#family drama fiction

[ccashleywrites]

Family Strife

“You have three weeks before your wedding, Saris. You need to stop procrastinating your fitting.”

“I still have time to get the dress finished.”

“The seamstresses can only do so much! And you are cutting more and more into the little time they already have in order to finish it!”

“Then maybe you should have given me longer than three months to prepare for a marriage that I didn’t even want in the first place.”

“You knew that you had to marry sooner or later, Saris- and you’ve already put it off for far too long! You won’t be of childbearing age for much longer, and your beauty is already fading.”

I roll my eyes at mother’s exaggerations, knowing full well that I had only just turned twenty-three last month. My hair is still a long, vibrant brown that falls halfway down my back in full, bouncy curls and my body had yet to take on any weight that hadn’t filled out my curves. I also knew my pale skin was still soft and smooth with the softest of blushes dusting across my face, shoulders and chest. I’m still a young woman just coming into her prime- and mother was a cranky old woman long past hers who was still trying to live vicariously through me.

“Are you even listening to me?” she demands, her voice full of irritation and laced with venom. I didn’t need to listen to her to know she had just laid into me about how little I care about finding a suitor and how ungrateful I am for this opportunity to marry a King, from all the men in the kingdom.

“Yes mother, I am.” It comes out as a tired sigh, and I can almost feel the rage coming off my mother. “I’ll get it done; I swear.”

“No, you won’t,” she snaps, throwing her hands up in anger as she turns away. “You’ll run off with that Forest girl again the first chance you get. You know you were almost caught last time, don’t you?”

“Who cares if I’m caught?” I shoot back, my own anger starting to bleed through. “I wouldn’t be the first woman in the city to be caught with another woman.”

“You’ll ruin my reputation! You’ll destroy this union with the King- all because you refuse to be normal!”

I spin to face her, the book that had been in my hands flying across the room to thud against the wall by my bed. Mother looks taken aback as I face her, almost frightened by my sudden change in demeanor. Stepping towards her I jab a finger in her direction, my voice low and controlled but full of a painful fury I couldn't control any longer.

“You talk so high and mighty about reputation and settling down with a man as if you yourself didn’t have to rebuild your own reputation at my age for the exact same thing. As if you don’t spend your days now weeping in the dark corners of the library over the woman you turned your back on just to please the people around you.” I step forward again, and mother matches my forward movement with a backward step. Her face is shocked now, twisted in horror at the truth of my words and her shame laid bare as I tear into her. “You want so bad for me to be just like you- and I am! Except I’m not going to lie about loving a man you forced me to marry! Just so you could finally have the status and reputation your mother pushed so hard for you to achieve! All so you can finally hold your head high and act like you’re any better than all the other shallow people in this forsaken kingdom! I’m not your fucking doll, mother! I’m not some empty shell you can puppet and re-live your life through with no mistakes!”

I keep backing mother up, her face masked in mortification as I continue, my voice never rising above speaking volume. I’m not a savage, after all- I still know how to use my inside voice. Furthermore, I wasn’t going to allow my mother to bully me any longer- I wasn’t going to hold this anger and pain and hatred in any longer.

I continue, “I don’t care about reputation! I don’t care about money! I don’t care about climbing the echelons! I just want to be fucking happy! I want to live in a way that makes me happy! I want to be with someone who makes me happy! I don’t want to be an all-encompassing miserable witch like you- because I’m not like you!!”

The horror turns to rage then, twisting my mother’s wrinkled, wizened face into an ugly purple mask of fury. Mother closes the gap between us in two long strides, and before I register what she’s doing her hand flashes out towards me.

The room fills with the sickening crack of her hand meeting the side of my face. My vision spins and swims as my ears begin ringing, shock freezing me in place before I slowly start to lift my hand to my face. When my fingers press softly against my cheek, tears immediately spring into my eyes at the sharp, screaming pain of the tender flesh.

She’d hit me as hard as she could, I was sure of it.

And I was sure it would bruise.

And then her voice shrieks into my ears as the ringing abruptly stops.

“-dare you?!?! You’re an ungrateful, hateful, spiteful little forest heathen-loving SLUT!!!”

My eyes slowly rise back to my mother, my mouth still open and my eyes as wide as our gilded dinner plates.

