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barnesandco · 5 years ago

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White Feathers and Melting Wax

Bucky’s trigger words are redefined with Sam’s help.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2020. Word count: 7029. Square filled: “Mutual Pining”

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood, questionable food preferences (blame Hasan Minhaj), slight language, nightmares, slow burn, fluff that will make your teeth ache, cliche ending.

A/N: This one is dedicated to @searchingforbucky because I saw her post something about how much she loves SamBucky, which gave me an idea for my SSB, and one thing led to another, so long story short, this story is for you, Meg. Thank you for providing an invaluable and unimaginably difficult service to our fanfic community - you’re a real gem.

It’s Armageddon. Hell on Earth, as if its crust has been made to split open, and all that fury and heat and horror, alongside creatures that nobody could conjure in their worst nightmares, is pouring out. Taking revenging for millenium upon millenium of imprisonment, it is biting and scratching and clawing its way through the best of humanity, bringing out the worst of humanity – the murder, the anger, the rage – in the process. Wakandan skies, once bluer than the surface of Lake Tiorati on a July day, are raining ash and smolder.

Sam’s arm is bleeding. A particularly agile alien caught the bared portion of his bicep – stupid, stupid, uniform design – and blood drips as he tries to increase his altitude, and find a better angle. Steve notices him from over the shoulder of his own opponent – of course he does, Steve never misses anything – and frowns in a moment of concern that the enemy recuperates in, because Sam is now a more visible target, but he is also good at math. The risk-benefit calculations are telling him that it’s worth it, and the glint of gun-metal fingers he sees in the distance, the owner of which is struggling to cope with half a dozen demons, confirms that.

Barnes is doing the best he can, teeth bared as he attempts to fend them off with a very impressive, but near-empty machine gun and a dagger that’s doing more harm than good. Moments away from defeat, and from an unholy death. His hair is nothing but a second skin sticking to his face and scalp with sweat and monster slobber. Should’ve tied it back, Rapunzel, Sam has time to think before landing in the thick of it. Growls and roars and snarls mix as he manages to join backs with Barnes, both at each other’s six, until nobody can tell which battle cries are animal and which are human. He must be longing for a fight like the one at Leipzig now.

Within minutes, the horde has thinned, but not ended, seemingly infinite in magnitude and strength, and they’re still fighting. The pain from his arm has dulled to an aching throb, lulled into faint numbness by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and has joined the other innumerable wounds that litter his body. He can hear Barnes’ gun behind him, like bass-boosted fireworks. It’s a square dance – an intuitive one rather than practiced, because he knows his partner as well as he knows what else the cosmos might hold for them - his back against Barnes’ as they parry and spar with each of their individual opponents. A twist and a turn, a lucky, peripheral glimpse at someone trying to blindside the other resulting in as short a tight-lipped nod as they can afford to convey their gratitude.

Sam’s stomach is sinking, he wants to throw up in the face of the evil creature he’s fighting; the scent of ozone an impending warning. They seem to have understood that the winged man and his metal-armed companion are a threat, and a ring of them has coordinated to close in around them. Sam finds a gap in which to press the for emergencies only button on his control panel at the same time as Barnes’ unleashes a series of small grenades in his arm.

The wings leave Sam’s back and turn to lethal blades, spinning like a deadly boomerang around them, and his ears ring when the grenades detonate. In the eye of the storm, Sam and Barnes are safe, but shooting adrenaline-deaf and fear-blind, the battle overcoming their every sense and soul. When the smoke clears, there is a moment of quiet amidst the terror, where sparrow brown meets ice blue, framed by blood spatter, and they quirk the sort of intrinsic, basic, smile at each other that can only emerge from overcoming something inexplicably tremendous as one unit. But then the moment ends.

Barnes shouts – an unintelligible sound of shock - and the sky cracks like an egg.

---

Bucky wakes up in an open field, the sky the color of egg yolks, golden, glistening, nourishing. For a moment, he thinks he’s still in Wakanda, the threat miraculously eliminated, but then he gathers enough strength to sit up and note the absence of obsidian skyscrapers in the distance. He can’t evaluate any other landmarks before his eyes lower to the ground he’s lying on and realize that he’s not alone. Scores of bodies litter the grass; his stomach flips and writhes, and he turns onto his hands and knees and heaves up the contents of today’s – is it still today? – breakfast. Closes his eyes to shut in the water that elicits. When he opens his eyes, the vomit is gone.

Moreover, his hands are clean. Not a trace of blood, dirt, and death on the metal or the accents that run across it like tributaries of a golden river, nor on the white skin of his human limbs. In fact, it looks like it’s been scrubbed pink, his epithelium infused with roses. There is no risk of tears now, the surprise so visceral he knows not how to treat it. It doesn’t lessen when something stirs, in the corner of his eye, and he stills the scream in his larynx just long enough to recognize the shape of Sam Wilson, his dark-brown skin shimmering topaz in the sunlight they seem to be laying in. A sigh of relief – intuitive, subconscious - loosens Bucky’s shoulders. He’s not as alone as he might have thought. Sam is confused, too, and he stands up quickly, reaching for a gun that isn’t there.

Bucky waits, knowing better than to scare him as he reorients himself, and watches as Sam grapples with the black trousers and shirt he finds himself wearing instead of the weapons he’s seeking. Others move, and Bucky – not knowing where this cold peace that fills his lungs is coming from – finds it prudent to speak up now.

“Wilson,” is still all he can say, but it’s enough. That one word, two syllables, six letters – sufficient to erase the taste of rusted blood from his mouth. Sam turns to him as others call for their loved ones, the amber gold of his irises meeting his icy ones. Bucky doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know how he got here, he’s so tired dammit, but if this man – this man who has defied law and land for the people he trusts and the values he holds, this man who he knows nothing about besides the fact that he has a moral compass like the North Star – if this man has his six, they can fight their way out. Sam’s eyes and Bucky’s brain tell him that this isn’t heaven or hell or purgatory. They’ve both seen too many prison walls to not recognize more, be they grey concrete, the insides of their own skulls, or a vaulted arch of sunshine above their heads.

---

Clouds have built and gone grey-black, iron heavy, and are preparing to mourn the loss of a good man, but not a single tear escapes Sam’s eyes the day they bury Steve. Old, feeble, fulfilled Steve, that is, who passed on to wherever noble souls go. Bucky couldn’t make himself give the eulogy, so it was, like the mantle of Captain America, passed on to Sam. Sam, who has spent every other day of the past year on the porch of his house with Steve’s wisdom and wit, and knew him better than Bucky who forced himself to make a trip every week.

Bucky, who now stands in front of his tombstone, head bowed and brow furrowed, couldn’t make himself reconcile this Steve with the one he knew. Sam doesn’t fault him that, would never give himself any right to. They’ve all seen some shit, but he can’t bring himself to even touch the tip of the iceberg that weighs on his companion’s shoulders. He’s tied his hair back into a bun at the nape of his neck, chestnut waves tamed to an orderly presentation. Domestic, even. Sam looks behind him and through the graveyard gate at the sound of a car door shutting, as Sharon gets behind the wheel and smiles at him, her own tears long gone, before making her departure.

Intentions to give Bucky his silent farewell are also interrupted by that background sound, and he turns to look at Sam, whose heart leaps to his throat at the sight of him. He’s been seeing him all day, but the veil of public appearance has fallen, and Bucky – Sam reprimands himself for the morbid comparison – now looks like as much of a skeleton above the ground as those under it. He’s pale, eyes not hollow but sad. His hands clench and unclench, reflexively, protectively, drawing Sam’s gaze. Those knuckles must be sore with how tightly the ghost-white skin over them is stretched. Sam’s own hands are in his pockets, and he looks back at Bucky with the warmth of seventeen bonfires.

A desperate attempt, futile in result and heavy in empathy, to ease some of the hurt, the hurricane that Sam is certain is throwing Bucky’s insides around like a rag doll. Bucky’s recovering, he’s better now, he’s working to be alright, and it’s working, but climbing the glaciers of his trauma is a Herculean task. Which, now that Sam thinks about it, can only be accomplished one step at a time, like any other. Ice melts a drop at a time.

“Hey, man, how are you feeling?” He says, approaching him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. To anyone else, the question might seem insensitive – his best friend, or this new version of him – has just been buried, of course he’s not feeling good, but their language is like that. Straightforward. Blunt and no-nonsense, but layered with understanding that has come to be through shared experiences and an emotional connection that speaks more between them than any words they exchange. Bucky turns back towards the tombstone, and Sam, too, looks at the epithet of Steven Grant Rogers, beloved husband, father, and friend. Human, not superhuman, in the end, the way they all want to be. They way they long to be acknowledged as.

“I’ll be alright, Sam. Just a little confused,” he answers eventually, after a long-suffering sigh. Sam is relieved, because the hope in Bucky’s voice is the best he could want to hear. And the fact that even now, when articulating what he feels must be the hardest thing in the world, he still manages to, as honestly as he can. Honesty is the beacon Sam’s heart searches for, and he’s found it here. It’s incomplete sometimes, and offered in brief words because Bucky isn’t always fond of sharing, but it’s always the truth.

“Me, too. Me. Too.” Sam nods in agreement, thinking of the muddle of thoughts and prayers and desires in his mind, as the first drop of rain falls from a steely sky, washing away old wounds, cleansing their skins for new ones.

---

The mass of blue-black ink that is the night sky is the first witness when Bucky starts writhing under his sheets.

He’s stuck in the cold. Not the glass walls of the cryochamber he knows so intimately, no, he’s buried in snow up to his neck. The unending scene of the icy mountainside stretches out before him, like a postcard from a nightmare, and he can’t move. Tries to wiggle his toes, and the snow bites and nips at his feet. Hands are frozen to his sides, and the panic starts to claw at his chest. Icicles seem to have wedged their way between his ribs, and pain sears through his abdomen.

He screams. An echo. He screams louder, hot tears turning to ice halfway down his cheeks. He screa-

Eyes the color of the first hour of daybreak appear inches from his sweat-stained and misery-sodden face, and he sits up, almost hitting Sam’s head with his own. His breathing is broken, every inhale cuts at the inside of his lungs, and every exhale tears at his trachea. Sam, trying to fix that, takes Bucky’s clammy hand in his calloused, safe one, places it over his chest.

“Breathe with me, c’mon,” he urges in a midnight rasp, exaggerates his breaths, and Bucky follows the movements he is making. Follows the way Sam’s bare chest, dusted silver by moonlight, rises to accommodate the air he takes in. Follows Sam’s eyes, the silent plea they convey to do as he does, holding that breath. Follows the release, pretends that he can hear the breath traverse his trachea, and exit his lips as his mouth parts to release it. Bucky’s calmer now, eyes fixated on how Sam’s tongue peeks out to lick his lips, the lush pillows of light brown now shining wet. It’s only when they start moving that Bucky’s gaze returns to Sam’s eyes, and his words reach his ears.

“You haven’t had one that bad in ages.” It’s a fact. A statement, an accurate observation, but because few serious words ever go wasted between them, it is also an open assertion. An invitation for Bucky to say more, with the option to nod and agree left on the table.

“Yeah, it was. I’ll be alright, though, Sammy. Thanks,” he responds, and Sam nods warily. Sits back on his haunches, knees digging into the mattress.

“Good. Do you, uh…” He scratches the back of his head. “Do you want me to stay?” He asks, and Bucky is suddenly, keenly aware of how close they are. He swings his legs over the edge and stands on shaky knees, hiding the blush that originated from fear and adrenaline and has been maintained by something he can’t name or explain. A nervous laugh as he makes his way to his dresser and pulls out a fresh pair of sweats.

“No, no, I’m going running. There’s no way I’ll fall asleep right now, and it’s almost dawn anyway.” Bucky waits in front of his bathroom door. Hears Sam get up and make for the door.

“Alright, Bucky. I’d go with you-“

“You pulled that muscle yesterday, yeah. It’s okay, don’t worry about me,” Bucky says, and when the door shuts behind Sam, rushes to the bathroom to wash off the watercolor that interaction painted across his cheeks. Gripping the granite vanity with both hands, he watches it drip off, eyes radiating a bewildering plethora of emotions. Hears the nightingale depart from his bedroom windowsill, and fly off into the night.

---

It’s a beautiful morning, punctuated by the dot of the golden, glowing Sun in the distance, but Sam doesn’t have it in him to appreciate the first sunshine after a spell of rain. Sam is disgusted. Horrified, mortified, petrified by this new development. He didn’t think the former Winter Soldier could get any scarier when he wanted to be, but he has grossly underestimated the cruel ways of his best friend. Anyone without a direct line of sight into the cereal bowl in front of Bucky would not know what he’s so upset about. But Sam, standing at the stove on the kitchen island across from Bucky, watches in horror as the latter lifts a spoonful of dry-as-the-Sahara-desert Froot Loops to his mouth, chews, and then takes a sip from a glass of milk.

To say that Sam regrets introducing Bucky to sweet breakfast cereals in an effort to sate his incurable sweet tooth is a severe understatement. When Bucky had disapprovingly forced down soggy, sweet Froot Loops the morning before, and grumbled about the disgusting experience for the rest of the day, Sam did not think that this would be the solution. He thought he’d be forced to finish off the rest of the box, and dreaded the toothache that would follow.

“I’m eating it like this, or not at all.” Bucky finally addresses the outrage written all over Sam.

“I think I prefer not at all,” he says gravely, his tone out of sync with the cheery scent of sunny-side-up eggs that his words waft across to reach Bucky.

“Too late, I love these,” Bucky says through another mouthful of dry cereal. He’s intentionally pushing as many buttons as he can at one time, a master at multitasking his way to maximum irritation. Sam shudders. Puts his eggs on a plate and goes to sit down next to Bucky at the island, one stool between them. Saturday mornings after a good night and a better workout are a good look on Bucky, as much as he hates to admit it.

Aureate beams of bubbling sunlight illuminate his side profile, his cheekbones glowing rose-gold and light dispersing through a bead of water that slides down his temple. All of a sudden, Sam isn’t hungry anymore. The last bite of his first egg feels like clay in his mouth, and he empties his glass of water in one go. Bucky looks up from his almost-empty bowl – thank God it’s almost over - and looks at Sam with concern. It takes all of Sam’s power, and then some, to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s teeth biting into his pink lower lip, and up to his blue eyes.

“You okay, man?” He asks, and Sam nods.

“It’s nothing, just got lost in thought,” he answers, and he’s being truthful. Doesn’t know what came over him, just that the slow surveillance of Bucky’s features led him down a different path than it usually does. They’ve always watched each other cautiously, know each other’s movements with the kind of precision that makes you wonder if the haven’t known each other for centuries rather than years, a couple of which were spent in animosity. Bucky’s eyes flit between his again, and they find nothing to prod at further, so he returns to his cereal.

Sam hurries to finish his breakfast and clean up after himself, before heading back to his room with a half-coherent excuse and a heat in his cheeks too hot to be caused by morning sunshine. Thanks God for melanin and for intimate knowledge of the super-soldier hearing range on his way down to the garage.

The rumble of the car’s engine is a relief, and the first breath he takes off the premises of the compound even more so. A little guilt nibbles at him, but it would’ve eaten him alive if he didn’t know that Bucky intended to work on the plans for the library today, and so he keeps driving.

