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unforth · 1 day ago

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I keep seeing posts comparing this to 2004 or other past election losses and how this feels the same or similar to those past times.

As another Old who voted in 2004 (and I missed voting in 2000 by a month and was furious about it) I really can't even put into words how vehemently I disagree.

In 2008, I remember very earnestly sitting down with some friends and saying that if somehow McCain beat Obama, I'd have to join the fucking revolution, because I couldn't believe that this country would elect a Republican AGAIN after the previous 8 years of bullshit. I look back now and think how incredibly naive I was, but I also look back now and think, damn, why aren't I 25 NOW? I can't join the revolution now, I'm 41 and I own a house and have two young children and one old parent depending on me.

Because honestly, truly, as someone who has been studying American history since I was 7, as a Civil War buff with expertise on the years before the Civil War, as someone who has at least some memories of every election since 1988... guys, this isn't the same as 2004. I was furious then. Swift Boat bullshit I swear to fucking dog. And I was and still am fairly convinced that the 2000 election was deliberately stolen. But also I still had every reason then to believe in the rule of law.

In 2004, I still believed term limits would be respected.

In 2004, I still believed a person who wasn't elected would demure gracefully to the winner.

In 2004, I still trusted the courts.

In 2004, I still believed that we'd made progress on bigotry.

I could go on, and to be clear, my point isn't "I thought these institutions were ~good~" in literally any objective sense. Y'all are cynical but my generation was raised by, surrounded by, Vietnam vets and trust me, there was no way to be a kid, seeing what the 70s did to this country, and not come out as cynical and furious as the best of um. (My grandfather was a World War 2 vet, as were his close friends. My father and both his brothers are Vietnam vets, tho my dad didn't go overseas.) But I did believe that even corrupt institutions, even broken racist systems, even fucking Republicans, would follow basic norms of democracy. They said they believed in the constitution and I believed them. I believed that, like Nixon, truly getting caught doing something insane would at least force a mea culpa and turn public opinion. I believed...

Well, I guess it doesn't matter.

Because I no longer believe any of that.

I have watched the guard rails disappear over my lifetime. I have watched the party who once spent 2 years pursuing a guy over a BJ in the oval office elect a convicted rapist. I have watched and at times I've participated and I've voted and I've organized and I've protested and I've read the news more days than not and I've lived and I've grown and I've learned.

I have been an adult, legally, for almost 24 years now.

Guys... there are no norms remaining on the far right. The guard rails are gone. The Fascists control the White House, the senate, the Supreme Court, and things aren't looking promising for the House.

The bus has no brakes anymore. They think they have a mandate - and I can't blame them, as horrifying as this mandate is, because if things had gone the other way and Harris had gotten these results I'd also think it was a mandate.

Please sit with what this means: Trump and the Republican party said, "hand us the reins and we'll make everyone you hate hurt," and more than half the people who bothered to vote said "sure buddy, here goes." We don't have a usurper this time. This is the country that the majority of Americans said they wanted. Whether they come to regret that or not, they saw open Fascism and went "oh yes, count me in." And it wasn't because of the electoral college this time. It was because this country is so bigoted and misogynistic that they'd rather have this than a woman of color in the office.

I'm sick of "well she didn't run a good campaign." (Lie.) I'm sick of, "well we didn't get a primary." (Who cares?) I'm *extremely* sick of "well, Palestine." (Yes! Democrats actions have made the suffering there so much worse! It fucking sucks! You know what's about to suck so much worse?)

15 million people who showed up for Joe Biden couldn't be fussed to place a vote for Kamala Harris. Whatever their reason for not voting, we all knew the outcome if she lost. And seeing open fascism didn't fire them up enough to make the effort, and that's fucking pathetic. The consequences of the worst happening mattered so little to them that they couldn't be fucking bothered to make the minimum effort to stop it, and now millions of people will suffer as a result.

Because here we are: the huge swathe of the country who wanted a strongman now have one.

Look, I don't know what happens next. But I do know, and remember keenly: after 2016, Trump did, or at least tried to do, most of the things he said he'd do. When he was stopped, it was often because of career government employees: judges, bureaucrats, etc. And this time, he's said he's going to purge those people. I don't know if he'll succeed, but I certainly believe he'll try.

This is not 2004 again.

This is 2024. The Republicans have ripped the mask to shreds, shredded apart the book of political norms, and empowered hate, and they've been handed a governmental mandate for stamped "have at with our blessing!" in exchange.

And now they'll use that mandate to make everyone they hate suffer: people of color, queer people, trans people, immigrants, non-Christians.

Don't assume the worst can't happen. I am a Jew, and I have a photo album full of black and white photos of dead people that constantly reminds me: the worst has happened and it can happen again.

Do not despair. Despair is enervating. Be furious. As we should be. These douche bags are repulsive. Be prepared to fight. Be prepared to flee. Be prepared to defend. Don't assume you simply can't do something. There's always something to do, and even the smallest act of defiance can help. There's never any knowing until after which acts of resistance will end up galvanizing the good and just out of their apathy. But that apathy is the enemy.

Because none of this is normal. None of this is "just like when..." Please stop saying it is.

And before anyone screams "privilege" at me, yes, I am in many ways. I'm white. I have access to some generational money even tho my own family lives paycheck to paycheck - we won't be rich but have enough of a support network to be comfortable. I live in a blue area of a blue state. But I'm also a woman (legally speaking, at least) married to another woman - since before Oberkfell, and yes I remember exactly what steps we had planned any time we wanted to leave our state. My wife has physical disabilities. We have two children. Both are biracial (half black). One is trans. We are caring for an elderly parent. I am Jewish and as my kids' birth parent, so are they. I own a publishing company that publishes the exact kinds of queer and kinky lit these people intend to ban. We tick so many boxes of what these people hate.

I know ya'll are scared. Trust me, I'm terrified. But fear is paralyzing. And that won't help. Whatever happens, don't lie down and take this shit.

When Gore lost I was one month shy of my 18th birthday and already in college. I have been fighting my entire adult life, and I'm exhausted. I'm much less able to fight now, much more tied down with responsibilities. But the fight isn't over. I'm checking our passports. I'm packing a go bag. I've convinced one vulnerable friend to move here and I have another who wants to and we're figuring out how to make that happen. I'm protecting who I can, starting with putting on my mask first. I don't know what will happen but if in the end all I can do is uproot my entire life to protect my children then I am preparing to do so. I can at least save them if no one else.

None of this is normal.

And I'm not sure, after Trump's in office, that anything will ever be normal again in the US. At least not the old normal. And there are ways that's a good thing, so many ways that the old normal sucked for so many people, and I'm optimistic that there's a bright future ahead, but man it looks far away right now. I don't want to go back to the old normal, and I want to be part of establishing a kinder, more just, more equal new normal, but we're a long way from there.

Whatever happens, we must endure. We must survive. We must support each other. We must find our allies and be prepared to compromise with them. Don't try to save everyone. You'll fail. Help even one person and you can change the world. Everyone things they can't do everything and so do nothing. That's insane. Do a single thing and it will be better than nothing. One phone call. One letter. One act of defiance. Very few people get the opportunity to grand gestures that matter, and the rest of us will die waiting for that moment. But the secret is that what makes those moments - the time when one person is in the right place at the right time for their action to matter - is built on millions of small moments by millions of people doing what little they can to make things slightly better. Think of every iconic photograph of a Sole Resistor you know of and think about every single tiny thing that had to happen for that moment to occur. Most of us will never me that one person, but that one person is a myth anyway. Countless tiny unseen moments create those myths. Doing literally anything is better than doing nothing.

And tooth and nail, quietly and loudly, in our homes and our towns and cities, during protests or when they come for our neighbors, we must fight.

#unforth rambles #politics #uspol #i probably shouldnt post this #and it probably wont get traction even though i am #but stop telling people that the normal methods of hunkering diwn and waiting for a 2026 blue wave will help #stop telling people this is just like something before #its not its not its not its so fucking not stop it

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sashaisready · 1 day ago

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Since You've Been Gone: Chapter 1

Bucky Barnes x Reader

After a regrettable first meeting in the cemetery, you discover that you have something in common with a certain member of the Avengers. Unfortunately, you can't choose your neighbours, even in death.

(Setting is approx. post TFATWS)

Hi, I'm back! I have no idea where this came from, or where it's going! So apologies as updates may not be consistent while I figure it out. Warnings for death of parents, grief, mentions of cemetery/graves - please tread carefully if these are triggers for you.

🍂

It was a chilly Autumn day, but not unbearable. Your coat could more than handle the frigid breeze. You squinted at the headstone as you crouched on your knees, angling your head to make sure you hadn’t left any streaks or marks from the polish. Satisfied with your performance, you trimmed a few of the roses that were leaning against it before standing and taking a step back to admire your handiwork.

Immaculate as always, so neat you could almost be fooled into thinking you weren’t even outside. You could hear your parents’ voices in your head now, joking about being able to keep their graves far cleaner that you ever managed your bedroom to be, their frequent nags falling on deaf adolescent ears.

You smiled sadly as you looked at the intricately engraved text below their names on the shared stone:

Beloved parents taken too soon,

Waiting in heaven to be reunited with their only daughter

You’d never really like that phrasing; it was a little too whimsical for your tastes – especially all these years later. But a recently orphaned teenager wasn’t exactly an expert in choosing the best headstone wording. You’d been more than happy to let your aunt and the funeral home lead the way, too paralysed by grief to make even the smallest decisions in the hellscape that was death admin.

Still, you’d never want to upset your aunt by getting it changed, there’s a lot of strange emotion tied up in grief even when time has passed, and that mourning teen has become an adult. And it wasn’t like new headstones were cheap anyway…

As you packed up your cleaning kit your attention was drawn to the two graves next to your parents’ - George and Winnifred Barnes. They had both passed several decades earlier, long before your parents were buried next to them. They had died only a few months apart according to the text…maybe they’d couldn’t survive without each other.

It was easy to infer that they no longer had anyone left earthside. The graves had been long untouched, unkempt, and overgrown, the inscriptions getting harder to read – and you’d never seen any evidence of a visitor in all your time coming here. Except of course when the cemetery staff did one of their occasional mass clean-ups of the neglected graves.

About a year ago, you’d started tending to them alongside your parents. You weren’t sure why, it just seemed like the right thing to do. They were neighbours after all. And you’d want someone to do the same for your mum and dad if you weren’t around.

You’d cleaned their stones, wiped away the grime and given them a decent polish. You’d trimmed back the weeds and laid fresh flowers. The first time took a while, but after you’d got them to a reasonable standard it was all pretty easy to maintain.

