#but please share !!! i regret making this post so late but it is better than not posting at all | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

always-andromeda · 1 year ago

Text

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⟡ Frankie Morales x F!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⟡ 3,038

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⟡ After recruiting you to be his plus one for yet another wedding, Frankie can't help but ruminate on and regret the last one he brought you to.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ⟡ Hey, Lolabee!! I'm super excited to finally share that I'm your secret Valentine!! I apologize in advance for posting this so late in the game; exam week has been super hectic. That being said, I decided to give myself a little bit of a challenge and write something for Frankie for the first time ever. I should preface this by saying that when I read your prompt for rom-com vibes, I immediately began filing through all of my favorite rom-coms. And since my current favorite is Plus One, this fic is very much inspired by it!! Happy late Valentine's Day!! (dt: @thelightsandtheroses) (divider credits: @cafekitsune)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟡ fluff with little bits of angst (regardless, minors, please do not interact), no physical description given to the reader except for the fact that she wears makeup, mentions of alcohol and references to the reader drinking, the slightest references to Frankie's past, this fic is almost entirely removed from the movie's canon (these characters are basically my paper dolls that I'm making do cute things<3), idiots in love, they tease each other, they go to a wedding, misunderstandings occur, but it all works out <3

“You’re bringing your own tissues this time, right?” Frankie called from where he sat at the edge of the bed. He’d slept in far worse places. But he could already feel new knots forming on top of the old ones in his back. Needless to say, he wasn’t looking forward to spending yet another night attempting to sleep on the dense hotel room mattress.

You replied from the bathroom, “Oh, yeah, don’t worry. I’m prepared.”

“You better be. Because you’re not using my tie to blow your nose again.”

If you were in the room, Frankie could’ve practically felt your glare burning a hole through him. But instead he only heard the clear exasperation in your tone when you answered, “I did not use your tie to blow my nose.”

“Might as well have…” he mumbled. Santi’s wedding had claimed that casualty. By the end of the ceremony you’d soaked his tie in tears and covered it with a fine layer of translucent powder from dabbing your face off. And as much as he teased, he hadn’t minded it. He hadn’t minded it any more than he’d minded the distant friends and relatives who’d assumed that you were his girlfriend. Which…wasn’t an insulting assumption by any means.

The next time – at Benny’s wedding – Frankie brought you tissues. He didn’t like to think about Benny’s wedding. But if there was one thing he was happy about, it was that he’d thought far enough ahead to bring them for you. He was glad to see your smile. To feel your arms wrap around him as you thanked him and told him he was such a sweetheart. He was also grateful for the Hawaiian sun; for the developing sunburn that had prevented you from seeing how much that one nickname made his cheeks flush in that moment.

Your head popped out of the bathroom doorway, your makeup only half done, to aim a smartass smile at him with your lined lips. “Hey, I like to think of it as a gift. You should too.”

“Your ability to cry at the drop of a hat?”

“You're damn right,” you said indignantly.

Frankie sighed, pushing his hair back for about the dozenth time. He then laid back on the bed and stared up at the popcorn ceiling. “If we’re lucky, this is the first and last time you’ll need to worry about packing some to begin with. Will’s the last stop on the wedding train.”

The thought almost made him misty eyed. Within a few hours, he’d be the last single man in his crew. The last one awake at the sleepover. Eyes so wide they were practically ablaze staring through the uncertainty of night. Unable to find sleep. Unable to believe he’d ever find it to begin with.

Your voice cut through his trance. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Maybe next year we’ll get an invite for Tom’s second wedding,” you teased.

Frankie rolled his eyes. At least he could take some sort of comfort in that. Redfly had tried out the whole settling down thing. And it just didn’t work. Frankie wished his buddies well, but he couldn’t help but feel deep down that they’d never be made for domesticity. They weren’t made for teary-eyed speeches and destination weddings.

“Don’t count on it,” he drawled.

“Don’t count on it,” you mimicked Frankie’s slow, gruff voice which earned a small laugh from him. “I’ll tell you what, I bet you that Ben’s best man speech isn’t going to be nearly as good as Will’s was.”

He attempted to recall what Will had even said only a few months prior. It had to have been good, the man was a public speaker, for Christ’s sake. He guessed, “That one was long, right?”

“Yeah…don’t you remember it? Frankie, were you even there?”

“I was there alright.” He laughed to mask the wince he wanted to let out. Then he cleared his throat, throwing out another vague guess, “But I seem to remember that by the end of it, he needed some damn tissues too.”

“If you had a shithead little brother who managed to get married before he could experience massive head trauma, you’d probably get a little choked up too.” You added more to yourself than to him, “God, Frankie, how do you forget a speech like that? It was fucking beautiful.”

There was a very high likelihood that he had forgotten. Frankie spent almost every day following that entire night trying to forget it. And he wondered how in the world you remembered it either considering how much you’d drank.

If you could remember what Will had said…you should’ve remembered what you’d said too, right? You, standing in the bathroom and observing yourself in the mirror as you combed through your lashes to separate them, had to have known what you said to him that night. Because he knew it. Whether he liked it or not, he had that particular speech memorized with the way it ran through his head.

Frankie had known you were in a tough spot. Hell, it was part of the reason why he’d brought you along; part of the reason why Benny had insisted Frankie take you.

She just got broken up with, Frankie had tried to reason.

Benny had merely smirked, Which is the exact reason why you should invite her out. Give her a chance to get fucked up. Spend the night with one of the bachelors. It’s the quintessential wedding experience.

Frankie couldn’t have even pretended to mask his disgust at the idea. But he couldn’t lie…bringing you along again sounded leagues above going alone.

And now, sometimes he wished he had toughed it out instead.

No matter how much he tried to forget, the details always flashed through his mind. The way your fingers ran through his hair. How your touch managed to stay so soft despite how completely out of it you were. But that’s how you’d always been with him. Even at his absolute worst points when he was a less than ideal man, you found some shred of decency inside him that you never hesitated to cradle and nurture.

Maybe that’s what had made those tangles form in his stomach; the idea that he was taking advantage of that kindness.

Because that wasn’t…you. You wouldn’t have done that in your right mind. If your boyfriend hadn’t just broken up with you. If you hadn’t just found out that the entire time Nick had been cheating on you with that woman from accounting in his office. If you hadn’t drank way too much. None of this would be happening if you weren’t at your absolute lowest.

So he wiped the slate clean. It’d almost always been easy to do that. To simply forget. But he should’ve known better by now. Those things he somehow managed to lock up always found a way to ooze out of the cracks in his facade.

There were a few times Frankie thought you might crack during the ceremony. Especially when Will read out his vows, because of course the guy went the extra mile, delivering them with that stern reverence that made him the kind of guy you wanted on your team.

But you didn’t cry. This time…you grabbed his hand. It almost didn’t occur to him that you had until Will kissed his now wife and you squeezed Frankie’s hand in excitement. For a moment, he wondered if you’d managed to get a drink in before the ceremony. You couldn’t have; the bar wasn’t supposed to open until afterwards. He knew it couldn’t have been an alcohol induced action but he was still afraid to acknowledge it.

So he kept as still as possible. Even when the ceremony ended and you began to pull him around the venue. Though he knew his hand was getting clammier with every minute that passed, he let you drag him around the little circles of friends and family of the bride and groom. He had checked out enough that he didn’t quite realize what he’d gotten himself into until you were bringing him to the dance floor and positioning his hands on your hips.

Only when you let go of his hand and placed your own on his shoulders did it strike him how similar this felt to that night at Benny’s wedding.

You spoke like you were treading thin ice. “That speech was…surprisingly alright.”

“And you didn’t cry,” he remarked equally as carefully.

“I didn’t cry!” you exclaimed.

“It would’ve been fine if you had.”

You shook your head, “That wasn’t the kind of speech you cry at. It was simple. Sweet. I liked it. Who would’ve thought Benny’d have it in him, right?”

“So what do you do for that kind of speech?” Frankie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A polite clap. Maybe a cheer.”

“A cheer? Maybe you should’ve brought your pom poms instead of tissues.”

The way you scrunched up your nose into a playful grimace tugged at his heartstrings. Then you laughed, “Shut up.” God, he loved when you and him fell into this groove.

So he continued with the bit, “You should get some for Tom’s wedding. The guy deserves a whole damn squad if he gets all tied up again.”

“Thought you said I shouldn’t count on it?”

“If you’re gonna count on anyone getting married soon, it’s better if it was him.” Frankie clicked his tongue, “Not like I’m going off the market anytime soon.”

“Oh, Frankie, stop it.” Your smile dropped ever so slightly, eyebrows turned inward as you gazed at him with something akin to pity or sympathy; he wasn’t sure which was worse. “You have no idea what the future could bring.”

“Not a wedding, that’s for damn sure.”

Your expression only intensified. He recognized it well after the amount of times you’d talked him off a ledge. “You can’t just discount the possibility entirely,” you argued.

“I can and I will,” he said stubbornly.

You were quiet for a few seconds, “So you’re telling me you’ve never thought about it? I mean…who would your best man be?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Your lip quirks to the side of your face as you feign a contemplative look before concluding, “Probably Santi.”

“Look at you, you did it for me,” Frankie deadpanned.

“I could plan the whole damn thing for you, don’t test me.”

“Why’s that?”

This time you pressed your lips together. And Frankie swears he felt you stumble over your own feet ever so slightly; like he’d caught you off guard with the query. “Oh, you know…weddings usually aren’t those things that people are eager to plan.”

“But why would you specifically be planning it? Unless you’re–”

A beat passes before you break out into an incredulous grin. “You’d want me to marry you and plan our wedding? That’s a tall order. I’m afraid you’ll have to pick one or the other, sorry.”

Frankie chuckles. He let the remark pass. He always enjoyed this back and forth. How you and him had always been able to bounce off of each other. It was hard enough keeping up with some of the guys. But keeping up with women was a whole different story. He always seemed to be a few steps behind most of them. For some reason, your pace was just perfect. Your humor, your timing, it all clicked with his personality.

Just like you were prone to doing, you broke the silence with an awkward laugh and big eyes staring right into his. “So…which one do you pick?”

He almost didn’t catch the question; almost didn’t want to. “Hm?”

“Would you rather marry me or have me plan your wedding?” you clarify.

“Come on, you know I’m not answering that.”

And the tide shifted once more. Just as quick as you were to smile, your expression melted into one of muted mortification. Like you’d just tilted your hand a little too far

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mumbled to yourself. Your hands slid off his shoulders and you wiped them off on your dress before wrapping them around yourself. That was when you retreated, leaving him standing there looking like more of a fool than he ever thought he had.

He stared after you for a few seconds, struggling to process what had just happened when it finally registered.

Soon he was following after you. How you knew to navigate the venue so quickly, he couldn’t be bothered to wonder. All he knew by the time he got to the lobby of the wedding hall was that something was wrong.

He spotted you rushing down the sidewalk as he stepped outside. In all his exasperation, all he could get out was, “Hey, what the fuck?”

The cool night air of the fall settled in and billowed around him like a curse. He wasn’t quite sure if the deep chill that ran down his spine was from the weather or the sight of you turning around, eyes already wet with tears that you were desperately trying to blink away.

Your voice came out hoarse as you shouted back, “You’re asking me what the fuck? No, Frankie, what the fuck is up with you? I kissed you…God…how many months ago? And you don’t say a fucking word. I keep talking about Benny’s wedding and you keep acting like none of it fucking happened.”

Frankie threw his hands up. “You were drunk. I don’t even remember how many fucking drinks you had.”

“I had a couple virgin cocktails,” you scoffed. The admittance wasn’t stubborn. But it did come with a tone of disdain, “I wasn’t drunk.”

“You wouldn’t–” he stopped himself. You wouldn’t have done any of that unless you were drunk.

“You acted like you were drunk.”

You shook your head. “I was having fun. I was with you and I was having fun, you dumbass.” Then you sighed, gaze darting towards the street nervously. “And I woke up the morning after and I thought that…I thought you would’ve at least said something. I thought you would’ve asked me how I felt. I thought you would’ve had the decency to at least check in. But you were just…you were completely fine.”

“I wasn’t fine…”

“And now you want to crack jokes about marrying me?”

Frankie wagged a finger in your direction, an almost childish defense. “You brought that shit up first.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Frankie, that doesn’t matter,” you muttered before raising your voice once more. “What matters is that I kissed you. I looked into your eyes and told you I fucking loved you and you said nothing.”

Hearing your voice say it again, even filled with such frustration, such anguish, he could help the way something fluttered in his chest. And even still, he shoved it down deeper than he ever had before.

“Because I wasn’t going to hurt you the way that Nick did.” He watched your gaze soften. “It would’ve killed me to hurt you like that.”

With the sounds of the city passing you both by, Frankie caught one of the worst sights possible. The tear that rolled down your cheek. And then the few more that followed, all shamelessly continuing their desolate stride down your neck. How you unclenched your jaw and unfolded all of the pain you’d kept since that summer into a few words. “You hurt me worse than Nick ever did.”

Your whole being compacted in on itself once more, recoiling from the vulnerable admission with a breathless conclusion. “Fuck you, Frankie. Fuck you.”

There it all was. And all he could think about was that night at Benny’s wedding. The night you told him you were glad Nick was gone. The night you smiled softly at him, thumb running over his bottom lip as you whispered.

I love you.

They were such fragile words. Words he hadn’t wanted to put any weight on, lest they shatter from beneath him and leave him falling face down in his own hopes. Because a small part of him had almost always hoped it was you. He never let himself truly believe the idea for long. But, God, he wanted to…could he still? He squeezed his eyes shut, holding back his own tears.

“I’m sorry.” His voice trembled in time with his hands. And he’d fully come to terms that it wasn’t just the cool air. He wasn’t a stranger to fearing for his life, with the work he’d once done, it was a given. But this wasn’t that. This was different. It was a fear of something a little more abstract. Because following this risk, there wouldn’t be oblivion. On the other side of his eyelids was a world where you either forgave him or you brushed him away. He certainly believed he deserved the latter with the way he’d been. But he’d never know unless he took the plunge.

When he opened his eyes again again he was grateful to find you still standing in front of him. He wouldn’t let this night steal his courage again. He repeated, voice firmer than before and charged with certainty, “I’m sorry.” Then finally replied, “I love you too. I love you.”

You gave him those hope filled eyes once more. He saw how it slowly morphed into joy; the kind that carried peace. You stepped closer, fingertips brushing against the material of his jacket as you reached for him.

Frankie closed the gap without any hesitation, his own hand moving to cradle your face as he moved in to kiss you. None of his recollections of the first time he’d done it could’ve ever lived up to the second one. There was no dread, no looming guilt, no fear. Only excitement and hope.

“If I could only pick one. I’d marry you. Any day…I’d marry you,” he mumbled against your lips.

You pulled back. And with his eyes still closed, he felt you smile as you answered, “Maybe I’ll ask you again next year. For now, let’s have this.”

“I can handle that,” he smiled then melted into you once more. And already it was something he knew he could easily get used to. Next time you asked, he’d be ready.

#˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚#spacesisterssecretvalentine #frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x y/n #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fic

213 notes · View notes

casey1-2007 · 7 days ago

Text

What's the Truth?

Fiyero x reader angst

This story has a sad ending. It has some differences from the Wicked movie and/or musical, in addition to the Reader insert. Story involves themes of jealousy, unrequited love, flirting, kissing, etc.

Summary: Fiyero Tigglar reunites with Reader, his childhood best friend, long after communication between them stopped, at Shiz University. But feelings are hurt, hearts are broken, and Reader finds themself mourning a love they could have had. Will Fiyero be able to make things right before Reader gives up on him forever?

Note: Not exactly based off of the musical or movie, at least not exactly. This is my first time posting something original. Hope you like it.

Please comment to let me know if you want any other one shots/stories like this. Whether a continuation of this one or something else.

The halls of Shiz University echoed with laughter and chatter, but Y/N could only hear the pounding of her own heart. She watched from around the corner as Fiyero - her Fiyero, her childhood best friend, the boy who used to climb trees with her in the Vinkus - smiled down at Galinda. The blonde beauty was practically hanging off his arm, giggling at something he'd said.

"Oh Fifi, you're simply perfect!" Galinda's high-pitched voice carried through the corridor.

Y/N's stomach twisted. Fifi. When had that nickname started? She remembered when he was just Yero, racing through the palace gardens with her, sharing secrets under starlit skies. Before he stopped writing. Before everything changed.

She turned away, clutching her books tighter to her chest. The silver locket around her neck felt heavy - a gift from him on her sixteenth birthday, the last time they'd seen each other before Shiz. Inside was a pressed blue iris, his favorite flower to give her.

"Y/N!" His voice made her freeze. "Wait up!"

She considered running but forced herself to turn around, plastering on a smile. "Hey Fiyero."

"I've barely seen you lately," he said, falling into step beside her. His presence was achingly familiar - the scent of sandalwood and something distinctly him, the way he walked with that slight swagger.