Her rage continues, her voice escalating to the point I began to wonder if she was going to scream so loud her voice would give out.

“After everything I’ve done for you! Everything I’ve given up for you, and all the chances I’ve given you to stop acting like a selfish, spoiled little shit and do something for someone else just once- and you dare speak to me like that?!”

“So, you admit it.”

Her rage abruptly stops, though her chest continues heaving from her screams. Confusion crosses her face, and she spits hatefully, “The hell are you on about now?”

“You admit that you don’t want me to marry the king for me.”

Realization slowly crosses her face, followed by a slow dawn of horror. As her mouth begins to open and close, searching for the words to defend herself. I don’t give her the chance. Instead, I press on.

“You just admitted that you want me to do this for you- ‘do something for someone else just once’? Everything I’ve done, all the shit and abuse and horrible words from you and sister and father I’ve put up with my entire life. I’ve done literally everything you’ve ever asked of me.” I feel no rage now, only a hollow, cold numbness spreading quickly through me. I straighten myself and brush off my dress before smoothing my hair back down. Back straight and chin high, I stare my mother down; knowing by the throbbing in my cheek that she can clearly see the quickly forming bruise, she herself placed on my previously pale, perfect face.

“I’ll marry the king, Midaria,” I draw out her name, deepening the horrified expression on her face as I push as much venom into the word as possible. “I’ll marry him, but not for you. I’ll marry him to get away from you and the rest of this horrid family. And I’ll make sure you never see a gem of the King’s riches, nor gain a sliver of fame from our union.”

I start walking forwards now, leaving my frozen, mortified mother where she stands. Opening the door into the mansion hallway, I leave her with one final jab.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, me and my ‘Forest Heathen’ bridesmaid have a fitting to go finish.”

And then I shut the door behind me, leaving my mother alone with her thoughts, emotions, and my foreboding words.

[lesbianladysif]

@the-alethiometer asked: MCU + favourite scene

[kitsuna21]

EVERYONE GO WATCH WOODEN OVERCOATS RIGHT NEEEOOWWWWEEEE

[hyakunana]

"Anyone can find happiness. That's the world we're striving for!"

[hawkogurl]

[interact-if]

Hi, do you know of any IFs that include family drama? There was one IF that I can’t remember the name but you visit your family after your mother was murdered. Thank you

Hi Anon, here's a list of interactive fictions that include family drama. If anyone has any further suggestions, feel free to reply and we'll add them to the list, thank you!

Completed:

Blood Money by @hpowellsmith

Blood Moon by @barbwritesstuff

Dragon Racer by @13leaguestories

Fernweh Saga: Book One by @lacunafiction

Never Date Werewolves by Rebecca Zahabi

New Year's Eve, 2019 by @cyberpunklesbian

Pageant by @cyberpunklesbian

Portrait of a Texas Family (VN) by Lookout Drive Games

Rent-a-Vice by Natalie Theodoridou

The Parenting Simulator by Matt Simpson

Twofold (VN) by @vnstudioelan

Demos:

Blood Legacies by @bloodlegacies

Checkmate in 3 Moves by @checkmatein3moves

College Tennis: Origin Story by @collegetennisoriginstory

Crown of Exile by @ramonag-if

Dear Diary, We Created a Plothole! by @ddwcaph-game

Exiled From Court by @beeanca-writing

Fallen Lights by @fallenlightsif

Golden by @milaswriting

Hollowed Minds by @shai-manahan

Larkin by @larkin-if 

Merry Crisis by @merrycrisis-if

Runaway by @ericclem

Speaker by @speakergame

The Bastard of Camelot by @llamagirl28

The Deal: Act One Inferno by @thedeal-if

The Exile by @exilethegame

The Hunger Within by @thehungerwithin-if

The Sky Left Us (VN) by Rat Worm Games

Undead Heir by @undeadheir-if 

Vendetta by @vendetta-if

When The Moon Bleeds by @whenthemoonbleeds-if

No Demos:

