. He swallows the lump down his throat as his eyes begin to water. In all truth and honesty, Laurens misses his Hamilton. He misses him more than anything. He misses that bright red hair of his, those strange violet eyes. He missed how Hamilton would talk in his sleep, curled up beside him and face buried in Laurens's chest. He missed how he would used to count Hamilton's freckles as he slept peacefully. In all, he missed Hamilton's beauty. He missed those soft, pink lips most of all. 

Laurens sighs as he sets the drawing back down, face up. Laurens returns his attention back to the paper and grabs his quill. He begins to write. 

A half hour has passed since Laurens began his letter to Hamilton. His father’s...employ in better terms...Nora enters the dining room hesitantly, watching Laurens draft his letter. Nora bites her lip as she glances at Laurens’s back facing her before back at the letter clutched at her hands and then back at Laurens. 

“Mr. Laurens, sir?” Nora asks sheepishly. 

“Yes?” Laurens says polietly as he turns around to face her. 

“There’s a letter from a...from Mr. Alexander Hamilton for you?” she says, quickly handing it to him. 

Laurens frowns slightly at the hesitancy of Nora’s voice but takes it nonetheless, carefully ripping it open. He braces himself for whatever news may come as he unfolds the letter and reads it. 

His eyes scan the words until he stops on the words in his Hamilton’s handwriting: I give up my liberty. 

He freezes, shaking his head as he rereads the words. His Alexander’s own words. 

I give up my liberty... 

Give up your liberty? Lauerns thinks. What-- 

I give up my liberty to Miss Schuyler. She is a good-hearted girl who I am sure will never play the termagant. Though, not a genius, she has a good sense enough to be agreeable, and though not a beauty, she has fine black eyes--is rather handsome and has every other requisite of the exterior to make a lover happy. 

Laurens stares at the letter in his hands. He repeats those words in his head, his breathing starting to quicken as he shakes his head, his vision getting blurried. The words morphing together so it’s difficult for Laurens to make sense of them. 

He’s married? Laurens thinks as he shakes his head, slumping back down in the chair. Nora rushes towards him immediately, crouching down in front of him to try to comfort him. 

Laurens stares at his half-written letter to Hamilton in shock. 

He’s married. His Alexander is married...? He’s... A thought suddenly clicks. 

“Revenge...” Laurens whispers to himself. 

“Sir?” Nora whimpers, scooting back as Laurens slowly stands from his chair, his mind churning. 

“Revenge...he’s doing this for revenge...for me...because of me...” Laurens says as he begins to pace back and forth. 

“Sir?” Nora whimpers from behind. 

“He’s doing the same thing I had done...revenge...he did this out of revenge...otherwise...he would have told me sooner...”

 Laurens mumbles. He glances back down at the letter in his hand, feeling himself growl low and his face twisting sourly. 

Laurens growls, ripping the letter in shreds. He storms towards the table, grabbing the sketch of Hamilton he just had, staring at it for less than five seconds, before he tears it in half then tears it into smaller pieces. He yanks the other sketches of Hamilton out of the portfoilo, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes as Laurens shakes his head, not wanting to believe it. 

He doesn’t look at the drawings as he tears them piece by piece. Laurens lets out a desperate wail, unable to hold it in any longer. He runs up the stairs towards his room and pulls out the other letters Hamilton had wrote to him. Words of comfort, words of hope and assurances. Words of love. 

Laurens slumps down to his knees as he stares wide-eyed at the letters, his hands trembling. He hears Nora calling his name, but he ignores her. Growling again, seething, Laurens rips the letters in half. He then rips them into smaller pieces. HIs eyes lands on the first letter Hamilton wrote to him and freezes. Shakily, he grabs it and reads it. 

Cold in my professions. Warm in my friendships. I wish my dear Laurens it might be in my power by actions rather than words to convince that I love you. I shall only tell you that till you bade us Adieu. I hardly knew the value you had taught my heart upon you. Indeed my friend, it was not well done. You know the opinion I entertain in mankind, and how much it is my desire to preserve myself free from particular attachments, and to keep my happiness independent on the caprice of others. You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent. But as you have done it and as we are generally indulgent to those we love, I shall not scruple to pardon the fraud you have committed, on condition that for my sake, if not for your own, you will always continue to merit the partiality, which you have so artfully instilled into me. 