"Well, you seem busy," she replied, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "With Galinda."

He ran a hand through his hair - a nervous habit she remembered well. "About that..."

"Don't," she cut him off. "You don't owe me any explanations."

But he did. He owed her an explanation for every unanswered letter, for every promise broken, for making her fall in love with him only to watch him fall for someone else.

That night, after seeing Galinda announce to everyone at dinner that she and "Fifi" were officially courting, Y/N finally broke. The tears came hot and fast in her dorm room, quiet sobs muffled by her pillow.

A soft knock at her door made her hastily wipe her eyes. "Who is it?"

"It's me." Fiyero's voice was soft, uncertain.

She considered ignoring him but knew he wouldn't leave. Opening the door, she saw his face fall at her tear-stained cheeks.

"Sweet Oz, Y/N..."

"What do you want, Fiyero?"

Instead of answering, he stepped forward and kissed her. It was everything she'd dreamed of and nothing like she'd imagined. His lips were soft, desperate, tasting of mint and regret.

When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, he pressed his forehead to hers. "I love you. I've always loved you."

"Then why?" she whispered, voice breaking.

"I don't want to hurt Galinda. She's... fragile. We need to keep this quiet, just for a while."

Y/N stepped back, cold washing over her. "How long is a while?"

"I don't know," he admitted.

The words hit like physical blows. "So I'm supposed to watch you parade around with her? Pretend my heart isn't breaking every time she calls you 'Fifi'?"

"Please understand..."

"I understand perfectly," she said, voice hollow. "You want us both. But I won't be your secret, Fiyero. I deserve better than that."

The distance grew after that night. Y/N threw herself into her studies, avoiding the dining hall when she knew they'd be there. But she couldn't avoid seeing how Fiyero's gaze increasingly followed Elphaba - the same longing looks he used to give her.

One afternoon, after watching him stare after Elphaba in history class, Y/N felt the last piece of her heart crack. She'd lost him not once, but twice.

"Y/N, please," he caught up to her after class. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing left to say," she replied, fingering the locket she still wore. "You can't keep everyone happy, Fiyero. Sometimes you have to choose."

"I choose you," he said desperately. "I'll tell Galinda today, I promise."

She smiled sadly, unclasping the locket. "No, you won't. Because you're not that boy from the Vinkus anymore. And I'm not that girl who waited for your letters."

She pressed the locket into his palm, the metal warm from her skin. "Goodbye, Yero."

As she walked away, she heard him call after her, voice breaking: "I'm sorry."

But sorry wasn't enough to mend a heart broken three times over - once when he stopped writing, once when he chose Galinda, and once when his eyes found Elphaba. Some love stories, Y/N realized, were better left in childhood memories and pressed flowers in silver lockets.

31 notes · View notes

theragethatisdesire · 2 years ago

Text

much ado about nothing chapter 6 - plug!eren x reader - 18+!!!

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. minors and ageless blogs, please do not read below the cut.

ummmmm HIII so sorry i know i still owe you guys a million drabbles and i haven't been posting as much but this chapter is just chock-full of drama and i'm so excited to share it bc hehehe it's a rollercoaster. also we should def stop listening to sasha. sneaky posting; have fun babies!!!! i cannot WAIT to hear your thoughts

specific cws: alcohol use, violence (like fist-fighting level not insane), mentions of drugs, swearing, incredibly awkward tension lol

“The course of true love never did run smooth.” A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare (Act I, Scene 1)

You’ve done a lot of partying in your days, but you never thought a hangover could float over your shoulders for damn near two weeks. Then again, maybe that rancid taste in your mouth is regret instead of the practical gallons of liquor you’d guzzled that night.

Historia tells you to delete the evidence, have a glass of wine with your friends, focus on your studies, put meaning back into the happy distractions that make up life. Sasha tells you to suck it up, download Tinder, do something other than wallow in your bed with nothing on but the fairy lights along your ceiling. Ymir tells you men aren’t worth embarrassing yourself for, maybe start swinging the other way, that she knows a few very pretty single ladies.

You meet all of their advice with a slow nod, sometimes a chuckle, put your head down, and go about your business, letting the shame follow you around like a little rain cloud from building to building around campus. Even your students have noticed something’s making you tick; Falco and Gabi left a package of Crumbl cookies in your office the other day, and for the first time, Zofia has begun to raise her hand in class. It’s heartwarming, really, but it doesn’t solve your problem.

Problems would be the better term for it. To start, there was your royal fuck-up with Eren. You had over-indulged and gotten a little too flirty to be “friends”, sure, it happens, but something had snapped in you when you saw Eren with that leggy blonde hanging all over him at the club.

Breeze. Even wearing naught but a skirt and some thin tights with the early winter wind whipping around your legs, just the thought of her name makes your blood boil. She was perfect, all bouncy and easygoing and cool, hippie clothes. To be fair, she was the one with the true claim on Eren; you had dug your own grave, far too confident in your ability to be just friends with someone so…so Eren.

Your friendship had been growing closer and closer by the passing day before that night, texting at nearly every minute of the day and spending time together wherever you could fit it in your full schedule. You had made plans to bake Christmas cookies together, even despite Eren’s protests that Christmas was a “capitalistic hellhole of a holiday season”, had acted out your favorite Shakespeare scenes in your pajamas, much to Eren’s amusement, and had made a habit of staying up late into the night watching and rewatching your favorite animes, heatedly debating characters. It had been butterfly-inducing, dizzying, perfect. Until you had indulged in one too many shots and humiliated yourself, that is.

Seeing Breeze all over Eren had made you realize the severity of your mistake trying to keep Eren in your life, realize the warm feeling blooming in your chest every time he grinned at you, all teeth and his little chin dimple, was decidedly much more than a platonic appreciation for a new friend. It turned out that you’d been right from the start; you weren’t his type, and to make matters worse, his actual taste in women had been thrust in your face unexpectedly.

When you had awoken the next morning, debating on whether to fall back asleep immediately or dash to the toilet, Historia had greeted you with a sorry smile, a cup of coffee, and a quiet word of advice to look through your phone. Knowing your drunken self, you pulled up your phone calls first, wanting to make sure you hadn’t accidentally Facetimed your mom to tell her how much fun you were having or something cringe-worthy of the sort. But no, of course it had to be much worse than that.

There was a phone call– to Eren. Your call log had recorded a one minute and thirty-six second phone call between you and Eren, one you obviously didn’t remember making.

“Please tell me you were with me when I called Eren,” you groan, so naive, “did I completely embarrass myself?”

Historia blushes. “Well, he didn’t answer, if it’s any consolation–”

“Oh, thank god–”

“But that didn’t exactly stop you,” Historia fiddles with the edge of her t-shirt, “you left him a voicemail.”

Even through your throbbing headache, you shoot right up out of bed at that. “What?! What did I say?”

“I don’t know,” Historia moans woefully, putting her hands over her face, “I’m sorry, I tried to stop you, but you ran off as soon as you started talking. By the time I caught up to you, you were already hanging up.”

“So, there’s a voicemail from drunk me on Eren’s phone, and neither of us have any idea what it says?”

“Correct.”

“My life fucking sucks.”

“It’s about to get a whole lot worse,” Historia says, throwing your sheets back and snuggling beside you in the bed, burrowing her face in your shoulder, “check your texts.”

And oh, had it gotten worse. Your drunken, foolish text sat in your outbox, unanswered, unread, and inexcusable. Six months later and you were right back where you started, begging a ghost of a man to explain why he couldn’t love you.

> hi luke, i’m sorta ficked up, but i misz you. why did yoi never call me???? you owe me at leasttg that. a fcking explanation,.

Storming through campus, coat tucked around your shoulders against the biting chill, you wince at the memory. You haven’t deleted the unanswered text yet, keeping it stale in your phone as a reminder of what happens when you get too attached to people you know aren’t good for you.

You thought you’d be more heartbroken over the text to Luke and its lack of an answer, but surprisingly, you’re not. It’s Eren haunting your thoughts, Luke’s just the placeholder for all of your anger at this point. Eren isn’t to blame for all of this, you are, and that’s why you can’t bring yourself to face him, can’t bring yourself to answer any of the hesitant texts he’s sent you since that god-awful night.

You’re not in college anymore, you have to keep reminding yourself. You’re twenty-four, and you’d like to think you’re past the phase of your life where you’re handing your heart out to anyone that passes like it’s a Costco sample. You aren’t even sure if you want Luke anymore at this point, if you could even speak to him if you bumped into him these days. He had, admittedly, treated you like dirt, wrenched your heart out from your chest and left it on the sidewalk to collect dust. At least you can hate him, hate what he did to you, hate that you’re stuck on him like a broken record skipping to the same chorus every few weeks.

You can’t hate Eren, though. You can be disappointed in him for entertaining his terrible ex-girlfriend, not aloud of course because he hadn’t actually mentioned her to you himself, but you can do it internally. Even that isn’t enough to make you feel better; not only had he not trusted you, not felt safe or comfortable enough with you to share the skeletons in his closet, but he was likely zooming full-speed down a dead-end street, the way Sasha tells the story. Your heart aches for him out of a painful mixture of pining and fervent concern.

Your only solution so far has been to dive headfirst into your coursework and your students; it hasn’t done much to distract you, but with finals on the horizon, it’s not the worst method of coping you’ve come up with in your days.

Your newly invigorated dedication to your work and your courses are the cause of you dragging yourself across campus to 104, desperate for caffeine and practically a corpse after two weeks of near-constant self-shaming keeping you up at night.

The smell of the coffee shop, earthy and warm, hits you almost as hard as the blasting heat inside, and you practically slouch upon entering, the weight of the cozy atmosphere cocooning you like a warm blanket. If there’s one place that will always feel like a hug, it’s 104 Beans, your coffee shop of choice (and obligation, considering the small size of your campus) for the last six years.

Pieck, your favorite barista, greets you in her typical dreamy manner. “Hi love, same as usual?”

“Hey Pieck,” you greet her with a weary smile. As you dig around in your bag for your wallet, the extent of your exhaustion versus the amount of work you have left to do surfaces in your brain. “Actually…no, not my usual. Can I get a quad shot Americano?”

Pieck pauses where she’s scribbling onto a paper cup with a Sharpie, eyes flitting back up to you in disbelief. “A quad shot Americano?”

“A quad shot Americano.”

“Jesus,” Pieck sighs, eyes wide, “work’s that rough, huh? Black coffee not going to cut it?”

“The shakes will be worth it,” you confirm, swiping your card through the machine.

“Can I please make it a cappuccino then? You’re going to need something creamy to get all that espresso down,” Pieck looks back up at you, eyes pleading.

“Fine,” you sigh, “but–”

“Almond milk, I know,” Pieck winks at you, sliding your cup down the assembly line of baristas working amongst the hissing of the espresso machine and the pleasant, folky music floating from the speakers. “We’re a little busy, so give me five and I’ll bring it over to you.”

You smile gratefully and collect your things, turning to scout out what’s hopefully a quiet table in the corner, when a pair of arms tossed around your shoulders stops you. The familiar scent of fruity perfume tickles your nose, and you slump against the tight grip in relief.

“You made it out of the house!” Sasha’s eyes glow with pride, as if you’d just run a marathon.

“It’s not like I’m a hermit,” you roll your eyes, “I have class five days a week.”

“You don’t go anywhere besides class or your house though, so you still get participation points,” Sasha grins, shaking your shoulders, “how are you feeling?”

“Well…”

Sasha’s expression crumples. “Still that bad, huh?”

“The Luke thing was pathetic of me, but honestly, it’s not haunting me as much as I thought it would,” you admit, pausing for a moment to allow Sasha to grab her coffee from the barista when her name is called, “the one thing that’s really sticking with me is the Eren issue.”

“Like, the voicemail? Or Breeze?”

“Both. I would give anything to know what that voicemail said, but whatever was going on between us aside, I just hope he’s okay, y’know? With Breeze back in the picture and everything.”

Sasha bites into her bottom lip and glances around the coffee shop, checking every face at every table. You know that face; she’s hiding something.

“What?”

“What?” Sasha cocks her head innocently. You nearly smack her.

“You’re not telling me something.”

“Uh…okay, yeah, I’m not, but I’m not sure if I should. I mean, you’re actually out of the house–”

“I leave my house plenty!”

“You know what I mean,” Sasha scoffs, “it’s just…if you’re feeling better, I don’t want to throw you back into the deep end.”

You have no words for that, absolutely despising the way that she is completely correct. Whatever information lies behind Sasha’s bitten lip could either make you feel a hundred times better or a hundred times worse, and you’re stuck debating on whether you should gamble or not when Sasha makes the decision for you.

“Fine, you wore me down,” she sighs.

“I didn’t even say anything,” you point out, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t have to,” Sasha says, annoyed, “you have this, like, fucking puppy dog look. Makes me sick. Get your coffee, I’ll find a table, and we can talk.”

Like clockwork, the moment Sasha steps away, Pieck grabs your attention and hands your coffee over along with an extra hot cup half-full of steamed almond milk. You look at her questioningly, and she merely shrugs.

“That’s a lot of espresso. I know you’re in, like, your depressed writer phase right now, but I figured a little extra milk would come in handy.”

“You’re the best,” you smile at her affectionately, thinking absentmindedly that you should invite her out to Scout’s sometime. Before she can respond, Pieck’s gaze lands on something just over your shoulder. You can smell him even before you turn around, musky cologne and a little hint of weed. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Hey Pieck. Usual?” His throaty timbre cuts through the thick air, sharp as a knife. Pieck nods politely and gets to work on his coffee, forgoing a trip to the cash register. That tracks; Pieck’s hooded eyes are bloodshot more often than not.

“Excuse me,” you mutter, trying to sneak around him, but Eren’s quicker than you, side-stepping to cut you off.

“Hey stranger,” he smiles down at you, but it’s tense, nervous, “trying to run off on me?”

“Didn’t even realize that was you, sorry,” you lie, offering him a thin smile in return. You spot Sasha gaping at you across the cafe, waving her arms wildly and mouthing What the fuck?. You can’t help but feel similarly.

“It’s been awhile, how are you?”

“M’fine, just really busy with school.” God, you hate this, this awkward small talk barely parsing its way through the jungle of things left unsaid between you two. “You?”

“Fine,” Eren looks around awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Good,” you speak directly into your coffee, unable to stomach the emerald green peering down at you.

“You know,” Eren’s words come out quite like he can’t believe he’s saying them, “I kinda thought you were avoiding me.”

“Did you?” Your voice is caught in your throat, coming out in a pathetic squeak. Has he heard the voicemail? The startling turn the conversation’s taken must be visible all over your face, because Sasha’s flailing arms beckoning you over to the table grow more urgent.

“You haven’t texted me back, haven’t seen you in a couple weeks,” Eren’s incredibly focused on his shoes, kicking one Vans sneaker idly back and forth on the floor and making a squeaking sound, “so yeah, sort of.”

“I’m busy,” you deadpan, praying to any god you can remember the name of that you’ll just disintegrate right where you stand. Eren meets your eyes again, smirks disbelievingly.

“You said that.”

Something in his tone annoys you, something about his insinuation that he knows you’re blatantly lying, that he’s teasing you over your embarrassment, ignites a little flame in your chest. You scowl at him.

“I mean, you must be pretty busy too.”

“Why’s that?”

“Breeze just got back into town, didn’t she?” No going back now. Eren’s face blanches for a moment, features growing pale, but he manages to school his face back into that nonchalant pout that you want to slap right off his face.

“Historia told you?” He doesn’t sound surprised; in face, he sounds almost expectant, like he knew you’d find out at some point. It stakes the embers burning in your chest.

“She’s my best friend, so yeah.” This feels like an argument. It shouldn’t be an argument, but your clipped tone is pushing it in that direction. You’ve spent the last two weeks reminding yourself that you have no claim on Eren, no reason to be hurt or upset, but here you are, feeling that familiar rush of anger coursing through your veins.

“I mean, we haven’t been hanging out or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Who said I was worried?”

Eren’s eyebrows knit together, a little frown playing at his mouth. “I don’t know, I mean–”

“Look, Sasha’s waiting for me,” you point over Eren’s shoulder to the little two-top table, where Sasha has stilled within the blink of an eye, shooting Eren an innocent smile and a little wave. “I’d love to catch up, but maybe another time.”

“It was good seeing you.” Eren looks confused, albeit, a little bit hurt, and you hate it. Why is that so much worse, even worse than the sight of him with Breeze hanging off of his arm? His little pout puts a needle through your ballooning anger, and you deflate, sighing.

“I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” Eren takes his coffee from Pieck and ambles towards the door, sparing you one last glance over his shoulder. Unwilling to hold his eyes any longer, you scurry to your table, just having realized that Pieck forgot to put a coffee sleeve around your cup and that it’s been burning your hand for the last several minutes.