In Her Shadow by @in-her-shadow-if

[borgialucrezia]

obviously, i love when tv shows resort to adapting defamatory rumors about the borgias, in fact it makes stuff spicier for good television! but i have that pet peeve and it is the false narrative with zero factual basis that i keep encountering while reading biographies about the house of borgia that the scholars really need to fuck off with them, and it's the whole irritating narrative that juan is the pope's favorite son, and cesare is consumed by jealousy towards him. which is total bullshit when cesare in fact received so much affection and appreciation from the pope as much as juan received (if not more than juan) cesare was the one who has always been consistently by their father's side and enjoyed immense popularity in rome, even among the artists who hailed him as the most handsome man in italy, and machiavelli was all over him. basically cesare was the renaissance's main prince. so there's nothing that indicates that cesare is jealous of juan over literally anything, and it's just the biographers being overly dramatic about him by giving him the "from zero to hero" trope (read maria bellonci's 'the life and times of lucrezia borgia' because she dives deep into this topic)

and no, cesare didn't hate juan. it's quite the opposite! his letters to his younger brother are full of tenderness, guidance, and fraternal love. it's another borgia famous rumor that needs to die down in biographies.

let's take sarah bradford (the author of 'lucrezia borgia: life, love, and death in renaissance Italy' and cesare borgia: his life and times) for example, and how she deliberately cut the part where cesare signs his letter to juan with "dal vostro fratello che vi ama com se stesso." translated as "from your brother who loves you as himself" because of her unnecessary haterism towards juan since she likes hyping cesare at his expense.

she also manipulated a document about the ambassador who visited cesare. here's a snippet from her book:

the actual translation from the document (praising both brothers) :

at this point, i'm convinced that if sarah bradford (and authors like her) didn't burst blood vessels for one minute by projecting her one-sided beef towards juan onto cesare with her unfair, incorrect statements of him she might start getting chills and have a stroke

that's it for now! i'm planning to make a masterpost about stuff like that because there are a lot of infamous rumors that some biographers tend to resort to, which is truly exhausting lol

[theholmwoodfoundation]

How exactly does a man whose father died no later than 1918 "head towards his 70s with speed" in 2024?

He must have an incredible skincare regimen...

Yes, that is quite odd isn’t it?

Incredible skincare.

[musewrangler]

Luke stared blankly at the dark haired girl, his mind trying to process what in the kark she was doing here.

“You…you’re the Princess ,” he stated, and internally kicked himself for that ridiculously obvious statement.

“Yes, well observed,” she hissed, glaring at him and seizing his arm. “Come on!”

She dragged him swiftly toward an innocuous door which led to a small storage area for cleaning droids and supplies. Numerous little lights blinked and cameras swiveled at them curiously. The Princess ignored this.

“What in the hells are you doing here?” he asked her.

“I came for you, you complete nerf ,” she whispered back, eyes narrowed. “When you decided to go haring off to Bespin to find Captain Solo and his friend, I was told to go and save your reckless carcass!”

[the-andromeda-effect]

25

Chapter 24

Sometimes the worst prisons are in our own minds....

Caliban set his coffee cup down on the nightstand, and picked up his phone.  He had an idea that might help Adira to relax and feel more comfortable.  Scanning his thumb to unlock it, he turned his head to look over at his wife.  His. Wife.  He was coming to like the sound of it, even though right now it was just in his mind, more and more.  “How about we call your family to let them know that you’re really not dead?  I bet they’re devastated at what happened.  Hearing from you might help them feel better.”

Coffee spilled onto the nightstand as Adira’s cup clattered down hard.  Her breath was coming hard and fast, her heart trying to escape her ribcage as she all but launched herself across the bed to grab and throw Caliban’s phone across the room, where it hit the door with a loud thud.  “NO!”  She grabbed his shoulders and looked in his eyes, barely holding onto control of herself.  “NO!  You can’t. They can’t know.  They can’t ever know.  You can’t tell them, ever.  Promise.  Promise you’ll never say a word, not even a hint, especially to my father.  I’m dead.  I have to be dead.  Always dead.  DEAD.  Do you hear me?  Promise me!  Promise me, Caliban!  I’m dead!”  

Adira’s eyes were wild, she was hyperventilating, and tears were streaming down her face. Just the thought of her family, especially her father, finding out that she was alive sent her into the icy grips of terror and panic.  Memories assailed her as she warred with the urge to get up and flee from the room, no thought to where she would go, or what that would accomplish.