Sam isn’t stupid. That furnace warmth, the magnetic way Bucky’s being drew his gaze, it’s unmistakable. In his sound head and solid heart, he knows what it is. And that’s why his heart is beating so fast, why it won’t take a goddamn break around those blue eyes and sunny smile. Sam is too self aware to be too stupid, too blind to his feelings. He’s just nervous. A cup of coffee from his favorite place downtown won’t do much to settle, but it will give him room. And he needs room.

Because Sam has never done this before. Never acted on feelings for someone who he can’t afford to lose. Maybe, the risk-benefit balance is not tipping in his favor. However, he can’t say for sure, if he knows what result is in his favor anymore. Is the torment of this schoolboy crush worth not risking his friendship?

Sam exhales through his teeth, and looks out the window. Decides to go flying when he gets back in order to clear his head. Maybe that canopy made from blue satin holds the answers.

---

Birds are chirping on the balcony railing, their silky brown bodies picturesquely contrasting against the cottony blue sky behind them. Pretty enough to frame, and Bucky commits another scene to memory that he might want to paint some day. Closes his belt buckle and then picks up the brush but does a double take at the reflection that looks back at him from the dressing table mirror.

He looks healthier than he has in years, but that’s not what’s remarkable. No, it’s the length of his hair. The brown waves reach his collarbones, and he runs his hand through it with a huff, putting down the brush and leaving his room. Sam’s in the living room, and he can hear Earth, Wind, and Fire playing from down the hall. He enters the room to see Sam lounging on the sofa with a laptop in his hand.

“Hey, Sammy, you busy?” He asks, walking up to him. Sam looks up, turns the music down.

“No. Why, what’s up?” He says, placing the laptop down next to him, and Bucky sees that he was online shopping for clothes.

“I need you to cut my hair,” he tells him, sitting down on the sofa. Sam blinks. Once, twice, thrice. His face splits in a toothy grin of agreement, and it disarms Bucky so much that he forgets completely to be angry at the smug look on his face.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to ruin your hair, Rapunzel, but are you sure you don’t wanna go to a barber?”

“Yes. You do it.” Bucky nods assuredly, willfully ignoring the nickname, relieved to be rid of it soon, too, but hoping that Sam will know, unspoken, what he is trying to say. He’s gotten better around people, around strangers, but he doesn’t trust them. Not with sharp objects, and especially not with handling sharp objects in such proximity to him. And there’s a part of him, perhaps the old romantic, the one who is just a little on the sentimental side, that prefers for such a change – small though it may seem, it speaks magnitudes to someone who craves stability now – to be made by the person he is closest to. So Bucky is grateful, when that person, Sam, agrees, with a nod back.

Fifteen minutes sees them in Bucky’s bathroom, him sitting on a stool in front of the vanity, a towel over his shoulders, and Sam behind him with scissors. He lifts the spray bottle from the counter with his free hand and spritzes Bucky’s hair. It’s cold, refreshing, and gentle stray drops land on his face. Bucky’s hands are clenching around his knees, red fingerprints growing darker on the skin just below where his shorts end. It took him two summers to feel comfortable enough to wear those. Sam has a matching pair.

He raises the scissors to the side of Bucky’s head, just by his right ear, opens them, and then pauses. Moves to the back instead, raises the scissors, stops again. A heavy sigh ruffles Bucky’s hair, and he looks at Sam’s reflection. He looks back.

“I don’t know where to start, man. I have no clue what to do with this,” Sam says, exasperated already, gesturing towards Bucky’s head with one hand and almost running the other over his own head before remembering the scissors he still holds in it. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but throws him a look up and over his shoulder that seems to say You think I do?

Shaking his head, Sam starts again. Bucky closes his eyes, his body hairs standing on edge as the scissors start clipping. A coarse, large, warm hand rests on the back of his neck to steady his head, the point of contact burning.

“I think it’s short enough to use the machine,” he whispers, as if conveying a holy secret. He turns on the clippers and soon, the buzzing sound fills the room. Bucky doesn’t reopen his eyes, lets Sam trim the edges short on the sides and back, and keep it a little longer on the top, as per their pre-determined plan of action.

He starts running his fingers across Bucky’s scalp as he’s finishing up and making the final touches, and every nerve ending of his lights up. When Sam announces that he’s done, and Bucky’s lungs collapse and then swell like balloons at the sight of his new appearance, and his eyes meet Sam’s, the world stops.

They’re inches apart, once again. Eye to eye, nose to nose. Heart to beating, fluttering heart. Thank you’s are glued to his tongue and his tongue is paralyzed in his mouth, his mouth dry and wanting. He counts nine heartbeats, and begins to lean in on the tenth, but the eleventh brings the obnoxiously loud sound of his phone ringing from the bedroom, and the bubble bursts.

Bucky answers Peter’s call with less concern than he usually does, the affection and mentorship for the teenager overshadowed by the almost-moment. The one that makes him want to scream into the New York skyline.

---

Flaming red hair reaches as far as Sam’s eyes are concerned, accentuated by the backdrop of the setting sun, an unusual hour for sparring, but a crucial one today. Nat is visiting from the European headquarters in Budapest, where she is SHIELD’s head of the region. It’s a calmer job, safer than Avengers duty, but she works herself to the bone and lets out her frustration in the gun range or the sparring mat, with the latter making for better quality time with her teammate today. Not that Sam’s much for competition right now, and she doesn’t mince moves or waste time. He puts up as much of a fight as he can, but she has him on the ground in fifteen minutes. A new record.

She helps him up and he passes her her water bottle in return as the sit on the mat. Her outstretched legs prod at his knees.

“You were off your game, Wilson,” she says, as if he doesn’t already know. As if he doesn’t know he was too busy counting days since Bucky’s haircut to counter her moves. It’s been twelve, and every hour exponentially increases the tangible awkwardness between them.

“Distracted.” Sam shrugs truthfully. Nat’s laugh isn’t cruel or taunting, but teasing and friendly, a lightweight windchime.

“Yeah, I can tell. Want to tell me why?” She asks, with another sip from her bottle.

“Like you don’t already know,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. Tilting her head, she looks at him like a curious robin. Like she’s trying to pluck out the secrets like wildflowers in his head.

“I just know it has something to do with Barnes. You can hardly look at each other.” She says, giving him her hand to take off the boxing tape, and he picks at the edge it’s bound at. Tries to ignore the piercing stare she’s focusing on his head.

Once the tape is off, he tries to drink from his bottle again. His throat is parched, and he doesn’t think it has much to do with the exercise any longer. Natasha’s stare turns to a glare, but eventually, she seems to relent, trying at another joke.

“What, did you kiss him?” She murmurs, reaching for her bottle. Sam sputters, water going in his windpipe, and Nat’s eyes widen as she watches him cough and cough and cough. “Are you serious? Oh my God, Sam, did you really?”

“No, no, no, shit, no. That’s crazy, Nat,” he says, standing and starting to powerwalk to the showers but Nat follows quickly, light on her feet and heavy with her questions.

“Then what was that for?” Nat asks, pointing towards the mat where he just had that undue coughing fit. Shit. Keep digging your own grave, Wilson, keep digging.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s fine,” he says, and she quirks an eyebrow. Crosses her arms. He’s known Nat for too long and too well to not be entirely aware that talking to her is for his best. And Sam is a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. He follows her back to the mat like a lost puppy, and consoles himself with the fact that he’s reduced a master assassin to near-gossip.

“Well?”

So he tells her. Sam picks at the mat with bitten fingernails as he relays the tale of the five years of pragmatic planning and professionalism under imprisonment in the Soul Stone, during which they talked little but shop and pretended not to see the fear in each other.

Sam avoids Nat’s emerald gaze while he tells her about the first year as Captain America, with the weight of the mantle so heavy that Bucky became the crutch he leaned on, a super-soldier it took everything to put back into the world.

Sam closes his eyes when he recalls Steve’s funeral, and the instant he decided that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a miracle, he was one of the most beautiful people Sam had ever met.

Sam watches the punching bags sway while talking about the warmth that spreads like bushfire whenever Bucky is near, but also about how he is at his coolest and calmest next to him, because he gets him.

Sam sees the sky transition from peach to indigo telling Nat about the moment in the bathroom, where that emotional connection almost manifested itself physically, and how those feelings that he thought were benign became dangerous, boiling under the surface, and how he doesn’t know whether to bury them, or set them free.

---

Icarus. The legend of Icarus and his melting wings, his broken body drowning is the first thing to enter Bucky's mind as the quinjet lands on the helicarrier and Sam is wheeled out on a stretcher and rushed to Dr. Cho's cradle. A trail of blood follows, dripping slowly despite the medics' attentions, and that's what seals Bucky's trance. He doesn't have answers for Hill or Fury - it's a morbid game of Hansel and Gretel, right up to the entrance of the medical wing.

The sterile whites and greys, alongside the vague hum or nurses barring his entry into the trauma bay and Fury's raging demands for answers are secondary sensations. Lost behind the veil. He has to watch through the glass as Sam is put in the cradle, but there’s so much blood. The Director and Assistant Director talk calmly now, suggesting that Bucky get his own wounds checked, but he is blind to their concerns, so they give him the space they see he needs.

It takes an hour to heal Sam. A torturous, unending hour, that has Bucky pacing across the floor, smearing blood and mud across pristine tiles, his mind humming so loud he can’t hear himself think. When it’s over, he has just enough presence to follow Sam’s unconscious body as it’s wheeled to a recovery room, where he sits at his bedside.

However, he doesn’t stay seated for long. Can’t look at his friend’s wounded form, helpless and undoubtedly in screaming pain, although he may not feel it. His body does, and he will feel it when he’s awake. Bucky stands and moves to look out the window. Absently, he scrapes at the clots of blood drying under his nails and in between the panels of his other arm. Part of him recalls the term dissociation, used by his SHIELD appointed psychiatrist, and the consequent recovery techniques. An alert corner of his subconscious is grateful that these episodes aren't as frequent any more. Or as debilitating, most of the time. Just… distracting, with the fog that pierces his ears and diffuses inside his skull until he's numb. Weightless. Recovery techniques. Right. Touch, taste, smell, sound, sight. Glass and metal, blood and sand, jet fuel, whirring engines; open, open, sky.

Bucky likes the sky. Likes to watch clouds form, transform into something new, drift onwards to a better place. A better view than he must present. The infinite stretch of blue. Sometimes, he paints his own clouds on the sky in his mind's eye, but right now that canvas is dripping red - fists clench tight above his thighs - dripping red, white, and blue, Sam is dripping red, white, and blue, and he's falling, Icarus to the ocean.

Falling, falling, falling.

Oh.

Bucky jerks upright. Shakes his head, wipes a blood stained strand of hair back. Forces air into his lungs - it's thinner up here, colder, too, so he has to focus, feel the bite, good - and then: clarity.

He remembers where he is, the smoothness of tiles under his feet, the sweat sodden uniform sticking to his skin, the physicalities of his position return, as does the feel of his beating heart. But there's something new in the way it hammers against his ribs. Something gentler, that prompts a flutter of intrigue, until he realizes what it is, until he can name the newborn emotion screaming to be heard inside his heart.

Hot forehead against cold glass. Hot tears on hotter cheeks. Bucky lets them fall as he tries to face the sky again.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he tells the clouds. Not because he doesn’t want to be in love, or because he is love with a man instead of a woman, or because said man is Sam Wilson, but because it’s just so inconvenient. Because there is no happiness to be found in lives like these, and because it is an impossibility that a man with a heart as pristine a golden could want one with bruises and stains that stretch across every inch of skin. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

And he swears he can hear his Ma answer from the sky: Why of course, you didn’t, my baby boy. No one ever does. Doesn’t mean it isn’t right, or meant to be so. The universe has a way with these things. Knows how to put people together, just like a starling knows to hide her nest from crows. It’s nature, James.

Nobody’s called him James since Winnifred Barnes. Nobody ever will. But “Bucky” doesn’t sound so bad coming from Sam’s voice. Returning to his bedside and slumping into the chair, Bucky hopes he’ll only live long enough to tell him so.

Bucky, post-war, post-Winter Soldier, doesn’t know all that much about fate or the universe, nor does he know a thing about love, but he knows homecoming. And Sam, his eyelashes delicate against skin like gold poured over tourmaline, is home.

All resistance leaves Bucky with a muted sigh. It’s like he can feel the adrenaline, the fight-or-flight, both physical and emotional, evaporate when he takes in the expression of calm that has washed over Sam’s features. He takes half a dozen deep, deep breaths. Allows the oxygen to cleanse him from the inside out, and now, he has enough presence of mind to feel the exhaustion entering his bones. Aside from the scrape on his cheek, none of the blood on his being is his own. He should clean up, he knows that, but he thinks he’ll throw up if he tries to stand up again, so he breathes instead. Breathes in the fact that Sam is alive like he needs that statement to live. So that he doesn’t forget it, and wake up screaming - wouldn’t be the first time - he imprints it into his memory.

Only then do his shoulders stop guarding his neck, relaxing and hitting the back of the chair he’s sat on. The air conditioner whirrs on, and Sam’s breaths are puffs of cotton in the air, that if Bucky focuses enough on, he can envision as clouds. Clouds that turn to sheep, sheep that he counts, and it doesn’t take many of them before he is fast asleep.

---

The day Happy and May get married, Sam almost asks Bucky for a dance, under a starlit sky that twinkles like fairy lights. The months since his injury have been better than those before, contrasting a new smile, and a lighter face, against the tangible sense of will-we-won’t-we. They’re still tense, still have moments where they can’t read each other, still almost talk about it, but their companionship has returned.

This is obvious in the grin Bucky throws him with a roll of his eyes over Nat’s shoulder, as Sam twirls May around like he’s trying to make her nauseous. The poor bride tolerates his hijinks for all of one song before politely excusing herself, as does Nat, pretending that Bucky hasn’t gotten better at dancing again after practicing for months on end. She throws Sam a wink as she leaves the dance floor, and Sam swallows before turning tail and going to get a drink, leaving Bucky to find another dance partner. He quells a bubble of his own nausea as a wonderful girl – Annie something, from May’s work – tries to ask for a dance. To his surprise, Bucky refuses, and then Sam feels guilty for the cheer that goes up in him.

It’s short-lasting, overwhelmed once again by the anxiety that comes with interacting with Bucky. Sometimes, he thinks he sees roses bloom under Bucky’s footstep, the scent of him so alluring. At others, like now, the weight of his gaze is so heavy, he thinks he should drown under it if he doesn’t release the secret in his chest. If he doesn’t tell Bucky that he remembers waking up in that hellicarrier holding an asleep Bucky’s hand, with an asleep Bucky’s lips pressed to the back of his own. And that he liked it.

“It’s a nice party,” he says, tipping back the champagne flute in his hand. He can’t get drunk, and it takes large sips for him to even feel the spark in his throat, the movement exposing a stretch of slender, soft skin. It’s a matter of milliseconds, barely one breath, but Sam’s mouth is dry, useless but for a nod of agreement with a survey of the hall. Nat is wiggling her eyebrows at him from across the dance floor, and Bucky has to repeat his name twice to regain his attention, something that he immediately loses to the color of Bucky’s eyes upon turning towards him. He breaks eye contact and looks away again with another nod.

“Yeah, yeah, it was a great day. I’m really happy for those two,” Sam says honestly, gesturing towards the bride and groom, who are chatting away with Pepper.

“So you’re happy for Happy?” Bucky murmurs and Sam snorts, downing his glass, and shaking his head.