“Ow! Shit!” You practically crash land across from Sasha, dropping your cups in synchronicity and shaking your red palms around in the air to cool them down.

“What was that?” Sasha hisses, leaning across the table so viciously that your drinks nearly topple over.

“He just showed up!”

“You didn’t have to talk to him.”

“I didn’t try to. He just, like, materialized behind me and started talking. What was I supposed to do? Run away?”

“Little shit,” Sasha swears, glaring at the door as if her anger can shoot through it like a laser beam, cut Eren down where he’s surely almost a block down the street by now, “what did he say?”

“He asked if I’ve been avoiding him," you say, twirling your wooden coffee stirrer through your drink idly and trying to look as if your heart’s not still beating at what’s sure to be a dangerous rate.

“Well, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. He got all smug about it,” you scoff, the replayed scene of Eren’s self-assured smirk wiping off of his face bringing you a little bit of petty satisfaction, “until I brought up Breeze.”

Sasha’s eyes grow wide, and she looks around the coffee shop again, as if Eren or Breeze might come popping out of one of the large potted plants in the corners. “That’s actually what I wanted to tell you. What did he say about it?”

“What did you hear?” You narrow your eyes at her, and she narrows hers back.

“You first.”

“He didn’t say much, just looked really surprised that I brought her up. Said they haven’t been hanging out.”

“That’s bullshit,” Sasha snorts, rolling her eyes. Something in your chest that had begun to glimmer, something akin to hope, feels like it just got a bucket of ice-water poured over it. You cock your head, furrow your brows.

“How would you know?”

“Because Hitch and I grabbed some coffee–”

“Hitch? I thought that was a–”

“Okay, don’t crucify me, I know,” Sasha holds her hands up defensively, “it was supposed to be a one night stand, but…I don’t know. She’s cool.”

“Cool?” Even through your desperation for anything Eren-related after a two week drought, you smile knowingly at her. Sasha’s not hard to read, especially when her face goes bright red from chin to forehead.

“Yes,” she hisses, “cool. Anyway, we came by a few days ago, and Eren was here. With Breeze.”

“I mean, I expected as much.”

You’re lying, you’re so lying. The only consolation you’ve had over the last two weeks that you’re not a complete moron is the hope that maybe, just maybe, Eren’s just as forlorn as you, laying around and wishing his phone would buzz with your name on it, wishing you’d pop up at his door with a bag of popcorn ready for movie night. Instead, your worst suspicions have been confirmed, and not only is Eren very much involved with Breeze again, but he had lied straight to your face about it. Ouch.

“They weren’t like, holding hands or anything. Honestly, it looked like they were fighting.”

“Well, what did Hitch say about it?” You don’t even know if you want to know, but with your brain short-circuiting inside your skull, your mouth has free reign to seek out information that will be about as soothing as lemon juice on a papercut.

“Eren won’t talk to any of them about her,” Sasha burns her tongue on her coffee and sucks in a sharp breath, “not even Armin, apparently. She said he’s been moody lately.”

“Wonder why,” you mumble, mulling all of this new information over in your head. Breeze is bad for him, makes him crazy, you already know that. But you didn’t think it would start this soon– you feel like if anything, he should be ecstatic that his long-lost love has finally come back to him. And he can stop trying to replace her, your brain adds helpfully, only doubling the watery ache swelling in your chest.

“Who cares?” Sasha rips open a granola bar, biting into it and continuing to speak with her mouth full. “That’s why you’ve got to stop avoiding him.”

“Huh? That seems like the opposite–”

“No,” Sasha cuts you off, an air of authority in her normally chipper voice, “you’re not going to cower in the corner just because Eren’s back with his shitty ex girlfriend–”

“It’s not just because of Breeze,” you correct her, “it’s because of that voicemail. I have no idea what I said. There’s a lot that’s contributing to my self-induced isolation, trust me.”

“Regardless,” Sasha mouths around another bite of her granola bar, “the only thing that will make you feel better is being around him.”

“That sounds a little contradictory–”

“Trust me,” Sasha interrupts you again, “the best way to make a guy come around is to be up in his face, flaunting how hot and single you are, and to not give him an ounce of your attention. It’s a tried and true method, I promise.”

It turns out that you are a beacon for those with bad ideas, evidently, because later that night, you’ve ended up at Scout’s, cuddled up against the bar with Sasha despite Historia’s fervent protests. If Historia shows up later, just to “check in” (read: see what’s come of Sasha’s terrible plan), you won’t be surprised. She’s prone to being the mom friend and the harbinger of gossip, but she hasn’t shown face quite yet. It’s just you, Sasha, and a handful of regulars, sipping unreasonably cold beers and trying to act as if the early December chill hasn’t rattled you to your bones.

“This is a stupid idea,” you murmur against the lip of your bottle, trying not to seem as unnerved as you are, even after an hour of waiting and sipping. Sasha scoffs beside you, picking through your near-empty basket of peanut shells in search of a full pod.

“It’s not. He’ll be here.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you dragged me out. It only took a week for me to start missing this place,” you run a thoughtful hand along the varnished wooden bartop, “but I’m just still not sure about this whole seeing-Eren-on-purpose thing.”

Before Sasha can answer, the door swings open to reveal the man in question: Eren, accompanied by Armin and Connie, as always, and sporting his standard uniform. Black hoodie, slouchy khaki pants that are tightened around the ankles, and his beat-up Vans.

You nearly sigh into your drink at how delicious he looks, only stopping when the little voice in your head reminds you that the voicemail you’d left him exists. Friends– no, strangers now? The concept of labeling your bizarre, gray-areas-only relationship with Eren brings a chuckle up your throat, one that spills onto the bar.

You can feel him watching you, but to your simultaneous surprise and disappointment, he gives you space, sidling up to the bar a few seats down from where you and Sasha are occupying a couple of bar stools. When Connie throws up a cheerful hand in greeting to you, you tentatively wave back, only for Armin to grab Connie’s attention and turn him toward the bar.

“Ha!” Sasha says triumphantly, looking at you with her eyes glowing like you’re supposed to have reached a revelation of some sort. “See?”

“Did you plot this with Connie?” You narrow your eyes in suspicion.

“No, I’m just a genius, that’s all.”

“I feel like your theory is being proven wrong, not right. He’s not even sitting near us.”

“Because you have the upper hand!” Sasha grins.

“The upper hand?”

“Yeah, he’s giving you some space so you can make the first move, get what you want out of him.”

“And what do I want out of him?” You nearly growl in your frustration, feeling silly sitting exactly four barstools down from Eren with him running through your mind as if he isn’t close enough to just hop up and hug. It’s a genuine question more than a rhetorical one; you’re not even sure what you expect out of him anymore. Another fuck? A fancy date night? A lifetime worth of radio silence, as if Eren isn’t the person you’ve connected better with than nearly anyone else in your romantic history?

Sasha’s brows furrow. “Don’t you know?”

“No! That’s what I was trying to tell you!”

“Oh,” Sasha frowns, rubs her chin, “we should have figured that part out before we came, I guess.”

“Sasha!” You whisper-hiss, ever mindful of what you’re sure to be prying ears only a few feet away. “So you have no plan?”

Sasha stumbles, stutters, and eventually, flushes bright red with a shrug. “Okay, fine, I have no plan. But at least it’s something to break up your routine of laying in bed eating chips and moping around the library.”

“You’re such a bitch.” You roll your eyes, but you don’t mean it, not really. Regardless of how things stand, at the very least you can sneak little glances at Eren, take in how good he looks– no, you correct yourself firmly. You hopped off that train of your own accord, and you’re better for it.

With some verbal manhandling, you goad Sasha into a lull of small talk, classes, anything that comes to mind. A pair of eyes finds you, not the emerald that keeps you up at night, but a pair of hazel old-and-new eyes draw to you, and you can feel the scratch of an unwelcome gaze on your skin.

“Floch’s here,” you state the obvious, sipping your drink and giving no physical indication that you’ve noticed him, staring straight ahead as you mutter to Sasha.

“Christ, this was not a good idea,” Sasha groans, face-palming.

“Wow, I sure wish that someone had suggested this was a bad idea, wouldn’t that have been nice?”

“Shut up,” Sasha says, peeking warily over her shoulder, “I think that’s Hitch in the corner, too.”

You frown, confused at the hunched, anxious change in her posture. “Why are you being weird? Go say hey.”

“I’m not abandoning you!”

“Oh, shut it. Why are you really being weird?”

“I, uh…” Sasha twirls her beer around on the counter, blushing, “I haven’t texted her back in like, four or five days.”

“Sasha! You like her, I can tell. What’s gotten into you?”

“It was supposed to be a one-night thing,” Sasha moans, letting her face fall dramatically into her hands, “and then it was movie nights and coffee and just…way beyond casual hooking up. I like her, but…I don’t know! I panicked.”

You chew on her admission for a second, selfishly comparing Sasha’s situation to your own. Was that what you were doing with Eren? No, surely not, but was that what he was doing with you? You knew he had loved Breeze, that she had wrecked him, but maybe…just maybe some small part of you wants to hope that he’s moved on, that the coffee shop sighting was a fluke.

You shoo Sasha in Hitch’s direction, demanding she run over to apologize and make nice with Hitch, partially to save Sasha’s first shot at a real relationship in years and partially because you want to stew alone with your thoughts. Before you can get too deep into your black hole of what ifs, a familiar presence is sliding into Sasha’s seat, grinning lewdly.

You sigh; it was only a matter of time before he sought you out.

“What do you want, Forster?”

“Last name only? Ouch,” Floch places a hand over his heart, drumming the fingers of his other hand on the countertop. You recognize his demeanor immediately: pupils blown wide, buzzing to the brim with nervous energy. Floch’s always dabbled in party drugs, part of why you could only stand to be around him in small doses back when you were hooking up.

“Are you coked out right now?” Mindful of Levi’s hovering presence behind the bar, you keep your voice to a low hiss.

“So you can’t call me by my first name, but you can ask such personal questions? Jesus, you really are full of it, aren’t you?”

“Floch,” you nearly groan in frustration, “I thought I made it perfectly clear the last time I saw you that I’m not interested.”

“Why are you being so mean to me, hm?” Floch snakes a hand around your shoulders, jostling you until your face is mere inches from his. You’re more than aware of a pair of green eyes nearly boring a hole in your forehead, and you feel a pang of regret that you sent Sasha away so quickly, remembering far too late that Hitch’s table doesn’t offer a great view of where you’re seated at the bar.

“I’m not being mean,” you try to push at him, but he’s locked around you, “I’m just not interested.”

“Stop being such a bitch, Jesus Christ,” Floch finally lets you shove him away from you, but he’s far from done, “when did you get so stuck up, huh?”

“Floch. Keep your voice down, and walk away.” You try to warn him; Floch may be a pain in your ass, but you’d like to believe that he’s not a bad guy, deep down. You’re too late, however.

Eren’s materialized between you and Floch before you can blink, before you can even get another word out. His sudden presence forces you out of your barstool, stepping around him to get a better read on what the hell he thinks he’s doing. Eren seems not to notice you trying to insert yourself between him and Floch, and the look on his face makes you step back momentarily.

He looks terrifying. Eren’s nostrils are flaring, eyes blown wide and jaw clenched tight. He’s taking full advantage of his height, glaring down at Floch with such menace that if looks could kill, Floch would already be laid out on the floor.

“Get the fuck out of here, dude. She said no.”

“What are you, her little guard dog?” Floch, infamous for never knowing what’s best for him, scoffs at Eren’s incredibly intimidating posture.

“Maybe I am,” Eren sneers, “I’m damn sure not going to sit there and let you speak to her like that.”

“Who’s this loser?” Connie’s to your right now, gesturing to Floch. You don’t miss the telltale clenching of Eren’s hands by his side, and it hits your dizzied mind what’s going on. Eren’s going to end up swinging if you don’t interfere, and Connie’s there for backup.

“Floch, please.” You reach a feeble hand up to Floch’s chest, trying to gently push him in the other direction.

In the blink of an eye, Floch’s grabbing you by the wrist hard enough to solicit a yelp from your lips, throwing your arm away from him with a look of disgust.

“Oh, so now you want to touch me, bitch?”

No sooner has Floch’s hand released your arm than Connie’s got his arms wrapped around you, yanking you out of the crossfire. Amidst a series of gasps, Eren grabs Floch around the back of the neck, pins him face-first to the bar.

“Jaeger!” Levi barks sharply, darting over to the scene of the commotion.

“Is that what gets you off, huh?” Eren’s nearly nose-to-nose with Floch, whose busted lip is twisted in a grimace and dribbling little bits of blood onto the varnished bartop. “Calling women bitches when they don’t want your little dick?”

“Let him go, Eren,” Armin tries to intervene, having already dashed over from his barstool. You want to back him up, but you’re frozen where you’re pinned to Connie’s chest, trembling in his arms. You know Eren’s a little rough-and-tumble, but this, seeing it in real life, is much more terrifying than you could have imagined.

“What the hell? Are you okay?” You can hear Sasha’s voice from beside you, close enough to touch but distant in comparison to where your vision is zeroed in on Eren’s grip on the back of Floch’s neck.

“Answer me!” Eren rears Floch back a few inches and slams him against the bar again. Floch curses under his breath, wriggles fruitlessly under Eren’s weight.

“Get the fuck off me, Jaeger!”

“You fucking wish,” Eren hisses, tightening his grip further, “now apologize to my girl before you make me do something I’ll regret.”

“Eren,” you find your voice again, shaking out of Connie’s grip. You fist your hands into Eren’s hoodie sleeves, tugging hard enough to get his attention. “He’s not worth it. Let him go.”

“Listen to her, Jaeger,” Levi’s already-deep voice is stained with warning.

When you pull at his sleeve a little harder, Eren turns to you, eyes still blown wide and teeth bared. It startles you, but you hold firm, setting your own jaw and shaking your head.

“Let. Him. Go. Now, Eren.” You’re not sure how you’ve managed to muster up the conviction in your voice, but you’re grateful for it, as it seems to shake Eren back into himself. Eren slowly releases Floch and in the same easy motion, he guides you behind him with one long, strong arm.

“You,” Levi points accusingly at Floch, “out.”

Floch’s jaw drops. “I didn’t even–”

“Out.” Levi’s tone leaves no room for argument, and Floch seems to understand at least that. He turns his glare back to you and Eren, scowling deeply.

“The next time I see you, Jaeger, it’s fucking over.”

“Get lost before you make me fucking embarrass you,” Eren says, voice dripping with venom. Floch shakes his head, lets his gaze land on you. A chilling smile breaks over his features.

“Next time, sweetheart.”

“Get the fuck out of here already, bro,” Connie snaps, pointing towards the exit. Floch takes his leave, sauntering towards the door with all the confidence of someone who hadn’t just been pinned against the countertop. A heavy, staticky silence falls over the bar.

“If I see you fighting in here again, it’s over.” Levi’s cold eyes fall on Eren, who nods curtly in understanding. Eren brushes his hands through his hair, rests a hand on the bun at the back of his head. Something strange is coursing through your body; something that tastes like anger, burns like heartbreak, falls bitter on your tongue like envy.

“Are you okay?” Sasha appears at your side again, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Floch’s such a psycho, I’m not even surprised he picked a fight.”

You nod numbly, eyes never leaving Eren. He finally looks back down at you, none of the heat having left his eyes.

“What the fuck was that?” It takes you a moment to realize that it’s you speaking, you throwing those words up the inches from your mouth to Eren’s. Eren’s face contorts into a frown.

“What do you mean? He was bothering you, wasn’t he?”

“So you try to fight him?” You seethe. Maybe it is anger, this bizarre, foreign emotion tingling at the tips of your fingers. No, that’s not quite it, you’re not angry you’re just…confused. Hurt that Eren’s frolicking around with Breeze, doing whatever he pleases, and yet, he’s jumping into bar fights to save you from the tangible evidence of your past.

“What do you expect me to do when someone talks to you like that?” Eren hisses back, eyes narrowed.

Sasha’s backed away from the two of you now; you’re aware of your friends staring at you, noses scrunched as they try to figure out exactly what’s happening now. You wish you had an answer to give them, but all you can muster is this heartache shooting out of your mouth in the form of daggers.

“I don’t need you,” you spit, “I don’t need your protection.”

“It didn’t exactly look like you had that handled,” Eren scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, and what are you? My knight in shining fucking armor? Don’t you have other damsels in distress waiting for you?” It’s too far, you know that as soon as the words leave your mouth, but the liquid courage Sasha had insisted upon is making your tongue sharper than you’d anticipated.

Eren rears back from where he’s hunched to meet you on your level, nostrils flaring again. Before you can utter another word, he’s got an arm thrown around your shoulders none-too-gently, practically dragging your stumbling feet towards the exit.

“Outside.”