 Laurens scowls at the letter, the letter crumpling in his hands. 

And rips it. 

~~~ 

A few weeks have passed since the Laurens had discovered of Hamilton’s marriage to Eliza Schuyler and nothing has approved. Laurens has been rather quiet and distant, even around his father which concerned him somewhat. He hasn’t slept, hasn’t spoken a word since the discovery of the marriage. The marriage that took his Alexander from him. 

Now Laurens sits at the table he was before, gazing off when a knock is heard. Nora quickly rushes over to open it, lifting her dress as to not trip over it. She opens the door and freezes. 

Alexander Hamilton stands before her with a kind smile on his face, wearing his blue Continental coat and uniform. His bright red hair underneath the tricorn hat. Hamilton bows respectfully. 

“This is the Laurens’ residence,” Nora says. “May I help you, sir?” She knows who he is, she’s seen such drawings of Hamilton from Laurens and she knows how he broke his heart. 

“Good evening, Miss,” Hamilton says. “I am Alexander Hamilton, current aide-de-camp under General Washington. I am here to see an old friend of mine who was recently captured under the British seige at Charleston and taken prisoner. I heard he was on parole and he would be here.” 

Laurens tenses when he hears Hamilton’s voice but remains still like he was before. His back facing Hamilton. 

“His name is Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens?” Hamilton says. 

Nora glances over her shoulder at Laurens before back at Hamilton. Finally, she steps aside and lets him through. Hamilton breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees Laurens alive and well before him. Safe and unharmed. And God, alive. 

Hamilton takes off his tricorn hat and tucks it under his arm as he marches slowly towards Laurnes. He stops when he notices Laurens’s hand clenching around the quill. 

Hamilton knows what this is about. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before reopening them again. 

“John...?” Hamilton says. 

Laurens swallows as he turns around to face him. “Alexander...” 

Hamilton sighs, relieved. His tense shoulders slump. He smiles. 

“It’s good to see you again, Jack,” Hamilton says. 

Laurens says nothing. 

Hamilton sighs, frustrated. “John--” 

“Don’t,” Laurens hisses, his throat working as he clenches his jaw. “Just don’t.” 

“John...my dear...you know ...you know I had to get married at some point...right?” Hamitlon asks. 

Laurens still doesn’t say anything. Hamilton sighs and walks up towards him, standing face to face. Laurens narrows his eyes at Hamilton but tries to remain calm. Laurens crosses his arms over his chest. 

“I can’t...we can’t be like this for the rest of our lives! Men can’t get married! Men can’t have children! We can’t...we can’t raise a family, Jack. We--” 

“I know.”

“John, please,” Hamilton begs as Laurens turns around, his back facing him. “I understand your frustration and upset and you have every right to be but--” 

“Do you?” Laurens snaps, glancing over at Hamilton. “Do you, Alexander?” 

“Yes, actually, I do!” Hamilton argues. “I’m not the one who lied for two years about a wife left back in England and a child!” 

Laurens winces. 

“John, you have to understand--” 

“Understand what, Alexander?” Laurens snaps. “I loved you!” 

“Yes, I loved you as well! So much! And still do, every aching day!” Hamilton protests. “But it is required of the law, John! We...people like us...we do not have a place in this world.” 

“I loved you!” Laurens shrieks suddenly, grabbing hold of Hamilton’s arms. “Do you hear me? I loved you, Alexander! I loved you first!” 

The sight of Laurens breaks Hamilton’s heart, seeing Laurens so distressed and hurt. Tears trickling down his cheeks. Laurens lets out choked sob and rests his head on Hamilton’s chest. 

“I loved you,” Laurens whimpers as more tears start to slip. “I loved you, Alexander...” 

“But that does not mean you own me, John,” Hamilton whispers, stroking Laurens’s honey blonde hair and pressing a kiss to Laurens’s forehead. “I love you too, my Jack. Always.” 

Laurens sniffs as he lifts his head back up to meet Hamilton’s eyes. Hamilton smiles softly as he cradles Laurens’s cheek. Laurens closes his eyes he leans into Hamilton’s touch. 

“Marrying Betsey is, yes, indeed the happiest day of my life--” Laurens winces but Hamilton contnues. “But marrying her doesn’t chage my love for you, Jack. My love for you is never in doubt.” 

“I wished to be your life, Alexander,”  John mumbles. 

Hamilton’s eyes widen and stares up at him in shock. “Jack...” 

“I know it is impossible. I know...” Laurens sighs as he struggles to get his words together. “But if we could, if we were able...I would...I would want to spend the rest of my life with you Alexander.” 