“Ha ha ha, what are you, twelve?”

“You may have to check my birth certificate to find out,” he deadpans, and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose as Bucky cackles. He glares at him, but soon, the corner of Bucky’s eyes crinkling while the sound of his laughter echoes comes into alarming focus against May and Happy swaying in the background, and Sam doesn’t need to wonder what it’s like to feel so much joy and such magnanimous love from someone that you decide to bind yourself to them forever. In fact, Sam decided a long time ago that Bucky was the one person he couldn’t live without any longer. The only difference now is that the emotions that went into that definition have changed. The twinkling sky winks down at him, as if to reaffirm that that realization is correct, and to tell him that he’s on the right path.

---

The city of New York stretches out through the window before them, buildings piercing the dusk that is settling above, and Bucky and Sam sit against the freshly dried paint in the living room of Bucky’s childhood home. It has taken four years after the Blip, four years of newfound stability, of recovery and building up and breaking down and defining his life for his own, to come back to what his life used to be. He thought it only fitting that the man who played the most invaluable part in helping him to his feet be with him at the most magnificent landmark of his progress, of his new life.

The building had, wondrously, been the same one, in that it hadn’t been demolished and rebuilt, only thoroughly renovated. Bucky had bought it several months ago, and Sam had instantly been enraptured by the idea of rebuilding this apartment. Only the furniture remains now, the empty rooms freshly painted and smelling of paint and paper, sawdust and sandalwood and sweat. Bucky looks over at Sam as he closes his eyes, and watches the sunset light his skin like honey on dark silk. Glimmering, glowing.

It hits him like a freight car. The notion that even though his life has been longer than most, it is too short to abandon what you love. Bucky is scared. He’s been scared his whole life. He was scared to go to war that first time, he was scared for his life when he was captured, he was scared for Steve when he went after Hydra, he was scared when he became Hydra, he was scared. And angry. And he doesn’t want to be any longer, even if the alternative is regret and shame. Those would still be new emotions.

That’s what has him turning to Sam, the rustle of his jeans alerting him so he opens his eyes. A question swimming in their content depths. Bucky answers it.

“I love you, Sam,” he says, heart in his throat. Sam gulps, like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to, that there are words lodged in his throat that he longs to set free, and Bucky tells him he knows what they are already. Doesn’t need the words spoken, now or ever, when they’re so visible in how Sam can do nothing but lift his hands and cups his face in them. The I love you, too, is folded like a hidden love note between their lips, passed to Bucky when they meet, and Sam moves his mouth like flower petals over glass. Bucky kisses back. He kisses back harder, tilts his head so they’re like puzzle pieces, his heartbeat taking flight. When they stop, the sky is as pink as roses, the gold accent wall behind them is smoldering, glowering with light. Their foreheads rest against each other’s, Bucky’s hand rests over Sam’s to hold him there, and they fit together like the stars fit in the sky.

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#ayesha writes #SSB2020 #bucky barnes #sam wilson #sam wilson x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x sam wilson #sambucky #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #fanfic

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mistbornthefinal · 4 years ago

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Madoka Magica Aniversary Analysis: Part 9

Can Love and Courage Still Triumph?

The beginning of this episode replays the end of the last, Sayaka’s transformation into a witch. As Oktavia von Seckendorff looms over her Kyouko is initially uncomprehending or perhaps in denial of what just happened happened. Kyouko grabs Sayaka’s body as it falls and is forced to dodge a barrage of Okatavia’s signature wheels. Homura arrives on the scene and sets off another flashbang and the offers Kyouko her hand.

Kyouko takes it and we get our first look and Homura’s timestop from an inside perspective. Within the stopped time Kyouko demands to know where that witch came from and what happened to Sayaka, Homura reiterates the truth that Kyouko is unwilling to internalize, Sayaka has become a witch. Homura then says that unless Kyouko is unwilling to discard Sayaka’s body then they will have to run. Kyouko can not do that so they exit the barrier. (cue connect)

We find Madoka walking morosely along the railroad tracks only to run into Kyouko and Homura walking in the opposite direction. Seeing Sayaka’s lifeless body Madoka tearfully asks what happened to her friend. Homura lays it out her Soul Gem shattered and became a Grief Seed, Sayaka is gone. That is the final secret of the Soul Gem when they fully darken they become Grief Seeds and a girl is reborn as a witch. This is the inescapable fate of those who become magical girls. In payment for the number of people Sayaka has saved Oktavia will curse and equal number of people.

Of course this sort of law karmic balancing that the girls have been claiming for the past few episodes doesn’t really hold up if you think about it. Mami saved a large number of people and cursed no one due to dying before she became a Witch. Heck Kyubey’s whole operation sort of requires a certain amount of unfair exchange to be possible given they use magic to extent the life of the universe and leave other species with the bill. That said it’s easy to buy equivalent exchange as something the characters believe,(especially Homura who at this point want’s to resolve her wish as “a life for a life”) but it’s something that Madoka’s wish ultimately rejects.

Kyouko is angered by Homura’s cold words in the face of Madoka’s grief grabbing her by the collar, but Homura simply continues her monologue telling Madoka that this is the truth of what she aspired to become. Homura then tell Kyouko that there will be trouble if she isn’t cautious about disposing of the body. Kyouko similar to Madoka in episode 7 asks Homura how she can call herself human.

“I can’t, of course. And neither can you.”

We find Madoka sitting on her bed when Kyubey come for a visit. Madoka is unsurprised to find him alive, and he confirms that nothing that Homura said is wrong enough to require further explanation. He then lays out the reasoning behind the system his kind have inflicted on humanity. When the Soul Gem undergoes phase change a tremendous amount of energy is released and that energy is their ultimate goal. It is a source of power unbounded by thermodynamics that they can use to stave off the heat death of the universe.

While he implies that this is ultimately for the benefit of humanity as well (and that humanity will eventually join the interstellar community) the next episode proves he is full of shit. That they have a fixed quota of energy that they expect each planet to produce and express no regret at humanities immanent extinction strongly implies that the extinction of the client species is the expected end state of their operation. In which case the relationship is purely predatory regardless of what he might claim in episode 11.

He also gives the fig leaf that the girls all consented but that’s a weak dodge. Like forget informed consent this is maliciously and deliberately misinformed consent, he may claim that his species doesn’t understand the concept of deception that doesn’t seem to stop him from doing it constantly. Also while it’s not brought up I can’t help but feel then need to point towards all the normal humans who never consented to anything and are being eaten by witches regardless.

Kyubey then says that given that there are billions of human’s he doesn’t understand why the death of a single human has her bent out of shape.

you tell ‘em Madoka

Kyubey gives yet another sales pitch this time stressing the vas amounts of delicious energy she will produce when she becomes a horrible monster. Leaving with.

“So, if you ever feel like dying for the sake of the universe, just let me know.”

We check in on Kyouko who is using her magic to stop Sayaka’s gem from decaying. Kyubey shows himself to ask why and Sayaka answers his question with another question. “Can Sayaka be brought back.” Kyubey uses ambiguous phrasing to give Kyouko false hope like the dick he is. We leave this scene with Kyouko stuffing her face making it pretty clear that her eating habits are less “endearing character quirk” and more “worrying coping mechanism.”

As Madoka is walking to school with Hitomi (who tragically unaware of what has happened), Kyouko calls out to her with telepathy asking her if she’s really just going to go to school after what happened yesterday? Realizing that the fate of her friends soul is probably more important than compulsory education Madoka ditches Hitomi runs off.

Kyouko tells Madoka that she can’t abandon Sayaka so long as there hope she can be saved. (and potentially even if there isn’t) He friends voice might still be able to reach her, might bring her back to humanity. Madoka asks if that will really work to which Kyouko replies that she has no idea. She want’s to do this because she doesn’t know, because that uncertainty allows room for hope

“Maybe if we slice that witch in half, Sayaka’s Soul Gem will fall out instead of a Grief Seed. Wouldn’t that be something? It’d be like one of those stories where love and courage triumph over all. Come to think about it, I probably became a magical girl in the first place because I loved stories like that. I’d totally forgotten about it, but Sayaka reminded me again.”

You did it Kyouko, you boiled your character arc down to the bare essentials. Kyouko asks Madoka if she is willing to help even if Kyouko can’t promise her safety or success. Madoka cinnamon roll that she is accepts immediately offers her hand into which Kyouko places a piece of candy in lieu of a handshake.

Back at school Homura decides to dich as soon as it’s clear that Madoka isn’t coming.

As the two of them search for Oktavia’s labyrinth, Madoka asks if Homura is going to help them. Kyouko says no and denies that Homura is her friend, they simply share a common goal, to defeat Walpurgisnact an enemy neither of them could face alone.

Within the barrier Madoka asks Kyouko if she is a coward for always leaving the fighting to others. Kyouko flips the script her life is happy one, to abandon that, to become a Puella Magi for a mere whim is the height of stupidity. Kyouko won’t allow it, if Madoka did she would be the first to kick her ass.

“The only people who should put their lives in danger are those who’ve got no other choice. Anyone else is just playing around.”

Kyouko then says there might be a time when Madoka has no choice but to fight, she should only consider the contract then.

We then arrive at the center of the labyrinth, or rather Oktavia realizes that she has intruders and they are pulled to the center. Oktavia’s familiars supply the background music as Madoka glimpses the remnant of her friend for the first time. She calls out to Sayaka but Oktavia’s only reply is to summon her wheels.

Kyouko raises her barrier and perpares herself to intercept the Witches attacks. As Madoka calls out to Sayaka Kyouko deflects a barrage of wheels with her spear. However Oktavia only steps up her attacks and Kyouko seems to be struggling to fight a purely defensive battle.

As Kyouko starts to take hits she reminisces about her first encounter with Sayaka. She had dismissed the girl a first but she kept getting up no matter what. As she recalls that day red and blue flows across the screen froming the silhouette of Kyouko and Sayaka before resolving as flowing blood. Several wheels hit Kyouko and she is thrown backward. As Madoka moves to help Kyouko to her feet Oktavia seizes her in a massive armored gauntlet and begins to squeeze.

Kyouko finally strikes severing the Witches limb and berating Sayaka. Oktavia brings her sword down shattering the floor and reveling an inverse of the concert hall they were in presided over by a familiar that resembles a certain boy.

Homura is there to catch Madoka. Kyouko apologises to Homura for dragging Madoka into her idiocy and the creates another of her barriers between her and Homura. The message there is clear. Kyouko acknowledges Homura’s mission focusing on the one thing she wants to protect above all else, Kyouko used to think that was what she was doing as well. She undoes her ponytail to reveal the symbol of her fathers faith that she had hidden in her hair, she never truly stopped believing.

As Homura flees Kyouko summons spears from the earth in massive numbers including on large enough for her to ride. From her clasped hand she draws her Soul Gem that she has fused with the symbol of old faith.

“Don’t worry, Sayaka I know you don’t what to be alone. It’s ok. I’ll be here with you Sayaka.”

She then unleashes a massive attack through her own Soul Gem killing both her and Oktavia.

Back at the Homu-home Homura asks an interloping Kyubey if there was any chance for Kyouko’s plan to succeed. Kyubey admits that it was impossible and that he basically manipulated Kyouko to her death so Homura would have to face Walpurgisnact alone, and thus Madoka has no choice but to contract in order to save the city. Homura says that she will never let that happen.

For this episode Magia does not make it’s usual appearance instead replaced by “and I’m home” sing by Ai Nonaka and Eri Kitamura (VA’s for Kyouko and Sayaka respectively.)

youtube

And that’s Episode 9, when you get down to this Kyouko’s episode as much as Episode 10 is Homura’s episode. Kyouko what had come into the narrative preaching selfishness stakes it all on trying to save the girl who remined her of her old ideals. Now that the full weight of Kyubey’s system is reveled Kyouko tries to find a way out and in bittersweet way she does, choosing to expend her Soul Gem in a heroic sacrifice rather than fall into despair and become a Witch.

That said now there’s only one person standing in the way of Kyubey’s plans, though to a certain extent that’s how it’s always been.

#semi-original content #puella magi madoka magica #madoka magica anniversary analysis

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atlas-of-a-human-soul · 5 years ago

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Hurt, pt. 7 (E.D.)

Summary: While Ethan is working to fix himself, Y/N seems to be moving on.

Warnings: ANGST, swearing, talk of depression

Word Count: 2200

Hurt - Series Masterlist

Ethan sat in the same chair for what's probably the fortieth time if not more. His mind is much clearer, his heart a little heavier. It's been six weeks since he checked himself in an institution, aware there are two more weeks of his inpatient treatment left. It's taking him a little longer to respond to his medication, but he doesn't really care at this point. He's better. He feels like he's gotten pieces of his old self back.

Depression is the unseen, unheard, silent killer. It's the pain that's too much to cope with, too hard to deal with and so misunderstood. People try, but they can't escape it because it follows them around like a black shadow that's on the inside, eating away at all they’ve once loved.

Ethan finally feels as if the shadow had lessened, like he can finally breathe. He’s not healed just yet, but it’s tremendous progress.

“What about Y/N? What if she doesn’t forgive you?” Doctor Abbot asks, purposefully pushing his buttons now. She had never coddled him, but Y/N was a touchy subject he’d usually talk about on his own and she rarely ever pushed him to open up about it. Until now.

He looked up as if he had been dunked by ice-cold water, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t thought about that possibility. But he has. It’s all he’s been thinking about. It’s the worst-case scenario and he didn’t quite know how to handle it.

“I, uh…I’d accept it. Not like I have the right to hound her for anything. I’d ask to be a part of their life…I’d want to know my children. I’d want to be their dad.” Ethan looks down at his hand, at the empty place where his ring used to reside. He’s still reaching for it blindly, hoping to feel the platinum ring, to twist it around when he’s nervous or missing her. He wished he could have it.

When Ethan removed his wedding ring, he had stashed it deep inside his sock drawer. He would take it out at night, holding it in the palm of his hand as if it would bite. He’d let his eyes wander over the inscription infinity times infinity like it’s his saving grace. He never knew why he kept it, not when he was the cause behind their split, but he knew now. It was his way of keeping her close. It was a rope for him to reach out for when he felt like he’d fall from the edge he was hanging from. It was his last hope.

“And if she met someone else? Remarried?” Doctor Abbot’s words had unnerved him to the point of scratching his ring finger, the thought nauseating, corroding his insides.

“I…I don’t know, okay? It would kill me, but I’d still be alive…the worst kind of death. I don’t think I can love anyone after her, you know? Like, she was it. She was it for me. The one in the million, my soulmate, the love of my life, everything. There’s no one that could compare. I realized that when I broke things off with Bianca. If she couldn’t get my mind off Y/N, no one can.” Ethan sighed deeply, lifting his hands to his face. Hiding his face in the palms of his hands, Ethan leaned his elbows on his knees. Allowing his hands to move into his hair, Ethan tried to collect himself.

“Do you have any anger towards Y/N because of that?”

The question hit a mark, one he didn’t even know existed. Deep in his heart, Ethan had a small reserve for feelings he still hid. Those feelings were the ones he was ashamed of, desperately hating them for existing.

Resuming his sitting position, he placed his hands on the armrests. He faced his psychiatrist with a dark look in his eyes.