#hehehehehe enjoy #i love plug eren so much it hurts my head #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren jaeger series #eren jaeger fanfic #eren yeager series #attack on titan fic #aot fic #much ado about nothing #much ado uni #much ado universe

203 notes · View notes

umi-adxhira · 19 days ago

Text

ᝰ.ᐟ SERENITY | 007

FANDOM: TWTPTFLOB

WARNINGS: Idk we get our backstory shown that I made up on the spot while tweaking out for my essay

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yall get ready for Chapter 9. It'll be an hour or two before I post it soooo keep an eye out idk

◄ PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER ►

“You’re avoiding my question,” she says lightly. “About your old world. You gave me just enough to satisfy my curiosity, but not nearly enough to satisfy me. You told me about politics and the news, but nothing about you specifically,”

You meet her gaze, “Why do you care?”

Griselda tilts her head, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Because you’re interesting. And because understanding you might help me make you better. Besides, you have a story to tell - I can see it in your eyes. So, go on. Indulge me,”

For a moment, you consider deflecting again. Why does she even want to know? It’s not like it matters here. But something about Griselda’s persistence wears you down. Maybe it’s the exhaustion of the lessons, God she’s just brutal. It’s been like five hours leave me alone please. But… sharing my story won’t do much, will it?

“My mother died giving birth to me,” you say, your voice steady despite the weight of the words. “It was just my dad and my two older brothers after that. My dad… he was always on the move. He’s a famous MMA fighter, always traveling, always training. And my brothers, Hyoga and Haru, they’re rising stars in the film and idol worlds. They had their own lives to live.”

Griselda listens intently, her expression unreadable. You continue, the words spilling out more easily now. “MMA fighter… does he fight for money?”

“Yeah, he’s famous everywhere. I don’t know much but, they don’t fight because they had beef or a vendetta against one another. They fight for money, for fame, for influence. I dunno,” You notice yourself digressing, and you pivot yourself to continue on with the story, “We technically lived in the same house, but it never felt like it. My dad was barely around, and my brothers… they didn’t want much to do with me. They wouldn’t take my calls, wouldn’t respond to my messages. I think they blamed me for killing our mother. Or maybe I just blamed myself.”

I shouldn’t even be telling her this. Why does it feel like I’m confessing to a crime?

“I even have a different last name from them,” you admit, the bitterness creeping into your voice. “I thought they didn’t love me. I still do, sometimes. But I don’t care anymore. At least, I tell myself I don’t. It’d be nice to reconnect with them, maybe even yell at them for how they treated me. Or, for the lack of it. But if I never see them again, I’ll live,”

Griselda’s eyes soften, but she doesn’t interrupt. Her silence feels heavy, almost like she’s daring you to keep going.

“I was doing well in school,” you add after a moment, straying away from the topic of your family, “Before I came here, I was applying to universities. It was the one thing I had for myself, you know? My dad didn’t care, my brothers didn’t care, but I cared. I thought, if I could just get out, I could build something better. Maybe they’d forgive me,”

Griselda leans forward slightly, her gaze unrelenting. “And do you still want that? To build something better for yourself?”

You hesitate. Do I? Or am I just trying to survive here now? Finally, you nod. “Yeah, but it’s too late now. I regret not storming up to whatever country they were in and yell at them. That’s all I can do. That’s all I could do,”

Griselda hums thoughtfully, sitting back in her chair. “You’ve had a hard life,” she says. “But compared to the children here… well, let’s just say you had it easier. Your pain isn’t valid. It just means you’re stronger than you think. And that strength is needed if you’re going to survive in this world.”

Easier? The word stings, but she’s not wrong. The children here, raised by a human demon have endured horrors I can barely comprehend. Still, it doesn’t make my own struggles feel any less real. I don’t care how they grew up. I care about now.

Her words linger in the air as you meet her gaze. There’s no pity in her eyes, only a quiet understanding. For the first time, you feel a flicker of respect for her - not as an instructor, but as someone who sees you for who you are. It’s a shame. She should have appeared more in the story. I’m sure she would have lots more fans.

“Thank you,” you say finally, the words surprising even yourself.

Griselda smiles, her usual mischief tempered by sincerity. “Don’t thank me yet. We still have a lot of work to do.”

And with that, the lessons continue. You shift your focus back to balancing the book on your head, forcing yourself to stand straighter, to take more deliberate steps. But your mind keeps drifting back to your conversation with Griselda. Why did I tell her all that? It’s not like you trust her - not completely, anyway. There’s something about her that feels… dangerous. Not in the same way Lante does, but dangerous nonetheless. She’s too perceptive, too good at peeling back layers you didn’t even realize you were hiding beneath. She’s probably where Roxana got her cunningness, I wouldn’t be surprised.

As if sensing your distraction, Griselda snaps her fingers. “Focus. If you can’t manage proper posture, how are you going to manage anything else?”

You scowl but comply, adjusting the book again. “You really think all this is necessary?”

“It’s an order from father,” she replies smoothly. “You’ll be surrounded by people who will judge you for every little misstep. One wrong gesture, one awkward phrase, and they’ll dismiss you as unworthy. Is that what you want?”

“No,” you admit. Yes. It means I get more time to myself. But I’ll die if I screw this up. Literally. The thought feels too depressing to voice aloud, so you keep it to yourself.

Griselda continues to drill you on everything from posture to table manners to the subtle art of making conversation without revealing too much. It’s boring, but you can’t deny that she’s good at what she does. By the time the sun begins to set, you’re exhausted - not just physically, but emotionally.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

On your way back to your quarters, you replay everything in your mind.

When you finally collapse into bed, your thoughts are a tangled mess. You think about your family - your dad, your brothers - and the life you left behind. You think about Griselda and her sharp eyes, her ability to see through you like you’re made of glass. And you think about the future, the challenges that lie ahead, and the person you’ll need to become to survive them.

Am I really strong enough for this? The question echoes in your mind as you drift off to sleep, the weight of the day’s revelations settling heavily on your shoulders. But even as doubt creeps in, there’s a spark of determination that refuses to be extinguished. You don’t know what the future holds, but you’re not ready to give up just yet. Because I’ll change it all.

#twtptflob #dion agriche #jeremy agriche #roxana agriche #the way to protect the female lead's older brother #the way to protect the female lead’s older brother #lante agriche #cassis pedelian #x reader #yandere x reader #x female reader #yandere #yandere x you #female x reader #dion agriche x reader

9 notes · View notes

katiesdailystruggle · 1 year ago

Text

Okay yall. I quit trying to make this perfect. I'm well aware it's a little rough around the edges, and I'm also well aware not everyone will like it. Nonetheless, here’s my community service to the sickie bangtan lovers for this year <3

Drabble fic is below the cut. Thanks for waiting patiently! I truly hope you enjoy this pure indulgence lmao.

Title: one stormy night

Word count: 2.2k

Ship: namjinkook - caretakers namjin, sickie jungkook

Tropes: sickfic, fluff, lil bit of snz, basic flu symptoms (the good stuff ya know)

Set in a random AU where Namjin are lovers who own a small shop, Jin is a healer, Namjoon is a mage, and Jungkook is just struggling, ill stranger who manages to fall head over heels in love with his saviors, whilst namjin also fall hard lol.

Seokjin was startled abruptly at the sound of the iron knocker pounding the front door, pausing his job of drawing the drapes for the evening. He and his lover, Namjoon, shared a small cottage in the middle of the woods that was outfitted into a potion shop for the neighboring villagers.

It was well passed their closing time, and Jin knew they didn’t have any appointments on file this late in the day. His stomach clenched with nerves as his gaze shifted to his husband’s usual position by the hearth. “I’ll get the door,” he softly said, making his way over to gently coax Namjoon back down to sit in the armchair. “You had a lot of spells today. Rest a while, I can handle this.”

It was getting late, he was exhausted from a long day’s work, and he didn’t know who was pounding on the door. It would be easy to become frustrated and get rid of whoever beckoned them, but Jin wasn’t heartless. It was storming outside, and maybe someone needed help. The healer in him wouldn’t let someone in need fend for themselves, and he would much rather waste some time than have regrets in his consciousness.

Pulling his evening robes further across himself to help defend the evening chill, Jin released the deadlock and the binding spell on the door, cautiously opening it a crack to peer outside. An unfamiliar silhouette greeted him, though it was difficult to perceive little else due to the heavy rainfall.

“Good evening, stranger,” Jin’s eyes ghosted over the heavily soaked man before him, an oversized hood covering his features dripping rapidly as the rain continued to pour down relentlessly. “I’m afraid we haven't met before, is there something I can do for you?”

“Please,” came the drenched strangers’ reply. “I’m just trying to make it to eastern lands.” Jin took mental note of the thick rasp and nasally tone in his voice. “I just need a roof to block this storm for an hour or so. I’m very weary from traveling.” The stranger didn’t make any move to invade their cottage of his own volition, and he was leaning heavily against their meager porch post for support to stay upright.

The poor dear. Squinting in a fruitless attempt to see better through the storm, Jin took note of the stranger’s trembling frame, his soaked clothing underneath the heavy travel cloaks, and the poorly fitted boots on his feet. He’s been traveling for a long while, weeks at the very least.

“You’re welcome to come in and dry off for as long as you need,” a soft smile adorned Jin’s features as he reached out to help support the traveler’s weak frame for the short distance inside. “We haven’t got much to offer in means of transportation to the east, but you must at least rest here a while. You’re soaked through.” A familiar pang of sympathy pulsed through his heart.

Jin’s own clothing was becoming rather damp just holding the stranger’s underarms, it couldn’t have been comfortable in the slightest to travel through this disastrous weather heavily weighed down by wet cloaks.

At the sound of the door shutting behind them, Namjoon stood up abruptly, eyes narrowed skeptically onto the hooded stranger, but he made no move to turn him away either. Jin nodded in silent thanks for his husband’s trust, as the two made their way slowly across the foyer. "A traveler needs a place to rest tonight. Help me tend to him, Joonie?"

Catching him by surprise as he was speaking, Jin nearly tripped over himself when the stranger suddenly bent over, a series of thick, painful coughs erupting from deep within his chest. As he fought to pull in a deep breath, Jin gently tugged back his hood to better inspect the ailments plaguing him.

And - oh. What an absolute darling. The gentle scrunch of his nose, the soft doe eyes crinkled in irritation as the worst of the coughing fit passed. His cheeks were flushed from the cold air, and the fringe of his bangs dripped with rain water as they hung in front of his eyes. He was beautiful. Jin had only ever had eyes for Namjoon, but the sweet one before him brought up emotions bubbling within that he had not felt before. He always did get attached easily.

No matter though, he had a job to do, and the stranger needed medical attention regardless of his mysterious beauty. Jin was a professional, and he would tend to whatever ailment was present.

“That cough sounds awful, dear,” Jin spoke softly as he made to undo the poorly tangled cloak ties. “You can call me Jin-hyung, what would you like me to call you?”

“Jungkook is my name,” the little one managed to rasp out and Jin hardly concealed a wince at the painful sound of crackling phlegm in his throat. “I don’t mind what you call me though. I don’t have any means to pay, I’m sorry.”

Jungkook’s eyes were glistening with unshed emotion, and he was sniffling thickly, pawing at his nose and eyes desperately in obvious irritation.

Another pang of sympathy shot through Jin’s heart at the sight of tears, but before he could utter another word, Namjoon was already stepping around him to help Jungkook settle into an empty cot by the healer’s table. Jin easily recognized the look in the mage’s eyes as one of empathy and adoration. They were both so utterly hopeless.

“That’s quite alright, Jungkookie, you needn’t worry about such affairs,” Namjoon spoke in a soft whisper. “You can call me Namjoon hyung. Just lie back, and we will take good care of you. I promise.”

A mixed array of confusion and relief flooded Jungkook’s sweet features, and he blinked several times, allowing a few stray tears to trickle down his cheeks. “Thank you hyungs, I’m afraid I’m not well,” he briefly paused speaking as his breathing caught roughly, a small trembling hand still rubbing harshly at his nose. “It’s been weeks and this head cold just isn’t going away. My travels have just made everything w-worse…oh…e-excuse me,” His lovely eyelids fluttered shut, as several productive sneezes ripped out of his chapped nose, chest heaving wildly in a desperate attempt to quell his breathing back to normal. Jungkook let out a shuttering sigh afterward, teary eyes darting away from the healer every so shyly. “Pardon me, please. I can’t seem to stop sneezing.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Jin cooed gently, reaching out to wipe his messy nose with a handkerchief. “Sounds like a little more than a nasty cold to me. I’m a trained healer, and Namjoonie here is a mage. I’ll check you over and see if we can’t get some medicine and hot soup into you by the end of the hour.” His gentle, calculated hands were tenderly pulling Jungkook’s soaked downshirt off, Namjoon already having started freeing him of his trousers.

“We need to get you out of these wet clothes and bundled up to dry by the fire,” Jin wrapped a soft, cotton towel around Jungkook’s trembling frame, and the relief on his face was so genuinely innocent, that he felt his own emotions stirring up. “Joonie, dear, if you wouldn’t mind putting the kettle to boil, fetching me some blankets and a clean nightshift, please.”

Jungkook was finding it harder to pay attention to Jin’s words than it should’ve been. Time seemed to slow down as he lost the ability to function properly. His breathing was becoming labored and that ever-present aching in his chest was becoming a harsh sting now. When did it get so warm? Or was it cold? He couldn’t tell anymore.

He had begun to slouch so low into himself, and his eyes were starting to close tiredly. Jin gently pressed the back of his hands to Jungkook’s cheeks and neck, humming softly at the detection of his obvious temperature. The poor dear, so very exhausted from traveling ill. “It’s quite alright if you fall asleep now, sweetheart. Just lie back down, I’ll wake you when I have medicine for you to take.”

As if by order of Jin’s permission, Jungkook’s consciousness slowly slipped into a light doze, long past the point of exhaustion. His breathing evened down to labored short puffs of stuffy air, nose scrunched up ever so sweetly into a sleepy, ticklish expression. It only had been movements, but Jin’s heart was entirely stolen.

At the younger’s slip into a fitful sleep, Jin made quick work of checking his vitals, throat, nose, and ears - getting a specific reading on his rising temperature, a worrying one, no less. Namjoon was back a few moments after he finished pulling a thick comforter up over Jungkook’s sleeping form.

“Water just started boiling hyung,” he whispered as he placed a stack of wool blankets and a silken shift on the armchair. “Want me to fill a basin of hot water and get some ailment tea brewed?”

Jin’s eyes softened even further at his lover, unable to look stressed even in the face of the ill young one beside himself. “That would be lovely, Joonie, thank you. Help me dress him first?”

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

Jungkook’s head felt heavy, dizzyingly so. There was also a nauseating spin of the room from lying horizontally as his ill body fought to stay sleeping. He didn’t know how long he’d been dozing off, time was passing unawares to him, though it didn’t feel near long enough before his consciousness was slipping back in. An irritating tickle was forming deep in his sinuses, whilst, unfortunately, his little nose scrunches were doing little to fight back. Having no wherewithal to cover, Jungkook released a flurry of wet, desperate sneezes into the firm chest next to him.

“Oh Jungkookie,” Namjoon softly cooed from above. “Blessings, you sound so poorly.” He was poorly, what a gods sent gift the hyungs shop was nearby. Sniffling desperately to contain the productive wetness that was now beneath his nose, Jungkook felt his eyes well up once more.

“My handkerchief is wet.” He whined softly, words muffled into the sweet hyung cradling him. He needed something to cover with, he needed to sneeze again. And what a tragedy it was indeed because the tickle persisted despite the fit he had just released previously. Damn, his ever-sensitive nose. Always getting in the way of comfort.

“I can’t blow my nose… and I need to…” He trailed off breathily, already starting to work his way into a hitch. A shuffling of movement briefly distracted his gasping speech, as his face was suddenly covered in a warm, large bundle of soft fabric. “Here, sweetie. All yours.” Jungkook felt Namjoon’s deep voice reverberate through his whole being, though perhaps that was also the fever chills shaking him through.

Noting he was now pressed against bare skin, not a cotton downshirt, his brain fumbled to keep up with the fact that he was presently leaking tears and mucus all over Namjoon’s shirt. He wasn’t thinking, the logical part of his brain long past gone, in the throes of his current predicament. If he had been, perhaps the prospect of using another man’s shirt in lieu of a handkerchief would’ve been embarrassing. One he had scarcely just met, no less. But he didn’t even have time for that. His eyes were watering, mouth falling open in desperate breaths, his nose burning ever so badly as it teased his need for release. Instead of granting him relief, though, the hitching just made him cough harshly, once again, all over Namjoon.

“Let’s get you in some dry clothes, sweetie,” Namjoon muttered, gently combing his hands through the young man’s hair. “I have a nice, warm nightshift right here for you.”

All Jungkook could seem to muster out was a small moan in response, shaky and once again, hitched, as he pawed at his nose in sleepy annoyance. “I know Jungkookie, almost there. I’m sorry, I know it’s chilly. Just gotta get this over your head now…there we go, left arm first, good boy.“ Was that Jin’s voice now? The feeling of cold air fading into warm silk on his skin caused a raspy whine to come out of his mouth before his thoughts even caught up. “It’s okay, it’s okay. All done.” Definitely Jin.