Hamilton beams as he stands on his toes suddenly and smashes his lips onto Laurens. Laurens grins as he presses his lips harder to Hamilton, causing Hamilton to grunt in response and hiss sharply through his nose, startled. 

After a few minutes, Hamilton and Laurens unfortunately have to pull away and Laurens presses his forehead onto Hamilton’s.Hamiton giggles as he traces the crook of his jaw. 

“I do.” Hamilton laughs, pressing his lips to Laurens once. “I do. I do.” 

Laurens grins as he kisses Hamilton hard, their kiss turning from slow to a quick and rushed one, their breathing labored with each kiss. Laurens pulls back slowly, resting his forehead agaisnt Hamilton’s. He smiles as he whispers: 

“I do.”  

[letsdiscoverkitty]

Treatment/Recovery Update - May 2021

Okay, I will try to ramble less in this one (so sorry!) ^ well that didn't happen!

In terms of when I did leave hospital, as I mentioned a tiny bit in the last post, my EDP was completely AWOL. A month before I was due to be discharged she came to a meeting with myself and my consultant, during which we set up 4 appointments that would be over zoom before I was discharged to help with relapse prevention and the transition home, as well as setting out, in principle, the therapeutic support that I would be getting once home...it all sounded great, so great. But as usual when it comes to my team, it was too good to be true (should have called it). I attempted to contact her when our appointments never happened but I kept being met by a brick wall; no one knew what was happening, all I got told was that she was "off"... Time passed and I was discharged with only a phone call booked in from someone from the general team to check I was safe a few days later (it was literally 5 minutes, long if that) and an appointment to do physical monitoring the next wee....a far cry from the original discharge plan *sigh* Coming home was a bit of a whirlwind. We were approaching Christmas but we were still under a lot of restrictions with COVID, so it was a very strange/messy/weird few weeks.

Time continued to pass and there was still no confirmation around therapy or support, even the ED team didn't know what was happening with L, I just continued to go to two weekly physical monitoring. In the end, with nowhere else to turn, I contacted my consultant from hospital. To say that she was mad that nothing had been in place/I had no support would be an understatement and I thank my lucky stars that she was able to get involved. It took a couple of weeks but I finally had my first session with a therapist in February. In total it took about 8-9weeks from discharge to see someone, which, well, was hard.

Upon reflection, I think one of the biggest things I struggled with with coming home was that I had literally no leave to practice beforehand. This meant that I unfortunately slipped back into old habits very quickly as, well I know it is no excuse but coming back to the same environment your brain easily slips into automatic mode and you find yourself doing what you "used" to do without realising it.

I was in, I would say, quite a vulnerable state when I left hospital (the last few months there were pretty rocky to say the least) and the day before I was discharged (as I mentioned in a previous post somewhere) I was handed 3 different, very conflicting, meal plans and the nutritionist who had previously been very horrible to me and who had been away for a number of weeks, told me that she did not think I could continue to recover at home and that the best possible case would be if I only lost a bit of weight over the next 6 months....I think you can probably guess how badly this was taken and how messy my mind was. So with 3 meal plans in hand, none of which I had practiced, with little to no support from the ED team, I was, essentially, crisis managing, simply trying to get through each day.

I know, I know. Classic kitty - stuck record. failure. mess. making a million and one excuses. trying to make out like she is fine to the rest of the world when in fact inside she was falling apart. sigh.

In terms of my weight recovery I was not discharged at a healthy BMI/weight, which my consultant was sad about, however I was in a much better place than when I was admitted (I think I had gained about half the weight I would have needed to from when I was admitted to get to a healthy weight). I will admit that part of me does wonders whether staying would have been beneficial, because on a very basic level yes it could have helped in some ways. However if I stretch my mind back to when I was still on the ward ,it actually still floods me with anxiety and fear because of how UNHELPFUL the environment had sadly become. It is hard to explain to someone who has not experienced an EDU, but the patient groups can and do make a massive of differences. I was vvv lucky that when I was initially admitted, and