“I’m not sure if I’d call it anger. I’d say I resent her obliviousness. I was there. I was falling apart right before her eyes and she never saw it. She didn’t notice anything, questioned anything. It feels like she didn’t care. I resent her letting me fall when I needed to hold onto her. When it was pouring, I was left in the rain while she walked away under the safety on her umbrella. That’s how I feel. And then I remember just how hard I worked to cover my emotions, to seem as I was. How can I blame her for being fooled by me when I fooled myself as well?” Chuckling in disbelief, he ran a hand through his hair.

“And yet I still resent that fact. Or the fact she might not forgive me. Or the fact she might remarry. I am so…so fucking bitter about how everything went down and even more so about it being my fault. I want to go back in time and knock some sense into me, but it’s too late for that. I’m left in so much shit that I can hardly claw my way to the top and it wasn’t even me who fucked up…Not really. It was me, but it was a darker version of me who wanted to burn the world to the ground. I wouldn’t even blink if everything went up in flames.” Rubbing his chin, Ethan sighed. He knew admitting this, speaking up about it, it was all a step forward from the man he was.

After all, he promised Y/N to find himself again. He has every intention on keeping that promise.

“Why are you up? And getting dressed?” Clara spoke in hushed tones knowingly. She was aware of the insanity of her husband and his ability to drive Y/N crazy. The imminent threat of a miscarriage had passed and Y/N’s medication was enough to stop it from progressing. The babies were doing great, but the mother was withering.

Y/N felt absolutely suffocated by Grayson and his need to act like her mother, father, grandparents, doctor and prison warden. She needed to get out of bed without him grabbing her in his arms and carrying her around as if that was enough. Hell, he tried to take her to the bathroom too! It’s safe to say Y/N had been in desperate need to go out for some fresh air and just be a woman. She needed to talk to someone other than the kids who seemed to tell on her whenever she was out of bed – something Grayson probably bribed them to do. She needed to be out an about. It was healthy to take a few shorter walks and she swore she’d take them today.

“I have a…coffee date…sort to speak.” She smiled, speaking just as quietly as Clara. She knew Clara would understand. She had been supportive this entire time and that’s exactly what Y/N needed. Unfortunately, neither of them knew of Ethan’s current whereabouts.

Y/N had begun thinking he had moved to Australia to avoid her. She was ready to talk in a civilized manner without lawyers at their sides. She was ready to find a compromise for their kids’ sake. And he was nowhere to be found. That angered her. It made her angrier that she couldn’t really hold onto the anger. She missed him far too much. She needed him in this state, even if he was a lying asshole she used to want to push under a speeding car.

She had stopped imagining all the ways she’d kill him now. She had taken it a notch down, so she imagined herself punching him instead. He was to be the father of her children after all.

“Well, Grayson said he had someone to meet and acted all cryptically before he left. I’d say it’s safe to go, but the kids will call him if they spot you. I’ll have to create a distraction.” Clara giggled and Y/N followed. She absolutely couldn’t stop herself from laughing because Clara had a laugh that was always funnier than the joke.

Managing to get out, Y/N had taken her car out to the city. She had a particular destination in mind, one that meant she’d run into someone she probably shouldn’t start anything with.

‘BUT HIS EYES ARE SO BLUEEE’, she’d think a moment after which would draw a smile out on her face. She hadn’t felt such attraction to anyone since she met Ethan. Her mind felt calm for the first time in a long time, her heart…not so much. But she wanted to ignore the annoying muscle in her chest for it fooled her more than once. Her brain felt like a safer option and her brain wanted to see someone other than Ethan today and she had committed herself to the mission.

And it worked like a charm.

“Y/N?” She heard his voice call out and it took every ounce of self-control not to mess up and act like she’s genuinely surprised meeting him there.

“Doctor Henstridge!” She turned around, reminding herself to smile politely instead of lustfully, stepping closer to him. He had sat there in a pair of dress pants and a blue dress shirt that brought out the color of his eyes. He looked delicious and she had to stop and swallow, hard, otherwise he’d her drool and that’s not a pretty sight.

“Are you – are you actually drooling on me?” Ethan chuckled in disbelief, wondering if this is real life. He went all out – ordering a nice dinner, buying her chocolates and watching a romantic movie. Little did he know his beautiful fiancé had fallen asleep on his chest fifteen minutes into the movie.

She opened her eyes once the vibrations of his chest reached her. She was absolutely mortified over the dark mark on his yellow shirt. It was clear she had fallen asleep with her mouth open, drooling all over him like she tried to create her very own ocean.

Wiping her mouth, she had shaken her head. What does one say when they drool on someone? She didn’t know.

“I mean, I know I’m sexy, but daaamn.” Ethan teased, making her roll her eyes at him before hitting him with a pillow.

“That was so not funny. And my drool is so not sexy.” She covered her face in shame, trying to hide herself from his amused eyes that wanted nothing more than to remember the moment for as long as he lived.

Reaching out, Ethan grasped her elbows. Pulling her closer, he left a kiss atop her head. His embrace is tight, warm and secure. He felt like a comfort blanket and his scent only contributed to that feeling.

“You silly woman. I’d find anything you do sexy. I don’t give a shit if you drool on me. I love you regardless.”

She nearly laughed at the insanity of her mind right now. Even when she’s standing in front of an incredibly attractive man, her mind goes to Ethan. It’s like a virus, a disease she can’t uproot from her system. He’s not even there and yet he is - like a ghost...a ghost of her past. But he’s not just that. Ethan will always be a part of her life - ghost of her past, present and future.

As for the drool...well…to some it may be a pretty sight but she wasn’t ready to risk it with doctor hottie.

“Please sit.” Henstridge stood up. Pulling out her chair, he allowed her to join him for a lunch break. Technically he wasn’t really her doctor anymore for he had called someone more experienced to take over the case. He was still a consultant, but he wasn’t the one leading her medical chart. He allowed himself this freedom of inviting her to sit at his table. It wasn’t a crime to be polite now, was it?

“And it’s Edward. No need to be so formal.” He smiled and she felt her heart flutter. It’s been so long since she felt her heart flutter that she couldn’t help but smile. This man was the epitome of handsome, intelligent, charming and chivalrous. And she wanted him.

The annoying voice reminding her of Ethan had returned almost instantly, but she pushed it aside.

“Alright then.”

They talked for the next hour. It wasn’t hard to find common topics to discuss and she found him to be a great conversationalist. She found him to be witty and open, very opinionated but accepting of her contradicting opinions. He challenged her and in the best way possible. She wasn’t just a future divorcee nor the woman carrying triplets of a man who seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. She felt like a human being again. As a desirable woman who could still very much charm any man if she put in even a little effort. It did wonders for her mood and confidence and she knew she wanted to see him again even before he had to leave for his night shift.

She sat at the table a little longer, enjoying her second milkshake of the day as she stared through the window at the busy street. She wore a faint smile upon her lips, unaware of trouble coming closer.

“Y/N?” She turned at the sound of her name, not expecting to find herself facing someone she never wanted to see again.

“Bianca?”

Tags: @melodiesforari @brittttneyyyy @beautorigin @dolandolll @xalayx @godlydolans @heyits-claire @peacedolantwins @dolanstwintuesday @accalialionheart @ethanhes @lanadeldolans @ebbach-03 @dolangels @xxaamzxx @cutestdolans @yaren-ates @dolansmith @vintagebitttch @primadolangirl @caqsicle @jjustjoy @justordinaryjen @graydolan12 @imaginashawnns @graysonslovie @fandomsfeministsandothershit @bdsmdolan @graysavant @ethanspillow @dopedoodes @anything-dolan @sugarfootdolan @joyrivh @reblogserpent @jonesana @emiemille @herewegoagainandagainandagain @adventureswithmell

#ethan dolan #ethan dolan x reader #ethan dolan angst #dolan twins #grayson dolan #ethan dolan x y/n #ethan dolan series #ethan dolan au #ethan dolan fanfiction #ethan dolan fic #ethan dolan fanfic

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gingerteaonthetardis · 5 years ago

Text

prompt: 31 days of ficmas - tinsel

pairing: ninerose

word count: 2743

rating: t

The thing about the Doctor is that he’s infuriating. Maddening. The soul of a snowstorm, the temperament of a tornado, trapped in the body of a mere man. An oncoming storm. The living embodiment of chaos.

And, when it comes to decorating Christmas trees, positively hopeless.

“Rose, you have—”

“Have what?”

“Something… something just—”

“Doctor, what—”

“Something gold, Rose. In your hair.”

She’d been reaching to adjust the tree-topper. He’d been reaching to adjust her. And so it went. A mouth full of pine needles and glitter. A huffy Time Lord. Her mother, looking so annoyingly knowing.

She tugs on the tinsel—not the stuff in her hair; she’ll leave that until she makes it to a mirror. No, Rose is yanking the golden strands out of the front of her bra, because it bloody well itches and it’s bloody well everywhere.

Jackie holds out a mug full of tea, eyebrows still doing that mum-ish thing that makes Rose want to tear her hair out, tinsel and all. “Mum,” she warns, “don’t say a word.”

“About what, sweetheart?” And then the older woman purses her lips in what is, no doubt, a tremendous display of self-control. With both hands, she pushes the warm tea into Rose’s hands. “Cuppa?”

Rose mumbles something that hopefully sounds like “thank you” and, immediately abandoning the tea, collapses onto the sofa. The Doctor doesn’t seem to have noticed her relocation. “Shift,” she commands the leather-clad shoulders and denim-clad legs she’s faced with. “You’re blocking the telly.”

“Oh, am I?” She can practically hear his eyebrows. “Hadn’t noticed.”

The wants to sigh. But it seems like all she’s been doing all day is sighing. Or trying not to sigh. Or listening to her mother sigh. Because, Christmas or no, this is possibly the worst it’s ever been between them. Stilted and strange, with so much sighing.

I mean, she thinks, the man could show some gratitude. I only saved his worthless life. And the whole human race. And the TARDIS.

Later, she’ll feel bad for stewing in her anger. Later, she’ll remember that she’s not the only one trying to cope with something terrible and unexpected and that it’s not even been a full twenty-four hours since he’d thought she was dead. But she can’t think about those things right now, because how else will she cope with it all? What’s she’s supposed to feel, if not furious?

Because he’d left her. He’d honestly left her behind.

It wasn’t something she’d ever thought to make him promise not to do, because it wasn’t something she’d thought him capable of. And then he’d just done it, without so much as a goodbye. Or, anyway, not a real one.

More fool her.

She huffs, and crosses her arms, and she hears a little crinkle from somewhere in the vicinity of her breasts. It pushes her over the edge. Rose lets out something between a grunt and a groan, a noise of pure irritation, and pulls herself back up off the creaky couch. The Doctor hasn’t turned, or even shifted like she’d asked. He’s just standing there, probably counting pine needles and dividing them by pi, or something equally useless, rather than acknowledging her in any way.

And her mum is sipping tea, patient as anything.

So, she turns and leaves, before she can lose her temper.

As soon as she’s entered the safety of her room, she’s whipping off her hoodie and shaking it out in search of the offending tinsel. “Stupid tinsel,” she mutters, stripping briskly out of her shirt. It’s covered in glitter, and ripples of gold fall to the floor. She kicks at them in impotent fury and discards the offending garment. “Stupid Christmas tree. Stupid Time Lord!” She’s so caught up in her anger that she almost misses the heavy sound of boots in the hallway, the tell-tale creak of her bedroom door swinging open.

He doesn’t so much as ask permission. The Doctor just steps inside and then closes the door behind him.

“Rose,” he says.

'Rose,' he says. As if he can talk his way out of this. She turns on him.

“You’ve got some nerve, you know.”

The Doctor has never looked more alien than now, standing in her room—black leather a jarring contrast to the bright pink walls and purple carpet, eyes too sad and face too irregular to belong on one of her 98 Degrees posters. The laundry all over the room looks less scattered than storm-tossed, as if he’d swept in and brought the surrounding chaos with him. He doesn’t even look around; he says nothing. He’s just looking at her with those eyes.

“I mean, I should’ve expected it,” she continues, turning away to rifle through her closet. It’s narrow and overflowing with her mum’s sewing materials and there's precious little in the way of clothing options. She’d brought most everything usable with her on the TARDIS. But she looks anyway, searching for a top without unraveling seams or rips in the underarms. “It got too close, too dangerous, and you just sent me off. Like a kid. ‘Run along home, Rose. Have a nice life.’ Honestly!”

The silence seems to suck all the air out of a room, or maybe it’s just him. Because when he does speak, it’s barely restrained. He’s speaking through his teeth and his usual righteous anger. “I didn’t ‘send you off,’ Rose! I was saving you!”

“Of course you were!” She can barely see the hangers in front of them, or the clothes on them, pushing shirt after shirt aside. None of them are right. None of them will fit. Her anger grows. “You were saving us all! Because you’re the Doctor, and you just can’t bear it if you aren’t the one doing the saving. You’re never happy unless you’re sacrificing yourself for the rest of this… this worthless universe.” She wheels on him, and crosses her arms over her bare torso in an attempt to contain all the feelings rising up her body, into her chest and throat and mouth. “You almost died! After all… after everythinh we’ve done, after all you’ve lived through, you almost died because of a… a great big test tube full of phlegm!”

“That’s a risk I take for myself, Rose,” he says in a way that he probably thinks is patient. It just sounds condescending. “I won’t ask anyone else to take it for me. Certainly not you. It’s not your job.”

And that’s it, she realizes. The core of the problem. It’s not your job.

He’s started approaching her, but slowly. His arms aren’t raised in a gesture of surrender, though they might as well be for all the apprehension in him.

“But it is!” She refuses to be goaded or handled or whatever it is he’s playing at, and her arms fall to her sides in fists. “It's my job because I made it my job. I… I signed up, remember? Said you were stuck with me, and I meant it.”

“Yes, but—”

“I didn’t just mean for the fun stuff, Doctor. I didn’t mean for the walking tours of historical London, or for theme parks on Venus, or for alien bazaars on distant planets, or even for… sitting in the library with you, having tea. I signed up for the hard stuff.” She wants so badly for him to understand that she’s shaking with it. “I’m not afraid. Or, I am—I was... but it didn’t matter, because what you—what we were doing was more important than that.”

“Rose,” he grits out, “I know you’re not… afraid. I know you’re brave enough. You wouldn’t’ve come back if you weren’t. But that’s not the point.” He runs a hand over his face, but the lines on his forehead don’t smooth out. “That’s not why I had to send you away.”

“Then why?” she demands.

“Because,” he finally shouts, “I couldn’t’ve done it!”

“Done what?”

“Blown up Satellite 5!” He throws his hands in the air, expressive and uncontained. “Saved the human race! Ended the Daleks! I couldn’t have done any of it if you were there. I’m not brave enough.”

The anger slips away, just out of her grasp, only to be replaced by confusion. “What d’you—”

“I would’ve gone through with it, obviously. Destroyed the station and everyone on it and everything around it for thousands and thousands of miles. But not with you in it. I don’t think I could have… I didn’t want to risk...”

She draws the connection with surprising speed. His words, murmured across a table in 10 Downing Street, played out across dozens of different scenarios throughout time and space. I could save the world, but lose you.

He wasn’t willing to—

He couldn’t—

Oh.

“Doctor,” she says.

“I mean, how many times am I supposed to lose you, exactly? Because right now, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve thought… and,” he shakes the aborted sentence out of his shoulders and hands. “And that’s already too many! I told that woman out there,” he points at the wall, “that I’d always bring you home to her, and I was just... doing my best to honor that. I was trying to do the right thing, but it’s never easy! Not for us. Not with the life we live.”