You’d often wondered who they were. What they were like. The dates suggested they’d died of old age, a luxury your parents didn’t have. Were they kind? Funny? What hobbies did they have? They were around during the war, that must’ve been tough. You knew from the inscriptions that they had children who would’ve been over hundred by now. Maybe no grandchildren which is why nobody came by to see them anymore. It made you feel sad, how we could all be just a few generations away from being forgotten entirely. At least you could try to remember them.

You gave their graves a quick once over, took away the dead flowers and added some fresh roses in their place.

“Well, I’m done,” you said aloud, “see you soon, mum and dad. And you too, George and Winnifred. Sleep well”.

You sighed, walking back to your car and back to your life. You knew all too well that the dead may be still, but the world continues around them.

🍂

A week later you were back at the cemetery with your cleaning kit slung over your back, your arms full of fresh flowers.

“Afternoon, mum and dad,” you said as you placed your kit and flowers down and pulled out the foam pad that you used to kneel on, “and you, George and Winnifred”.

“Work has been kicking my ass this week,” you sighed as you got to work on your parents’ stone. “There’s only so much I can take of Brock’s moaning about the numbers…it’s getting harder not to smash my keyboard over his head – yeah I know, violence isn’t the answer, blah-blah-blah…”

You worked diligently, chatting away as you went through your maintenance tasks. It was nice, talking to them like this. You could say anything, really. No judgements, no admonishment, just silent acceptance of everything you told them. It was a bit like therapy for you. You often imagined your parents were sitting behind you as you spoke, just out of sight.

You liked to use old newspaper to buff up the marble. As you gathered your things together, you glanced at some of the headlines from the copy you’d brought with you. Lots of dreary grimness unfortunately. There was also a longread feature on the Avengers and where they were now, their photographs lined up across the top of the page. It was sad that a few of them were dead now, or at least no longer here. You felt a pang of sadness for their loved ones – you knew what that was like.

You didn’t know all the details of The Avengers and their associates, but like everyone else you knew the basics. It was a strange time, just a decade or so ago nobody had ever thought superheroes really existed…but then all of these ‘enhanced’ people started crawling out of the woodwork, revealing weapons and technology that previously had only existed in sci-fi movies. It was hard to believe, really.

You scanned the newspaper page, looking at the pictures for a few moments. You took your time studying their faces before sighing and placing it back down.

“All done…now let’s help out George and Winnie over here, looks like you guys need some new flowers…and all that heavy rain we’ve been having has really done a number on your stones…let me just-”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the gruff voice behind you demanded, causing you such a shock that you nearly joined your parents.

You spun your body away from the graves, horrified to see a man looming over you as you stared at him open-mouthed in surprise. You hadn’t heard him approach, not quite understanding how you hadn’t noticed him coming at all…

“I said what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he repeated to you, his blue eyes alight with anger.

He was big. Bigger than you. Even under his coat you could see his broad shoulders. A mop of dark hair framed his face, most likely quite an attractive face when it wasn’t pulled into a furious sneer like it was now. He wore black gloves as he pointed at you accusingly. The fact that you were kneeling on the ground while he stood towering at his full height had not gone unnoticed by you.

There was something strangely familiar about him, but you couldn’t place it. Did he shop at the same market as you? You couldn’t quite…

“I’m…I’m just-” you spluttered as you fumbled for the words, still caught in your surprise and the fact that this normally serene time had been interrupted by a stranger yelling at you…

“Get away from there!” he snarled.

You quickly realised he was talking about the Barnes’ graves. You bounced backwards, landing painfully on your ass in your desperation to do what he said. He had a chilling air of authority that you didn’t want to screw with. You weren’t trying to piss off an angry man while you were out here all alone…

“I was just tidying them up,” you managed weakly as you sat up and clutched at the flowers.

“Nobody asked you to,” he scoffed in response as he leaned over and ran a gloved finger over Winnifred’s inscription, “you shouldn’t be clambering all over graves of people you don’t know”.

You frowned as the initial shock of the encounter wore off, now annoyed now at his abrupt rudeness towards you when you only had good intentions.

“Oh, and you know them, do you?” you snapped back sharply as your felt your emotions surge and your eyes water, your cheeks hot with mortification, “well, nobody has been to visit those graves in years so-”

“Yeah, actually I do know them - I’m their son,” he spat furiously.

Your head bounced back in surprise and confusion. You curled your lip and frowned at his strange claim, he appeared to be his mid-to-late 30s at most – many years away from the very elderly man he’d need to be for that to be true.

What was his goal here, exactly?

Was this guy just looking to start an argument and decided you’d be his target? Spouting off nonsense about random graves just to mess with you?

And where did you know him from?

Despite your survival instincts, you couldn’t help but fight back. You didn’t appreciate being messed with at the best of times, let alone when you were only here to visit your deceased loved ones. Who came to a graveyard to fuck with people? And yell at them?!

“Huh? Son?” you scoffed with derision and jabbed a finger towards the inscriptions about their children, “well, that can’t be true as that would mean their kids would have to be over a hundred…and how many one-hundred-year-olds look like you…?”

“I’m 107 years old, actually,” he said venomously. He sounded utterly sincere despite the ludicrousness of his claim. His face was sullen, his eyes piercing.

You ignored the shudder that threatened to roll through you in response. It was a strangely familiar expression on his face.

Where had you seen that look?

“Oh, yeah! You’re 107…Sure!” you laughed sarcastically. “You just have the greatest plastic surgeon of all time, in fact there’s a bunch of centenarians wandering around looking thirt-”

You trailed off as a wave of recognition suddenly hit you and the penny dropped. Oh. Oh.

He wasn’t from the market…

It was him.

Your eyes panned down to the crumpled newspaper lying next to you. The same man’s face scrutinised you from the page, an exact mirror image of the brooding 3D version in front of you. A little older now, but still unmistakably the same man.

Oh!

Now you remembered that same picture on the news. Read about the terrible things he’d done before when he was under hypnosis. For the Nazis? The Soviets? Both? Flashes of recollection hit you at once, disjointed and scattered.

It wasn’t really him doing all of it, it was a mind control thing, they’d said. He was like the Captain…the first one from the 40s. Kept young…somehow. He had a robot arm. Then there was the big government pardon after he’d helped to save the world. The deep dive the New York Times had done on his assassin past. What had they said he was called? Iceman? Winter? Winter hitman?

The Winter Soldier.

Barton? Baines? No, Barnes.

Barnes.

As in…son of Winnifred and George?

Ah.

He must’ve seen your train of thought written all over your face as he nodded solemnly at you.

“Yeah. It’s me. And I only found their resting place a few weeks ago,” he said with disdain.

You got to your feet, taking a few cautious steps backwards. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You didn’t need to be a jerk - I’ve just been coming here for years, and I’d never seen…”

You trailed off, he didn’t care. His focus was on the graves, one gloved hand gripping the top of his father’s stone as he peered down at the grass below.

You turned to leave, giving him his privacy, “I’m sorry for your loss,” you mumbled quietly as you picked up your kit.

You started to head back to your car, then turned to face him again after a couple of steps. You warily moved back towards him and leaned over, placing a single flower between the feet of his parents’ graves. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pick it up and throw it back in your face, either.

As you walked away, you thought you felt the weight of his gaze on your back.

🍂

Another week passed and you were back at the cemetery once more, working the usual routine and doing your best to forget what had happened the last time you were here. Upsetting a war veteran slash Avengers superhero by accusing him of not being his parents’ child was impressively incompetent, even by your standards. But in your defence, he did just start yelling at you out of nowhere. And you were only trying to help. And he was a literal defiance of nature, time, and aging…

But then again, people weren’t always their best selves in a cemetery. It wasn’t exactly Happy Hour over here. And you’d probably freak out too if you caught a stranger tinkering around with the resting place of your parents. The parents who died of old age while you were cryogenically frozen and a prisoner in your own body…

You’d done a little more reading up on him, James Buchanan Barnes. ‘Bucky’. The man behind the scary winter soldier mask. The older images of him in his combat gear were chilling, as were the alleged stats of his kills, but mainly you just felt immense empathy for a man out of time. A man who had lost his youth, a limb, his autonomy, and everybody he once knew from his old life.

You tried to put it out of your mind, catching your parents up on what they’d missed and pretty-ing things up a little around their plot. You didn’t touch the Barnes’ this time, just gave them a little wave and concentrated on your own flesh and blood.

You were a million miles away, lost in the quiet fog that often seemed to overtake you when you were working in the cemetery. It was peaceful, really. This was the one place you could switch your brain off and quiet the chatter of your head, just concentrate on the tasks you knew so well by now that your hands did them on muscle memory alone.

You were just adjusting the newest flowers when a voice interrupted you.

“Hey,” it said.

It startled you as you were still in your own world and hadn’t heard anyone else approach. You whirled around slightly panicked as a pair of eyes the colour of sapphires met yours.

It was him again.

“Oh, hello,” you replied quietly.

He stared over at you, wrapped up in his coat as he was last time. His stare was still intense despite appearing much calmer than when you first met him. He wore black pants and boots, his hands tucked away into his pockets, a dark backpack slung over his shoulder. His face was more relaxed than it was during your first encounter. His blue eyes were just as arresting, but the absence of anger made them sparkle rather than burn. He had a soft dusting of stubble across his taut jawline, his dark hair was pulled back behind his head as he absent-mindedly ran a hand over it. He was…

…hot?

Fuck.

He nodded at you in acknowledgement and moved to George and Winnifred’s plot, kneeling in front of their stones. He pulled a candle out from his backpack and lit it with a lighter, placing it between where his parents lay.

You turned away sharply, not wanting to look like you were intruding during what was clearly a private moment of mourning. You focused on your own parents’ graves, clipping back the flowers as quietly as possible.

The two of you continued doing your own thing, the awkwardness thick in the air. You remembered how furious he’d been with you last time. You considered saying something, trying to explain that you were only trying to maintain the graves, but you didn’t want to provide any more ammunition for potential anger. Instead, you continued your routine in silence, keeping your eyes down.

After you finished you packed up your stuff and cleared your throat, ‘uh, bye,” you said quietly to him as you hurried down the path and back towards your car. He didn’t respond, but looked up at you as you passed, studying you intently.

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes fan fiction

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howlettloki · 3 days ago

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Less smut, more meaningful words with such eloquence, well executed plot, characterizations and world building.

A Loki (Marvel)/Reader Fic Recommendation

If you’re like me, who loves to read longer fics then this blog post is for you. This list features beautiful books I have read featuring Loki and the reader for the past 5 years. This is long overdue I have been planning to do this for a while now. I’ll do my best to share all of them in one post (might probably edit this once I remember more). One thing, I really love when an author finds a way to not use Y/N. Enjoy the list!

Completed Fics

Frostbite by Maiden_of_Asgard

Synopsis:

Iceland is nice - sure, you probably should’ve picked a time of year when the weather was a little warmer, but it isn’t too bad, and at least you’re away from your desk job, right? It’s a pretty big adventure.