for the first good couple of months, it was a v supportive and recovery focused environment. However, by about late Sept/early October ,things turned completely upside down (which was not helped by the fresh COVID lockdowns either) and even staff were saying how terrible it had gotten and how they could not believe the things that they were being asked to manage on the progression ward. There were times when I felt incredible unsafe on the ward and feared for others patients, which is not "okay". I genuinely believe that staying any longer would have likely made my mental health decline further; I had already found the massive shift was negatively affecting me and I think staying would have been unwise. I had also gained quite a lot of weight and was, I hate to admit, struggling with both coming to terms with that along with dealing with everything that you are continually facing when going through treatment/recovery alongside working on trauma stuff. I know none of that is any worthy excuse, but that was how it was...At this time I was struggling a lot with my meal plan and had quite a few lapses whilst on the transition phase of the unit however despite screaming out for help/support from staff, because of the acute situation on the ward, I was just left. They knew I was struggling, I was told time and time again that they had not forgotten me, but did I get help? no. It was actually made worse by the then nutritionist who sat me down like a naughty school girl and basically told me that I was a failure and that I would never achieve anything in life blah blah blah (please see a past post if you want to know more) which made me even more scared to reach out for 'help'/'support'. So no, I don't think staying would have helped much, which is a real shame.

Therapy wise I had a bit of a rough ride in there (god I'm really selling this aren't I?!). When admitted I was not in a place for 'traditional' therapy what so ever; looking back I honestly have no idea how I was even 'functioning' (was I functioning? probably not) and even the group therapies were a struggle but my consultant stuck with me and with time I was able to process a little more. One thing that helped me beyond words was 1:1 Art Therapy. This was not something I had accessed before, only ever doing group sessions in the past which was mostly about getting away from the ward and doing a bit of art. I cannot reiterate enough how different and HELPFUL the 1:1 sessions were. The art therapy, who I knew from the last year and is an absolutely GEM, helped me to begin to process and work through the trauma that I had experienced with dad. It took a lot of time and persistence but I was able to use those sessions in so many ways and I will forever be grateful to P for supporting me (I was so lucky to be able to have 1:1 sessions for the majority of my 8 admission).

The more traditional therapy initially took the form of 30min sessions with my consultant once to twice a week (as much as I hated them, she was bloody good). I also had a review and a few sessions with the lead therapist via zoom (she was heavily pregnant so was working from home) not long after being admitted, but she soon went on maternity leave. This left me to be picked up by her student, who was actually incredible. We did a long extended piece of work on my perfectionism which, again, was SO helpful but she sadly left (for bigger and better things) and I was left hanging for a while as there were no other openings. A new lead therapist started and after a while he did a few sessions with me before leaving suddenly (I think even staff only had a weeks notice, which was ridiculous), so I was back to twiddling thumbs for a few weeks. I then met with a therapist who worked 2 mornings a week that I saw a bit during my last admission but we didn't do many sessions and it just fell away. This was mostly my fault as by this point I was questioning my admission and whether I would self discharge as there were some not good things going on on the ward, so I wasn't really in the headspace to explore things deeply and had been picked up and put down so many times that I just couldn't do anymore. Throughout that time though I continued to see my consultant weekly, mainly focusing on mindfulness and other therapy styles thrown in there too at times.

I will forever be thankful/grateful for the admission I had, especially to be under a different consultant (for COVID reasons they had to split things differently as they would usually do it by area but that wasn't possible at the time I was admitted) as her approach made a huge difference. I still remember one of the first things she said to me was that she couldn't believe/was that I had been placed on the SEED pathway and that she believed that I could be more than that, which honestly, gave me a little bit of hope (something that had been ripped apart and shredded by my usual consultant multiple times).