Despite the warm, dry clothing covering him now, chills racked his body relentlessly. It didn’t take but a few more hitching breaths before his face scrunched up in a defeated flurry of congested sneezes. “Bless you, little one. Come on, blow for me,” Jin whispered from his left, the down shirt coming back up to cover most of his face. Jungkook was ever obedient though, so he managed to huff out a thick blow at Jin's discretion. Gods this shirt was going to be so gross. Poor Namjoon. “There we go, all better. Good job, Jungkookie.” For someone whose shirt was now a makeshift hanky, Namjoon’s voice sounded awfully pleased with him.

A flush dusted his cheeks as he glanced up at both men in pure adoration, one not having to do with his fever. But the hyungs didn’t need to know that. Soft wool blankets were quickly wrapped around his shoulders, and he let out a relieved sigh when his feet were placed in a basin of hot water. The trembling didn’t stop, nor did the deep aches in his body, but the sudden warmth and Namjoon and Jin’s presence were enough to let him doze off for a while. He was safe. And for now, that was enough.

#sick jungkook #bts sickfic #bts sickfics #sickfic #caretaking #its hereeeee #i realize this might be disappointing #considering how long it took me lmao #but its my first fic since 2020 #so #im proud ig #pls let me know how it is #i crave validation lmao

49 notes · View notes

currytantou · 7 months ago

Text

[translation] Mayonaka Danshi Meshi audio drama / s1ep1 CVs: Uchiyama Kouki & Itou Kento

do not repost or use my translations! link back if you want to share. partial screenshot it allowed but blatant copy/paste is prohibited

Also x-posted on my wordpress page

Watch/listen here

0:12 (sound of typing on keyboard) Email to the other side…done. Documents for tomorrow…done. (watch beeps) Oh! Just in time. Alright, then! (clicks mouse then gets up) Hashida is signing off! Good work everyone.

0:50 What’s for dinner tonight? (phone vibrates) Yes, it’s Hashida. Thank you for your patronage. Yes.. (footsteps receding) Oh, the quotation estimate? Yes. I can confirm that on my side. Is it urgent? I can get to it. I’ll send it to you soon so please wait a moment.

(phone beeps) Change of direction, huh? Well, that can’t be helped.

1:35 Shoot. That took longer than expected. Can I make it in time before the store closes? My fridge is pretty much empty. At this rate, I might have to settle with eating box lunch from the convenience store. Please, make it in time! No, I’ll make sure to make it!

Ahh, I can’t make it! What to have for dinner? Should I just compromise today? Nah, I’m in the mood for Japanese food thanks to what I had for lunch. I’m not giving up now. I’ve no other choice. I’ll have to detour and go to the supermarket on the other side of the river.

2:29 No way…. How is this possible? I went to three different supermarkets and the fact that each of them ran out of vegetables… I was stubborn and ended up wasting my time. Should’ve used my time for something more worthwhile if I knew this would happen. (sighs) No point regretting over the past. Sometimes, incidents like this happen. Convenience- nah, I’ll settle with instant noodles today.

3:12 Finally home. It’s quite late already. Hmm, postage and letters.. hm? A delivery, eh? I got stuff delivered to me… That’s quite a big box. Oh? It’s from grandma! Huh? Did I ask her something?

I’m back~ (walks with the box and then opens the door) Heigh-ho..! That was quite heavy. What did grandma send me? (tears the tape) These are..! Lotus root, burdock and carrot! And plenty more! Oh, great! This box is full with veggies from back home! Feels as if grandma saw through me today! Talk about timing. Hm? Hold on. (checks fridge) Chicken and konjac jelly. Alright! I got ‘em. I can do this! I can make grandma’s chikuzenni with these ingredients. I don’t have to give up on eating Japanese dish! Thanks, grandma.

Still, I haven’t had chikuzenni in a while since I left home. I hope I can pull this off. Anyway, I just gotta try.

5:20 (pot boiling) First, pre boil the konjac jelly. I should prepare the rest of the ingredients in the meantime. Right. I should first peel the skin off. Get the carrot and lotus root done smoothly with this peeler. (peels veggies) Taro’s skin is thick so I gotta use a knife instead. (sound of cutting against wooden cutting board. Next, burdock. Just washing ‘em with water is enough, I guess? (washes burdock) That’d do. Now, I gotta cut these guys up. (cuts)

Grandma did mention that cutting uniformly matters in stews. When they’re different, the ingredients don’t soak up the same amount of flavour. Good thing I remember that. (continues cutting) What’s left are taro and soaked shiitake. Bite size cut would do.

7:13 Alright. Time to cut these pre-boiled konjac jelly. Evenly cut the konjac…nah, maybe I should try shred it roughly with a spoon. The sections are rougher than when cut using a knife and apparently this way, they would soak the flavour even better…but oh well, I can’t wait to try it out.

(water runs) Also, grandma’s chikuzenni isn’t complete without this…ginger. Ginger really makes so much difference. I’m gonna shred this guy thinly. (sound of cutting against board) Whew. Pretty much done with the prep for now. Next is the chicken. (brings out pot)

Sesame oil goes inside the pot and heats it up. (switches on gas) Add chicken and stir fry until the colour changes. (pot sizzles)

8:47 I guess this would do..? Then, I just gotta add the veggies that I cut earlier into the pot. (sizzles) Stir them until everything is covered in oil. Hm! This fragrant sesame oil aroma! How appetizing. Hm. Looking good. Almost ready. Add the water from soaked shiitake, sake, mirin, soy sauce, sugar and finally, ba-bam! Thinly sliced ginger! Ugh! What am I doing? Alright. What’s left is to let it simmer well. Hm? I feel like I forgot something…? Oh, a lid! Gotta cover it with a lid. Without it, the flavour would be uneven.

(covers pot with a lid) That’d do. Hold on. I forgot the bean to garnish with at the end. I should boil some in the meantime. (sound of water running, metal pot and gas being turned on)

Hmm. About twenty minutes until it’s ready, eh? Right.. I made quite a huge serving. Maybe I should let Akira eat some. Bet he’s eating junk either way.

10:30 (pot boiling) Alright. About time it’s done. I wonder how it’d turn out? Whoa. Looks good. Salty-sweet aroma. This is the best! (turns off the stove)

(door opens then closes) Sudou: Yo~ Hashida: Oh, you’re here? Sudou: Hashi, this is not like back home. You better lock the door. Hashida: Oh, sorry. I forget sometimes. Well, not like I have anything worth stealing. Sudou: One thought he’s guarded but it’s the other way. Hashi, that side of you really never changes. Hashida: Really? I don’t think I am that unguarded. Sudou: Oh, whatever. That aside. That smells really good. Stew? Hashida: Correct. I made chikuzenni today. Using the recipe from my granny. Sudou: Wow, seriously? How delightful. Makes me feel excited. Hashida: You don’t look excited though. Well, that’s not important. I’m gonna garnish this so Akira, can you dish out the rice? Sudou: Okay~

(opens fridge) Hashida: I got some beer. You’re drinking? Sudou: Yeah. Bring ‘em out. Hashida: Hmph. Silly.

11:59 (arranges plates) Hashida: Alright. Now that everything’s ready. It’s time. Hashida & Sudou: Bon appetit.

(both started eating)

Hashida: Oh. The flavour soaked in nicely. Sudou: Hm. This is good. Hashida: I was right to tear the konjac with a spoon. They soak the flavour well and curl into a nice shape. Sudou: Hmm, that method is possible, eh? Actually, this really tastes like the one I had at Hashi’s grandma’s. That kinda makes me emotional. Hashida: Emotional? You’re exaggerating. Sudou: Nah, I mean it. Remember how Hashi’s family often feeds my younger brothers and I, since our pop’s always busy with work? So to me chikuzenni at Hashi’s place is what I consider a mom’s home cooking. Hashida: Oh, right. The only family I have is my grandma, after all. I suppose this meal is a mom’s home cooking. I’ve never thought of it that way. Sudou: You better appreciate her more. Hashida: I do! I mean, I don’t feel lacking despite the absence of parents. I’ve never felt lonely just because grandma’s the only family that I have. Hey, now! Don’t make me say something embarrassing! Sudou: Ah, I see. Hmm. I somehow get it. Hashida: Well, in other words, we should be thankful for the love from people around us. Sudou: Whoa. The way you worded it just screams old person. Hashida: Huh? Really? That was unintentional. But right, recently I do feel like I am an old man. Sudou: Hehe. Just kidding. If anything, you no longer seem immature. It’s crazy if you still act the same when you’re a brat. Hashida: I hope you’re right.

13:53 Sudou: Actually, having chikuzenni while talking about the past with you makes me feel like I just time slipped to when we’re kids. Hashida: Hehe! You’re right. We really played hard back then. It’s impressive how we didn’t get sick of it, even though we lived in the countryside. Sudou: Yeah. Oh, I’m recalling things. You’re quite popular among the girls since you’re casually nice to them. Hashida: Really? I think that’s normal. Sudou: How is that normal? Plenty of girls asked me to pass love letters to you. It was so annoying. Hashida: Ahh, that happened, eh? Heck, don’t be annoyed over something petty! Sudou: Nah, it was so annoying. You said you wanted to focus on the club and stuff. Turning them down half-assed. You’re making it awkward even for me too! How annoying. Hashida: You..! In that case, I’ve got something to say too! Did you forget how I had to let you sit on the back seat of my bicycle simply ‘cus you can’t ride it yourself? You can’t do that until 8th grade! There should be a limit to how unathletic one could be! Sudou: Not 8th. 7th grade! Hashida: Nah, you were in 8th grade! It’d be a problem if you still cannot cycle ‘cus we’re gonna commute to a further place in high school so I accompanied you to practice. Remember? Sudou: That was the 7th grade. Definitely not the 8th. Hashida: It’s not important! Sudou: It is. This involves my good name. Hashida: Heh. As always, you’re so oddly stubborn. Whatever. Uh, ah! Hey, Akira! You’re spilling so much! Gosh. Use this to wipe. You never grow out of it. Sudou: Oh, sorry. Hashida: I guess you can’t help when you stop focusing. But why can’t you control your mouth? You’re old enough, it’s about time you fix that habit. Sudou: Uh, you’re right. Hashida: Oh, almost out of beer. Should I bring more? Sudou: Hashi, I think you’re more like a ma than a pops…

Thanks for reading!!!!! I had this in draft since march lol :’) I translated this just because?? As a practice? Out of whim? lol anyways. This franchise is seriously underrated so pleaseee check it out. I doubt anyone translates this anyway so I did it. I hope this post let seiyuu fans who weren’t aware discover something new. So far, I’ve no plan to continue translating… (there’s four seasons. It’s hella long and I don’t think I can do this voluntarily) but commission is always welcomed!! ❤

#mayonaka danshi meshi #uchiyama kouki #itou kento #ito kento #seiyuu #curry translates

9 notes · View notes

kedamo-nogetoffthetable · 2 months ago

Text

A collection of poems I've posted on Sky: CoTL through shared messages over the months

I beg y'all, if you recognize any of these PLEASE tell me that you've seen them

"Somedays it feels like you ripped my heart out instead. -S." Placed in the Wasteland Battlefield, near the Lookout spirit

"You put your greed above the safety of your people. You let it fester and rot you from within. Why must my siblings and I - mere children - fix your mistakes?" Can't remember. Very old poem, I think it was in Home or Forest.

"How much longer must I have to wait to feel your warmth again? -S." I believe was in the first Wasteland area, right after the social space.

"There was a day I looked up to you with wonder, and in return you inspired me. That day is far in the past. Now I fear you for the monsters you truly are." ....forest???

"When I looked into your eyes, so dark and full of hatred, I knew I had lost you. -S." Hey Shin. I love you, i love writing about OC x CC but why did I have to post so many grief poems that I don't remember where i placed them, wtf.

"I've loved you since the night we fell. How could I go on without you now, when I need you most? -S." DAMMIT SHIN.

"You used to hold me so softly. I knew i was safe when your arms were around me. Now as you tear me open, piece by piece, I wonder where those gentle hands went. -s." I swear to god you better have been in the wasteland temple you painful poem

"I've been finding it hard to sleep at night. My work has been used against me and those it was meant to help. I feel as though I'm to blame. Can anything I do really make up for what I let happen? -A." Placed directly infront of the Prairie Temple

As of late, I've felt rather useless. A soldier who cannot fight? What is there when I cannot even carry out my duty? I have a family bacm home, waiting for me. But I can feel my strength ebb away each day that passes in this tent. I hope I'm remembered." Wasteland Battlefield

"I am barely old enough to tie my own sandals, yet they seek my counsel. Every day, it's endless questions. How could I know better? I am but a child! They have ruled their realms far longer than I've been alive. Why can't the adults fix their own problems. -A." Isle of Dawn, just behind the spawn point

"I wish you would put yourself first. I have always admired your bravery, but it scares me to know I might lose my only family because you think you have to shoulder the blame. -t." Orbit, a few steps behind the valley twins

"A cavern that reeks of suffering and regret, home to a deadbeat who can't break the cycle of pain and relapse... I think I'd fit in just fine here." Slouching Soldier's funky ass giant bottle

"Let's suffer together, Soldier. We can sit in the inescapable dread of silence, recounting how everything went wrong. We'll wallow in our thoughts, convincing our withering bodies that we can't fix anything. Lets be alone together." Placed in the comments of the poem above.

"My memories sing of warm, golden sands. They do not recall this cold, green desert. What has become of our home?" Golden Wasteland, right before the temple w/ first krill

"Eden was the heart of our civilization, and the Vault was our mind. They are both broken beyond repair. What does that say about us? We built this kingdom, and in the same breath we destroyed it." Vault box area. Really wish I said 'with the same hands' not breath

"The touch of your hands is seared into my flesh. Every scar on my body is testament to the pain I was subjected to in your rage. I trace each mark and weep, mourning the person you once were. -s" SHIINNNNN.... I think all of their grief was in wasteland.

"I miss when we could dance in the rain without a care in the world. -s." Forest Brook, Underneath the bridge

"The stars are especially bright tonight. Are you watching me, Mother? -....." Valley of Triumph Hot Spring

^ there was another poem similar to this, in the same spot.

"I remember playing in the rain as a child. Now these memories bringg me pain, with the knowledge that my children will never experience that."

"I wish the skies were still full of light creatures. Every day I am forced to bear hearing the mantas, crying from their cages... The Elders must be cruel and heartless to do this without guilt." Valley of Triumph Hot Spring

note:

"Sweet child of the lilac dawn. I can't help but wonder of your pain. How had you felt, when your mother held you for the last time? When you could no longer recognize the child in the mirror? As your kingdom lay dying, did you blame yourself, too?" Home, right infront of Eden.

Most if not all of these are intended to be letters from OCs, canon Elders (including Resh/Alef), or ambiguous/unnamed ancestors and sky kids.

Close to nothing on here was a vent or my personal feelings. I feel like I have to put this note because a LOT of people would comment on my poems hoping for me to get better.

On my letter from Ayin, I got a comment telling me to praise god and he'll save me, and a multitude of "i hope you feel better :("

Thank you, but seriously??? 😭

And some poems may be paraphrased. A lot of these were written in a notebook, and had to be shortened when I posted them in Sky.

Will have poems added in the future, I think.

#sky cotl #sky children of the light #shared messages #poems #sky cotl poems

4 notes · View notes

pedropascalunofficial · 1 year ago

Text

STORY TIME - THE FANDOM STAIN

My response to THIS post from stainsofpascal/thesweetestdecline earlier today

@thesweetestdecline

I am going to number these since you’re going to get tired.

1. FAKE IG ACCOUNT

You said I made a fake account in your name on IG? No. That fake stainsofpascal account isn't me. I'm in Ireland. We don't have Threads in Europe. And a VPN can't get around that. Please check your receipts before wasting all of our time with this bullshit narrative you're trying to deflect with.

2. LONG POSTS

You complained that my posts are long. That's because your bullshit is prolific. I don’t mess around. I like to give detailed accounts of what’s happening with receipts to back it up so ppl can clearly see what's going on in the fandom they're now ashamed to be part of. It's also to prevent ppl like you from deflecting by saying your accusers are "crazy" or "obsessed" with you. The receipts don't lie even though you’d like ppl to believe they do.

3. “BOT ATTACK” ON IG

You accused me of attacking you on IG? No. I haven’t done shit on IG. I haven’t attacked your stainsofpascal or thesweetestdecline accounts. You realise I’m just the loudest of many, many ppl who wonder why you're in the fandom?! Getting you suspended would only feed your need to be seen as an underdog. I’d rather watch all this play out as ppl wake up to your clout chasing. It's not me or my friends who will be your downfall. You'll manage that just fine by continuing your bullshit.