We.

“Doctor,” she tries again.

“And then you show up and you’re glowing... Rose, I thought you were possessed! I couldn’t stop thinking of Cardiff, of 1869. Gwyneth died trying to contain that power, and it was… a fraction, nothing compared to the Heart of the TARDIS. I thought—”

She now recognizes the tension in his body for what it is. Fear. Not stubbornness, or severity, but pure, animal fear. Her arms reach for his before she can stop herself, hands grabbing fistfulls of butter-soft leather.

His head bows, but not quite low enough to rest his forehead against hers. “I thought that something had gone wrong mid-flight—that I’d really lost you this time, but not to some overzealous robot… to my own stupidity.” His voice, when he speaks, is low and pained. “Without you, I’m alone, and Rose, I just need...”

“Doctor, what?”

He sighs in a great gust, like there’s a weight on his chest. And then he lifts one of his hands to her head, his touch gentle, almost reverent. The Doctor runs long fingers through the strands of her hair, rumpled by her hasty wardrobe change, and withdraws a tangled stream of gold. Tinsel, though he’s looking at it like it like… like it’s something else, Rose decides.

It catches the light, and for a moment, she is outside herself—she sees warm golden beam, feels a tremendous heat. It passes as quickly as it came, and she is back in her room, safely tethered to the Doctor.

“For the love of all that you stupid apes hold sacred,” he says slowly, carefully, “for the sake of my sanity, I need...” His eyes drop to hers, blue and drowning. “Rose, I need you to please put on a shirt.”

The non-sequitur catches her by surprise, and a laugh is bursting out before she can stop it. It’s not like he’s never seen her skin before; they’ve been to beaches, believe it or not. She’s not exactly modest by nature, and the Doctor even less so. But apparently, novelty isn’t necessary to drive her alien to distraction. His eyes have caught on the pale pink cotton of her bra—the drop of his eyes is obvious at this minimal distance—and the tips of his ears start to go red.

His voice is loud, attempting to cut through her laughter. “I can’t have this argument with you if you don’t put on a shirt.”

She can’t decide what to do with her hands; they want to be everywhere, all at once. But she doesn’t have time to decide, because her bedroom door flies open barely a second later.

“Then let's stop arguing,” she proposes, shifting closer. It’s just enough to make the space between them seem infinite. Just enough for it to be too much. Rose can feel the heat radiating from his chest, and can almost hear his double-heartbeat speeding along. Her hands slide up his arms to linger on his shoulders. “You can promise never to send me away again, and I can promise never to leave you, and then we can find me a shirt… or,” her eyes skim over his jumper, a dark, mossy green, “you can lend me yours.”

She grins up at him, at the color prickling his cheeks. At the way his mouth wants to twitch into a smile, but won’t give in just yet.

“Not a chance,” her mum is shouting, “not in my house! You two can keep your alien shenanigans out of this flat!” Though the Doctor is mostly blocking Rose from her mother’s sight, it’s obvious—she’d heard everything—or at least the bit about her daughter’s state of shirtlessness. Over his shoulder, Rose can see that she’s fuming. “Rose Marion Tyler, you get dressed this minute or so help me, I will burn that spaceship of his to the ground and dump the leavings in the ashtray!”

“Mum,” Rose sighs, “it’s not—how many times…”

“None of that, young lady.” Jackie seems to be gearing up for a good long rant, so Rose releases her grip on the Doctor and returns to the closet, picking out the first suitable thing she sees. It’s a sweater, red. Possibly her mum’s, as the line between their wardrobes was always a bit thin. Festive, if a bit frumpy. As she pulls it over her head, the shouting continues. “‘It��s not like that,’ she says! And then you show up here, sniping at each other, bickering like a married couple! Having a domestic on Christmas Day!”

“Mum, I’ve told you about listening—”

“It’s a council flat, Rose! ’s got thin walls!”

The Doctor doesn’t look chagrined, really, or even embarrassed. More like… determined. Rose tries to take strength from him, but she can’t help the sick feeling in her stomach. Right when they’d been getting somewhere.

“Jackie,” the Doctor says, not even throwing the woman a look over his shoulder, “we need a moment.”

It’s almost frightening how suddenly the world seems to shrink—down, down, until it’s back down to the two of them. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so they rest at her sides.

Her mother falls silent. For a pure, long moment, it seems as if she might stay that way. But then she’s turning and leaving, muttering to herself. “Fine, but I’m leaving the door open. Won’t have any funny business…”

Her mumbles are quickly lost to the sound of the telly, and to Rose’s racing heartbeat.

The Doctor goes first, eyes scanning her. “Nice jumper.”

“Thanks.” The smile she offers up is wobbly.

He sighs. “Rose, I promise never to send you away again. I was scared, but that’s no excuse.”

“Right. And I promise,” she says, finally reaching a hand out, finally letting her fingers tangle with his, “that I’m never gonna leave you.”

“Are we good?” His eyes narrow, taking in her face and expression. He looks at her like she’s a book, complicated and fascinating and worthy of study. She finds her cheeks are starting to heat, but she can’t look away from him—wouldn’t even if she could.

He will never be perfect. They will never be perfect. But, if their promises hold, they will be together. And that’s all she’s asking for.

Rose nods.

“Good.”

There is a beat of silence, before she lets her grin crack her serious expression. “Does this mean I get your jumper now?”

A smile bursts over his face, forming little wrinkles around his eyes and stretching his lips and making his eyebrows raise even higher on his face. He looks ageless and alien and human, all at once. And he looks happy. “Maybe later,” he answers. “Don’t think your mum’s up for another shock just now.”

He looks so happy. So right.

He is no longer out of place in her room, but in his rightful place, here with her. It’s that sense of rightness that guides Rose up onto her toes, guides her free hand as it slips upwards, over the wool covering his chest to curve around his neck, just under his ear. It guides her lips to his, where it sparks—luminous and perfect and unexpected. Golden.

#couldn't help myself!!! this is one of my favorite au concepts...#ninerose #dw #abbey.txt #ficmas #ficlet #ninth doctor #rose tyler #nine x rose

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missjosie27 · 5 years ago

Text

MC Info

Character Profile: David Grant

Name: David John Grant

DOB: January 16th, 1973

Parents: John and Elizabeth Grant

Siblings: Jacob (Elias) Grant

Nationality: British

Ancestry: Pure Blood

House: Gryffindor

Height: starts at 4’10 and ends up 6’1

Eyes: Hazel blue

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Likes: hanging out with friends, Quidditch matches, chocolate frogs, dueling, having a pint, Merula Snyde

Dislikes: also Merula Snyde, anything associated with Slytherin, negative chatter about his brother, being nagged by his mother, betrayal

Friends: Rowan Khanna, Ben Copper, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Penny Haywood (Later friends include Tulip Karasu, Barnaby Lee, Nymphadora Tonks, Andre Egwu, Jae Kim, Diego Caplan, Liz Tuttle, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, and Cedric Diggory)

Enemies: Professor Snape, Merula Snyde, Ismelda Murk (formerly: Barnaby Lee), Patricia Rakepick, ‘R’, Argus Filch

Love Interest: Merula Snyde (develops a strong crush on her during Year 4), minor flirtations with Penny and Tulip

MC’s Strengths/Weaknesses/Hobbies

What’s their personal philosophy? Do they even have one?

A: David’s philosophy on life can be more or less be summed up in a single word: humor. Though deridingly sarcastic to those he doesn’t like, David is very witty, clever, and easy going. However, as becomes a pattern for him, often times he uses this natural humor and socialization to deflect from his own problems and hide away the fact that he feels a great deal of pain and guilt over his missing brother.

How do they feel about their status and reputation as the curse-breaker in the school?

A: David did not go to Hogwarts with a mission to find the vaults, which was just rumor at the time. He ached to find Jacob, but tried to adhere to his parents request that he not cause trouble. This, of course, did not happen, and as time goes on David more or less embraces the role of ‘curse-breaker’ and the responsibility that comes along with it. He does not seek attention, but does enjoy the fact that girls find him attractive.

Did they get sorted into the Hogwarts House they expected to? Did the Sorting Hat have any problems sorting them? Or did it not even have to touch their head?

A: David was relatively indifferent about which House he was sorted into and made that known in his private discussion with the Sorting Hat. The only house he dislikes is Slytherin and being a pure blood who saw the first war, knows of its dark reputation. It took the hat two minutes to sort David, but found his fearlessness was his most defining quality and decided to put him into Gyrffindor.

What are their coping strategies for dealing with everything (the Vaults, Jacob, etc.), if they have any?

A: David is somewhat contradictory. When it comes to finding the vaults, protecting his friends, and doing the right thing, he is largely decisive and endears himself as a leader. When it comes to his own emotions and dealing with familial issues, he’s deflective and silent. When pressed on his own troubles, he clams up and will either give a joke or change the subject. He has never been very good at expressing negative emotion and therefore when he fails to hold it back, it often explodes in the form of raw anger or tears

What electives do they take throughout their time at Hogwarts?

A: He takes Care of Magical Creatures and Ancient Runes. He is not a fan of creatures, however, and only takes the class in order to talk Quidditch with Charlie. He later drops it and takes Divination instead in order to get an easy grade.

Are they in any clubs or extracurricular activities? What about Quidditch?

A: Penny has invited him before to be in the Potions club, and though he will attend on occasion, does not officially join. Due to his curse breaking adventures, David has little time for anything extra curricular until 6th year, when Charlie invites him to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team as a beater, a position he largely excels at. Along with Charlie, Oliver Wood, and Sky Parkin, the Lions win the cup.

How studious are they? What kind of studying strategies do they use? Do they have any study groups with their friends?

A: David is quite enthusiastic about the subjects he excels in, though he is not a ‘bookworm’ like Rowan or some of his Ravenclaw friends. Often study groups are formed with the pretext of talking about something else, namely the vaults. However, he will join Rowan, Tulip, and even Merula on occasion to legitimately go over the books.

How willing are they when it comes to breaking school rules?

A: Unlike Tulip and Tonks, David does not go out of his way to break rules and doesn’t see himself as a rebel against authority figures. That being said, he has no issue bending/breaking them if he a) feels it’s to his advantage b) believes there is something greater at stake such as the safety of his friends or finding the vaults. Upon becoming a prefect, David finds this method much more difficult to follow as he has to navigate upholding his charges while also finding a new way to get around things so as to not lose his position.

Do they hang out with any of their friends over breaks? If so, which one(s) and what do they do?

A: David does not get to hang out with any of his friends over Christmas or Summer break until his fourth year when his parents take a trip to the United States during the month of December. His mom can be quite restrictive and prefers to keep an eye on her son out of fear of losing him as she did with Jacob. After his sixth year, David spent a week with the Weasley family, immensely enjoying their company. Though he was curious, Merula refused to allow him to visit her lonely manor. This was somewhat out of safety concerns, but also because she was embarrassed and did not want David meeting her aunt.

After they graduate, do they fall off the map and keep a low profile? Or do they continue to exist in the public eye?

A: Following graduation, David trains for three years to become an Auror and succeeds. He’s not necessarily in the public eye, but he’s never out of it either. Though not an attention seeker by nature, he also doesn’t shy away from it.

How does their career path differ from what they thought they’d be doing? Or does it differ at all?

A: ‘Curse-Breaker’ was a designation that David accepted but never truly embraced over his time at Hogwarts. It was Tonks who convinced him that his talents and interests were better served in Law Enforcement as the Auror office only takes the best of the best.

Do they have any hobbies? What about any talents or aptitudes?

A: David loves a pint at a pub, Quidditch matches, and going to concerts with his girlfriend and later wife, Merula. He is also quite fond of cooking various steaks and pork chops, a skill Jae later taught him when he began to live on his own. Believe it or not, he is also a talented singer, though he prefers to give way to Merula on that score, allowing her his spot on the Frog Choir. Though not enthralled at academics, David is talented in Transfiguration, Herbology, Potion Making, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Most notably, he is one of the best duelers during his time at Hogwarts.

Do they have any favorite spells?

A: David is partial to ‘Reducto’ as he can reduce most objects to ash with it. He’ll often do this in private for fun or to vent off steam. Another, more light hearted spell he likes is the ‘Melofors Jinx’ which he uses on Merula and Ismelda more than once over the years (the spell causes the victim’s head to be encased inside of a pumpkin).

What’s one thing they did or thought as a child that they later look back and cringe about?

A: David has extremely mixed feelings about how often he used to idolize his brother. He still does to some extent, but by the time he enters his first year, it’s rather hollow and can’t help but feel a tremendous amount of guilt about Jacob and the fact that he was the only hero he ever had growing up.

If they could travel anywhere at all in the world—money, time, and language not being an issue—where would they go and who would they take with them?

A: Before Jacob’s disappearance, the Grant family took several holidays, one of which was in Normandy, France. David dreams of buying a small cottage there and take trips with his one and only love, Merula. David has also been to America and was quite fond of New York, finding the relative anonymity a perfect place to hide out if one were a wizard looking to avoid attention.

If they’re an Animagus, how easy was becoming one for them? Were they happy with their Animagus form? Or did they want it to be something different?

A: David never becomes an Animagus in my story.

Do they like what they see in the mirror?

A: David carries a cocky streak laced with vanity and knows he’s handsome to many young witches at Hogwarts. He knows and appreciates his own talent. But in terms of his own self, there is a great deal of doubt: his life, career, the vaults, family, finding his brother. Due to Jacob’s disappearance, David still feels like it was his fault that something went wrong and that his parents’ marriage became strained to the point of near divorce. He avoids these issues for the most part, never acknowledging them unless seriously prompted or pushed.

How good are they at taking compliments?

A: Very normal for the most part.

How much do they trust their friends?

A: David gets along with his friends, but due to his own inability to let go of the guilt and pain he felt when Jacob left, he does not like revealing his innermost secrets to people. He avoids talking about his somewhat unstable family life, which has become strained, stifling, and gray. He would trust his best friends in almost any other category, however, including battle or information about the vaults.

Are they pretty self-reliant? Or do they like to go to their friends for help?

A: It’s a mix. David is not one to be a martyr but he does have an obsessive streak which has a tendency to push people out when not careful. All in all, he’s very thankful for the assistance he receives from his friends

Who is their favorite Weasley? Or can they not choose?

A: David likes the Weasleys equally and enjoys Bill and Charlie in their own way, the former for being a surrogate older brother, the second for his down to earth nature and general friendliess. Fred and George are something of a nuisance with their pranks which make his job as Prefect twice as hard, however, he does hold a soft spot for them after they help him find a few secret passage ways as an apology. He does have a least favorite Weasley by the end though: Percy, whom he regards as a whiner and a tattletale.

What’s the thing they like least about themselves?

A: Despite contrasting himself frequently with Jacob, David also knows he shares a similar impulsive streak that has threatened to get him into serious trouble more than once. He’s also a sucker for women and though he never cheats on Merula, he does seek out other girls when the two break up or when they aren’t together. He also has a hidden guilt complex: everything that goes wrong in his family and relationship life he blames himself.

What’s the thing they like most about themselves?

A: David enjoys his ability to be quick with a joke and get along with most people. He’s naturally good at most things (with a few exceptions) and prides himself on being attractive to girls who see him as something of a sexy bachelor. He also comes to realize he’s a natural leader and that people tend to gravitate towards him when a dangerous or difficult situation comes around.