But back to now.... I have now been seeing a new therapist weekly (when possible) since February and, in a backwards way, I am so glad that L disappeared off the grid because the "support" I was going to be getting under the original plan was just sessions with her to do some self guided self help stuff, whereas with this therapist we have actually been doing some HELPFUL work. In terms of L, I think the last I was told she never returned to work and has now left the team (we have a sneaky feeling that she either had a complete break down or that it was due to too may complaints (mum called this a long time ago as she was not qualified for the role at all and was utterly useless), which, yeah, was strange to not get an ending as I had worked with her for a few years. Anyway, I've been doing SCHEMA therapy with this new lady (I'd not heard of it before) and at first I was a bit reluctant but it's been incredibly insightful. I continue to learn more about myself and the reasons why I may have gone down certain roads each session. HOWEVER. and this is a big however. There has been a bit of a snag in the rope.

In short, yes I have been engaging really well with the therapy side, my weight and physical health has only continued to deteriorate since i was discharged. We are talking classic kitty of slowly slipped backwards, nothing dramatic, nothing to make alarm bells go off or warrant a review, but it's not been good. Anorexia is screaming at me for saying all of this, it shouts "but you weigh so much more than when you were admitted, you are a complete fraud blah blah blah" which is all the same old boring drivel it always spews out. But basically Im in dangerous waters now in terms of losing therapy/not being able to engage with therapy properly if things dont improve. Ive been in classic stuck mode, getting so absorbed by the numbers and the bubble that AN offers, that I have been numb to it all. The HCA I was seeing was really trying to help me to make changes but she left a while ago (she was going back to train as a nurse) and since then I have had the odd appointment here and there (I think it fell to every 3 weeks for a while as there were no available appointments) with people trying to cover the clinic until someone else is hired for the role, which is far from ideal as they literally just do the necessary obs and send you on your way.

Okay that sounds like yet another excuse, which is probably is, but it's not been an easy ride since I left hospital to say the least.

BUT this past week things have begun to shift a little. I was honest with my therapist about the whole food/meal plan side of things and we actually spoke about how we can't focus on therapy things until I am in a more stable place, which is both really hard to hear but also exactly what I need to hear. I am actually being more open to change, which is a shift from where I was just a week ago. It is bloody painful, even just thinking about it all hurts/is exhausting and I am still very much in the darkness /struggling with it but there is now a little part of me that is screaming out and trying to be heard. There is a little part of me that WANTS to get out of this endless messy limbo that this relapse has been and wants to start stepping back into "recovery". There is part of me that wants a chance. And I've got to start listening to that side a little more.

I promise, the next update will be a little more positive Stay tuned.

[moral-turpitudes]

Silver Linings: Part 3

Masterlist | Rules | Peaky Prompts 

Trigger Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Swearing.

Word Count: 1,931

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Adopted Daughter!Reader + Michael Gray x Alfie’s Adopted Daughter!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | *Part 4* | Part 5

As Y/N put the last of her furniture in the living room, she heard the new phone ring. Running over and picking it up with an exhausted hello.

“I know we got off on a bad foot love, but I’m gonna need you to be careful. That blinder Michael, ya know the one I’ve been meeting for the last month? He’s been shot.” Alfie said, nonchalantly.

“No....” She said, tears welling up in her eyes as she sniffled lightly. The feeling of a lump forming in her throat as she tried to swallow the news.

“Are you crying? You don’t know the lad anyways right? He’s in surgery that’s all I know. Got shot by that damn mafia who’s been causing us problems.” He said.

“I do know him....Where is he? Where’s the rest of Mr. Shelby’s men?” She asked, frantically wiping the tears away.

“Fuck. Y/N is he the one? Is he the one you’ve been with? You could’ve been killed!” He said angrily.