4. FOLLOWER COUNT ANOMALIES

You’re gas. Always playing the victim to deflect from your own misdeeds. Are you ever going to explain any of the unusual increases in follows or would you like us all to ignore the fact you can get 400 in a matter of hours and drop 500 the next day? Should we believe your version of accounts because you're...... an upstanding member of this community? Stop trying to compare your jumps in followers on your stainsofpascal IG account with other ppls. Your account numbers go up and down faster than a whores knickers on Paddy’s Day in Times Square. No one else has this but you and your dodgy minions who hid their dodgy numbers in a recent attempt to hide their ratios.

5. COME CLEAN

What have I done in this fandom? I'll admit it (again). I bought Pedro’s white pages and socials info via a website. That was stupid. I regret doing it. What was really stupid was that I shared some of it thinking it was for a laugh and your mate, (let's call her Ms Peacock) used it to trade with ppl across the fandom to gain clout and to gain more information about Pedro. I've tried to make amends but it's far too late as it snowballed into much bigger information getting traded. So to attempt to make amends, I decided to get closer to the psychos and report back. Shitty, I know, but at least the right ppl know about the stalking bullshit and Pedro can protect himself better.

6. MS PEACOCK AND STALKER REDDIT

After sharing his old info with you and Ms Peacock, I realised neither of you were looking into Pedro's old info just out of curiosity. You were tracking him and his friends around like they’re characters in a story. It’s my bad for not noticing the crazy when it was staring me in the face. I shared info which was traded from person to person in exchange for info that has been used to help Ms Peacock not just stalk Pedro online but get physically closer to him. First, driving past his old house and now, three years later, she’s living "#twoblocksaway" from his gym according to a recent post. Zero shame.

I shouldn't be surprised since she used to frequent his actual neighbourhood even though it was a three hour round trip from her town. Before all that, she told us she used his personal email for a project where a group of us had raised money to adopt an elephant for his birthday. I never did get the info on the elephant since she dipped on the group chat after getting what she wanted. Ms Peacock traded info some of us had given her with others in turn for more info and clout. Just like a fandom Gollum. We didn’t realise that stuff we shared was being traded so it could be added to in order to feed her need to feel near him and grow her influence here. You’ve been part of supporting that behaviour too. When Ms Peacock asked you to find out where Pedro was one day, you went straight to the airline staff and lied about possibly being on the flight in an attempt to get the flight details. You ran right back and gave her what you had. I hope you realise we’ve all been played. Some of us learned our lesson and tried to be better but you stayed with her and you guys took it to another level. When you ran out of info, you created a stalker reddit where you share info you gather through lies and deceit with some real psychos in the fandom. I hadn't realised what I fed into until I saw the levels you guys cranked it up to. Now I see what a bit of info in the wrong hands can snowball into. I have a lot of regret about that. (I also have receipts)

Do you regret being part of that? Have you even stopped tracking him?

7. CHASING CLOUT

Some of us did some of the stuff you continue to do but we woke up and realised this shit isn't a game. YOU and your shitty friends levelled up and are fucking with ppls lives. You treat him like shit for clout and not because you want him to be a successful human being. You need to grow up and admit that to yourself. Impossible though right?! Coz then you might lose clout. That is why you're here right?!

If it's not, then why?

TO CREATE COMMUNITY?

I've seen screenshots of your IG posts and what type of community you're cultivating in your comments. Ppl who shit on Pedro's career, his sexuality, his physical appearance, and you've collected a fine assortment of fandom psychos all sharing your posts. You feed them with likes even when their comments are hate filled. Ppl have noticed.

TO STALK PEDROS FRIENDS?

You've posted about contacting Pedro's friends through social media. Going so far as to add trackers to your Tumblr and watch their online status on Instagram. (I’ve got receipts)

TO INTERFERE PEDROS FRIENDS?

You’ve admitted reaching out to Pedro’s old friends. They’re said they’ve unknowingly given information to stalkers they've had to add extra layers of security to their social media. They aren’t there to be used as “sources” during playtime. (I’ve got receipts)

TO STALK PEDRO?

You guys contact his friends, hotel and airline staff for more info on his whereabouts. (I’ve got receipts) If that's not stalking then what do you call it?

TO SUPPORT PEDRO?

Pedro is the punchline of your account. You encourage ppl to drag him by liking their hate filled comments. What’s that about? It would be cute if you weren’t also stalking him but publicly negging the fuck out of you’re victim is a bit tasteless, no?

8. OBSESSED

You say I'm "obsessed" with you and you've "done nothing to my friends"? No, try, a lot of other ppl in the fandom and I are sick of your holier than thou act when we’ve seen you abuse and attack ppl competing accounts who did nothing to you. You can't fuck up ppls lives and expect to skip off into the sunset. You do shitty things, refuse to acknowledge them and continue to be the best example of what's wrong with this fandom and why it has the reputation it does.

9. WHY DO I "COME FOR YOU"?

I challenge you because you came at others first and like magic, shit hit the fan for them.

Early on you were copying Aude’s style of posting. It's undeniable that your posts were very similar. No one really cared but ppl talked about it in forums and someone sent an anon to @pedrohub who decided to post it for some reason��. You decided to attack her in a reblog and accuse her "friends" of sending poorly spelled hate. Then you gaslight her all because she had....stopped liking your posts as much as before. Like wtf?

Then you blamed Arte for hateful anons you were getting. You said it was her because she had blocked you. You said it was definitely she because she's from Ohio (btw Arte doesn’t talk about being from Ohio so how did you know that?), ignoring the fact another fan is from Ohio and is well known in the fandom to send vicious hateful anons (let's call her Wendys License-Plates Girl). You didn't like Artes reason for disliking you and your account. She blocked you so she just didn’t have to see you. She had never said anything bad about you at that point. You produced screenshots of conversations which were had after you accused her but you ran with them as your "evidence" that she had it out for you in dms and was directing a campaign of hate against you. When nothing came of that, you then blamed her for getting you blocked by Sebastiano Mauri because you.....liked her dog pic? Again wtf. There's a trend brewing here.

You created these monsters in your head and you took your anger out on unsuspecting fan accounts. Meanwhile, you were posting shit ppl just weren't feeling and stalking SM in dms. You were tracking him and baiting him to speak to you so you could see his activity tracker in IG. I was the one who got you blocked for your fucking stalker bullshit coz you bragged about it.

You blamed Arte and Aude for bullshit you made up in your paranoid mind. You were told they were innocent by the person you suspectdd of ratting you out but you chose to doggedly go after both of THEM AND NOT ME. Talking shit in dms with whoever would listen. Spinning your usual holier than thou victim routine.

Now, let’s see….

Who has magically lost their account – pascalisfrenchpunk

Who has magically received a death threat – artedepascal (also runs mh_creatives on IG)

Who was bore witness to your bullshit, Known to be friends with Aude and Arte, Known to have connections to get info to Pedro?

Me.

Why didn’t you ever target me since you had vague posted about me being a rat? You knew I got kicked out of the stalker reddit once the Fleetwoods-rumours blog got published for the guys to read.

But...

I don't use IG so I guess you didn't see me as a threat to your clout chasing on there. You only went for ppl with competing IG accounts because all you want is to be noticed by Pedro and to be the Queen Clout Chaser of the fandom.

NO ONE WAS RUNNING A CAMPAIGN OF HATE BUT I SURE WAS COLLECTING A COLLAGE OF YOUR BULLSHIT TO HELP YOUR VICTIMS.

If you have missed who the fans are that are giving this fandom a reputation for being psychos, please see the Story Time series (so far) below✌️

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #storytime #ms peacock #ms green #col mustard #thesweetestdecline #stainsofpascal #themandadlorianbod #a7estrellas #stalker reddit #pascalisfrenchpunk #artedepascal #reddit #story time #pedro pascal stalker #deuxmoi #pedro pascal deuxmoi

29 notes · View notes

narancias-headband · 11 months ago

Text

A big announcement...

Hi everyone! Very long time, no see.

I've gone through and cleaned things up around here a good bit, deleting old posts and fixing up my masterlist again. You might have seen some posts as I fix things up around here.

But the short and sweet version of this post is...

I'm coming back to this blog!!

It's going to be a decent bit different than before, but I do want to write and share my thoughts with you all again. :)

An important note! I will no longer taking 'requests', but I'd love some inspiration from everyone! I'm not going to hold myself to write anything that doesn't seem right for me. Feel free to send in requests/ideas for inspiration, and please do not be offended if I never get to them! I promise, I'm not judging! Some brief rules on what to ask for are here in my pinned post (they're mostly the same as before haha).

A very LONG rambling update under the cut for anyone wondering what in the world I've been up to.

So... A lot has changed in the past few years here... It's been like a year since y'all have heard from me... Mainly, my hyperfixation on JoJo's went away for a while. So that's my brain's fault haha. I've done this a few times with a few blogs, so I guess I was expecting to drop it sooner or later. What I didn't expect was how much I miss this blog (believe me, I have no regrets on my old blog deaths).

I've been watching JoJo's with a dear friend of mine lately, and the need to write has been stirring again. And then we hit Part 5... My brain was shifted back into fanfic mode instantly. I saw Formaggio and remembered my dear husband. I went and read through so much of my old stuff and remembered how much fun I used to have writing. I'm already working on a few new things, and a few old things, but I'm in no rush.

Which relates to some of the changes I'm hoping to make here. In all honesty, I did a lot here for the attention of people and the approval of the fandom. And that is not sustainable! No wonder I had writing burnout so much... I'm not planning to take as many requests anymore, and I will be much more focused on creating things that make me happy than anything else. Hopefully others enjoy it anyway :)

So... What have I been up to? My life has been taking lots of unexpected twists and turns. My, not entirely intentional, unemployment has opened up some free time to get back to things I enjoy. And I will never let a job take over my life like that again. Good news is, I'm working on my mental health and I finally feel creative again! I want to write and draw and think and I actually have the energy for it!

I've been very lost in the awful job market lately, and being at home alone all day isn't the most thrilling, but even just the minor things I've been doing behind the scenes on this blog have made me feel great. It's a bit more fulfilling than just playing Fortnite all day 😅

And me? I've grown up a lot lately. Working through mental issues, focusing on myself and my happiness, making changes for the better. Which is the main reason I really want to come back! This blog made me so happy and that's my main goal lately. I'm back into JJBA hardcore, I've become a Fortnite kid, and my love of Pokémon has come back in full force. And I have a new pretty gaming PC to sit and write at and the more I use it the more it's worth the $1500 I spent on it.

Oh, and one last thing... For better or worse, I've pretty much ended up a functional stoner. 😅 Probably expect more headcanons about getting high with diff characters that will be way better than the goofy ones I wrote way back when.

#i wanted to boop a bunch of people to signal my return but my dumbass didn't realize it was an april fools thing oof #to the one person i booped ily lmao #anyway... hello again everyone! glad to be back :)#ill probably reblog this tomorrow cuz im posting late woof

10 notes · View notes

stuffgoeswrong · 23 days ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/stuffgoeswrong/772622785780531200?source=share

i mean all questions from this post 😈😈 all of them, that's why they weren't listed (all's good on ur end!!)

OH! I totally misread the intonation lmao. Sorry for being so late

❤: Which character do you think is the most egregiously mischaracterized by the fandom?

Chuuya

🧡: What is a popular (serious) theory you disagree with?

I honestly don't know many theories. . . most of the ones I've heard are intriguing or I agree with. However unlikely, some might make the story better, so I guess I don't have an answer for this one.

💛: What is a popular ship you just can't get behind, and why?

Already answered with one, so I'll go secondly with Odango. Maybe I have predisposed hate to it because I love Odazai so much, but also I just don't see it. They barely have any interaction in Dark Era by themselves. I'd understand Dazai and Ango more than Oda and Ango. Fan art that makes them "Dazai's guardians" during Dark Era just pisses me off.

💚: What does everyone else get wrong about your favorite character?

To me, Dazai is like a jaded version of Tamaki from OHSHC. I think he's terrified all the time of losing his friends but he doesn't let the anxiety take over. He's not the goofing off kid in class, he is the teacher's pet but he will be a little shit with his friends. His personality is overconfident because he's insecure.

The thing people get wrong about him so often is that he was forced into the mafia by Mori, but I think it was more his decision. They're total equals and Mori is even afraid of him taking over his position. Having said that, I think Dazai was searching for change even before Oda died. He's so bored with life that I can't believe the Mafia wasn't even a bit monotonous and unfulfilling. And I think he directly said he didn't want to become the Mafia boss in Fifteen (but don't quote me on that). Helping people has genuinely made him a better person who's more invested in life. Softie, sweetie, ADA Dazai deserves to be protected

💙: Which character is not as hot as everyone else seems to think?

Chuuya. He's like, a 7 at best. Not really my type.

💜: Which character is way hotter than everyone else seems to think?

Already answered in another ask, so my #2 would be Fukuzawa. Maybe I just like older men :/

🤍: Which character is not as morally bad as everyone else seems to think?

Dazai

🖤: Which character is not as morally good as everyone else seems to think?

Higuchi

💖: What is your biggest unpopular opinion about the series?

Already answered, but I'll add: I liked season 3 better than season 2.

💔: If you had to remove one major character from the series, who would you choose?

Chuuya. I feel like he's mostly a side character but the fandom elevated him to the main character status. He's also called in for battling bigger enemies or for rescue (the ADA) that I think other characters could also take care of if they were given a chance or the plot just progressed differently

💕: What is an unpopular ship that you like?

Dazatsu. And Chuuya/Yosano. I can't help but add another cause I like rarepairs and I'm indecisive

📖: If you had to remove one book from the series, which would you choose?

From the main series? Or the light novels? Hmm. . . Dead Apple. Was it canon? Was it good? It was fun, but I don't hear anyone talk about it.

🏳️‍🌈: Which character who is commonly headcanoned as queer doesn't seem queer to you?

Already answered, so a different character (two): the Akutagawa siblings

💀: If you had to choose one major character to die, who would you choose?

It's not that I dislike him at all, but Akutagawa. Give Atsushi development PLEASE. Hopefully he'd gain some motivation beyond "protagonist goodness" and dimension aside from "abused and kind in spite of it". He'd start to regret all he lost in a friend and teammate and all the times they could have gotten along but chose not to. And it'd be something he can bond over with Dazai

#if you know me at all you also know i LOVE chuuaku #and ayamura (ayatsuji and tsujimura)#bsd #asks #my post #unpopular opinions #ask game #more people should read the gaiden

2 notes · View notes

stillyour-sweetheart · 1 year ago

Note

Haii your blog is amazing and reading your posts about heartbreak is helping me get through my own right now. I was in a situationship for almost a yr and it’s really left my heart in pain and my mind confused (I never wanted a situationship but he was emotionally unavailable). Sometimes I feel so low about myself because I know I deserved so much better and I think about how someone could’ve treated me so horribly, but tbh your heartbreak posts help me feel understood and remind me that I’m not alone, so thank u for being so genuine and for providing a comfort space for me ^.^ :’)

Hello there!! ☺️🩷

Thank you so much for liking my blog and for taking your time to scroll through it, it means a lot to me! ;___;

Ah… situationships… I’ve been in a couple myself and yes, it definitely hurts. There are so many emotions that result from being in one and for letting yourself stay even if you know you’re miserable, not getting what you KNOW you deserve, feeling constantly confused and exhausted, etc. I think it’s easy to be hard on ourselves when we look back at what we could’ve/should’ve done (hindsight is 20/20 remember). But tbh being critical on ourselves isn’t very helpful in the healing process. As cliché as it may sound, you have to love yourself into healing. You have to fill the cup that’s been empty for a while. Everyone goes through different stages in their lives. Please don’t be ashamed, guilty, or embarrassed for what you’ve gone through lately. It’s all a part of the learning process in the grand scheme of things (even if that sounds a bit cold to say / easier said than done). Be gentle with yourself and nurture your heart. Take from your situationship what you can from it. Milk out as many lessons as you can and assign purpose to your pain.

I know how much it hurts to not have these things work out even if you did your best in loving them… it makes you feel so hopeless and wonder, ‘what was so wrong with me that it didn’t work/that they didn’t want me?’ I see your pain. But just know that one person’s inability to choose you is not a reflection of your love, but a reflection of their poor decision-making skills and lack of desire to grow. Be proud that you loved and are loving, because that in itself is so hard and scary to do. You were amazing before them, and you are still amazing now even if you don’t feel like it. You inspire others just by being you and I say that because even though you’re hurting, you’re still able to share light and positivity to a stranger like me. That takes an enormous amount of strength and a heart full of love and warmth. I’m lucky to experience it. :)

I hope you continue to enjoy my blog! And yes, you are never alone! I hope things will get better for you in time. Take all the time you need to process your feelings. Never be ashamed of feeling bad or for loving them and or continuing to love them. To love with such a heart of gold is rare and I feel sorry that they let someone like you go. They’ll surely regret it.