You’ve always said that you wanted more adventure in your life.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

This one you’ve probably read, if not go check it out. It’s one of the best out there. I mean, need I say more?

The Proposal by BirdsofHermes

Synopsis:

An AU gender-reversal of the 2009 romantic comedy The Proposal. You work for Loki Laufeyson at Asgard International Publishing. He accidentally lets his work Visa expire and is about to be deported back to England, so he blurts out that he's marrying you. Now you have to convince an immigration inspector as well as your own family that you're in love with Loki or he gets deported for life and you face five years jail time.

Review:

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I have read this more than one can count fingers in their hands.

Broken Crown by Michelleleahhh

Synopsis:

Your betrothal to Thor was convenient - brokered as an alliance between two powerful families.

Your marriage to Loki... is unimaginable.

Review:

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Please proceed with caution and read the tags. When I read this the first time, I was new to this world but I remembered enjoying reading this piece. I just recently re-read this, and I just found some minor stuff I didn’t really enjoy. Overall the story and the plot got me hooked however, there’s just few chapters that I feel could’ve been explored more and executed better. Still, I enjoyed reading this the second time around.

Fǫruneyti by Evaldrynn

Synopsis:

A story in which a herbalist makes a decision that will drastically change her life, and in which a prince begins to realise that there might still be hope for him yet. A tale of danger, adventure, friendship - and, ultimately, love.

Review:

⭐️⭐️⭐️✨

This one I stopped reading at 70%, I have certain icks when it comes to reading and once I reach that ick jar I’m done. It was still beautifully written, got me hooked and all, loved the progress. What can I say, I love slow burns.

The Devil Inside by Ursus_minor

Synopsis:

You're a free lance artist and just running short of rent money for the month, so when your good buddy Thor offers you a one-off job at his sister's company, you take it - even though helping his little brother out with some paperwork sounds awfully tedious

I always wondered what Loki, Hela and Thor would do if they were 'mere mortals'

Review:

⭐️⭐️⭐️✨

It’s deleted but I was lucky enough to have read this way back 2020. It was one of my favorite back then, because it was hard to find a long fic where Loki is not the God of Mischief but just a mere mortal living amongst us. I honestly forgot most about this story, I only remember bits and pieces, you’re Thor’s best friend and he helped you gain money by working under Loki, like the synopsis said.

A Study In Suit by lowkeyorloki

Synopsis:

You've worked too damn hard to get into Professor Laufeyson's course, and you're not about to let your pesky attraction to him get in the way. Your Professor, however, has other plans.

Review:

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Professor Loki. That’s it.

From the Void, With Love by pilotisms

Synopsis:

Torn from time, you have to navigate the TVA with the one person who singlehandedly tried to conquer NYC. Turns out you & him have a future-past. Time is weird.

Review:

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

This is one of the best I’ve read, this is my second to The Proposal. I fucking love this you have no idea. Wished there was a longer sequel though.

Litklœði by GoldTrimmedSpectacles

Synopsis:

“And the sire promised that he would spend the rest of his days searching for the cure of the flower disease which took his friend. And he did find this cure, but not without a cost,” Frigga explained and stroked Loki’s head as the illusions vanished. “But now, when one is fraught with flowers in their chest, a völva can remove these flowers with seiðr – saving the victim’s life and removing the vines from their lungs.”

The Allmother paused and looked at your small, childish face. Her smile was kind and full, but her eyes lay empty and sad. The knowledge of yet to come lay heavy on her features.

However, be warned my child, that with the removal of lung flowers the feelings of unrequited love will be removed too. As will any remaining trace of friendship. So be careful how you give your heart, my dear. You may never know what you could lose.

Review:

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Hanahaki Disease AU? Anyone? This one is from my previous blog post. Pure feelings. Loved young loki and young reader.

In Progress or Abandoned Gems

Mea Culpa by OlympianWine

Synopsis:

Six years ago yours and Loki's relationship came to an abrupt and messy end, leaving resentment and hurt in its wake. Now you haven't heard a whisper of him in years, until he turns up at his brother's wedding, seemingly changed for the better, and you're thrust into facing both him and the memories you had buried. But a dangerous figure from Loki's past looms overhead, and Thanos is determined to hunt Loki down and make him pay for betraying him.

Review:

💔💔💔💔💔

I mean based on the synopsis who wouldn’t want to read that? Last update was last year, here’s to hoping it’ll update more or I’m gonna have to kms.

Anagapesis by OlympianWine

Synopsis:

You have a perfect life; a loving husband, a beautiful baby. But when it all comes crashing down, you must put survival ahead of sentiment and turn to a darker prince - your husband's brother. Loki is cruel and cold, and he hates you with a burning passion. Or so you think.

Review:

💔💔💔💔

Just when you think you’re falling, he makes you remember what type of person he is. I feel for Loki, but he’s just cruel man. I wish there was more so I could understand him a bit more.

Seiðmaðr by GoldTrimmedSpectacles

Synopsis:

Amidst the fallen brethren of the Vanaheimr war against Muspelheim, the dark prince of Asgard finds himself lost and riddled with amnesia. His words are barbed, his tongue is gilded and his eyes are sharp. He has no recollection of his name or family, but he soon comes to realise that perhaps it is best for the past to be shadowed by the future, and that life as a beloved commoner is better than life as a miserable prince.

Review:

💔💔💔💔💔

I’m a sucker for fantasy and a well executed world building. I love how I’m instantly transported into the world created by the author and I feel alive inside. I wish there was a way to find out what happens next. I just love this so much I wish there was more.

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msbunnat · 3 days ago

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sorry if you’ve been asked this before but how do you interpret Zeus in Greek mythology?

I know you like to keep the details of your comic a secret but can you at least elaborate on your perspective about his canon?

Like me personally, I see Zeus as kind of a force of nature, probably cuz he kind of is. He’s the man made character created in order to further understand that which man did not know, like all the gods. And also like the other gods his actions are hard to rationalize cuz they’re so dam inconsistent. One moment he’s treating women as disposable then the next he’s giving Hestia the respect and permission to never marry without any question.

sorry for the Yap sesh lol, love ur art and ur comic btw!

I think this is the first time someone has asked this and I am very happy to answer!

*THIS IS TO BIG SORRY!! ;-;

First, I need to make it clear that the Zeus of ancient myths and my Zeus will be different, even though its based on mythology. I am just contributing with my two cents to this range of fanfics that have existed since ancient times.

I truly believe that all the myths we love and explore are basically fanfics based on a religion and that people in the past used them to spread knowledge, comedies, tragedies and just to have fun while keeping the image of their gods alive. That is why the gods are so inconsistent in mythology, since we have many variations even of a single myth and it will always depend on who is telling the story (I wish it were easier to make fics like this about my religion, but I am afraid of the reaction of extremists).

I interpret Zeus in mythology like all the other gods, I no longer make a distinction based on the prejudice of him being a compulsive pervert, he has many sides. As all gods re natural forces, natural as in animal and plants, but also human feelings and urges.

Zeus has some basic pillars that myths tend to respect: He is THE father, he is the fairest one, he is the executioner, he is seductive, he is good-humored (sometimes he makes some bad jokes kkkkkk), he defends natural balance more than anything and he respects the will of others (this seems ironic, but calm down!!). After reading more myths about him and different interpretations, I understood that this modern view of him as a player is completely distorted and ignores all the other myths he participates (I understand that it became his joke, but… some people take it to seriously). So I started to form my own view of his myths.

Most of his adulteries are consensual and when they are not, they remain in that confusing area of what was once consensual, since it is always mentioned that he seduces (for example, how he turned into an bull or a shower of gold because he knew that his potential partners really liked those things - and I find it hilarious that it seems like he didn't even intend to get Danae pregnant kkkkkk, but it ended up happening). This doesn't mean we can't understand that some of these seductions are abusive (like taking the form of a husband to have a night with Persephone or Alcmena), but saying that he discarded them doesn't seem right either. He often protected his lovers and bastards in the most intelligent way possible and sometimes he just walked away too for the good of others. And in a way, as the father and lord of the sky, he is always watching. I also hate how we take away any woman agency when it comes to Zeus, like, there re myths that they wanted a casual nigth with a god... stop ignoring that!! (the bad thing is that Zeus is also a pilar for fertility ;w; so if he sleep with someone with a uterus... they will get pregnant).

Going to the non-literal side, we have to remember that Zeus is a god and his adultery should not be seen as the same as that of mortal men. He cant acuatlly be with a mortal on the mortal realm and be a husband there... I also want to say: Hera wasn't that jealousy (I think she herself knew that Zeus needed to spread his blood/goodness in the world - yes, a strong interpretation is that Zeus' affairs are a metaphor for spreading goodness). On the contrary, she respected the bastards who faced their challenges and thus deserved to be close to them on Olympus. Hera tested the heroes for two reasons: So they understood that she and Zeus were in charge (so that no one would think they could usurp the throne, and she protected both her and Zeus, as well as Zeus do his best to also prevent the bastards to die and have some help - both Zeus and Hera do all this from a distance, they want to be fair with eachother) and to see if they deserved to be with the immortals.

It seems ironic today, but Zeus respected everyone's will, but it was in the Greek terms (more of in atenians terms, bc we don't have much of the other states). He accepted the decisions of Hestia, Athena, Artemis… I don't remember seeing him laying a finger on them or wanting them to get married. On the other hand, we have versions of him as father of Persephone, 'selling' her (but the myth was about an arranged marriage and I think it makes sense that it's Zeus, since the focus ends up being Demeter's suffering and this encompasses more complex feelings when losing her daughter because her 'husband' gave her away, while he is still respected and loved socially).

Now the bad side of Zeus in how fair he is. He punishes Apollo in some situations, even though I understand why he needed to do it… But he is not shallow enough to be evil for the sake of evil… It left a impression on me when he killed Asclepius and hurt Apollo (obviously), it is sad and I doubt he enjoyed killing his grandson, but if he didn't do it… the balance of the cycle of death would collapse and he is the one who sustains this cycle with the greatest respect. In fact, my theory is that he doesn't face Nyx, not because he fears her, but because no matter who wins the fight, the world will end (if Nyx dies, the night and everything that comes from the night, for the Greeks like sleep and death, will be disturbed / if Zeus dies the throne will be empty and no other god would do what he does, maybe Athena, but the world was too sexist back then to let her become sovereign and I also think she would be colder than Zeus when making decisions and would have no descendants…). But sometimes he just wanted to prank and have fun! So like, no straight answer here.

In the case of Ganymede, I believe that his myth is more one of those in which Zeus is merely a narrative tool, more than an active role. People just started shipping them and that's when the pederasty boom happened, but before that Ganymede was just a boy who was handsome and got a 'dream job' (poor thing…).