“I know dad, please just tell me where he is....I-I know you’re upset and I know the blinders will be too. I should’ve never came out from the back when they stopped by but god damn it I was trying to do my job and trying to live for myself for once. If you had a shred of decency you’d understand that...now where is he?!” She yelled back, her voice echoing through her rather empty apartment.

“At that hospital in London. I’ll take ya.” He said, she could hear the commotion in the background of his shop as he spoke.

“Okay. Please don’t make this worse than it is. You have a way of doing that.” She said harshly, hanging up the phone and grabbing another bottle of rum she’d stolen from work.

She took a long swig and sat in one of the chairs she’d bought, thinking about the man she just started seeing, hoping he’d be alright. The thoughts of all the worst-case scenarios running through her mind as she downed another sip, the large clock on the wall near her reading nearly 5pm. Her nerves were frazzled from all the moving and the waiting. Her eyes flickering from the phone to the clock every 5 minutes. Yet a loud honking noise soon ripped her from her thoughts as she saw it was her father. She knew he’d find her address eventually. Not knowing he’d find it that quick, unless he threatened her poor driver.

Despite their arguing, Alfie still opened the door for her to get in, silently driving them through the busy streets as she gazed out the window. Tears slowly falling down her cheeks as she watched the sky grow darker as they drove on.

“Look, I don’t know what will happen after they meet ya but make sure you have your gun on ya. You have it don’t you?” He asked after a long silence, his words the opposite of comforting.

“Always, dad.” She said, wiping her tears away.

“If they don’t decide to kill us for hiding ya all these years, they’ll probably try to because you were a risk to that Michael fellow. Beautiful girl such as yourself is always a risk.” He said.

“That why I don’t have a mum? You’re too scared of taking risks?” She remarked, not really caring anymore if the blinders knew of her or not.

“Nah, I think you know well enough that I’ve got a mean mug no one would take two glances at. Besides, me last love got killed. But life goes on I suppose.” He said, looking on as his lit cigar slowly burnt away.

“You’ll find someone. Maybe it’ll be a blinder lady.” She said with a smirk, finally feeling like they were back to their normal banter for a moment.

“If I do ever fall for one of them, do me a favor and dig my hole will ya?” He asked, chuckling.

“Sure will.” She said, her smile slowly fading as they neared the hospital.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want it to make you angry...and didn’t want you to fight them.” She said.

“Love, we fight no matter the situation. If there’s ever a day I’m not yelling at Thomas fucking Shelby then assume that’s the day the world is ending.” He said, getting out of the car with his cane in hand.

As they walked in, they heard Esme crying and running out of the morgue, the blood still fresh on her hands as she ran out past them.

Thomas came out with a lit cigarette in his mouth, an angry-yet saddened look to his eyes.

“Alfie...why are you here aye? Just lost John. Now I’m waiting to hear if I lost Michael.” He said, not taking much notice to the younger girl near her large-framed father.

“I came here to check on the lad. Actually, she came here to check on him.” He said, motioning towards her.

Y/N nervously looked at the man, his blue eyes piercing hers as he examined her like a wolf stalking it’s prey.

“Aye well who are you Ms.? Some whore he fucked?” He asked bluntly.

“Well, actually mate...that’s my fucking daughter. Her names Y/N. Now...she’s actually a lovely woman and she wanted to be here for him cuz they’ve been dating for uh how long?” He asked turning to her.

“About a month so far.” She said crossing her arms and staring the rude gang leader down.

“As she said, about a month. They’ve been dating right under both our fucking noses now what do you think of that aye? Young love never ceases to amaze me I tell ya.” He said, a slightly crazed look in his eye as he towered over Thomas.

“How long have you had a daughter Alfie? You weren’t going to tell me aye?” He asked.

“My brain’s not what is used to be since ya shot me in the face, but uh I’d say ‘round 5 years now. Adopted her from that orphanage near Camden Town. What...you don’t think I’m good at hiding stuff? I’ve had her working in the shops and all that for years and ya never fucking knew.” He said, adjusting his tallit which was draped over his shoulders.

“And bruva, I never fucking told you because I knew one day she’d get hurt if she ever knew ya. And here we are.” He said, flicking his cigar on the ground and stomping it out. Thomas clenched his jaw and looked away, his eyes focusing back on the girl.