Again, take all the time you need and be gentle with yourself. Take care. ❤️

#ask #anon #reply #nice anon

3 notes · View notes

frombirkhallwithlove · 2 years ago

Note

So I noticed on your wife’s blog that she mentioned that you also associate Taylor Swift songs with Charles and Camilla so I was wondering which ones you thought are most like them??

Thanks so much for this wonderful and inspiring question! In fact, I think that quite a lot of Taylor songs could actually be written for / about Their Majesties (they most certainly aren't but I think they "pitch perfect"). A couple of months ago, I started a little something I haven't posted anywhere yet but I'm happy to share it here (and please do let me know what you think! 🥰)

Charles & Camilla's love story in quotes from Taylor Swift songs...

"We were both young when I first saw youI close my eyes and the flashback startsI'm standin' there..."

~ Love Story (obviously 🥰)

"And I got a boyfriend, he's older than us. He's in the club doing, I don't know what"

~ Gorgeous (Camilla about Andrew... I mean he IS older then them 😅 and I'm afraid the second part was just like that as well...)

"Walked in expecting you'd be late

But you got here early and you stand and wave

I walk to you

You pull my chair out and help me in

And you don't know how nice that is

But I do

And you throw your head back laughing

Like a little kid

I think it's strange that you think I'm funny, 'cause

He never did

I've been spending the last eight months

Thinking all love ever does

Is break and burn, and end

But on a Wednesday in a cafe

I watched it begin again"

~ Begin Again (because Charles treated her so much better than A. and sadly she hadn't only spent eight months but in fact five years with him at that point 👀)

"And I don't know why

But with you I'd dance in a storm

In my best dress

Fearless"

~ Fearless (for when Camilla found herself in love with the Prince of Wales... )

"But you know what they say, you can't help who you fall for

And you and I fell like an early spring snow

But reality crept in, you said we're too different"

~ I bet you think about me (for when they split (?) in December 1972 and Charles left to join the Navy... I do indeed bet they thought about each other all the time... 🥺)

"It turns out freedom ain't nothin' but missin' you

Wishin' I'd realized what I had when you were mine

I'd go back to December, turn around and make it alright

I go back to December all the time"

~ Back to December (for when Camilla realised that A. wasn't going to change even after their wedding and she might or might not have started to regret going back to him after Charles joined the Navy in December (!!!) of the previous year 💔

"It's nice to have a friend..."

~ obviously 🤭 (for the time they rekindled their friendship after she had married A.)

"And when I felt like I was an old cardigan

Under someone's bed

You put me on and said I was your favorite"

~ Cardigan (because he still managed to make her happy and feel good about herself while A. still treated her... well, the way the did...)

"And when we've had our very last kiss

My last request is

Say you'll remember me

Standing in a nice dress

Staring at the sunset, babe

Red lips and rosy cheeks

Say you'll see me again

Even if it's just in your wildest dreams"

~ Wildest dreams (before he married his first wife 😭)

"She floats down the aisle like a pageant queen

But I know you wish it was me

You wish it was me

Don't you?

Don't say yes, run away now

I'll meet you when you're out of the church at the back door

Don't wait, or say a single vow

You need to hear me out

And they said, "Speak Now""

~ Speak Now (if only I could go on a time traveller and do exactly that on a certain day in July '81)

"You've got a smile that can light up this whole town

I haven't seen it in a while since she brought you down..."

~ You belong with me (... 😔)

"She said "James, get in, let's drive"

Those days turned into nights

Slept next to her, but

I dreamt of you all summer long"

~ Betty (for when he realised he still loved her 😭)

"'Cause there we are again when I loved you so

Back before you lost the one real thing you've ever known

It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well"

~ All too well (for when they finally got back together ❤️)

"Make sure nobody sees you leave

Hood over your head, keep your eyes down

Tell your friends you're out for a run

You'll be flushed when you return

Take the road less traveled by

Tell yourself you can always stop

What started in beautiful rooms

Ends with meetings in parking lots"

~ Illicit affairs (for obvious reasons, around the late 80s/ early 90s

"Just grab my hand and don't ever drop it

My love

They are the hunters, we are the foxes

And we run

Baby, I know places we won't be found and

They'll be chasing their tails trying to track us down

'Cause I, I know places we can hide"

~ I know places (for back when they could only meet at "safe houses" from a handful of friends 🥺)

"And your secrets end up splashed on the news front page [...]

Another name goes up in lights

You wonder if you'll make it out alive"

~ The Lucky One (for 1993... 😭💔)

"My castle crumbled overnight

I brought a knife to a gunfight

They took the crown, but it's alright

All the liars are calling me one

Nobody's heard from me for months"

~ Call it what you want (for when Camilla more or less had to go into "lockdown" following the "revelations" 😔 Glad they did NOT take the crown, though)

"I've been under scrutiny

You handle it beautifully

All this shit is new to me

I feel the lavender haze creepin' up on me

Surreal, I'm damned if I do give a damn what people say

No deal, the 1950s shit they want from me

I just wanna stay in that lavender haze"

~ Lavender Haze (for the mid-90s)

"'Cause baby, I could build a castle

Out of all the bricks they threw at me

And every day is like a battle

But every night with us is like a dream"

~ New romantics (mid-/late 90s)

"Seems like there's always someone who disapproves

They'll judge it like they know about me and you

And the verdict comes from those with nothing else to do

The jury's out, but my choice is you

So don't you worry your pretty, little mind

People throw rocks at things that shine

And life makes love look hard

The stakes are high, the water's rough

But this love is ours"

~ Ours (for when they finally "went public" from 1999 onwards 🥰❤️

"Romeo, save me, I've been feeling so alone

I keep waiting for you, but you never come

Is this in my head? I don't know what to think

He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring

And said, "Marry me, Juliet

You'll never have to be alone

I love you and that's all I really know

I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress

It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes""

~ Love Story, for when he finally asked her and she agreed 😍😍😍😭

"But in your life you'll do things

Greater than dating the boy on the football team

But I didn't know it at fifteen"

~ Fifteen (because I think our darling girl really had no idea that she was going to do MUCH greater things in her life than dating/marrying a certain Cavalry Officer even at 25... and probably not even at 57, when she finally married her Prince 🤭)

"I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you

I don't wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you

I've been sleeping so long in a 20-year dark night

And now I see daylight, I only see daylight"

~ Daylight (because she was finally married to the love of her life and slowly but surely began to discover her potential and became more and more confident in her role 🥰)

"Stick with me, I'm your Queen."

~ London Boy (for when destiny fulfilled itself and she did become his Queen... 🥺😭)

"Long live the walls

We crashed through

How the kingdom lights shined

Just for me and you

I was screaming long live

All the magic we made

And bring on all the pretenders

One day we will be remembered"

~ Long Live (because the kingdom lights will shine for them on May 6th 😍😍😍)

#queen camilla #king charles iii #coronation #taylor swift

8 notes · View notes

coreymichaelsmithson · 2 months ago

Text

2024: A Blue Dispatch From Main Street

Social media encourages us to curate our lives, to offer up for public exhibition only the most favorable and relatable versions of ourselves. We make increasingly unsubtle adjustments to our photographs, buff our tarnished veneers, blur our frown lines to seem younger or healthier or more at ease. Rarely do we publicly report on the nagging doubts of the wee hours, the quagmires of professional or spiritual stagnation, the thousand tiny humiliations of the day that accumulate until the thankful oblivion of bedtime. When we stop and look back upon the landscape of our years, we want it all to make sense ... for our trials to acquire meaning, for our suffering to impart some moral lesson, for our labors to leave behind a treasury of dazzling talismans. Middle age speeds the passage of hours and lends to each anxiety a whistling intensity that does not lessen with time. That rising whine in one's ear is not the drone of an insistent mosquito but rather the sound of time accelerating, the ineluctable quickening towards death which we interpret as an imperative: hurry, hurry, hurry, the clock is ticking, make something of yourself, make good before it's too late. We fear that when we reach our final shore it will resemble a deadfall of squandered opportunities, regrets piled upon the berm of consciousness like so much driftwood.

To put it another way: it's late December, and I'm confessing to you that I haven't been doing so good.

I have nothing to lose here by being honest ... though I'll concede that anybody else's crisis can make for a tiresome slog if it lacks gravitas or punchy verbs, and there is little on this Earth as eyerollingly indulgent as the malaise of an aging artist. But please bear with me for a little while longer, and walk alongside me through this valley, and perhaps by the end of this letter we shall both feel a bit better about things.

I rarely post to social media these days, so the intermittent reports on my circumstances have been somewhat misleading. Judging only from my online activity, one might think that I'd finally found happiness and fulfillment in some bucolic country hamlet ... thriving far from the madding crowd, keeping musical company with woodland animals, skipping with a wicker basket towards the farmer's market, dreaming of gingham and blueberry pie. Viewers have been seeing only the sunniest snapshots of my life here: napping dogs, warm smiles shared over brunch, my irresistibly handsome boyfriend, a picturesque porch overtaken by Virginia Creeper. As a result, well-meaning commentators will blithely chirp, "So happy to see you living your best life!"

I'm sorry to report that the true picture has been much starker. All smiling photographic evidence to the contrary, 2024 was one of the bleakest and most frustrating years of my career. I've rarely been so unhappy, rudderless, or demoralized, and at many points I've been perilously close to giving up altogether. It seems I have already accepted some kind of defeat, though I cannot with any real specificity identify what battle it is that I've lost, or what I stand to regain by plunging once more into the fray.

There's been a reason for my relative invisibility of late. In the interest of sparing my loved ones any worry I've just started shelving rather than sharing my most alarming thoughts, writing then deleting vaguely ominous posts, avoiding the phone. I simply stay quiet during the quiet nights. Rather than reaching out to sympathetic girlfriends at 4:am, I'll just cry while standing at the fridge in my underwear and spoon cake frosting straight from the can. As Daniel and I often like to say, "Frosting thinks I'm pretty."

Let me back up and start again.

I rang in the New Year scooping dog poop. This is not in itself remarkable ... every single night, without fail, my partner Daniel and I walk our four handicapped dogs through the quiet streets of McEwen, Tennessee, a hilly country hamlet without stoplights or quaint storefronts or much in the way of charm. There are two kinds of rural Southern poverty ... the photogenic kind, with tilting barns and rocking chairs and an antiquey patina on its surfaces, and then the dismal kind, with dimly-lit Dollar Generals and tweakers who steal catalytic converters. We live amongst the latter. Anyway, we'd just spent the earlier part of the evening celebrating with some friends, but we went home long before the official countdown, something which would have seemed impossible to the fun-loving partiers we once were. Bailing on a New Year's Eve party was the kind of thing that Boring Old Farts did, not Cool Punk Kids like us. But, as it happened, the stroke of midnight found Edison, our deaf and elderly pit bull, copping a squat on the neighbor's yard, and thus the first meaningful action I performed this year was to clean up a steaming pile of shit with a plastic bag from Walmart.

In the dreariest stretch of February, I turned fifty. I can't remember doing anything of consequence on the day itself ... but right around that time I began to develop this intense melancholy, the realization that I was no longer living with the adventurous and productive pluck by which I had heretofore defined myself. Perhaps my best days were behind me, and all I had to show for my life was a landfill's worth of ignored artworks and unsold books. I had somehow maneuvered myself into an inescapable oubliette.

Nonetheless, I kept working. I finally finished my fourth novel, “THE FABULOUS MEDICINE SHOW”, a project that took over 34 years to complete. With great pride and enthusiasm, I dove headfirst into the challenge of trying to find professional representation, and I queried some 200 literary agents ... but despite a few promising nibbles, and a top-to-bottom six-week rewrite, I just couldn't get my manuscript past the gatekeepers of the industry. I sank back into the most intense despair, and nearly quit writing altogether. This defeat stung deeply, as the novel includes some of my most vivid and imaginative passages to date. For an artist, there is no pain quite like that of being unseen.

I licked my wounds and began again. I started previsualization on my fifth, sixth, and seventh novels (“THE ROAD TO VINEGAR HOUSE”, “THE GIRL WITH THE SHUTTERED LAMP”, and “TRAFARR”, respectively), and collated the first few essays of my fourth memoir, “HORSESHIT AND GLITTER”. Perhaps none of these efforts will gain any traction in an indifferent and impenetrable industry, but I will work hard to finish them anyway, on faith of their essential merit.

Overall, it was a year of too many rejections. I didn’t get into any of the residencies I applied to ... Yaddo, Bemis, Headlands. I was waitlisted for the Crosstown program in Memphis ... but that still effectively amounts to a "no", as I probably won't be able to fundraise on short notice or free up three whole months of 2025 for a "maybe".

As always, the studio has been my salvation. 2024 was exceptionally fruitful in terms of painting commissions, and my easel has never been empty. I sold out a limited edition run of prints in half a day. In a burst of activity, I executed "PARKER MEMORIAL", "IGGY I & II", "PHANTOM, "BEAR", "CHEEZ-IT', "EDISON", "AURORA", "PEACHES", "GIFT OF THE CROWS", "G IS FOR GAVIN", and began work on "NORTHWEST VIEW". I finished "INVITATION", "JEWELBOX", and "CRIMSON AND CLOVER OVER AND OVER" and started on two new canvases, "SNOOKIE OOKEMS" and "HARD CANDY". The latter is proving to be one of the most technically difficult oil paintings of my career, but it's off to a terrific start, and its luminous color is already signaling a major shift in my glazing technique.

I made a point of dedicating more time to reading, an activity which had taken a hard hit in busier years. I took in John Updike's "THE WITCHES OF EASTWICK", John Irving's "THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP", Joan Didion's "SLOUCHING TOWARD BETHLEHEM", Cormac McCarthy's "BLOOD MERIDIAN", Susanna Clarke's "JONATHAN STRANGE & MR. NORRELL", Joseph Campbell's "HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES", Andrea Stewart's "THE BONE SHARD DAUGHTER", Walter Miller's "A CANTICLE FOR LEIBOWITZ", and I re-read Henry Miller's "TROPIC OF CANCER", which blew my mind back in high school. I'm still trying to trudge my way through my dusty fourth volume of Proust, though I've admittedly lost some steam after three years.

Volunteering at a friend's farm, I planted two rows of heirloom tomatoes and helped set up a beehive. While there, I watched a pair of chickens fucking, a sight which looks as frantic and unromantic as one might imagine. I saw a partial solar eclipse while returning spoiled cheese.

I went to a high school musical production of “GREASE”, which brought back fond memories of my theater department friends, many of whom are still with me today. I tried studying Russian again for about five minutes, but had to throw in the towel when I realized that I wouldn't get anywhere without a structured curriculum, grammatical diagrams, cultural insight, uninterrupted study time, or real-life conversational partners. On a warm winter night, I snuck over to a bro's house to share in a clandestine bit of nookie; this seemed, however, to take us into some morally grey territory, leaving me unsatisfied and my would-be paramour wrestling with a guilty conscience.

I tried to get outdoors occasionally, and made use of a great local resource: Montgomery Bell State Park, a sprawling WPA-era gem comprising 3,850 acres of hiking trails, meadows, and rustic mid-century facilities. I've enjoyed several day hikes there, including one memorable afternoon when a friend and I tripped together on mail-order mushroom gummies. Deep inside the park's woodland lies the half-buried Laurel Furnace Cemetery, almost invisible now but for a small wooden sign and a few nameless markers leaning this way and that along a slope. Once, while waiting on a hiking buddy near the park's visitor's center, I got a friendly wave and a “Yeah, man!” from the indestructible Steve-O of "JACKASS" fame, marking my only celebrity encounter of 2024.

I rode as a passenger in a truck that hit a deer, and felt it die in my hands as I dragged it off the road. My fifty-year streak of avoiding poison ivy came to an end during an ill-advised hike at dusk, and I spent two miserable weeks scratching at blisters and wondering what I ever did to make nature hate me so much.

I resumed my therapeutic use of psilocybin, microdosing to alleviate the worst symptoms of my mental illness and to gain some perspective on the big picture. I'm hoping to get on a regular psychedelic regimen next year, one which might provide an ameliorating (if temporary) latticework to support my collapsing psyche.

While out walking the dogs one night, I witnessed the most astonishing meteor. Its white-hot line of fire crossed directly overhead, blazing in the indigo night with an undeniable message ... that vast cosmic forces beyond all reckoning are at work here, that the fragile planet we occupy is subject to sudden and cataclysmic change — whether it be by asteroid bombardment, celestial storm, or some such accident of galactic mayhem — and that none of our schemes, hopes, or expectations matter one goddamned bit in the grand scheme of things.

As will be true in any year, there were many losses.

My favorite pub in Boston, which was something of an unofficial campus annex during grad school, was gutted at the hands of a crazed arsonist. Here in McEwen, a neighbor's house caught fire under suspicious circumstances, and for the past few weeks its charred roof has been slowly collapsing in on itself. The ruin groans creepily at night, like something left wounded on the side of the road.