Even though they were sitting in the middle of a king size bed, Adira most resembled a frightened animal that had been backed into a corner by a lethal predator.  Why?  That, Caliban did not know, but her grip on his shoulders was so tight that he was quite sure that her short nails were drawing blood.  The woman who had been ready to die rather than go with him in the basement was no in such a frenetic state he wasn’t sure what the best way to handle her was.

In shock, Caliban continued for a moment to simply stare into her eyes, her pupils blown wide in terror as he tried to figure out how to react without making things worse.  This was a reaction that he had not in any way anticipated.  Trying to help her feel more relaxed had backfired in the most spectacular way imaginable.  Day three of a married man, and so far this one was going as sideways as the previous ones, three for three.  At some point they had to start getting better.  He really did want her to calm down, lest one of her guards or Theron decide to sedate him and whisk her off somewhere.

Gently he took hold of her arms finally, his hands running gently over them to try and calm her.  His eyes kept on hers while he breathed deep and calm in hopes she would match him.  “Adira, my love, calm down.  Breathe with me, darling.”  He kept his voice quiet and soft.  He took deep breaths with her to try and help her calm, gently pulling her towards him so he could hold her until she was calm enough for him to find out more.  Thankfully her grip on his shoulders lessened and she started to let him guide her and come out of her blind panic.

Before he could say more, both Lars and Marcin threw open the door to the room and were in the doorway looking confused and concerned.  “Hey, uh, boss, uh, and, uh, Adira.” Lars started, then paused as he looked around the room for whatever threat had caused the commotion they’d heard from below, “we, uh, heard something hit the door, then it sounded like Adira yelling or screaming.  Is, uh, everything okay up here?”  His eyes were studying the scene before him, and he wasn’t sure what was going on, but he could tell Adira was terrified, and Caliban looked utterly confused.  This wasn’t good. What had happened?

“Adira was just about to tell me why we are never going to let her family know she is alive.  Weren’t you, sweetheart?”  Gently Caliban maneuvered her to be sitting next to him with his arm around her, pulling close against him. His free hand took one of hers, the thumb softly caressing the back of her hand.  “I made a bad suggestion, and what you heard was the response.  Unfortunately, I still have quite a bit to learn about my new bride.”  He clarified without taking his eyes off Adira who was trembling and now had a death grip on his hand with both of hers.

All she could do was nod and swallow, clinging to Caliban like he was her tie to life and sanity. “I’m sorry…”  It came out not much louder than a whisper, and Adira felt her husband pull her tighter against him and murmur some kind of reassurance.  All she could really hear though was the rushing of blood in her own ears.  The thought of her father finding out she was alive, and where she was, had so terrified her that she was having trouble calming back down from it.  The feel of Caliban’s lips against her temple caused her eyes to close and a couple of deep breaths to fill her lungs, she could do this. 

“My father knows what life was like for me,” finally she stuttered out then paused, taking several more deep breaths, “I tried to run away once, to go home.  When he found me, he beat me even more than��Mir…Mircea..and drug me back still bleeding.”  Adira’s whole body shook as she started to cry.  Memories assailed her as she began to recount all the times that her father had added onto whatever “punishment” that Mircea had thought she had earned.  Then there were the times that her father felt disrespected and took his anger out on her.  Or the times that he thought he saw her do something that disrespected Mircea, but Mircea wasn’t around or didn’t see, so her father took it out on her.  If it hadn’t been for Caliban’s strong hold on her, the way he would run his hand over her arm or thumb over the back of her hand, and the soft kisses on her temple when she stumbled over words, she wasn’t sure she would have had the strength to keep going.  Knowing he was there supporting her somehow gave her the strength to face the nightmares of her past.

The whole time Adira was talking, the three men said nothing.  Caliban was trying to reassure and comfort her, while also trying to digest everything she was recounting to them.  It was painful to listen to all she had endured, so he could only imagine how hard it was for her to relive.  His mind was having a difficult time comprehending how a parent could inflict such abuse on their child, let alone condone what Mircea had done and add further to it.  He knew she wasn’t lying, but he was still struggling.  The one thing he kept focused on was making sure that she felt supported and cared for.  There was no missing how hard it was for her to talk, and he didn’t mind being her rock to lean on for it.