“How’d you meet Michael? It surely wasn’t when any of us were around.” Thomas asked, gesturing vaguely. Y/N took a deep breath before speaking, trying to think of the best response to the rude gang leader.

“It was when everyone was around. None of you had the sense to see it though. When you first came in I saw him as I snuck through the shop. We exchanged names, ya know, like what normal people do. And now we’re here of all fucking places.” She said, looking down the hall at the operating room.

“Did you know they were after him? Did he act suspicious?” He asked.

“Jesus christ, why am I being interrogated? You do business with my father not me.” She said.

“Anyone who knows my family is of my concern. That now includes you. He’s been seeing you whenever he’s not with us. What has he told you?” He asked.

“Nothing. He hasn’t really talked about anything. I just know he’s with you lot and that’s it. I swear.” She said, giving him an annoyed look. She wanted to run off, not liking the man within a few seconds of meeting him.

“Mr. Shelby?” A nurse asked from the hall, cutting the tension that filled the room.

“Yeah?” He asked, turning around to face the nurse.

“He’s out of surgery, you...and your guests can see him now.” She said, walking back to her desk.

“We’re your guests? It’s a fucking honor mate. Let’s go shall we?” Alfie asked, never ceasing to pull Thomas’ leg.

All three of them walked in, Michael lying there with his chest bandaged along with his arm where another bullet hit. His face pale and tired as he sat up.

“You made it another day Michael....would you like to tell me what exactly happened?” Thomas asked, his cousins eyes slowly resting on his.

“I did as you asked, warned John and Esme...then his mafia men pulled up in hay covered cars. I shoved Esme inside and John got his shotgun ready...” He said, wincing through breaths.

“Then they shot through him with machine guns. The bullets that hit him, hit me, and a few others flew by. That’s all I remember.” He said, not noticing Y/N in the room nor her father in the corner as his grogginess wore off.

“Alright, well I’ll leave you two be. Alfie let’s have a talk shall we?” He said, going outside to the waiting area. Alfie sighed and followed him, closing the door in the process.

“Y/N...?” He said, rubbing his eyes to see more clearly, thinking he was dreaming.

“Hey...” She said, sitting next to him and holding his hand which was cut up from hitting the ground so hard.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be here.” He said, wincing.

“Well, my dad and I kind of got in an argument earlier. He offered to take me to see you. I couldn’t sit in my new place thinking you were gone.” She said.

“Thank you for seeing me. I didn’t think I’d make it. I uh....I wanted to see you once more. Just to tell you things.” He said.

“What did you want to tell me? Now that you’ve made it I think there couldn’t be a better time.” She said smiling.

“I uh....” He started to say before he sucked in a sharp breath.

“I probably shouldn’t talk much right now but I can show you.” He said. A pained smile forming on his face.

“What are talking about-“ She began, feeling his hand caressing her cheek as he pulled her closer to him. Their lips softly connecting in a long kiss. Y/N’s heart beating rapidly as she deepened the kiss, being mindful of his injuries.

As they broke away, Michael smiled weakly as she felt her face heat up.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you that I wanted to go out...officially. If you’d want to. This just sort of got in the way though aye?” He said gesturing to the bandages.

She nodded and wiped a tear from her cheek as she clutched his hand once more.

“Yeah, I uhm...I would like that. Once you’re better though alright?” She said, her eyes serious despite the tears still falling. He reached up and wiped them away, her leaning her cheek into his palm as he did so.

“Speaking of that though, I had to tell my father and Thomas about us. I’m hoping they haven’t killed each other though.” She said, nervously looking towards the door.

“They can deal with that then, that’s not our concern. They can’t ruin everything.” He said, a slight smirk on his face.

“You sure? I mean can you see where we bloody are right now? If my father can cause your family so much stress I can only imagine what that deviled cousin of yours is planning for us.” She said, not knowing the extent the two hard-headed gang leaders would go to protect their families, even if it meant hurting the ones they loved.

[philosophic-basil]

from the window (by basil)

I am watching from the window

Clouds crawl across the moon

Years are passing

The floorboard nails are rusting.

I lie on my bed

The head belonging to myself spins

And aches with static drones

Drowning in the dark wind.

Little has changed

Objects seem heavier than they used to