Three of my friends died in 2024, and I watched from afar as other loved ones mourned their own bereavements. April was a funny and sweetnatured coworker of mine from my short stint in aerospace manufacturing. John was a brilliant musician, a sparkling conversationalist, and a generous mentor to thousands of artists worldwide. Dudley was a pillar of the Dickson sobriety community, a man whose bright-eyed geniality could light up a room. A quote of his is repeated often among our circle: "I was really worried about something last year, but for the life of me I can't remember what it was."

Scams proliferated. I bailed out of the flaming wreck of Twitter, joined BlueSky, and was almost immediately catfished by an account supposedly belonging to an award-winning author. A lot of hot Japanese women on Instagram seemed very eager to date me, and my voicemail was suddenly swarmed by "book industry insiders" with Filipino accents and restricted call-center numbers who wanted to promote the books I self-published over two years ago. In a single day, dozens of malevolent actors with IP addresses originating in China, Russia, Mexico, and Poland tried to hack into my email.

My car, Scout, is beginning to rattle apart, and he needs more work than I can possibly afford. He's still getting me around, but I'm scared of taking him much further away than Dickson, twenty miles to our east, or Waverly, ten miles to our west, for fear of him giving out beyond the towing radius offered by my AAA membership.

Professionally and financially, this was my worst year on record, marking an even more precipitous decline than what I went through the prior year. I've never earned so little in my entire working life, and it's frankly embarrassing to look at the figures. The slump of 2024 was fundamentally tied to two major losses of 2023. First, my longest-term client relationship, with the Bank of America, came to a mysterious and deeply disappointing end. There was no explanation, no formal dismissal, no finality or closure, not even a termination email ... just a bewildering and sustained silence from the producer who I had faithfully served for fifteen years. Even after a few politely worded nudges, I never got any answers from her. Later that year, I lost another client, this time a friend who had brought me into the energy sector under the wing of his agency. As both breakups happened in 2023, it seems that this should all be considered stale news, with no bearing on the present ... but truth be told, the foundering of these two partnerships sapped what little professional confidence I had, so much so that I felt pretty much unhirable throughout all of 2024. I had somehow steered my ship into the horse latitudes, and its sails hung slack for lack of wind. This may seem to some like an extreme emotional overreaction, and on the surface my underemployment might appear to be nothing more than the most egregious kind of sloth ... but I assure you, this was most decidedly NOT the case.

Depression is an insidious thief, you see, and it will quietly rob you of the will to reach for anything. You can't just haul yourself up by the bootstraps if you've lost all sense of self-worth. You won't apply for a job if you believe deep down that you really don't deserve it.

Despite these setbacks, I did land a new client based in Brazil, and at their request I did some ghostwriting about the use of AI in business automation and workflow optimization. This presented an opportunity to learn a great deal about a growth area I'd known very little about, but it also illuminated some sobering realities about the changing corporate landscape. Unfortunately, this assignment turned out to be yet another brief tango ... the entire marketing department (including my awesome boss) got laid off with no warning two months after I came on board, and I got thrown out with the bathwater. It wasn't such a big deal ... I sensed that my role would soon be made redundant by AI anyway, as more and more boardrooms are prioritizing "content creation" over "writing" in the traditional sense, and the work itself was grossly regurgitative.

I got tasked with writing a few more legal essays for the plaintiffs of a personal injury lawyer. At present, this work occurs only infrequently ... but the experience of crafting each of these essays is highly rewarding, as it allows me to use my skills to help people in their time of need, and I'm hoping to turn this side-hustle into a real business sometime next year.

I moved furniture for a friend's home staging company, got hired to perform a major edit on young adult fantasy novel, and animated a Christmas-themed music video for a Massachusetts-based musician. One of the most unexpectedly taxing gigs came during a rainy weekend in Franklin, when I worked at a soggy taco stand for the Pilgrimage Festival, standing in ankle-deep mud and slinging overpriced nachos until my entire lumbar region throbbed. One entitled twenty-something princess refused to accept the "NO SPECIAL ORDERS" mandate from our line cooks, and she continued to snippily escalate the situation until I had to be restrained from leaping over the counter with a ladleful of piping hot pork hash.

The undisputed highlight of my year was a short trip back to Washington State, my homeland, to attend my brother's wedding and our father's 74th birthday. My brother and his bride put on a perfect wedding: simple, sincere, uncluttered by ostentation but featuring all the best components. They had recently purchased a vacation home on Hat Island, a small and insular community blessed by a commanding view of Possession Sound, and it was in this setting that our family experienced one of its finest moments.

While there, I didn't get to see nearly as many people as I wanted to, and I had to miss out on some visits farther afield, but the few reunions that did happen were truly restorative. I hiked past old haunts and childhood homes, watched salmon leap up the rapids of Granite Falls, and drank a cup of delicious clam nectar from Ivar's on the waterfront. I visited the famous mummies ("Sylvester" and "Sylvia") of Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe, two macabre but fascinating fixtures of my childhood. My father and stepmother took me up to the Big Four ice caves, an amazing (and dangerously fragile) natural feature of the Cascades. I took a deep dive into debauchery at my very favorite sex club, the sacred red lights of which did much to bolster my flagging self-esteem.

Back in Tennessee, the nearby town of Dickson held its second annual LGBTQ+ Pride festival, a surprisingly colorful and bustling affair that put an especially timely emphasis on trans visibility. Equally well-attended were the Mystic Maker's Market (a hotspot for witches, fortune-tellers, and the crystal pendant crowd) and Art In The Alley (a street fair for local artists and crafters). Seeing these things happen came as a heartening reminder that progress does eventually make its way to Smalltown USA ... even if it arrives in the form of rainbow swag, ren faire corsets, and palm-readers sporting shawls in the style of Stevie Nicks.

I attended two different campfires with two different sets of friends and ate rabbit stew in a house that my boyfriend had remodeled and sold long ago. We helped a trans neighbor file a police report after she had been harassed in a grocery store. I reconnected with a close pal whom I had insulted very badly; after a long and sad estrangement, she showed the courage and grace to extend an olive branch, and we gleefully resumed our conversation.

Along with half of America, I watched with horror as our nation once again showed its true face: gullible, mean-spirited, greedy, racist, undereducated, misogynistic, xenophobic, fearful, and foolish. While I have been very hesitant to "unfriend" people due to their differing political views, I've come to realize that I can no longer respect the opinion or judgment of those Americans who've demonstrated such a glaring lack of discernment with their vote. I've been having a hard time looking certain people in the eye. I even had to jettison a former patron after he posted a homophobic political meme that made me want to punch a hole in my studio wall.

Meanwhile, the picture in the bathroom mirror isn't so pretty. I no longer bother to suck in my gut or keep my clothes in good repair. I do manage to bathe, floss, and do my laundry ... but other than an occasional evening walk to the cemetery I don't get any real exercise, and as a result I look terrible. I've abandoned the local gym altogether, though it is open twenty-four hours a day and stands only two blocks from our house. I've come to feel that there is no joy to be found among its dumbbells and sweat-slicked pleather benches, and I discovered that even with adjustable speeds the treadmill still goes nowhere. My friends and family have noticed the resulting weight gain, and I cannot help but recognize in their eyes a strange alarm, something bordering on dismay or perhaps even disgust. People show surprisingly little tact when one has gained or lost a great deal of weight, though they may couch their judgments in terms like "concern" or "care".

It's strange how one can be fat and feel like they're starving to death at the same time.

To disguise the evidence of my physical deterioration, I've perfected the art of the flattering self-portrait ... a cheeky closed-mouth smile that delivers good dimples, a 3/4 view that is taken from slightly above the eyeline so as to hide my sinking jowls and double chin, a jaunty cap to cover my thinning hair, some judicious use of Photoshop to restore a little vibrance to my skin. Sometimes I affect a defiant insouciance about my lost beauty. "Fuck it," I sneer to the shampoo bottle, "I'm fifty years old and I've got nothing left to prove. Besides, I've gotten laid more often than any of you could possibly imagine. Who cares if I stopped being hot?"

I am now a quarter million dollars in debt, with no clear path to solvency. Because of the federal taxes that I owe, and the complicated tangle of my finances, I cannot receive any assistive credit from the Healthcare Marketplace. Thus, I will have no health insurance whatsoever for 2025. This lack of a safety net came into sharp focus one late night, when I suffered a devastatingly painful asthma attack and couldn't go to the emergency room.

I celebrated my twelfth year of sobriety without much fanfare. I am deeply grateful to be free from my dependencies on alcohol, tobacco, and other recreational drugs, but lately I've distanced myself from the recovery scene. For the most part, I've stopped going to AA meetings. AA has never been a real necessity for me, as maintaining my sobriety has become a fairly effortless thing, so I went mostly to support my partner, and to spend quality time with some of our favorite mutual friends. I realized, though, that these meetings were providing my ONLY source of real-world social interaction, and that I was pretty much going just to alleviate my loneliness and boredom. These don't seem like valid reasons to hang around the periphery of a twelve-step community, no matter how much I love the attendees.

So without the minimal interaction provided by those meetings, I've become completely isolated, and now rarely have much reason to leave the house. For the most part, I no longer go out to do things, other than making an occasional shopping run to Walmart, drying my laundry at the laundromat (our home's dryer crapped out), or maybe taking Daniel to a lunch date at the local greasy spoon. This, above all else, is why I've felt like I've been slowly dying since I moved here. The stormchasing derring-do of earlier years has been replaced by a life of startlingly small proportions and almost no variation from day to day. I wake up at noon, feed the dogs their breakfast, shower, make Daniel lunch, shepherd an increasingly incontinent pit bull outside every twenty minutes, try to do something productive with the non-contiguous scraps of the day, feed the dogs their dinner, struggle to move the needle forward on various studio projects, walk the dogs around midnight, eat supper and watch TV with Daniel at 1:am, then go to bed at 3:am. Rinse and repeat.

To be fair, though, things aren't all terrible on Main Street. Our home, which was built sometime before 1899, has a bird nest that sits atop a drainspout below the eaves, and this seems to function as something of an avian flophouse; we've seen both robins and house sparrows setting up shop on the same spot for the past three years. On foggy spring mornings I'd hover by the fake French door with its broken plastic mullions and sip coffee as the hatchlings strained towards their mother. Spring also brings the threat of severe weather; I still thrill to green skies and the sound of tornado sirens, though this crooked old shitbox would probably provide about as much protection from the wind as a chicken coop.

Daniel and I like to sit on our front porch and wave as the Homecoming and Christmas parades go by. These annual events are rather modest affairs ... little more than a handful of decorated jalopies and pickups, the high school marching band, a few floats covered in flapping crêpe and handwritten signs, smiling kids throwing fistfuls of candy, all of this pomp sandwiched between slow-rolling police cruisers ... but they bring to our life a warm measure of Americana, a feeling of neighborliness and tradition.

Weather permitting, I'll take a late afternoon walk to either of McEwen's two historic cemeteries. Along the way, I'll look to everyday details that appeal to my eye, accidental compositions that I've taken to calling "my little treasures": a pile of forgotten scaffolding rusting against a carport; an antique dinner bell hanging unrung on a garden post; hooded signal lamps on a crossbuck; a fallen Spanish oak, the limbs of which spear the soil like a sculpture by Calder; a grain elevator rusting at the edge of a field; a reflective pond nestled in a copse; a tool shed with two empty windows, through which one can glimpse a framed picture of lawn and sky. From far away, the train whistle sounds mournful and romantic. Deer forage between the graves of 19th Century Irish immigrants, turkey vultures flap from carrion on the tracks. The town's water tower stands gleaming and bold against the cumulonimbi, and it looks especially heroic when backlit by the setting sun. Encounters like these provide a few lifesaving morsels of beauty, just enough glory to survive on.

The one constant in my life over the past year, the one thing that has kept me going despite all my swiftly piling grievances, has been the love of a good man. Daniel is the best partner I could ever ask for ... smart, funny, talented, generous, loyal, easy on the eyes. He's a brilliant artist, a spectacularly gifted and soulful musician, a great cook. All day long we laugh and hug and hang off each other's shoulders. We understand one another so thoroughly, so intuitively, that we can speak in a shorthand of campy movie quotes, references to sitcom stars of yesteryear, faggoty bon mots, nonsensical non sequiturs. We use alphabetic fridge magnets to spell out love letters in the form of dialogue from "ALL ABOUT EVE" or "MOMMIE DEAREST" or "CARRIE". There is something about our shared sense of humor that seems to belong to a much earlier generation of homosexuals, the one that existed before the unfashionable version of AIDS wiped out so much of our tribe. We seem oddly anachronistic, he and I, a bit removed from the era in which we live. Our easy camaraderie brings us much comfort in troubling times. I can tell that the harsh daily reality of living with a suicidal boyfriend has been grinding against his optimism, but he tries his best to keep a cheerful demeanor. I'm so grateful for his companionship and patience, and am impressed every day by his wisdom, his work ethic, his strength. He's still my favorite human being.

Daniel is deeply beloved in his community. Because of his many tattoos and gregarious nature, everyone here knows who he is ... but in a good way. The ladies at the bank and post office adore him, especially because he bakes holiday fudge for them every year. The police officers all wave to us, and the sheriff cheekily calls our block "Rainbow Hill". The neighbors bring over extra produce and bags of snacks.

Our dogs remain at the center of our lives. It's their safety and comfort we worry about, not our own. They're constantly being showered with attention and praise, and they want for nothing. Edison, the deaf pit bull whose Number Two Special unceremoniously inaugurated 2024, is in the twilight of his life, and so I spend nearly every minute of the day with him by my side. Phantom, the blind and deaf Australian Shepherd, continually bashes butt-first into the furniture and is an utterly graceless goof ... but his happiness is infectious. My habit of sneaking him bits of lunch meat throughout the day results in the most eyewateringly abhorrent dog farts, but I don't care ... a dog this cheerful deserves to be spoiled. Cheez-It, the border collie born without eyeballs, is the most brazen of the bunch, and she fearlessly leads our pack on our nightly walks. Bear, the neurotic hound, is the caretaker and peacekeeper among us all. He won't finish eating until he knows that everybody else has been gotten their fill.

If I've achieved nothing else in my year, I know that I've helped to give these dogs a good life. They won't ever know the hardships of the street, the sadness and stresses of a shelter, the boredom of a crate. Somehow the devotion I've showed them has made me feel a bit better about myself. My reward comes in the form of their unconditional and uncomplicated affection, their constant proximity, their nuzzles, their tongue baths, their wagging tails, their spazzy and perfect loveliness. Their presence reminds me that any time spent in the selfless service of others is never wasted. They remind me that life doesn't cease being miraculous just because it is inconvenient, stressful, unmanageable, expensive, boring, or disappointing.

I worried all year long about how I wasn't going anywhere, feeling guilty about all this immobility. But even if I were to be sitting perfectly still — which in truth I haven't been — the planet I've planted my ass upon would still be racing around the sun at 67,000 miles per hour. On a more macrocosmic scale, our solar system has been hurtling along the galactic plane at 448,000 miles per hour, and the entire Milky Way itself has been screaming through the Virgo Supercluster at roughly 1.3 million miles per hour. Everything is in motion, and that motion is made relative by the scale of observation. In five billion years, our sun will burn through its stock of hydrogen, leaving its main sequence phase and bloating into a red giant, and after it blasts away Earth's crust there will be no more mention of tax liens or hemorrhoids or Cool Ranch Doritos.

For all of its disappointments, 2024 was only a short chapter in a very long story, and plenty of miracles have occurred in those 365 days. Many more epiphanies await us in the days ahead, as long as we don't allow ourselves to give up. For a little while longer, at least, we get to live in a world with pickled okra and Prokofiev and penicillin. There's so much left to live for, so much left to see: auroras in Norway, Atlas moths in Borneo, the great white sharks of Gansbaai, restored '57 Chevys prowling the streets of Havana. As for myself, I want to get lost in the souks of Marrakesh, I want to get lost in Prague. I want to photograph the vine-choked temples of Angkor Wat and stand at the gates of Auschwitz and ride a camel to Erg Chigaga. Everybody has places they want to go, and many of us feel that we're running out of time ... but we're always exactly where we're supposed to be, and the time we've got left is the time we've got left. Fate is only the simultaneity of past and future. One may just as easily achieve enlightenment in Dunkin' Donuts as in Dharamshala.

Sometimes there's nowhere to go but inwards, and that's okay.

As I write this, Daniel and I are facing each other in a pair of ratty old armchairs, tapping on our laptops and drinking coffee as rain pummels the tin roof. We just had the fireplace fixed, and now two of our dogs lay in peaceful repose before it, the very picture of domestic tranquility. Nag Champa smoke rises from the mantel. And for a moment, just one quietly shimmering moment, all is well. I'm fine. Daniel and the dogs and I are fine. Existence is unutterably beautiful. Main Street sends its regards.

0 notes