More than once Lars and Marcin looked at each other as they listened.  Both men had worked for Caliban for some time and had carried out operations for him.  They might have inflicted the type of abuse that Adira was recounting upon men, but never women.  They knew few in their sphere of influence who would, even if the woman had done something to cause them great harm in one way or another.  Even death was brought more swiftly and painlessly to women.  It was the way that things had always been done, so to hear her speak of her father backing Mircea and being just as brutal, it was uncharted territory for both of them.  While Caliban currently just looked stunned, they had a feeling that when he had properly digested all she was saying that he would have much to say on this, and probably some actions that he desired to take.

When she had finished, the three men looked at each other, matching expressions of rage burned in their eyes, but they remained silent.  Caliban was the first one to speak.  His calm voice belied how enraged he was at all he had heard.  Now was not the time for that, that would come later.  “Lars, would you please get Adira some water?  Also, bring me the first aid kit from the supply room off of the kitchen?   I need to rewrap her hand.  Then, if you gentleman will please leave us, I think my wife needs some peace to fully calm back after the upset that I caused her.”

Lars nodded then headed towards the stairs to get what Caliban asked for.  Marcin stepped into the room to grab Caliban’s phone that was on the floor, and place it on the dresser, then mirrored Lars’ movements.  Neither man particularly wanted to remain, they had no idea what to say or how to respond without it being awkward.  Best to leave things to Caliban until it was needed that they do otherwise.

support banner - @cafekitsune

[mediamatinees]

The Melancholic Beauty of Perseverence in "The Color Purple"

Content Warning: The Color Purple (2023) contains scenes that depict domestic violence, sexual assault, verbal abuse, and racial violence. Spoilers for The Color Purple ahead! So, I was originally going to do a comparison to the Oscar-nominated 1985 film adaptation. But personally, after struggling through a book I was listening to that put me in a very upsetting place, I decided that I wasn’t…

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #176

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily (haven't missed one yet!) and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please like and reblog if you enjoy - the notes keep me going!

He's gonna be Frank with you. Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

Last time on The Frank Program, Frank caught Daryl watching something on his phone during recording, and he didn't like what he saw.

Daryl exploded out the door to the parking lot, anger in his stride, fear in his posture, and tears in his eyes. Chad, leaning on a car, got up immediately when he saw the kid running off.

“Hey!” He called out. Daryl wasn’t stopping for anything.

Cautiously, Chad poked his head back inside. Frank was stoic, silent in his host’s seat, a lit cigarette in his left hand. He took a drag from it and sighed out a puff of smoke.

“Come in, Mr. Graves. We oughtta finish the show.”

“You alright, bud?”

There were bags under Frank’s eyes that Chad didn’t recall seeing before. “I’m plenty content to finish recording.”

Graves sat down in his chair. The corner behind him was conspicuously empty. The chair which had been there before sat askew and on its side at the other end of the room.

“You know, Mr. Graves -”

“You can just call me Chad.”

“Well, Chad…” Frank took another hit. “I ain’t touched a cigarette in ten years. Kept this one in the studio just to prove to myself I didn’t need it.” He chuckled. “Funny how I keep proving myself wrong, huh?”

“How’s that?”

“Oh, the usual. I think o’ someone as a friend, or a wife, or… or a son. And I come to find they never were, really. They stab me in the goddamn back.”

“I take it that your chat didn’t go too well?”

Frank sneered. “You have no idea.”

“I’m sure he’ll come around. You know teenagers, I mean… I remember when I was a teenager, I got in arguments with my parents all the time.”

“We’re no stranger to arguments, Chad. This is somethin’ else. I’m losing my boy.”

“What exactly happened?”

Frank huffed and smothered his cigarette in the ashtray. “We better get back to my prepared questions.”

“Yeah…” Chad nodded slowly. “Alright.”

Frank shuffled through pages, looking for a question he still felt like asking. “Uh… Do you and your friends ever have creative differences when working on the show?”

“I don’t think we’d be as effective at doing our jobs if we did. Really, all four of us try to stay out of the creative side of things most of the time. Our producer decides what the story is for a given episode. He takes our full night of footage, and our analysis of the findings, and he gives that to his editor to make the pieces fit together.”