The color blue of sicker pallor

But mostly nothing new.

My voice is a bit lower

Hollower, as though a faded statue’s

Not that it would matter

There is no one to hear it anyway.

I am a bit thinner

Taller by not much

My skin seems paler too

I stay inside when there is no sun.

My cheeks seem bony

I wonder if they’ve been worn down by tears

My eyes at night are hard to close

The shadows beneath them keep them open.

I can’t remember when last

I wore a flower in my hair

There’s no light for it to face

Only the moon- white and bare.

My camera is here… or is it there?

It’s been a while since I took pictures

I only take pictures of things

In their natural states.

My photo album

My photo album

Photo

An iron howl stabs my ears

Far off in the distance

Bells from a bleeding church

Writhe with smothered burial screams

Behind shivering gates

At the foot of the granite tablet

The Egret detaches from the stem

And rises pale into the storm

Searching bleeding weeping bells

How they toll! How thunder rolls!

How murderous lightning flashes

Above the grave to show the way!

Something all around me now

The thing that was behind

The thing that slaughtered the moment

The moment that brought nightfall

Crashing back again it comes

Sound of bones on splintered wood

The snapping of a neck on a floor

Crushed by falling piano chords

Something there was up above

Who, or what- it didn’t matter

It needed a face

So it chose his

The bells sound the cries again

There is blood on something’s hands

Hands that took the form of his

Are framed like a perfect photograph

My photo album

Photos I never took

Why are they here

On every last page?

Something all around me now

In corners and cracks of every room

Tendrils rise from every step

Of every stair and every tomb

It’s not enough

That she’s not alive

It’s not enough

That everything dies

It’s not enough

That beautiful paintings

Were torn to bloody shreds

Before they could even dry

It’s not enough for something

Whose eyes saw me carry the body down

Who saw me tie the knot around the branch

And kick the box across the ground

It’s not enough that I tucked him in

Opened the bottle of pills in her drawer

So that the thing hanging outside

Had meant to do it while he was asleep

It’s not enough the shape before me

Sees through every word and every tear

It’s not enough that it has won

Or that all I’ve done I’ve done in love

Something more this way comes

Every night since and forevermore

Whenever I drown myself in the dark wind

I hear something forcing his hand again

Where are you?

For every tear I cried with you

Where are you?

For every moment I dried them too

Where are you?

When I promised the photos in my book

Wouldn’t be ripped to shreds

Didn’t you believe a word I said?

Where are you?

Isn’t this what you wanted me to do?

I don’t understand

I don’t want to

When you nodded when I said many more

Memories like those of yore

Would be ours to cherish

Did you even mean it?

Something forcing his hand again

Something slowly killing us

Something watching us eternally

Is eating through our portrait

Blood is showing through the paint

Why won’t you help me patch the wound?

Why won’t you pose for me again

To save the last flower while it blooms?

Please- for all that gives life its fragile meaning

Turn back the hand that ticks behind

Suspend our twilight in its beauty

Before that hand struck twelve and pushed

Lend me your true hand just this once

Together we can turn the others back

Stay so I don’t drown in the blood by myself

The bells are tolling now, for god’s sake, help!

Something forcing your hand again

I wonder why it must be

That it can fashion yours but not my own

To dump soil into a grave below

If soon the holy searching bells

Break my window with their moans

I hope you don’t see what will be left

Of that flower when it leans by stone

A blinded hand cannot see who to push

down the stairs

If it forces you to watch your last flower uprooted

I will not let it see again unwounded

So cold, so cold I am

Where in my dreams can I see you again?

Wilting as I stare at the unsinking moon

Is this how it really ends?

Is none of this… what you wanted, my friend?

- - - - - - - - -

I am alone on the bed

I am always alone

The head belonging to myself

Is grinding against stone.

I am told the sunflowers are dying

Specifically the sunflowers

My lips release a feeble laugh

Like a cough that dries the air around it.

I lie on my bed some more

I wrap my arms around myself

Fever chills bloom and wither

Something wells up in my throat and shivers.

They say that they see you

From time to time

A silhouette behind curtains

Mistaken for a ghost.

Where you are now

I do not know

I just want to say

I just want to say

Please help me

Please help

Just please

Just don’t go away