How bad is their temper? Do they tend to lash out at others or themselves?

A: David is not temperamental and not easily angered due to his good nature and sense of humor. However, if pushed too far, a quiet rage and tenacity overtakes his mind, blocking out all else until the episode is over. His anger is usually in response to something else- bullying, bigotry, or attacks against his family. During Year 6, David lashes out far more frequently than he usually does, alienating himself somewhat from his longtime friends. He mends the relationships later on, after discovering he was often his own worst enemy and critic.

What’s their biggest regret in life, if they have any?

A: Two in particular. He wishes he could have been there to prevent Jacob from leaving. The second is the way he handled his first break up with Merula. He felt it was his fault for letting her get tortured by Rakepick, but his own inability to solve the problem and Merula’s own stubbornness led to their parting of ways.

What kind of first impression do they tend to leave on others?

A: Carefree, funny, and witty with a zest for life.

What is the achievement they’re most proud of?

A: Even throughout his curse breaking adventures, David is most proud of his becoming an Auror and somehow convincing Merula to become his wife.

Do they like having photos taken of themselves?

A: David has a knack for taking goofy photos.

What’s one big way that your MC differs from the in-game canon?

A: I feel David Grant definitely has a more sarcastic streak and is not quite as much of a stickler. But all in all, he’s got personality. Most people’s MC’s are pretty much brand generic hero character. David, while a hero, is also a deeply flawed, wise cracking, cocky, baggage ladden teen. That reaches its peak during Years 5 and 6 and it’s only during Year 6 he manages to let go of much of the anguish he was holding onto in order to become a more complete person

What does their name mean and why did you choose it?

A: David is a common Anglo/American name that derives of course from the Hebrew King David in the Torah/Bible. I chose it for two reasons 1) it seemed to fit well with the last name I had in mind 2) it’s also my father’s name, and I modeled the character partially after him

If they’re an Animagus, why did you choose the form for them that you did?

A: David did not choose to become an animagus

How has your MC changed since you first created them?

A: Though I am still in the process of writing the story, David will go through many ups and downs before completing his arc. As an eleven year old first year, he is a curious, funny, talented, but guarded person and those traits become more intense/exaggerated as he gets older. His arc doesn’t come full circle until Year 6.

How well do you think you and your MC would get on?

A: At times really well and other times not. He is modeled after myself in many ways, but David has a higher degree of confidence, leadership, and withholds his feelings as opposed to me, a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve. I’m sensitive by nature, he’s not. But we do share a few talents- singing music, being generally good at sports and watching it, bar trivia, cooking, etc. The thing that we share above all is passion about a topic we enjoy that can become a full blown obsession. I have that feature to my person and so does David. All in all, as adults I would like David a lot and I think he would like me too.

#mc info #david grant #gryffindor #hogwarts mystery

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brooklynislandgirl · 5 years ago

Text

Beth

— basics.

▸ is your muse tall / short / average? smols. Beth is a flat five feet tall, and because she also weighs less than a hundred pounds with a delicate bone structure she tends to look smaller most of the time.

▸ are they okay with their height? She doesn’t want to be an amazon but she WOULD like to reach the second shelf in the kitchen without having to ask for help or climb onto the counter..

▸ what’s their hair like? She likes to change up the style and subtly alter the colour now and again but Beth’s hair is usually kept long. The more humid the air the more its natural wave comes through. It is very soft, and healthy looking, with her natural colour being a very dark brown. It often smells faintly of macadamia nuts, tropical fruit, and vanilla; so like Hawai’ian cookies.

▸ do they spend a lot of time on their hair/grooming? Beth is for the most part a very natural person. She uses earth-friendly, free-trade, certified organic, cruelty free beauty products, very little if any make up. She might use mascara and some eyeliner, a little lipstick for Social Events. She uses natural soaps especially if she can make them herself. Instead of perfume she uses essential oils. For personal reasons she keeps everything waxed, below the eyebrows.

▸ does your muse care about their appearance/what others think? Ninety percent of Beth’s wardrobe is long, loose hippy skirts and blouses all cobbled together from second hand shops across the country, or scrubs. She owns leggings and one pair of jeans, also yoga pants that she wears...surprisingly...for yoga. The other ten percent is designer evening gowns and very expensive shoes for those times that she’s forced to make charitable appearances in the name of the Family.

— preferences.

▸ indoors or outdoors? Outdoors ▸ rain or sunshine? Rain ▸ forest or beach? When your mother is the ocean....beaches all the way. ▸ precious metals or gems? Beth likes garnets and certain crystals, she prefers silver as a metal because of its associations with the moon, but on the whole she really doesn’t pay much attention to this kind of thing. ▸ flowers or perfumes? Definitely flowers. ▸ personality or appearance? Personality. Beth doesn’t experience primary attraction to people and she finds beauty in her own terms. ▸ being alone or being in a crowd? Beth hates crowds unless she’s out dancing. ▸ order or anarchy? Neither in great doses but she’s more inclined to anarchy. ▸ painful truths or white lies? She would rather be told painful truths. Nothing good comes from lying to someone. ▸ science or magic? Well, she is a witch...so... ▸ peace or conflict? Beth is very peaceful, and offers that succour to others. However she tends to be attracted to violent, stormy souls. ▸ night or day? Day. Beth is phobic of the dark. ▸ dusk or dawn? Both, those are her favourite times of day. ▸ warmth or cold? Beth prefers cold; deep water. Snow. Cool rivers and streams. Dancing in the rain. ▸ many acquaintances or a few close friends? Few Close Friends are best, people who understand her and that she trusts implicitly but she’s a very people oriented person, so she ends up knowing many acquaintances through no fault of her own. ▸ reading or playing a game? Both. However, Beth is extremely competitive and has been known to occasionally cheat during games.

— questionnaire.

▸ what are some of your muse’s bad habits? Beth has an extraordinary ability to take everything and anything in the WORST way humanly possible, which can make her very thin skinned and argumentative. She has a two-glass a day wine habit, that she feels necessary to cope with her challenges. She tends to forget to take her meds on Good Days. Beth is insecure a lot of the time, always second guessing herself and the motives of others. She tends to be clingy with certain people and breathtakingly, morbidly codependent with her brother.

▸ has your muse lost anyone close to them? how has it affected them? In most verses that her brother has died {as per canon}, Beth died inside that day. In other verses where he lives, Andy eventually moves on with his life, leaving her devastated and unable to cope with herself. Her mother divorced her father when she was ten years old and Beth has always blamed herself, especially when she found out through the internet, that her mother remarried and went on to have more children. Because of these reasons, she often feels like a burden to others, unwanted and just allowed to exist alongside people until such a time that they will leave her too. As such, Beth cannot bring herself to use the word ‘love’ with other people. That’s too big a risk to take when they won’t stick around.

▸ what are some fond memories your muse has? One of Beth’s fondest memories was the first time she surfed by herself and rode the wave all the way to the shore. There was such a sense of freedom and triumph and doing something for her own. She has the vague memory of a blonde and blue eyed boy with the biggest and brightest smile who called her Izzy and who she used to be very close with. She doesn’t remember much more than that except they were on the boardwalk of a beach. She remembers getting her acceptance letter to Columbia University and knowing that it would both change her life forever, and that she might finally be able to escape the long shadow cast by her father, knowing she didn’t have to be afraid of him any more.

▸ is it easy for your muse to kill? Sometimes nature dictates that the kindest and best thing you can do is to let something die. But being both a nurse and a witch, it is very difficult for her to accept that. She understands the need to kill for survival, or pruning something back so the rest of it can be healthy, but no. No it isn’t and it is never a decision she makes lightly in the course of her work. That being said, she does find violence extremely fascinating and can’t pass up the opportunity to watch someone else doing it.

▸ what’s it like when your muse breaks down? It honestly depends on the source of her breakdown. If its root cause is anger, she’s more prone to lash out verbally, spitting vitriol from her own fears and insecurities, projecting it out at the object of her anger. Red faced, tears of frustration. She might push the other person, she might get in their face, or poke them with a finger, but she isn’t normally prone to physical violence. She will though in extreme circumstances where she doesn’t feel like there’s any other choice. If the root cause is depression, Beth becomes sluggish. She curls up in bed as the will to do anything else but lay there evaporates to the point that she doesn’t so much as desire to reathe, to exist; often in physical or emotional pain and turmoil that overcomes her better instincts. She becomes exceedingly moody and silent, often for weeks.

▸ is your muse capable of trusting someone with their life? Beth is very capable of this, especially if the other person is promising her that said life is going to be exceedingly short and painfully lived.

▸ what’s your muse like when they’re in love? In love, Beth is selfless. She will go to the most extreme measures possible to ensure her victim is cared for, loved, supported to the best of her ability. She might not be able to say the words, but she does her best to show them through actions. On the less pleasant side she can be clingy, needy, and combative, always second guessing the other person’s motivations and desires. She is completely unaware that she can be jealous and/or territorial, though most of that has to do with the fact that people tend to fall in love with her brother and forget she exists and that her father has damaged her with a life time of telling her that no one wants her because she’s a burden and broken, and unattractive. That the only people who would find her a suitable partner are those interested in the family’s wealth and prestige. As a demisexual falling in love with someone requires a deep emotional connection that leaves her very vulnerable to that person, she doesn’t have a tremendous amount of experience in the ways of relationships and romance, most of it textbook or anecdotal evidence. She tries though, to be a good person. She wants to be a good person. She wants someone who will love her despite all of her flaws, someone who will actually see her, who can actually understand her, someone who wants ONLY her.

Tagged by: Dax-alicious @untamedgoodoleboys Thanks, darling!

Tagging: @therealgamble, @multi-mused {whomever you like}, @mynameisanakin, @ronmanmob, @corinnebaileyrp, @tabbyrp, @unaugmentedmonkeyscantfly, @dcddyrecper, @damagedbyfate {whomever you like}, @glassmenagerieofmuses {whomever you like}, @thepropertyofalady, @amaarok, @musescomefrompain, @lokitheliesmith, @thedarcydichotomy, @down-in-dixie, and anyone else who would like to! Thieve this! Do it! Tag me back! I love you all!

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littlemisssquiggles · 6 years ago

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Hai! I saw your post about the three Schnee siblings formerly being together to do arts- pianist, singer, dancer. But I read the RWBY Manga Anthology 'Mirror Mirror' and turns out that when she was a child, it was Weiss who was a pianist! I think that when Weiss decided to be a huntress, she gave up playing the piano, but because he admired his sister greatly, Whitley took it up right after. I don't think that inside, Whitley is truly, really an asshole, maybe he's just pressured or something.

I really likethat idea of yours anon-chan. I like the idea of Whitley taking up playingthe piano out of inspiration from Weiss. Perhaps playingthe piano could be Whitley’s coping mechanism with his loneliness. With hissisters gone, perhaps playing the piano was Whitley’s way of connecting to Weiss or at least the fond memories he cherished ofher.

Even ifWeiss was the one to learn the piano first, I do love the idea of Whitleylistening to his sister from afar. Perhaps Whitleyused to watch Weiss whenever she had her piano sessions and he always wanted tolearn how to play the piano---not out of his own interest but purely so that hecould have something for him and his sister to do together.

What if…growing up, Whitley wasalways kept apart from his sisters. Imagine if…Jacques wasn’t the type of father toencourage his children to be close with one another so he always found ways tokeep the siblings apart. But while Winter and Weiss bypassed that, Whitley waskept in the shadows. I can seriously picture Whitley desiring to be closer toWeiss since she was the sister he saw the most (perhaps Winter was away atschool all the time and lived on campus). Picture Whitleylistening to his sister from afar, longing to reach out and join her---playmusic together with Weiss and share in the warmth and happiness of the twobonding.

Now I’m imagining achildhood memory where a toddler Whitley tried to join Weiss playing the pianobut his efforts ended up getting Weiss in trouble with Jacques. And rather thanpunishing them both, Weiss is the only one scolded by Jacques and after that,Weiss refused to talk to Whitley demanding he stay far away from her and lether be alone. Tragic but surprisingly fitting especially with what we know sofar of Weiss as a character.

You and Iare definitely sailing in the same boat anon-chan. I, too, don’t believe Whitley is trulyevil. Just misunderstood.Tremendously misunderstood to the point that it’s kind of ridiculous when Ithink about it. Whitley literally did nothing to deserve the hatred he’sreceived from characters like Weiss in the show and even the FNDM. I rewatchedall of V4 and there was nothing to highlight Whitley as being the manipulativebastard that Weiss painted him to be. If anything, Whitley was one of thecharacters who suffered from the admittedly not-so-good writing during V4’s runtime.If Whitley is truly meant to be the kind of whipped person who is a carbon copyof Jacques Schnee and is completely subservient to him then I wished they hadplayed up that side to his character and actually showed more evidence of himmanipulating his sister in a similar fashion to how Jacques manipulated MamaSchnee long ago.

I’m hopingV7 makes up for the qualms of V4. That being, speaking for myself here, I don’t dislikeWhitley. On the contrary, of all the Schnee Siblings, he’s prettymuch my favourite and the one I’m most interested in learning more about.Whitley is a blank canvas. V4 gave me stuff on him and yet none of it reallypaints a clear picture of Whit to me, y’know what I mean? Rather than jumpingimmediately on the bandwagon of hating Whitley and deeming him a lil shitheador Shitley as he’s been dubbed, I’m left feeling more intrigued by Whit and wishing to learn more about him.

As of now,I don’t have a clear final opinion of Whitley but for the most part, myfeelings toward him as a character are mostly positive. I’m especially intriguedto see how his initial interactions with Weiss’ comrades will be when they allfinally meet face to face. Particularly his encounters with Ruby and Oscar. Ya’llknow how much I’m looking forward to that introduction.

Referringto Whitley and Weiss’ relationship, I’m on the side that firmly believes thatWeiss and Whitley were once very close at some point during their youngeryears. It’s disappointing to learn that the RWBY Anthology specific to Weissdidn’t touch base on Weiss’s relationship with her brother. Then again, as faras I understand, the Anthologies comprised of side stories written and drawn byfans with the approval from the CRWBY. So it’s pretty much the stories and popularrelationships specific to Weiss that the fans wanted to touch base on that theCRWBY greenlit.

It’s ashame there was no story in the Mirror, Mirror Anthologythat focused on Weiss growing up with Whitley. If I were to envisionWeiss’ ties to her brother, in my imagination, Weiss and Whitley are nodifferent than Nebulaand Gamora from Guardians of the Galaxy.

Not to spoil muchfrom GOTG but in the end, Gamora misunderstood her sister’s anger toward herfor competition and jealousy when all Nebula truly wanted was a sister inGamora.

I feellike that is the same for Whit. What if…part of the reason why Weiss thinks solittle of Whitley is because growing up Jacques showed more favouritism toward Whitley being that he was his only son. WhileWeiss and Winter had to work harder to live up to their father’s expectations, what if Whitley was treated with more appreciation and dueto this, Weiss harboured a silent sense of jealousy toward her brother.

At the moment,I think Weiss views Whitley as being a younger version of their father when inreality, Whit is far from that. Some RWBY theorists have brought up the idea ofWhitley beingsecretly abused by Jacques and…notto sound sadistic but I’m fully on-board with that theory.