“Does the show replicate the experience of actually bein’ there, do ya think?”

“To be honest with you, I don’t usually watch it. Kind of a ‘been there, done that’ situation. But I have been channel surfing before and caught a rerun from a few years ago, and it definitely brought back memories.”

“Well that’s nice. Nice to have something to look back on. I guess I’ve got that too, huh? A little piece of the past… to bring back memories.”

“Yeah, I guess so. The nice thing about the show is it cuts out all the boring bits. The parts where we’re just sitting around, whispering to each other like we’re trying not to wake up the parents at a sleepover.”

“Right,” Frank said, a lump in his throat. “Those are the parts you really miss when they’re gone.”

Chad tilted his head to look around his microphone. “It’s gonna be okay, Frank. He’ll -”

“Mr. Graves, I don’t want another grown man to see me cry. So thank you for being here, but I must be signing off. Go ahead and tell the people where to find you.”

“I’m on all the socials as @GravesGhostVisions, so just search that up if you want to see where we’re headed next.”

“Thank you. This has been The Frank Program…” Frank struggled to get the words out without letting tears come with. “So long.”

[creation-key]

Drunken Calls

Part 2

Synopsis: accidentally confessing while laughing

Warnings: drinking mentioned, barely any cussing, mostly pure fluff/ maybe angst?

a/n: I don’t have any original ideas, that i want share 😏, so i have stolen this prompt from @mangocherri , thank you love for the inspo! And if I completely butchered it and you want me to take this down, I so will, don’t even worry about it. enjoy, we’ll at least try to 🥸

It’s Saturday night? morning? you don’t even know at this point anymore. Your best friend Sierra took you out that night to celebrate your doctorate’s degree in Psychology.

You’re not much of a party girl on your own, but when with the right people, you never want to sleep. And that is exactly what you’re experiencing in the present, only now, you’re sipping on some fruit drink, the taste of alcohol no longer prevalent because of how much you’ve consumed that night already.

You’ve all gathered at your house for the after party, you called it, which was really your smart sober part of your brain, long gone now, trying to keep everyone from driving home. With the night still young , it’s 2 am, you’re talking up a storm, just really spilling the beans on every secret you’ve ever had, including your crush on your sister’s boyfriend.

Everyone having already sobered up and drinking water gasp, granted it’s only 4 people, including yourself, but the gasp sounded otherworldly to your intoxicated brain.

Not fully understanding what you had just admitted to, you yawn saying you’re gonna “hit the hay,” you wink, for literally no reason at all, and stumble your way to your bedroom, tripping over air at least 27 million times.

You reach your room and plop down on your bed face down, completely ready to just fall asleep like that until your phone, which you had forgotten about, starts to ring loudly. You groan, begrudgingly getting up to answer it.

“hEllor?” You slur out, reaching for a bottle of water half drunken on your night stand, in hopes of quenching your thirst.

“Hey, y/n, wait are you drunk?” The unknown person says.

“No, this is Patrick,” You laugh, dying at your joke, slapping your knee for extra effect. You set the phone face up on your bed, pressing the speaker button.

“Well I guess that answers that, there’s no way sober you would such an awful joke.” The person on the other line giggles.

“Heyy, watch it mister whoever you are. I can and will kick your ass. You know I know karate?”

“Oh really?” Mystery man asks.

“Yep, my best friend Harry taught me once. Do you know Harry?”

“Yeah, I’d say I know him pretty well, he’s kind of a goof isn’t he?” The man questions.

You laugh out loud at that, responding in between laughter.

“Yeah he’s a goof, but that’s why i love him. He’s unapologetically himself no matter the situation. You know sometimes I think I relate to the Schuyler sisters more than I’d like to.” The man on the other line takes in a sharp breath, before moving around asking shakily,

“why is that?”

“Because sometimes I wish I had been satisfied and never introduced him to my little sister, oh well, at least i still have him in life. Maybe I’ll meet a rich man like Angelica and move across the sea only seeing them on major holidays and vacations! Yeahhh, that’d be ideal.” You sigh at the end, it quickly turning into a yawn, after hearing no noise coming for the other end you assume the man has gone to sleep, so you bid your goodbyes, hanging up the phone and going to sleep.