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mellowyellow236 · 2 days ago

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IVE JUST BEEN ON A BINGING SPREE OF YOUR WORK AND I LOVE IT SO SO MUCH??? YOUR WRITING IS SO CHEF'S KISS????

Its possible could i request for the first year (platonic ortho if you'd like to write him ^^) x reader with the kingdom dance scene from tangled the ost always has my heart pumping and i think its just a beautiful scene all around AAAA

Ahhhh thank you so much for requesting! Sorry that this took a while and isn’t very long, I haven’t watched Tangled in at least five years at this point so it was hard to remember the context behind the scene, especially since I couldn’t find an actual copy of the movie. But you are completely right, that soundtrack is absolutely wonderful! So much so that it’s now the tavern music I’m using in my Dnd campaign. Anyway, here you are! :D

How Would The TWST First Years Act With The Reader During The Tangled Kingom Dance Scene?

GN!Reader x first years, all are meant to be read as romantic except for Ortho’s, but can be read as platonic, too. No TW’s, just fluff. All parts under the cut.

Edit: added tags since I forgot before

Ace Trapolla -

Ace wasn’t excited to come down to town for the festival, so to speak. They lit the lanterns every year, but... Seeing you so happy for it did melt his heart if only a little. And seeing you get a chance to have your hair done by those little girls in the plaza was the cream on the cake. Once you had it braided with flowers and ribbons, you really did look beautiful.

He went away to grab you guys something to eat. He was only away for a second, but by the time he returned, he was watching you start a dance in the town square, inviting in various townspeople. Soon enough, most of the plaza was there. He didn’t want to join in, but he was being pushed into it before he had a chance to comprehend what was happening.

Dancing around, it was easy to see why so many had joined you. You were a great dancer, and it was fun to get to be with so many people. Even so, the fact that he wasn’t able to dance with you until the song was annoying for him. Up until he got to dance with you, of course. Anyone with a brain could see the stars in his eyes.

Deuce Spade -

Deuce loved the idea of getting a chance to take you to a festival. It would be your first one, and of course, he was very excited. So much so that he got a group of girls from the town to braid your hair. Try as he might, he couldn’t do it himself, although he did get you the ribbons and flowers to put in them.

When he went to go grab another thing of flowers for you, this time just for you to hold, he didn’t think twice when he saw you dancing. He dove right in, joining you and the other townspeople in dance, laughing. By the time he got to dance with you, he only had a single flower left, having given most of them away. Although, when he put that one behind your ear, it was clear he had saved the largest of the bunch for you.

Jack Howl -

Jack was too excited, but it wasn’t as though he didn’t want to go. Yes, it was exciting to go to a festival, but he’d already been to many of them. However, seeing how happy you were to go, he decided it was his mission to make sure you got the best experience possible.

However, he still had the ears of a wolf, and all of the loud noises and smells soon overwhelmed him. You two had to take coverage in a small library. He urged you to go back to enjoying the festival, he didn’t want you to stay behind for him, but when you didn’t, he did the next best thing and started teaching you about it. You were in a library, after all, and he was able to read and teach now that it was quieter. And in the end, isn’t wanting to spend time with your loved ones what the festival was all about?

Epel Felmeir -

Epel had been hoping you’d go with him to the festival since he heard about it, and so having you express an interest in it was something that made his day. He loved being able to go to all kinds of festivals back home, and he was sure he’d enjoy having you there for one with him, as well.

His favorite part? Getting to hide behind the wall of a bakery, eating cupcakes as Vil walks around outside of it searching for you two. Did you giggle so loudly you were caught? Yes. But was it worth it as he got to see you laughing, icing on your nose as you two ran through the streets, away from the pastry tyrant? It was. It was completely worth it.

Ortho Shroud -

Ortho was so happy when you invited him out! You two were going to be able to spend time together, and he got to have his first adventure into a festival while he was with you. He even got to make some friends with a few kids, and they taught him how to braid your hair!

And then you got to do chalk drawings together! You made a sun, and he made a drawing of him, Idia, and you. You’re a part of his family, too, and he’s so happy to be able to share a happy memory with you.

Sebek Zigvolt -

Sebek wasn’t excited at first. It was just a boring, human festival, nothing that could compare to the wonders of Fae traditions. But then, he saw you dressing up your hair and asking for help with it, and he couldn’t help but soften up to the idea just a little bit. Even humans could have a good festival or two, especially if those braided flowers are only the first part.

Out of all the first years, Sebek is the least excited to dance, yet also the best at it. Being Malleus’s personal guard, he took dance lessons, in order to blend in to any ballroom and guard Malleus even when he couldn’t be by his side. However, it was always just another part of his training, where he couldn’t even fight… Until you. Now, he’s dancing in the town square with you, hand in yours and one on your waist, mentally wondering how he got so lucky to end up here, with a human so wonderful they can make what he thought of as a boring activity into something beautiful and fun.

#twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst disney #ace trappola #ace trapolla x reader #duece spade #duece spade x reader #jack howl #jack howl x reader #epel felmier #epel x reader #epel felmier x reader #ortho shroud #ortho shroud & reader #sebek zigvolt #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek x reader

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2demondogs · 1 day ago

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With Chrismas around the corner (not really but basically), i would love an Arthur x GN!reader where Arthur proposes to reader for Chrismas and they obviously say yes because, well, it's Arthur, who wouldn't?

Anon did you read my mind. I was just thinking about proposal fics when you sent this ask because I have yet to stumble on one somehow... I'm sorry this took forever btw T-T

Shoutout to my platonic boyfriend for helping me with ideas because I got writer's block <3

Words: 3k oh my good lord Tags: canon divergence (it's just people leaving the gang a chapter early), Arthur does not have tuberculosis, INSTANT spoilers for character death, cheesy shit

It's been too long, you're realizing, since holidays like Christmas felt like special things. There is a double-edged feel to this one — it is the first since Hosea's death, since leaving the gang — but it is the first, in a very long time, that you've spent in the so-called right way: in a warm house with four solid walls and someone you love, how those fanciful books Mary-Beth used to talk your ear off about always wrote.

The house is warm enough, anyways.

There's work that needs done on the cabin. Some of the wood is rotting out and chipped at the corners, forming into sharp splinters that you've brushed against one too many times, but it is a house. You haven't had this pleasure since before joining the gang.

Sometimes, with how content Arthur seems at baseline, you wonder if he's had this pleasure since early childhood. On quieter evenings, ones less reserved for happiness than this one, there has been clipped discussion about how Arthur has never had domesticity like this. Silently, it was an admission of how good it is to share this freshness with you.

During a ride into town, he'd admitted that he had never picked up painting because it was the sort of thing only steady folks got to enjoy. You'd gotten him a set of oil paints when no one was looking — he's worth much more than a few measly dollars, but that means little if you haven't got them to begin with. Some habits die hard; he was happy you remembered what he'd said only a few hours before.

Come the new year, Arthur plans to find work that will pay. New things are a luxury neither of you care much to indulge in, but the repairs will take lumber and maybe a few extra hands. Ones with more expertise, at least, because Arthur's houses usually have not had foundations.

You could simply move now that time has passed, yes. You could find somewhere much farther away, maybe even New York, and pack yourselves in alongside the other sardines bustling about a city, undetectable in uniformity. Shave beards, got jobs, change clothes, cut hair and color it, too, if paranoia strikes— but keeping low to the ground has worked itself out so far, and there is no more of that deathlike stagnation in the air of this place.

Sentimentally, you think this Christmas will seal off whatever makes this cabin yours. Shadows linger, there's been a few odd creaks that've spooked the horses, and maybe it's going to shit a lot quicker than either of you want to admit, but it's your shit-house and the shared stubbornness between you has always brought you nothing but closer to one another.

Arthur is tired of running, and so are you. Last week, he talked about writing to Mary-Beth and Simon, maybe checking if Kieran — the utterance of the man's proper name was a confirmation of the last of that stockholmlike regret having worked out of his system — had broken and followed his little girlfriend. It wasn't said with malice, just some amusement.

"Why do you think he would?" You'd asked.

"Dutch only saves people who don't ask for it," he'd said, and that wistful look in his eyes vanished before you could ask what it meant.

Maybe it's the hard work that makes it feel like a real, true holiday. Pearson and Grimshaw stopped working everyone harder in the winter over the years, once the familial glamour faded with each new addition to the gang. It was no longer a tight-knit group, but a posse, more or less, of runaways and strays all against a big, evil thing like the rest of the world, or whatever it was that Dutch grew to fear.

Since November, Arthur has been saving the best catches to be salted and stored for Christmas dinner. Each addition is cleaner skinned and cut than the last, and the newfound worst of them ended up being ate upon his return from hunting. You've both been saving back herbs since summer, dried and ready to be crumbled into the heated up pot come time for a real feast. Cornbread was made by hand for the first time since you settled down here, drizzled with honey from the general store a ways out.

The latter was Arthur's only specific request for a fancy dinner. If you hadn't gotten him a single gift save for making it, he'd still be happy as a clam.

He's been putting that goddamned honey on everything. You're glad he seems to be enjoying things again, not as tightstrung as he was before you'd made off with him. That's how it feels, anyways, after the long and struggling conversations that were had before the decision was made. Family or life? It's a hard question for someone who has such little concept of either.

Now, the grey hair in his beard is catching the light from the fireplace where he's sat himself on a chair before it. They'd sprouted through the sun-bleached blond atop his head has been looking lighter and lighter in recent months, grey finally catching up to the discoloration and giving him some malcolored sort of tabby look. It's a good one on him, as much as he complains about looking old as dirt and that it's all formed by stress.

For all the lacking color, it adds a ruddy warmth to his face. Daydreams of growing old together find you when you focus on it, or on his wheezing laugh that's gotten worse with the cold weather. Despite the woolen vest he's been sporting, his fingers are as chilled as yours whenever they've brushed. Idly, you wonder if he's gotten whatever Hosea grew into, then remember they were never by blood.

Arthur hadn't wanted you to get him any gifts. When you asked if he would get you something, he'd flushed and changed his mind, apparently already having done it.

Whatever it is, it's good-sized, wrapped in one of the dustcloths you'd gotten him alongside the paints. He's been spending more time painting, lately, tucked in the treeline and looking over the cabin or deeper into the woods, studying something plein air the way those professionals do. He'd propped it against the wall this morning, and once you've settled on the floor before the fireplace — too cold outside not to crowd close to it — after dinner, he looks between you and the cloth like he isn't sure what to do.

"D'you wanna do the honors?" He asks, and grins although the twitch of his eye tells you he's covering timidity with faux cockiness.

"You go ahead," you say, half because he's closer. Tormenting him in small ways must be part of any good gift.