I like itbecause it ties into my hunches of Whitley being misunderstood. Imagine if…allthose times growing up when Weiss figured Whitley was being spoiled by Jacques and never had to work as hard as hissisters, the reality is that Whitley was giving a much stricter treatment thanhis sisters as a means of keeping him in line.

I find itvery sad that Whitley has basically been abandoned by all the women in hislife. Neglected by both his mother and his sisters. It is sad that Weiss andWinter leaned on each other but left Whitley in the dark. It’s sad that Winterfocused on supporting Weiss but never extended that same olive branch of compassionto her baby brother. Seriously, what is up with that? Why is Whitley beingtreated like such a lost cause by his own sisters?

And what’sworse is that both of Whitley’s sisters left him in the end. Winter went off tojoin the Atlesian Military and Weiss moved away from Atlas to study abroad atBeacon in Vale. The only people that Whit seems to have had to depend on isJacques and possibly Klein.

Speakingof Klein, I seriously hope that Klein became a surrogate father to Whitley duringthose days when Whitley was left alone. I understand that Klein favours Weissfor the sake of plot but…notice that Klein never spoke ill of Whitley. Atleast…not to my recollection. Correct me if I’m wrong.

WhileKlein, in one of his seven personalities, voiced his disdain for Jacques, henever showed that malice toward Whitley. If there is one person who I can seebeing in Whitley’s court, it’s Klein. If the theories are true and Whitley isindeed being silently abused by Jacques then Klein is the one I’m expecting tospill those beans especially to Weiss.

Oh! Imagine if…Kleinhas been hiding Whitley’s abuse? Not out of loyalty to Jacques but to Whitley.Imagine Whitley locked in his room after another vicious beating---the firsttime it happened and Klein voicing his desire to inform someone but Whitley forbadeKlein from doing so.

Imagine Whitley even threatening to have Klein fired if he told anyone of his abuse soKlein decides to keep his mouth zip because he’d rather stay and hold histongue if it would mean being there to at least look out for Whitley.

Imagine Klein being placed in adifficult position where he’d rather chose ignorance over the risk of leavingWhitley completely alone with Jacques on his own. That could be veryinteresting thing to delve into for both Klein and Whitley’s characters. Buuuuut…atthis point, as usual, it all boils down to what the CRWBY Writers have plannedfor Whitley and his story with Weiss.

For whatit’s worth, I hope it’s satisfying andwould leave Whit fans, like myself, content.

By theway, what are the Whitley fans called? I knowPinehead became popular as the name for Oscar fans (which I’m pleased caughton) but what would Whitley fans be called? Whitties?

If Oscarfans are Pinehead then would Whitley fans be…Whittie? As in ‘witty’.

Or maybejust Whits. I’ve developed a habit of calling Whitley, Whit for short so maybe that can work to define myself asa Whitley fan. I’m a Rosegardening Pinehead anda Whit.I could work with that.

Anywhozzits,I do think the possibility of Whit being the Nebula to Weiss’ Gamora is verystrong but…again, only my hunches for now.

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

#squiggles answers: rwby #whitley schnee #weiss schnee #rwby theories #rwby volume 7 #rwby volume 7 theories #rwby v7 #Anonymous

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catleha · 5 years ago

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Teeth are grinding together, palms clasping over her ears in a pained manner. "It's... So bright..." she whispered quietly, knees colliding with the ground below. "How do you do it? I... I can't-...!"

‹ WHAT IS IT THAT YOU WISH TO DO; ‘twas a question oft asked / internally, whilst remaining hidden in the coves of the Greatwood, as if idle thoughts & racing ideas could deliver the very answer one oftentimes sought. Aye, to seek some wicked kind of redemption [for what, I wonder], despite being considered too rough,always too reckless, too socially inapt, they say. Oh, what had happened eons ago became dire reality whenever SHE was around. All the words never said / promises never kept & affection never shown to people that perhaps cared too deeply. – remember, remember: Minfilia residing inside their study, seated in front of a naive LOUD MOUTHED fool, trying her utmost to talk some sense into this stubborn teen. Blunt, because she had never learned respect / harsh, because she had never learned softness; marked by the very woman that had failed so tremendously at raising her. By all means callous, such an avid lover of TOUGH LOVE. Aye, the kind a mother PATRON never ought to possess.

Cue a sigh, single hand set against young other’s very temple / ‘twas a routine the witch once wished to avoid which had, however, become a daily occurrence. This was a child burdened by something she had never learned to control. A higher force, a purpose given to her without consent [she never asked for it / ah, neither did I]: the cost had been high. && in one’s recognition, this gnarly sentiment of guilt & bitter ache so eager to twist her stomach into knots, the sage had begun to focus upon STABILIZATION rather than suppressing what even her advanced magic could hardly quench. – indeed, the aether coursing through this Minfilia’s veins was raw & untamed; unbearably similar to her very own, this throbbing mess of seething white carefully contained within own dark clad frame – aye, recall your arguments back in a realm so far gone. You but a ruthless thing / freshly cut off master’s very hand; pushed into this blinding world, suddenly independent, suddenly an archon supposed to listen to this GIRL & do their bidding.

‘ if I had but known where out paths will lead, I would have been more gentle / more understanding / helpful / kind.

‹ ❛ one day, you will. ❜ spoken words left her lips in a tone so much more coarse than desired; her voice twisted in some form of suppressed grief. The fiery kind, coated in this typically calm & collected shell. Ah, chiding, more like. Perhaps a form of tough love that the old matron had been oh so fond of.Fitting, now that the witch bore foster mother’s name. -- ‘Would that I could tell you how’. Alas, own training had been dolorous & hardly planned. The kind that had given birth to many scars earned in one’s quest to PROTECT & ignore own health’s merry descent. Pray, do you even know how to control the ebb & flow of this earth’s strange memories, the very twitch in every once gentle [now unbearable] gush of wind? The clamor of a thousand drifting souls trapped between the life stream & the First? Oh, in Eorzea, one had never been exposed to THAT much. Mayhaps it had made the process more bearable / learning how to see again / how to cope / to trade color & shapes for angst & obscurity. There, lips curl ever so slightly, stern mien ironically mellowing under the weight of own, dire thoughts. – you mustn’t falter; she ought to say. To encourage, to ensure. To merely BE SOFT / aye, Minfilia deserves such warmth, does she not? Twelve know you have been cold for far too long, brittle, oh so eager to repel those that had wanted naught more than KINSHIP [why I am a creature of mistrust / of solitude / of own volition].

❛ 'tis grim but true. Moreso requires time, aye, and personal sacrifice no less. ❜ Minfilia’s aether stung; 'twas unyielding & unique enough to coerce own heart to hammer like a kettledrum [steady, steady. ‘tis but another cure, another medica, another benediction cast]. To stabilize poor other meant to burn the skin & singe own fur / an additional strain which she selflessly shouldered. Nobody saw the turmoil within, after all, & it was best kept that way. There, upon standing up, she drew the other to her feet. – watch the witch gesture to her chair [a faint glimmer in own aetherical sight], prompted fatigue too much to be borne standing.

❛ I learned through rather onerous means. I would prefer to spare you of such. -- Have courage, and you shall see i through. ❜ She sits down, briskly blinking as if a single flutter could calm dwelling ache. – cue the spark of a withheld memory, condemned tears shed & blighting anger kept locked behind bared teeth. Remember, remember: the Minfilia you buried, mourning in solitude whilst the rest of the scions stood together. Be reminiscent of the pang in your chest, the feeling of emptiness spreading, only to fester. To herald the beginning of something deemed naught but horrid: to know that, in the end, she had felt a connection / why oh why, you failed them all.

Silence etched on, seconds passing whilst one merely pondered; what to do, how to progress – jaw set, softened expressions hardening ever so slightly. She required to further plan, to find a way to protect this girl [not her, not the woman you faced in the studies each day] as promised / as sworn. Aye, an enormous task / a riddle best solved when surrounded by shadows. – there, a click of the tongue, a wave of the hand; deny the dullness of senses sinking in. Deny the sentiment of self-loathe nestling in your chest. Nay, you need time, the time this girl might not have. Lo, blind eyes do not try to find her; nay, she glares, gaze fixated upon rows of books & parchment. ❛ ‘twould be wise to rest. Mayhaps read. – go. Pray bother Urianger while you at it. ❜

why, you are but a creature of solitude, indeed.

#hyethla #[[ something I found in my drafts #WOW WHEE #I am rusty #hgewfzew EXCUSE ME WHILE I RAMBLE MYSELF INTO OBLIVION #this is set at the very beginning of the training we agreed upon #timeline what timeline #idek I just wanted to WRITE ]]#✦ › 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 / 𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐑; promıse: ɯhαtever ıt tαkes. :: ic.#✦ › 𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑𝐒 & 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒. :: asks.#shb verse tbt.

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mooneec · 6 years ago

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The Parentified Child: How It Contributes to a Depressed, Angry, and Resentful Adult

Were You a Parentified Child?

When you were a child, did your mom or dad turn to you for comfort and advice when they were struggling with problems at work, in their marriage, or with finances?

Did you share a special bond with that parent because you were their confidant and caretaker?

Did you forgo hanging out with friends, joining teams and clubs, and just being a kid because you were busy attending to your parent?

Do you now feel resentful because you missed out on a happy, carefree childhood?

If responding “yes” to these questions, you were a parentified child. As a result, you may be struggling in adulthood with sadness, anger, and depression. Don't give up hope, though, because recognizing the root of your problem gives you an opportunity to heal. You can find ways to make up for the joy you missed as a kid.

What Does It Mean to Be Parentified Child?

Parentification happens when a child switches roles with her mom, dad, or both, becoming the caretaker in the relationship. She may become this in an emotional way—listening to the parent's problems, giving them comfort, and offering advice. She may also do it in a physical way—cleaning the house, taking care of siblings, making meals, and even paying bills. Youngsters often become parentified when mom or dad is an alcoholic, a drug user, disabled, divorced, or mentally ill.

How I Became a Parentified Child at the Age of 12

My parents' marriage started to fall apart when I was 12. My mother suspected my father was having an affair with a woman at work. She and I would take hour-long walks every afternoon when she'd confide in me her worries, criticize my father, and even talk divorce. I'd listen intently, flattered she was trusting me with these grownup matters and offering what advice I could. Even though I was just a kid with little experience in relationships, she'd compliment my wisdom, saying I would make an excellent psychologist some day. Listening to her problems and giving counsel was how I got her attention and validation.

As a kid, I didn't think too much about this dynamic between my mother and me that lasted until I went off to college. I was just happy to spend time with her and be her confidant. It wasn't until I became a mother myself that I realized how horribly wrong it was to burden me with these adult issues, turning me against my father and making me cynical about marriage. I began to understand how she used me and robbed me of my childhood. I also learned that what she did wasn't that uncommon and actually has a name: parentification.

Parentification Can Cause Long-Term Problems Including Depression, Isolation, and Anger

Dads and moms who parentify a child often don't realize they're doing something incredibly harmful. My mother was going through a midlife crisis at the time she turned to me for comfort and support. She was unhappy in her job and feeling lonely because my dad was working long hours and traveling for business. When people at my dad's office began gossiping about an affair between him and a much younger subordinate, she was understandably embarrassed and upset. It tapped into her deepest insecurities as a woman and wife and caused her to think and act irrationally at times.

Instead of seeing a therapist or talking to a friend, she turned to me in her time of need. This proved to be a critical mistake, forever damaging the relationship between my father and me and leading to severe problems later in my life. After focusing on my mother's inner world for so many years, I felt unworthy of any attention being directed at me. I didn't know how to advocate for my own needs and desires. The consequences of being a parentified child finally caught up with me as an adult when I struggled with depression, isolation, and anger.

Bethany Webster deals specifically with mother-daughter relationships in "When Shame Feels Mothering: the Tragedy of Parentified Daughters." She writes, "A daughter is being exploited when her mother gives her adult roles, such as surrogate spouse, best friend or therapist...When a daughter is asked to be an emotional prop for her mother, she is unable to rely on her mother enough to get her own developmental needs met." As a result, the daughter can grow up to be an emotionally stunted adult with little self-confidence.

Depression

It's not unusual for a parentified child to become a depressed grownup. I struggled with extreme sadness most of my adult life, taking anti-depressants to numb the pain and going to therapy to get at the root of my heartache. My life transformed when an astute doctor gave me an aha moment, explaining that I had been parentified as a youngster and was suffering because of it. Until that moment, I had never heard of parentification. Having a name for what I experienced as a kid made me feel much better.

During the six years I acted as my mother's emotional caretaker, a tremendous burden was put on my shoulders even though I didn't realize it at the time. I dealt with adult issues that I didn't understand—marital infidelity, a midlife crisis, jealousy, insecurity, and rage. I worried my parents would divorce. I worried we'd have to sell our home and move away from the neighborhood I loved. I worried about our financial outlook and how we'd cope without our dad. I worried how my younger siblings would be affected. I worried about my mother's emotional stability and how I could make her feel better.

My decades-long battle with depression finally ended when I mourned the loss of the happy, carefree childhood I never knew. Kati Morton, a licensed marriage and family therapist, says the grieving process is key to healing. She says it includes acknowledging that what happened to us was not okay coupled with the motivation to move forward.

I started to nurture the little girl inside of me who didn't get the love and attention she craved. I began to enjoy some of the fun and frivolous activities I wanted to do as a kid but was never given the chance: going to a circus, roller-skating in the park, visiting Disneyland, and even having a sleepover with some of my friends.

Isolation

A parentified child can also grow up to be a lonely and isolated adult. During my teen years, I desperately needed a parent to give me advice and listen to my concerns about friends, dating, school, teachers, homework, my hair, and my makeup. My mother, though, couldn't see beyond her own problems to help me. My father, knowing that I was now my mother's confidant, largely avoided me even though we lived under the same roof. I spent too many hours alone in my room, feeling sad and scared. Instead of having the normal adventures of a teen—going to football games, hanging out with friends, and joining clubs and teams—I stayed close at home, feeling responsible for my mother's well-being.

Some therapists even consider parentification a form of child neglect. Because the youngster misses out on basic childhood experiences, her development is seriously impeded. This was certainly true in my case. I didn't get to enjoy the fun and frivolous activities that shape a teen's life. My role as my mother's confidant and emotional caretaker set me apart from my peers. Because we didn't have shared experiences in common, we didn't have much to say to one another. I had few friends and no social life.

Anger

According to Maggie Olivares, a social worker who's dealt with many parentified kids, anger is another byproduct that comes from missing out on a carefree childhood. When they become adults, they look back on all those years when they had too much responsibility and not enough fun and are resentful and bitter. They struggle to maintain a relationship with the mom or dad who parentified them and may even choose to end it.

To this day, I have tremendous anger toward my mother for using me that way. It turned out that my father was never having an affair and it was all in my mom's head, triggered by her deep insecurity. When my dad and her grew closer again after years of being distant, she unceremoniously dumped me. I was no longer needed as her confidant and ally. My relationship with my dad had been annihilated years before that, and I was left with nothing.

Fortunately, I've forgiven my mother and moved on with my life, but I still find it difficult to trust people. In the back of my mind, I'm worried about being used again. I often see friendships as depleting rather than energizing. While my mother has apologized for talking badly to me about my dad, she certainly hasn't owned up to how she turned me into a parentified child and caused disastrous effects in my life.