The painting is an image you recognize. A photo that one of the girls took for you months before things went down the hole, using the camera Arthur was loaned by some feller in town who wanted photos taken for a book. He never returned it, and it more or less became something he tucked beneath his cot and let the elements beat around. You can't remember, now, who it was or where he went to get it developed.

The little inkling of pride you felt knowing he kept putting off getting the negatives developed — not enough money, not enough time — yet was gone the next morning to have yours developed returns, now.

It's a much nicer rendition of it, your clothes not dirty and his arm around your waist, the other holding his hat to his chest. It's clear he preferred to give your portrait more detail, his own lagging somewhere behind in clarity and looking closer to the photo. You suppose it's easier to look at someone besides himself, but there's a clearer enjoyment in the lines of you, more care taken in the color mixes.

Ignoring the dense joy of the implications of that, of how obvious it is, proves difficult. Your cheeks twinge some from the wide smile before you realize you're even reacting.

"You'll be a big name someday," you say, and he may as well shrink in on himself beneath the praise, although he's heard it plenty of times before.

"Naw," he waves a hand. "Quit that."

"Really, Arthur." Scooting closer, laying your hands over his knee. He's moving his jaw when your eyes meet his, lays a hand over one of yours, heavy and warm. "It's beautiful. I love it."

"Good," he says. His jaw clicks. "I— uh, I love you."

The hunting knife you got for him seems small, though relatively equal. Arthur looks as pleased as ever studying it, half-mumbling appraisals of yeah, nice and sharp, sturdy to himself that likely would've stayed inside his head, if it weren't for wanting to show you he liked it.

A bone handle, which he feels over with his fingers before noticing it's engraved, fits easy in his palm. You were afraid you push your luck with maintaining its quality too far adding the tiny, vague bear shape next to the deeper cut of his name. Already impressive was the fact that you hadn't ruined it with the letters, being one of your first expeditions into anything of the sort.

"I would've gotten you one of those folding knives," you explain. "But they don't hold up as well, and I know you have one."

The army knife was Hosea's.

"Needed me a new huntin' knife," Arthur says. You know, because he's complained about his current one being close to snapping with all the skinning he does anymore. He squints at the handle, turns it over in the light from the fire. "Did you engrave the handle?"

"Yessir."

He smiles. "It's real nice," he says, pats his palm with the blade softly. It makes a dull noise, sturdy metal on skin. "Why a bear?"

"They remind me of you," you admit. Really, you'd spent a long time considering what else to add, because only his name seemed so plain; although he wouldn't be opposed to flowers or vines, they are a little more intricate than a simplified bear head. "Big and strong. Hairy, too. I'd like to hug one."

He snorts a laugh, but it seems thin. His eyes are fond enough on you that it couldn't be any rejection of your words, and so you brush it off. "You wanna hug a bear?" He asks.

"In a perfect world," you amend. "Don't they look warm?"

"You'd better stick to me," he says, smooths a palm over the thigh of his jeans. The nicest pair he owns, he promised you, because he feels ridiculous in slacks and seems to think you care what he wears.

Beyond thinking everything looks well on him, at least. You often find yourself concerned with that thought.

"I got you somethin' else," Arthur starts, running a finger over the bunched inseam at his own knee. "Well, uh— it's f'both of us, really."

Isn't that intriguing, you think, but your silent, undivided attention seems to make him outright nervous, so you say: "Oh?"

Some conflict happens over his face as he pulls his vest collar away and reaches into the inner pocket, takes out a stack of thin papers that he glances over before apparently relenting to something. Confusion finds you, until he takes a deep breath and holds them towards you.

"Read these," is all he says, and he sounds like it's almost painful.

He's written much, much more than that. Your stomach turns, once or twice, realizing they are pages from his journal. Uncertain why, until the first entries which are skittering on affectionate fade into ones much more flowery. They are all about you, days you'd spent together or times you hadn't, the things you've given him over the years and the things he wished he could've given you.

Each page makes your chest feel tight with a panicked joy, as if his hands were not fiddling with the new knife to occupy — distract? — himself but clenching hard at your heart.

One, near the beginning, says he thought of pickin' a pretty lil' flower, God bless it, I feel ridiculous; on the back of the next is pressed a variegated tulip, crumbling with age but holding firm to whatever adhesive glues it to the paper. Again, that creeping smile, like thyme. Another entry is entirely about your hair, because it had brushed his arm. Only a few sentences made up that page, below the cursive a choppy sketch of your horse.

Certainly, Arthur stays busy in his head. You've always known as much, but never figured any of it was about you. Not like this, anyways, though the dates spread from the week before Blackwater and you can only wonder what laid in that journal he lost before.

"Oh, Arthur," you start, looking up from a third-way through, feeling giddy but not wanting him to watch you so intently while you finish them. No wonder he was shy. It's his heart. "You're so sweet."

"Finish readin' 'em," Arthur says, doesn't meet your eyes at first. When he does, they're gentle. "They get sweeter, y'know, better finish 'em. 'Cause of that."

He is nervous. Hardly moving, besides the tongue running over his teeth beneath his lips, and the rambling every time he opens his mouth. You don't mind, never have. He's endearing like this.

Outings you'd went on infrequently, the dates of his favorites underlined, you're noticing, based on the tone of his words in them; his worries and fears about courting you, and some of what you mean to him though, with its succinctness, you have a feeling he wouldn't dare put all of his genuine love to findable paper; things he likes about you, and one page where he admits that he cannot keep himself from documenting you in every other entry, which tells you this small collection is hardly everything. The previous entries turn over in your mind again, and you are struck on a random page for a moment as their meanings take hold, realizing they were especially sliced from his journal to show you.

The entries leading to the last are what set your mind and pulse ablaze. From the first appearance of the word marriage, you swallowed your idea of what may be coming — Arthur's breathing changing beside you doesn't help any, and it certainly does not help that he leans down once you've reached the last page, plucking it from your hands. Before he does, you notice quite a few crossed out lines, scribbles as if he were frustrated with not being able to find the right words.

"Think I've got the balls on me to read this one aloud, at the very least," he says, voice laced with a chuckle. Breath comes uneasy, but you collect yourself enough to gather the pages back into a neat, ordered stack in your lap. "Unless you'd rather spare me," he adds, nudges your knee with the toe of his shoe.

"No." Your voice sounds strange, even to you. "Do me the honors."

Arthur bites his cheek, nods and lets it fall as he smiles. Still, his hand finds the back of his neck, the page held between two fingers that remain surprisingly steady. The knife lingers in his hand beneath it, and isn't it just like him to propose holding a weapon.

Propose. It takes its first toll on you, rolls over your back in shards of tingling.

"December twenty-fifth, eighteen ninety-nine," he starts, eyes flicking to your face every other word until the intensity of your gaze must make him too anxious. "It's a nice little life, livin' with the one I love," — rubbing his mouth, sighing some — "Jesus, I always gotta be sappy." You laugh, though it comes out more forceful than you intended, and relax some until he continues. "The thought of another day where anythin' could happen 'n' we ain't bound is somethin' I hate."

Arthur pauses, stands up and places the journal entry on his chair. You take his hands when he holds them out to where you sit, grunting when he hauls you off the ground with more force than you expected, feet shuffling into place to stick all-too-close to his. His hands are burning, skin feverish when you grab his wrists, as if you'd ever want to stop him as he eases onto a knee before you.

And his eyes throw you off balance, too, catching the light just enough that you can tell they are stinging. So are your own, now that you think about it, but intelligent thoughts go out the window once you sense him about to speak.

"I wanna be 'til death do us part," Arthur confesses, fumbles to catch both of your hands in his in an awkward, squeezing hug of a hold.

The way your bones catch on one another, well— it's not a sensation you'll forget, like the first time he kissed you and you felt it still a week later, warm pressure on your mouth if you got too lost in the memory. He looks as good, looks so nice, and you know your fingers would be shaking if he weren't crowding them together, steady.

When he says your name, the blood is rushing through your ears too loud to hear it clearly; you almost want to ask him to do it again. "Will you marry me?"

Nodding, face slack before it spreads in a grin. "Yes," you say. "Of course I will."

His is hidden by how he lets go of your hands, catching them before they fall in stupid, limp joy back to your sides. He lays kisses along the knuckles, all three rows of them. It's so awfully saccharine and yet you could never tell him to quit being sweet— not now, not as he stumbles to his feet after you pull him up and shake off his hold to grab his face, tugging him into a kiss.

Arms come around your waist, squeeze tight enough to hurt, or to hold in place. Arthur runs a hand over your back, breaks the kiss to slide a hand into your hair and press your face to his chest, caging you in his arms. He smells warm, like good cologne, and you know he's been planning this.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #gender neutral reader #neutralreader #arthur morgan #ask #oneshot #fluff #sfw #rdr2 #reader insert #proposal fic

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bluestsdays · 9 hours ago

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devon can’t stop the memories that flood her mind as they stand here together, in a home that was once theirs. can’t help but remember how it felt to come home with him after a long night out, tired and far too drunk, his arms wrapped around her as their laughter bounced off the walls, stumbling to their room to help each other carefully peel their clothes off before sliding comfortably into bed, falling asleep in each other’s arms. or how they would make breakfast together on slow weekend mornings, drinking coffee in bed and spilling half of it on the sheets, or evenings spent listening to him read to her, staying up too late talking about anything and everything. maybe that’s why she couldn’t fathom leaving this place, despite his absence— so much good happened here. there was so much love embedded in these walls, in each creak of the floorboards, in every piece of furniture they picked out together. and now she could almost trick herself into believing they had gone back in time, that this was just another one of those nights, where she could just lead him to their bedroom, kissing all the way there, but it wasn’t. or at least, it shouldn’t be. despite how her lips tingle to kiss him again and again, she knows they’ve already crossed a line. but hearing him echo just how much he missed her, too, blurs it even further in her mind. that always happened with him, didn’t it ? he was the exception to every rule, the only person she would do absolutely anything for, if he asked, no matter the consequences. it’s intoxicating, being this close, kissing him, touching him, feeling the warmth of his body against her own one more time. even if he wasn’t technically hers anymore, god, was she so fucking lucky to have him at all. remains close as she smiles up at him, pressing a soft peck to his cheek, lingering there for a moment. “ feels real to me, too, ” she whispers, so real that it’s almost visceral— her senses were overrun, her brain filled only with thoughts of them and the life they once shared, her heart overwhelmed with love and care. and it’s enough, just being here with him like this, but she can’t ignore that desire for more, even though she’s desperately trying to shove it down, to remind herself that there had to be some sort of boundary, that there were two other people to think about. it’s hard, though, when he’s kissing her, or looking at her like that, or when he reaches down to intertwine their fingers together so easily. fuck. “ me too. i've almost called you so many times, ” it’s followed with a squeeze of his hand, then, as her nose nudges against his own, tempted to close the gap and kiss him again, but she tries to hold onto any shred of self control she has left, just for good measure. even then, she doesn’t pull away. “ do you want to ? talk, i mean, ” she breathes, voice coarse. “ because we can. we should, probably, ” the words are a little shakier, now, as her free hand slides up to rest against his chest, curling against the material of his shirt as she leans in closer, lips skating against his. “ because i… i’m afraid that if i keep kissing you, i won’t be able to stop, and i’ll do something really fucking stupid, that i know i shouldn’t but that i can’t help because it’s you. ” — “ does that make me a terrible person, you think ? ”

even when things were different between them, when things weren’t laced with uncertainty and misunderstanding, miller was never quite able to grasp the inexplainable connection they shared, the power she had over him. and if he couldn’t explain it then, he definitely can’t now, as he finds himself wrapped up in her, kissing her in the familiar way that he does, the outside world fading to a quiet blur, when they’re in each other’s embraces. despite its openness, the display of love itself, it’s an intimate act between them, as if they’re the only two in existence, right now. he doesn’t shy away from it, from her, like he has done with someone else; uncaring as to who witnesses such a grand public display of affection. the world moving around them slowly comes back, as they part, lips buzzing, heart racing, hands shaking. he tucks them away, as he follows her to the front door, as if he could quell that need, desire. not for anything further, but just to… do that again, and again. until they’ve both run out of air and they’re turning blue in the face. god, how has he ever gone so long without something like that? because it’s love, he understands now, that still circulates between them, bringing them together again and again— how could he be so stupid, to try and convince himself that he could survive without it? heart beats a steady pattern in his chest, echoing in the cage of his ribs, as she unlocks the door, taken back in time to when this was their normal routine. when he would stand behind her, distracting as always, lips pressed to her neck or shoulders, his laughter against her skin, fingers against her waist, her hip. despite how much he may want to do that, now, he forces himself to hold back, as if to not overstep, to maintain some resemblance of a boundary, after what they’d just shared outside. that all goes out the window once they’re past the threshold of the door, his arms wrapping around her waist once she’s back against him. “ missed you, ” he echos back. “ so fucking much. ” and it’s one of his most vulnerable confessions of all, thinking back to those nights he’s spent alone, thoughts drifting to her, to wishing that she could be here with him. he transmits that into the kiss they share, here, in the apartment they used to share— the walls whispering memories of laughter, of tears, of late night conversations, early morning goodbyes before they went about their day. it’s dirty coffee mugs in the sink, and books against the wall, paint splattered on the floorboards. it’s the two of them sharing a breath, a life, a home. and it’s still present, in the kiss they share, in the smile chiseled into his features as they part for air, a quiet chuckle departing his lips. “ no, well… i also wanted to see what you’ve done with the place, ” he teases, gaze of endearment, as he looks down at her, lips tingling for more. “ i hope this is real, though. that it isn’t a dream— it feels real to me, ” but then again, she always has. and he can’t accept the alternative; that he was halfway across the country, merely thinking of her, dreaming of her, of this, of the love that still clearly flowed between them, held them together. “ but, i… i don’t have any expectations, coming up here, you know? ” he wants to clarify. “ i mean, we can just talk, if you want, ” somehow, that feels like it exposes a lot, how it’s an absent piece of the puzzle in his life. disguising it with a soft chuckle, he allows his hand to find her own, intertwining their fingers. “ i’ve really missed talking to you. ”

#⁺﹒. * thread ⁄ devon.#erasinglines #this is..... something... i am sooo brain dead... anyway they make me sick !

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angelwithdemonictendencies · 2 days ago

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i could never be lost, all the street signs read your name; is this the same place you once kissed me?

make yourself at home; chapter one.

6.5k. no warnings besides tension and parental disapproval and mentions of beauty standards (and tedious amounts of exposition).

(a/n: okay, favorites. to those of you that remember my tyson story, this chapter will look very familiar. i added this beautiful gif in honor of that. i promise that the other chapters (like, from three onwards) will be practically entirely new. with that being said, it is my pleasure to introduce you to olive and russell. you'll see as we progress, but do not be fooled by the "she's not like other girls" potential this story has. i hope to prove to you that the kind of beauty that i'm talking about is all about kindness and patience and thoughtfulness. all i ask is that you give this is shot. if it's not for you, if you can't look past the lack of x reader or direct hockey relationship, that's completely okay. olive, at one point, was simply "kid'" - the way some of my characters have been sugar or baby or doll. and russell was once tyson. i am incredibly nervous to share this with you, to embark and commit to sharing more with you in the future. as such, i hope you will respect and honor my vulnerability. but i'm also excited! very much so! to you and your snakes. thank you thank you thank you. and i still want to gush about hockey with you - just send me an ask! love you always).

it had probably been too long since olive fleming had been home. it had probably been too long since she’d last ventured back to granite falls, new york, but, in her defense, the trek from los angeles was long and daunting. olive made the trip as infrequently as possible, so each time she found herself back in this town, part of her expected it to look unrecognizable. it never did.

it was impossible not to recognize the slow-moving streets, lined by pine trees and the same storefronts, same quaint buildings, same lightposts that needed repairing. every time she drove through, olive felt a stab of guilt in her chest that she swallowed down dry, like some hefty pill.

the directions displayed on the screen of her phone were more a comfort than a necessity - she would know the route to her street blindfolded, maybe dead, but it was sort of nice to think that she needed help getting there, to think that she had grown up so much that she no longer knew this place the way you know the songs that your that dad used to play in the car on the way to school when you were young - entirely and wholly, if not a little senselessly.

in what felt like a blink, olive had already made it into the driveway, her subtly luxurious suv suddenly feeling much too big and attention-seeking. she felt as if she might as well have been driving a limousine, maybe one of those sleek borderline race-cars painted some flashy color. something entirely out of place, something desperately screaming look at me, even though she didn’t want anyone to see her at all. even her reflection in the rearview mirror above the dashboard made her flinch. meeting her own eyes was recognition enough to be jarring.

olive finally shifted her car into park and unbuckled her seatbelt, her hands still gripping the wheel hard enough that her knuckles paled. "arrived at home," the robotic voice from her phone said, which made her choke out a short laugh, ugly and tired. in all ways but the ones that mattered, yes, she supposed, this was home, at least for a little while longer. just until she packed up all her things from her parents’ house, just until she drove her life back to los angeles and stayed there, this time for good.

would it be frowned upon to leave the car running? just in case she needed to make a quick exit, like some blockbuster-movie spy, tucking and rolling from a plane mid-flight? olive groaned, laid her head down against the steering wheel, careful not to press her forehead down hard enough to honk.

this was exactly what coming home always felt like - frustration to the point of madness, self control to the point of lunacy. home left olive crazy, either way.

“you must be so excited to get out of your favorite city,” her manager, celeste, had said to her over the phone just before she left. celeste was something of a close friend, after a few years of partnering and working together. she was fully aware of olive’s subpar relationship with her hometown, but she also knew olive wasn’t the biggest fan of los angeles either. olive had entertained the possibility that she was just hard to please on multiple occasions.

olive had laughed at this comment. “oh, for sure,” she had agreed, “but out of the frying pan and into the fire, you know.” Into the longest-burning fire she’d ever known. she was thinking about that conversation with her manager when a sharp knock on her car window forced her head to snap up.

olive’s mother, danica, was looking warily at her from the other side of the glass as she rolled down her window, blinking at the woman she hadn’t seen in a while, registering her presence while attempting to summon a normal reaction.

“hey, mom,” was the lackluster greeting olive landed on, internally cringing at her tone. she realized she was still gripping the steering wheel and dropped her hands to her lap as if she’d been burned, the way you’re taught to when caught in a lightning storm.

her mother let out a soft laugh, but her gaze was sharp. “going to wait out in the car all day, are you?” she asked. olive could feel her heartbeat in her head, the kind of pressure she always felt when on this end of her family’s disapproval. “come in, olive, not like we get to see you every day.”

olive felt a smile stretch across her face, false and heavy like a waxy halloween mask, like her lip gloss weighed something severe. “yeah, i’ll be right in,” she said, willing any shake out of her voice. “it’s good to see you.”

her mother murmured her agreement before turning to head back inside, which olive supposed was better than nothing. an important reminder that things could be so much worse, that she could be grateful for what she had, that someone better probably would be.

olive took a last stabilizing breath before finally getting out of the car, pulling her suitcases from the trunk and entering her childhood home through the front door.

she’s back? the doorbell seemed to whisper to the bushes by the porch steps, it’s been a while, no?

the bushes shook their heads in condemnation, she’s so unappreciative, they said, so selfish and vain.

“you don’t know me,” olive muttered as she lifted her luggage into the doorway, the wheels on the bottom making a clicking noise as they made contact with the hardwood of the mudroom. she could hear her mother humming quietly in the kitchen.

“who are you talking to?”

olive recognized that slow and deliberate voice as her father, jerry, and quickly turned to greet him, eager to change the subject away from her talking to inanimate objects and plants. “dad,” she said, smiling at him despite his sour expression. “how’s it going?”

“is that a new car?” he asked, bypassing a hello, his gaze already wandering from her, straying to her vehicle through the window. her stomach turned. she knew what was coming. “how’d you afford a new car?”

olive laughed, like he’d said something tastefully funny, waved him off. “my job pays me for what I do, dad,” she clarified, “you know how jobs work.” olive regretted it immediately. she realized how patronizing she sounded.

her father’s grimace and grumbly voice wasn’t lost on her. “right,” he said, “your job.” his voice took on a slight sarcastic tone at the last word, even though she supposed that was to be expected. it still stung, just as it had before she left for college, just as it had during every venture back to granite falls before this one.

“let her put her things away, jerry,” danica called from the next room over. he started to roll his eyes, then appeared to remember he had an audience midway through, his annoyance dissolving instantaneously into something like boredom.

he nodded to olive. “off you go, then,” he said, phrasing odd and stiff, like some black-and-white film actor, making olive scrunch her nose up in distaste as she lugged her bags up the staircase and rolled them into her bedroom, the last door at the end of the hallway.

upon entering, her gaze flickered to her bed, low to the ground, the comforter a pastel pink, the sheets printed with a pretty tulip pattern. it was every bit the bed of a child, but there was something she liked about it, even now.

olive sighed, pushed her suitcases to the closet door and left them there before sitting down on the edge of her bed, letting herself fall back until she felt the softness of her sheets on the back of her neck. travel always took it out of her, but this fatigue went deeper than just jet lag. it was a tiredness she felt in her chest, on the roof of her mouth, coating her throat like a lemon ginger lozenge.

olive wanted to enjoy being home more than anything. the desire ran so deep it felt like it had infected her bloodstream. she wanted to feel comfortable and welcome, like she belonged here, but she didn’t, not really. she hadn’t felt that way in a while, probably not since she was a teenager. at twenty-two, that felt scarily long ago.

she exhaled and rose again, looking around her room with displeasure. the space was just so cluttered. even her bedside table was practically overflowing with trinkets and picture frames, old books and school binders. sorting through everything and packing it up was probably going to be quite the laborious task, could take longer than she anticipated. was this room smaller than she remembered it? the walls closer together, the ceiling lower, perhaps?