Final Thoughts

If you were parentified like I was, missing out on a carefree childhood, it's easy to spend your adult life feeling sad and resentful. In Bad Childhood, Good Life, the author encourages us to understand how our past affects our present but discourages us from making it our identity. Just because we were parentified as kids doesn't mean we have to wear the badge of perpetual victim. We can put our early years in perspective and move forward, knowing we're now in charge of our destinies. We can feel empowered and hopeful, building a happy and meaningful adult life even though we missed out on a lot during childhood. We deserve it.

#McKenna Meyers #parentified #parentified child #depression #anger #isolation #resentment

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gui-00-blog · 6 years ago

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Outside Playtime - Why Children Should Play Outside

Mother Nature delays for the exterior playtime. She invites us and the kids of ours with arms that are open. Her basket is chock-full riches for kids to enjoy and learn from the experiences of theirs. All things considered, the amenities offered in current times are since we'd time to enjoy nature in yesteryears.

Electronic advancements have locked kids within the isolation of the multimedia communication system. Their identity is lost in the net community, in which means can be found but communication is missing, pictures can be found but human communication is missing, as well as voices are noticed but friends are dropped.

Have you seen kids walking towards the playground? No, they're constantly running! They're bursting with excitement. Outdoor playtime brings joy in their spring and voice in the movements of theirs. The sound of the laughter of theirs and chatter enlivens the earth.

Extreme urbanization, protective parenting, modern lifestyle and electronic improvements have consumed children's outside playtime. The main component of our society lies outdoors, and kids too have to explore beyond the 4 walls of the building.

The sharp effective senses in kids cause them to become easily inquisitive. They like to explore the surroundings of theirs. The 4 walled spaces are really restrictive. Outside play time widens the horizon of theirs and brings them closer to nature. Nature has an educational value. Kids stumble upon many playground experiences, each making a lasting imprint on the thoughts of theirs.

Kids like to tread on the forbidden areas. Frequently they stroll off to some distant space and effectively retreat again. This will help them overcome their phobias and fears. The ability to deal with strangers at unusual places re-enforces their self-confidence, self-concept, and self-regulation. They leap and fall; however, they dance as well as hum, as well as find out to cope with joy that's mingled with pain of slips. In the process additionally, they learn to forget about and forgive, all by themselves accord!

Kids that play outdoors are not lonely. Outside playtime offers unrestricted chance to become familiar with new contacts of various age groups. Having the ability to cope with people that are different successfully boosts their self-esteem and personality development.

On the playground kids find close friends; actual friends, not chat room abstracts. Together they participate in and organize team sports. They learn how to deal with peer pranks and create sportsmanship. It's on the playground that friends are discovered: an hour of play in concert produces much more comradeship than 12 months of chatting. The emotional balance and openness thus achieved allows kids to create relationships that are healthy.

At home, in comparison to the parents, kids oftentimes assess themselves as physically lacking. This fear disappears in the exterior playtime. Participating in teams of outside activities gives kids the feeling of accomplishment and physical fitness.

Playing outdoors yields tremendous muscular activity which refines children's cognitive capabilities and motor skills. Additionally, it improves blood flow and also strengthens heart as well as lungs' functions. Sunshine improves their vitamin D retailers, enhances the immunity of theirs and stabilizes the hormones of theirs. Outdoor activities have been found to lessen eyes strain. "The greater prevalence of myopia in east Asian metropolises appears to be connected with boosting educational pressures, mixed with life style changes, that have reduced the time kids spend outside," affirms Prof. Ian G Morgan (The Lancet five May 2012).

Another study which showcased in a research journal, Environmental Technology and Science on February 4th 2011, discovered that when compared with training indoors, working out in healthy environments was linked with higher thoughts of revitalization, improved positive engagement and energy, along with decreases in stress, confusion, depression and anger.

The favorable impact of exterior playtime on emotional wellbeing is even more emphasized by Faculty of Illinois researchers, Frances Ming Kuo and Andrea Faber Taylor. Their study concluded that kids with ADHD (attention deficit hyperactive disorder), who routinely play outdoors in regions with natural trees and grass have milder symptoms than individuals that have inside or perhaps in built outdoor environments.

Games improve imagination, along with exterior relaxation inputs spark children's imagination to brand new heights. Even the subconscious minds of theirs are productive, always imbibing a little lesson, and seeing the pleasure of knowing. This sensitive receptivity enables them, without any kind of strain, to control language use in different social situations.

Outside playtimes, in spite of injuries as well as fights, is remembered just as all fun. They experience feelings of independence, success, and failure! Ability to talk about empathy, affection along with duties seeps in naturally in the dealings of theirs. Judgment and decision making gets sharpened with every stroke.

Why kids must play out? Is choosing picnic not fun? Eating out there on the grass from home, is very refreshing! Same with the exterior play time for kids.

If a kid doesn't enjoy playing out, next we have to change outside tasks to her liking and explore into possibility of interpersonal conflicts. The activities that kids are able to achieve outdoors aren't possible indoors. Let them loose.

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zaynyapsworld · 3 years ago

Text

⭐“ Suffering in silence for years has consequences. “ ⭐

8/ 24 / 2021

Silencio

It’s also called stonewalling, and it’s defined as when someone "withdraws from an encounter, refusing to engage, because they’ve been hurt and don’t know what to say next without making things worse." They frequently employed this to avoid conflict during a heated debate.

Allow me to tell you a story about a young lady. Her mother discovered her husband was having an affair with another woman when she was pregnant with their child, and believing she wouldn’t be able to raise and care for the child on her own, she abandoned the child near a pediatric hospital. This is only the start of her story.

Her biological mother’s thoughts: "I’m having mood swings," she says.

Because of the substantial hormonal swings that occur during and after childbirth, "postpartum" is not a mental health disorder.

There was, however, apprehension. She had to abandon the toddler. But she figured she’d bring her back later.

At a young age, the mother ignored her newborn in the children’s unit. Her aunt and grandmother adopted the young girl, and she grew up to be a lovely, pure-hearted young woman.

She had quite a lot of suitors who admired her. Unfortunately, as life was becoming more difficult, the girl was reminded of the day she would never forget for the rest of her life. It is the day she was born. Betrayed by her own mother’s decision, with a vengeful heart and full of hatred. Her early puberty life stresses her, and the absence of a mother in the home, and with high family conflict combined with an unstable environment, signals her body and mind to act quickly to mature and even provide for herself food daily. As a result, from then on, everything she does centers on this lovely young lady’s survival instinct.

Despite her everyday troubles in adolescence, she maintains a calm and collected demeanor while remaining silent, as she believes it is her way of regaining her equilibrium and keeping all of her problems hidden. She often believed that no one was really there for her but herself, and she felt defeated.

Her emotions remained suppressed. She buried them alive.

Her pure heart has turned to stone because of this act.

How did she feel throughout the years whenever she suffered in silence?

She is in excruciating pain. There is so much chaos and anguish inside, yet it certainly appears that everything is alright on the surface. People rarely believe that those who are silent are the ones who are unhappy, hence they don’t take them seriously because of their deceptive appearance. But, as most people are unaware, this girl is already dying from the inside. You don’t notice that unless you’ve gone through it yourself. No one really seems to believe you whether you express what your problem is.

When you keep doing those things and getting the same results in life, you must try something different with a lot of prayer and humility, and try not to be so arrogant..

This girl’s suffering is so intense that it stretches all the way back to her mother’s womb. But, despite years of wandering into the unknown, this beautiful young woman is still yearning for love, struggling in every relationship, battling with body image issues, and wanting recognition in all the usual ways. She has mistaken all the clothes, hair, gadgets, as well as other things, as a source of love and to cope with the sadness inside her, because these are the things that were snatched away from her as time passed, including attention, which she mistook as love most of the time.

This girl’s mind is convincing herself that if she has this, then she will really be fulfilled. If I had that, I’ll be satisfied 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

But, apart from all the beautiful things she has in this material world, she is still unsatisfied.

In her life, she still feels something is lacking.

When did the girl become the family’s breadwinner?

The girl replied in a confusing way: ever since? I suppose?

So there were a lot of responsibilities involved.

As a kid, this woman might not have been a girl. How can she consider herself a woman now?

This girl has been concerned about certain issues since she was a child.

She shouldn’t have had to be concerned.

But, aside from earning money, what’s been causing her to be particularly worried? This girl chooses to believe that she should be more of a good example for her family, such as if they need assistance, she would be there to help them or to provide for them, because that is something she completely lacks as a child: an adult to support her.

She made this up in her mind because she wanted to prove to everyone else that she was neglected as a child, so she should succeed no matter what. As well as for the person who completely disregarded her when she was young, seeing the guilt of it, as well as struggling in vain to succeed and never be more like her mother, is a source of satisfaction for this girl.

Nevertheless, no one else had suggested that she do so.

What made this girl assume that only by losing her childhood she would be capable of supporting her family and succeeding?

"At some point, this girl refused, seeing that she was already exhausted and willing to give up."

However, I have a feeling that:

This young girl is breaking under the weight of the responsibility she acquired in her mother’s absence; she is worried about disappointing everyone, including her grandmother, brother, sister, and even her father and mother, whom she believes abandoned her.

As this young woman grew older and wiser, she learned from her biological mother not to repeat the same mistakes she made.

This girl is now on the verge of a mental breakdown.

I’m curious about what this girl’s addictions are.

Is it a matter of power? Is it the addiction to getting the power to be heard, to decide things, and to have the ultimate authority in everything?

This girl has no intention of stopping her addictions; she would only do so if she was content.

But you can’t be genuinely happy, if your heart is blocked.

This girl is in the depths of hell, as she soon will not be able to feel her heart, nor will she be able to share her heart with anyone. She will be like a dead woman walking. Lifeless. That’s terrible, by far the most appropriate description of how this girl feels. While wandering around, she has no emotions, no feelings, no thoughts. The weight of her mom abandoning her is the root of her despair.

This young lady met a lady named "Natalia."

She was still searching for herself.

"Let me hold you," Natalia said to the girl.

And there’s also "Can I hold you?"

"Do you think it’s okay?"

The woman was constantly asking for permission to help this girl, to speak up, and also to get her to open up her heart. In addition, Natalia grasped this girl tightly in her arms and muttered into her ear, "You are a hot mess."

This is exactly where your mother was when she acquired that first needle. This is the place where she was...

Shutting down. When she was attempting to numb the pain, she pretended to be OK.

Natalia wonders whether her grandmother must have replaced the void left by the absence of her mother. The girl replied : When I think of my mother, I think of my grandmother. She is the kindest, loves how she used to cook foods back in the day. She taught me how to sweep the floor, and also how to get rid of fish bones. She was the only person who comforted me when I was unhappy, and she was always cheerful, never grumpy..

Grandmother is no longer with us on this planet, and this girl keeps missing her tremendously.

This girl should go to the place that scares her the most, where it means dropping addictions such as ego, pride, money, fear of rejection, control, and being vulnerable, while basically allowing her heart to shatter for a while. This emotion could influence her decision-making in the future; it’s anger, and it's really going to turn into rage.

Avoidance and resistance to opening up could lead to acting it out.

Where would you begin?

(Start by letting go of any previous traumas: attachment, manipulation, control, power, and never use sex to mend past traumas; it might have a detrimental effect, such as a feeling of "forever" stuck in a phase of life.

As Natalia advised this young girl, "learn to love yourself."

I see your brokenness.

It is to recognize as well as accept the very first pain/fear that was embedded within her, as well as the reality that this is something that existed in her emotions.

Rearrange your life; it may be difficult at first to lose everything, but losing yourself is much worse. Start concentrating on the areas that require the most attention. What would it take to get over something that happened long ago?

Allow yourself to let go of your fears.

feel with it.

Deal with it.

Then you can heal it.

So that this girl’s pain does not spill over into the lives of those who actually love her, because this is not their pain to battle for.

That is what we should achieve.

Life will humble you.

We must move from wounds to healing.

and watch what happens....

Gradually, this girl will move around with no difficulty.

She’ll regain her pure heart soon, and by that time, she’ll be truly happy.

with none of the insecurities that come with it.

It is safe for you to give.

It is safe for you to love

You are safe and I truly believe that you’ll be able to surpass the biggest trials and challenges in your life.

End.

I❤️You.

All the Love - L

0 notes

lizworlds · 3 years ago

Text

“ Suffering in silence for years has consequences. “

8/ 24 / 2021

Silencio

Her biological mother’s thoughts: "I’m having mood swings," she says.

Because of the substantial hormonal swings that occur during and after childbirth, "postpartum" is not a mental health disorder.

There was, however, apprehension. She had to abandon the toddler. But she figured she’d bring her back later.

At a young age, the mother ignored her newborn in the children’s unit. Her aunt and grandmother adopted the young girl, and she grew up to be a lovely, pure-hearted young woman.

Her emotions remained suppressed. She buried them alive.

Her pure heart has turned to stone because of this act.

How did she feel throughout the years whenever she suffered in silence?

When you keep doing those things and getting the same results in life, you must try something different with a lot of prayer and humility, and try not to be so arrogant..

This girl’s mind is convincing herself that if she has this, then she will really be fulfilled. If I had that, I’ll be satisfied 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

But, apart from all the beautiful things she has in this material world, she is still unsatisfied.

In her life, she still feels something is lacking.

When did the girl become the family’s breadwinner?

The girl replied in a confusing way: ever since? I suppose?

So there were a lot of responsibilities involved.

As a kid, this woman might not have been a girl. How can she consider herself a woman now?

This girl has been concerned about certain issues since she was a child.

She shouldn’t have had to be concerned.

Nevertheless, no one else had suggested that she do so.

What made this girl assume that only by losing her childhood she would be capable of supporting her family and succeeding?

"At some point, this girl refused, seeing that she was already exhausted and willing to give up."

However, I have a feeling that:

As this young woman grew older and wiser, she learned from her biological mother not to repeat the same mistakes she made.

This girl is now on the verge of a mental breakdown.

I’m curious about what this girl’s addictions are.

Is it a matter of power? Is it the addiction to getting the power to be heard, to decide things, and to have the ultimate authority in everything?

This girl has no intention of stopping her addictions; she would only do so if she was content.

But you can’t be genuinely happy, if your heart is blocked.

This young lady met a lady named "Natalia."

She was still searching for herself.

"Let me hold you," Natalia said to the girl.

And there’s also "Can I hold you?"

"Do you think it’s okay?"

This is exactly where your mother was when she acquired that first needle. This is the place where she was...

Shutting down. When she was attempting to numb the pain, she pretended to be OK.

Grandmother is no longer with us on this planet, and this girl keeps missing her tremendously.

Avoidance and resistance to opening up could lead to acting it out.

Where would you begin?

As Natalia advised this young girl, "learn to love yourself."

I see your brokenness.

It is to recognize as well as accept the very first pain/fear that was embedded within her, as well as the reality that this is something that existed in her emotions.

Allow yourself to let go of your fears.

feel with it.

Deal with it.

Then you can heal it.

So that this girl’s pain does not spill over into the lives of those who actually love her, because this is not their pain to battle for.

That is what we should achieve.

Life will humble you.

We must move from wounds to healing.

and watch what happens....

Gradually, this girl will move around with no difficulty.

She’ll regain her pure heart soon, and by that time, she’ll be truly happy.

with none of the insecurities that come with it.

It is safe for you to give.

It is safe for you to love

You are safe and I truly believe that you’ll be able to surpass the biggest trials and challenges in your life.

End.

I❤️You.

All the Love - L

0 notes