“dinner’s ready!”

her mother’s voice once again shook olive from her thoughts, her eyelids fluttering. “coming!”

family dinners at the fleming household had taken on many shapes and sizes over the years. When danica had been in the thick of her corporate law career, as demanding as anything, such events had not existed on a consistent basis. instead, olive and her father would scramble to put together something like cereal, or pasta with butter, or if they were feeling fancy, tomato soup and grilled cheese. olive’s mother always ate at her firm, or on the way home.

danica, thanks to her hard work, was able to retire quite early, not into lavish wealth or anything resembling it, but early enough and into a general sense of comfort. it was then that family dinners became a bit more frequent in the household. after jerry got home from work, he would call olive down from her bedroom, and then the three of them would sit around their small table, chatting about whatever had occurred during the short time they had spent apart.

of course, once olive reached a certain age, she wasn’t always around for dinner time, and her parents didn’t require her to be. it did mean that they grew sort of out of practice though, as olive was home less and less. when olive went to college across the country, that lack of familiarity wasn’t really felt, but whenever she was home from school, when they were all forced together again, the walls felt to olive as if they had some tripwire hidden within them, some explosive ticking regularly, louder each time that she did something that amassed disapproval.

as olive walked down the stairs now, her steps light enough to not make a sound, she attempted to mentally prepare herself, then shook her head, almost laughing. it was funny, mentally preparing oneself for salad and roasted chicken.

“is this a new wallpaper?” olive asked cordially as she pulled a wooden chair out and sat down, folding her napkin and placing it in her lap.

“no,” danica responded.

olive had never really been able to miss the slight pinch in her mother’s brow, minute but telling in its distaste. “same wallpaper as always. you don’t remember?”

olive forced the corner of her mouth to turn up in a smile, but her stomach was churning with something other than travel-induced hunger. “it looks great, was all i was going to say. like new.”

unfortunately, such awkwardness did not evaporate as the dinner progressed, the lack of ease sitting atop the table as naturally as the floral centerpiece. olive expertly tried to veer the conversation away from herself as gracefully as possible, instead oversaturating the discussion with questions directed at her parents.

olive was usually quite good at saying the right thing. it was a huge part of her job, of her success. she knew what to say in different situations, with different people, in front of different audiences. home left her deft tongue fumbling though, left words feeling out of reach in her mind, like her mouth was not her own.

she asked questions about her father’s work and cooking endeavors, her mother’s home renovations and volunteer work at the daycare, but whenever they asked her about her own work, olive would clam up, maybe give that nervous laugh that she disliked so genuinely, make some joke at her own expense.

by the end of the meal, olive was thoroughly exhausted, socially drained in a way she hadn’t been in a long time. it didn’t really make a lot of sense to her - she could work a crowd of thousands at an awards show, craft a post palatable for millions, but a simple dinner with her family was where she stumbled?

“thanks for having me,” was what she said to her parents after she had placed her plate and silverware in the dishwasher, drying her hands with a rag before making to head up to her room.

this was the wrong thing to say, if her father’s voice and the twitch of his mouth was anything to go off of. “this is your house,” he said, simple, plain, and olive didn’t even look at her mother, for fear that she’d see some kind of sadness or disappointment that would keep her awake that night.

“right, of course,” she tried, “i just mean thanks. for, you know, letting me stay here on such short notice.”

“what, like we’re a hotel?” danica said, almost humorous, but there was a shake in her voice that olive read as a storm siren, scarily close to something disastrous.

olive sighed. it wasn’t her parents’ fault, and she knew that. olive knew her wording could be taken as offensive, but she just couldn’t see it until after the words were already out, until they were of no use to anyone. “no, just,” she tried, then gave up, figuring maybe she just needed some sleep to make her brain work again. “goodnight. love you both.” she’d try again tomorrow.

danica and jerry seemed to soften a bit at this, each quietly returning the sentiment in harmony with olive’s soft footsteps up the staircase, wooden panels giving a comforting creak under her socks, some reminder that she was a physical body, that her weight could be felt.

tomorrow will be better, olive thought as she unzipped one of her suitcases, pulled out her pajamas and got changed. what she really wanted to do was sink into her bed, sleep the day off and start fresh in the morning.

“fifteen minutes,” she murmured to herself, her bag of skincare products in one hand, phone and ring light clawed in the other. “just fifteen minutes.”

after several years of practice, olive could crank out a get unready with me video in just a few moments, but something about setting up her tripod and lighting mechanisms in her childhood bathroom was intimidating, the crossover of worlds leaving her sluggish and self-conscious.

her apartment in los angeles was practically built for this kind of thing, all ample storage and spacious countertops, and this room was built to be exactly what it was: a child’s bathroom. it offered not much other than backlighting and cramped corners, faded wallpaper and shower curtains yellowing towards the corners.

olive quickly set up, took a deep breath and summoned a smile, the one reserved for this - the one for video and film and interviews and social media posts. just big enough to appear genuine, just subdued enough to be sexy, mysterious. once the camera was rolling, she ran through her nighttime routine, highlighting the moisturizer she was being paid to endorse, before quickly cutting the clips and typing out a caption: get unready with me at home! She sent the video to her management to be approved by the brand before turning off her harsh light and setting it next to her bag on the closed toilet lid.

even after several years of working in social media, several years of visiting home every now and then, it felt weird to mix the two of them together, almost like a middle school science project with oil and water, like no matter how hard she tried for it to be a natural fit, the two would always make their repulsion known.

olive brushed her teeth, her phone buzzing as she spat into the sink. With so much of her life existing on her phone, such an occurrence was mundane, but the name that lit up her screen made her blink at herself in the mirror, made the overhead light feel hot, simmering.

are the rumors true? read the message, is the starlet back in town?

olive sighed, couldn't help the tiny smile that pulled at the corner of her lips, regardless - even though she was no starlet, even though the thought of small-town rumors made her breath feel short and shallow.

as much as coming home made her want to tear out her hair extensions one by one, as much as the monotonous judgment from this town made her almost dizzy, there was one thing, or one person rather, whose relentless sameness olive looked forward to, every time, without fail.

that person was russell mcIntyre.

olive had known russell practically forever, or at least for what felt like forever, ever since he and his family moved next door the summer before they started middle school. she still remembered seeing him for the first time, watching from her big bedroom window as he carried boxes from his mom's minivan up his driveway.

it had started as all lovely things did - so naturally it was hard to pinpoint how exactly it had started. olive swore she could remember his green eyes meeting her brown ones through the window, his unruly curly hair in his face, like he’d only just woken up, the easiest smile she’d ever seen slanting across his mouth, only barely visible above battered cardboard flaps. still, she didn't dwell on what exactly had been the beginning of her and russell, knowing it didn’t really matter how it began, only that it was.

all olive really knew was that throughout middle school and high school, russell had been her everything. her school bus seat buddy, her locker neighbor, her smile shared across the classroom.

he was the one who cheered the loudest at her tennis matches, and she never missed one of his baseball games. he was over hers doing homework every weekday, she was the first person he picked up when he got his license, when he finally could drive his old truck without his anxious mother holding on tight in the passenger seat. russell was her secret language spoken between opposing bedroom windows, curtains pulled far apart so as not to intrude one’s view of the other while they talked.

of course, as he shed his baby face and she got her braces off, things changed a bit, but not really. olive was still his stop it, rus, giggled under her breath when he'd make goofy faces in class, just to get her to laugh.

russell was still her you'll be there, right, kid? spoken so earnestly on the morning of a playoff game, something like worry clouding his usually relentlessly bright eyes. worry that had floated away when she’d hugged him close, mumbled her of course into his chest.

his constant support, his never-wavering smirk of a smile, it had been exactly what she needed during one of the most turbulent times of her life.

high school is weird for everybody, but it was especially weird for olive. she was a people pleaser, an approval seeker, and at some point she began to realize that others weren't always as forgiving as she was, that other people may not give her the benefit of the doubt, as she tended to afford them for free.

it got worse when olive realized that she was pretty.

sometimes, olive felt as if she had been beautiful since she could listen, since she could first turn her gaze on someone and make them feel heard, make them feel seen.

that was a big part of it all - her quiet kindness, combined with that lovely smile, with that careful posture and easy laugh - it seemed that others had become acutely aware of her beauty long before she had. She caught on, eventually.

olive was sixteen when she started to feel the weight of male attention on her in the hallways, when her bare legs in the warm weather started to feel heavy with expectation, when she started to notice how groups of girls would turn and giggle behind their hands when they thought she was just out of earshot.

it was exciting, at first. girls wanted to talk to her, to be close with her. guys wanted to hang out with her. people wanted to give her things, seemingly for nothing. she distinctly remembered one humid night, in russell's bedroom, just after he had driven them both home after his practice. his hair had been damp at the roots, his face still a bit flushed in that rosy way she loved.

he'd been scrolling on his phone while she worked on a geometry problem set, half-focused, the other half telling him about the senior in her economics class who had asked for her snapchat. olive could still picture russell’s narrow gaze, barely looking up from his screen.

"you know he doesn't want to, like, marry you, right, ol?" he'd said, and it was so flippant that it made her pause.

olive had looked up, blinked, felt suddenly so embarrassed she thought she might be sick. "what?" she asked, "yeah, of course, I just-"

"like, he knows nothing about you besides you being hot," russell finished, almost coldly, rolling onto his side on the beanbag he was sprawled across.

and he was right, obviously, but it still felt really mean, felt like tiny drops of flame were pricking at her cheeks. olive felt that she actually might cry.

"why do you have to say it like that?" she’d asked, hating how pathetic her voice sounded, how it broke towards the end.

this must have gotten his attention, because when russell finally looked up, his eyes flooded with gentle apology. he let his phone fall to the side, opened up his arms in invitation.

"i’m sorry," he mumbled into her hair when she joined him on his beanbag, let him wrap his arms around her. "'m sorry, ol, know that was mean. i'm just jealous, i think." his tone was so matter-of-fact, not trying to hide anything. olive supposed he had always been like that.

she laughed softly into his breastbone, felt the warmth of him all over her face. "you're jealous?" she asked, "what do you have to be jealous about?"

then he gave olive her favorite kind of smile, the one that gave her butterflies even now, even just at the memory. "maybe 'cause you're in my room, and you're smilin' 'cause of some other guy," he mused, which made her look up at him, find his gaze drenched in completely genuine adoration.

she hummed.

"and i've been trying to get you to see that i like you, and it hasn't been working-"

her heart stuttered, because of course she liked russell. how could she not, when he was her everything? when he had been the one who had declared her special, before everyone else had seemed to catch on?

"you like me?" olive had repeated, almost like a prayer, and his big, beautiful eyes had shimmered with something lovely, something almost bashful.

olive swore she could feel something rumbling against his chest. "well, yeah," he said, "but i don't wanna lose you, kid, so if you don't feel the same way-"

she’d cut him off by pressing her lips to his in a kiss that felt like sunshine, like a sigh of relief, like pillow forts and fall foliage and sunday morning waffles. so, from then on, not only was olive the beautiful girl, she was the beautiful girl dating the budding baseball superstar, her best friend, her everything.

as such, olive was seventeen when she realized that as much as it may have seemed that people wanted to give her things, they wanted to take things from her more. much more. still, as long as she had her small group of friends, and her grades, and her parents, and russell, she told herself she didn't really need everyone to love her.

as long as she was kind and generous and empathetic, everything would be fine.

it grew tough to turn the other cheek all the time, though. especially when guys didn't seem to respect that she was in a relationship, when people were starting rumors about her sleeping around, when girls tried to get with her boyfriend just to prove they could take him from her. they were never successful, but it hurt nonetheless.

still, she would go to every one of russell's games, as long as he would jog to the fence afterwards to give her a goofy kiss, like he'd missed her, even for just the few hours he'd been playing.

olive would ignore the snide comments in the stands about her outfits as long as he'd whistle afterwards, wrap his arms around her waist, pull her back against him and tell her that he almost dropped an easy ball in the third because she had looked so distracting.

she’d let people assume that she was dumb and obnoxious and entitled as long as he'd ask her about her advanced calculus tests, her data analytics internship over the summer, her speech and debate competition. and that was enough. for high school, that was enough.

inevitably, it became clear that people wanted what olive had, no matter what it was, no matter how hard she had worked for it.

olive was eighteen when she realized that she could make a career out of people wanting things that she had.

as much as her parents didn’t seem to believe her, social media was something olive stumbled upon accidentally.

just a random post one day, a couple of pictures of her on the tennis court, a few of her in the stands at one of Russell's games, and rather suddenly, olive was flushed with followers and likes, more than she knew what to do with.

of course, this only made the rumors worse, but her real friends thought it was funny, and russell thought it was awesome, so she didn't mind. she just continued posting exactly what she always did - her outfits and weekends and dinners and the like - nothing crazy, always tasteful, always genuine.

it was only a matter of time before brands were reaching out to her, before she suddenly had the need for management, before her social media accounts actually started to become a source of income.

even at the very beginning, olive recognized how lucky she was for this to even be an option for her - how it was mostly because of something as shallow as appearances, how there was nothing more vain, more potentially vapid than social media.

she never cared about the numbers of it all though, never looked twice at pictures of herself, never scrolled through her comments. russell was always the first to like her posts anyways, always commenting first! followed by a string of incoherent emojis, usually including the flame one. once it started to become a business, olive let it be just a business, trying her absolute hardest not to invest any personal stock into her work, making sure to turn her phone off as often as possible.

russell would text her, too, after she posted, something like love the filter on the second photo! or quite the handsome hand in the fourth :) about a picture of her coffee that he was holding. enough to let her know that he looked at every picture, that he supported her unconditionally, even though olive herself sort of thought the whole ordeal was kind of suspicious, that social media was dumb and not worth anyone's time. her skepticism of her own work was something of an obstacle then and something of constant now.

given the flash-flood-like nature of her success, olive was at a bit of a crossroads towards the end of high school. she wanted to get a college degree, that was non-negotiable, but it seemed too good to be true that she could be paid just for being herself online, just for developing a personal brand. it seemed too good to pass up.

before she knew it, it was time to apply for university, and it only made sense for olive to aim at schools in los angeles, across the country, but right in the arrhythmic heart of her industry.

olive was a good student too, and a hard worker, a quick learner, so she was accepted to her top choice, a school that her parents could brag to their friends about, if they wanted to.

everything about olive’s choice made logical sense.

just as it only made sense for russell to play for the state school, the reigning champions of their respective league and only a forty-five minute drive from granite falls.

he’d been getting recruited since he was a freshman, and even though he offered every day, the thought of russell changing his whole plan and future for her made olive nauseous.

long distance loomed over the two of them like a thunderous cloud, and the weight of it felt more deadly than just calling it off, even though splitting up with Russell was still the most painful thing olive could remember enduring.

she vividly remembered him dropping her off at the airport, insisting on carrying her suitcases all the way to security, even if he had to leave his truck idle in the departing flight zone, even though he was definitely going to get a ticket about it.

of course, she still remembered how his bright eyes had gone glassy, how he still tried to smile despite his slightly quivering bottom lip. how he'd shuddered in her embrace when she hugged him goodbye. how small his broad shoulders had seemed.

"you'll come back, kid?" he'd asked, almost pleaded, into her neck.

"of course, rus," she’d said, but even the memory of the words felt weightless. "don't forget to call me, okay? every day, if you can."

he had laughed, short and choppy, wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, like the child that he had been. his voice was wobbly. "i’d never forget," he said, and it had felt true then.

and so olive and her everything went separate ways. she fell into a routine in california, balanced school and her relatively new job as an influencer. russell had a routine of his own, too, practice and lifts and games and the odd class here and there.

she called everyday, in the beginning, heard about how everyone was really good on rus’s new team, how he was nervous on the field for basically the first time ever, how classes were hard and everything was hard without her.

olive told him about how smart and cool the girls in her classes were, how she really, really wanted them to like her, how she found herself going to baseball games in the fall just because it felt familiar, something to recognize in an unfamiliar fairytale land.

he'd gotten a sad sort of tone in his voice at that. "how's their shortstop?" he had asked, and her stomach had flipped, because that was his position, and she had a feeling she knew what he was looking for, the only answer that would satisfy him.

"i've seen better," olive had whispered into her phone, the weight of missing him like an anvil on her chest.

even though she and russell weren't together, at that time, in the technical sense of the word, it still sort of felt like they were.

there were guys, sure, and she could only guess what a hit russell was with the sorority end of greek row. olive wasn’t typically a jealous person, but something sickly rolled through her body at the thought of russell being someone’s class crush, of someone looking him up on the roster after seeing him play. it was a jealousy that she wasn’t necessarily entitled to, but it was there nonetheless.

olive pretended not to notice, over facetime, when there would be purplish bruises on the column of his throat. she pretended not to notice how angry it made her that someone else knew what his pulse felt like under their lips, especially when it was that feeling in particular that had made its way into her dreams.

just as russell probably pretended not to notice when the back of some other guy's head would make an appearance in one of olive’s posts, just intriguing and secretive enough to run up the comments, to make her interaction data spike.

even during those years apart, russell still liked every single one of her pictures, still texted her about almost every one of them, but for those ones, the ones that shimmered with someone-else-ness, he was notably silent. during those times, olive would find herself checking her phone even without a ping-like notification, like her want alone could will his name onto her screen.

neither of them seemed to like the notion that one had an entire life away from the other. both of them seemed to agree that what they couldn’t see right in front of them couldn't hurt them, as long as they didn’t let it.

every school break though, without fail, the two of them would come home and fall back into whatever they were, without explicitly saying what that was.

What olive knew was that when they were home for thanksgiving, or christmas, or a week in spring, or whatever else, her phone would light up with a text like heard you're around?

usually the night that followed would involve huddling together on the massive bean bag that was still in his room, pretending to watch a movie for a half-hour or so before his lips found hers and her hands found the warm plane of his chest. the air would be hot with the unspoken truth of just one more time, just until i leave, just for a second because i missed you.

he never treated her differently, never made fun of her job, even though it would have been so easy to, never was anything but supportive. he was the same gangly boy walking up his driveway, and she was the same shy girl looking at him from her bedroom window, even if that shy girl now had hair extensions and a bit of lip filler and received invitations to black-tie events.

russell never seemed to care about all of that, anyways, even as years went on, and they both returned home less and less, texts and calls becoming less frequent, the distant presence of the other like the lull of a fan at night, a relaxant, a constant white noise, a standard off of which to judge everything else.

now, as olive turned the light out in the bathroom and walked towards her bed, she stared out her window, could almost make russell out in the one just across from her if she tried. the image of him wasn’t particularly hard to evoke, always waiting just in the wings of the playwright’s perfectly scripted performance in her mind. olive leaned back against her headboard, stared at the text. there was a bittersweet sort of taste in her mouth, because this actually would be the last time.

olive and russell had both graduated about a month ago, and after being picked in the draft by the team he had grown up cheering for, he had moved back home to play for their minor league affiliate, not even twenty minutes from his parents’ house, hoping to gain enough traction to eventually earn a spot in the big leagues.

this time would be olive's last routine visit home, one she hoped to spend packing and shipping all of her stuff back to la. the move only made sense. she had an absurd amount of followers now, and all her biggest partners were located in southern california. olive couldn’t really afford to make decisions that didn’t make sense, at this point in her life, in her career.

this would be her last routine visit home, and then upstate new york wouldn't be home anymore. los angeles would officially occupy that space in her life. the thought wasn’t as comforting as she hoped it would be.

olive pulled her blush-colored comforter up to her chin, thinking about what to respond, if she even should respond. the last time she’d seen russell, the last time they’d both been home, they’d done what they always did - fall back into each other so easily it felt like falling asleep. but that couldn’t happen this time, olive reminded herself. when she left granite falls this time, she was leaving for good. her exit would be smoother if she didn’t follow russell into any territory other than the friendly kind.

they had been friends at first, all that time ago, after all. how hard could it be to go back to that?

i'm home but we can't fuck because i think i’ll cry if we do! olive typed, then promptly deleted. she sighed, exhaled some of her anxiety, willed herself to just be normal. barely in the driveway, she sent instead, how did you already know?

got eyes and ears everywhere, russell sent back almost immediately, and she could practically see his smug smile. it lit up her dark room like a night light. told dyl at the library to watch for your car.

olive had no idea who dyl was, but figured she’d probably meet him. she softened to russell’s message, but it made her feel sort of guilty too, with the knowledge that she would be blindsiding him some time soon. yet he was, telling his friends to watch for her car, like her arrival was something special, something worth waiting for.

she didn’t know what to say then, so olive just set her phone on her bedside table and tried not to let visions of deep green eyes drown her while she slept.

fin. until next time.

#hockey #nhl #nhl fic #hockey fic #oc #tyson jost #writing #creative writing #rom com #buffalo sabres #colorado avalanche #carolina hurricanes

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