——————————————————————————

The Next Morning~

You wake up in the morning with a sticky taped your head- it reads

“Hey girl, we all left as soon as Harry arrived, don’t worry we called ubers just in case. Had fun last night, also about that little secret, it’s safe with us little miss doctor, Love you and can’t wait to do this again!”

You laugh, throwing the sticky note on your bedside table, sitting up straight only to be hit with a ton of bricks to your mental. Memories from the night before come flooding back as well as the mention of Harry being in your house, recalled from the sticky note. Getting up, warily, you make your way to the shower and get ready for the day, you put on pajamas.

Hoping that you’d taken long enough in the bathroom for Harry to have left, you make your way downstairs, only to be met with a nervous smiling Harry eating pancakes and fruit at your table.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” He asked with a worried look.

You look back at him embarrassed, but answer

“oh, i’m okay, just a little tired, and my head’s hurting, but i already took some medicine.”

“Do you, um- do you remember anything from last night?” He looks down at his plate.

You know with your own plate sitting across from him at the table.

“Uh yeah, all of it actually, in fact, this is so funny really, just as I was about to go to sleep some guy, i think, called me, but i never read his contact name so i had no clue who it was, plus the alcohol kind of distorted their voice so i couldn’t tell, anyways, I had a whole conversation with him.” You laugh as you recall the memory, giggling a little at end at yourself for being so silly as a drunk.

“What did you guys talk about?” Harry asked, his eyes now glued to the sink faucet.

“Oh nothing much, talked about karate and just spilled my deepest darkest secrets to him. Are you okay?” You look at him worried.

“Um, yeah. Why do you ask?” Him still not looking at you.

“Because you haven’t made eye contact with me since I walked in, and even then, it was only for a moment. What’s going on?” He looks up you and then back down at the floor, as if pondering what to say next.

“I love you too. I always have, honestly if I’m being completely transparent, I think that’s why I started dating your sister, I mean you guys are just so similar but so different in your own ways, but I just couldn’t learn to love the differences in her. And I know that sounds bad, but I cant ignore what i’ve been yearning to hear from you from the moment we met and not tell you how i’m feeling.” He takes a breath at the end.

You stare at him, trying to comprehend his words, trying to understand where he could have gotten this from, and the only thing that comes to mind is-

“It was you… you were on the phone last night. Weren’t you?” He nods. You stand up, almost knocking your chair over before backing up into a corner.

“y/n we can go somewhere, just us, a date. It doesn’t have to be weird love promise. I already talked to your sister, she under-“

You interrupt him-

“Harry i can’t do that to my sister. If you love me like you say you do, you know that i can’t and will not. I was fine with being in love with you in secret. And you told her? Why would you do that, you were both so happy. Always smiling. I can’t, please. Leave.” He starts shaking his head getting up to approach you.

“Harry leave before I lose it. I can’t do this right now, or ever. Please.” He opens and closes his mouth, defeated he leaves.

You fall to the ground, cupping your face to hold back your sobs from being heard from outside your door, where you sure Harry is waiting for you to let him back in. But you can’t-

you won’t.

~fin~

thoughts on a part 2, i enjoyed writing the angst hehe

[would-they-listen-to-that]

for the selfship playlists... scarecrow from 2018 lost in space, if you're up for it? he's rather obscure so based on vibes is a-okay :)

‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡ here you go, caller!

Brass Goggles - Steam Powered Giraffe

A Human's Touch - TWRP ft. McKenna Rae

Cabinet Man - Lemon Demon

Hello, World - Louie Zong

Disconnected - Carson Elliott

Aishite, Aishite, Aishite - Kikuo

Fear of Dying - Poppy

Little Dark Age - MGMT

Kids with Guns - Gorillaz

Me & My Baby (Saturday Night) - Steam Powered Giraffe

thanks for dialing in!

[sparrow-flight]

Here Now

[3715 words, 20 minutes]

1 January 2017 Winnipeg, Canada

The father walks the long way to the house that is not his own. He could’ve told the taxi to drop him at the door. Instead, he stops it at an intersection and it drives on without him.

In the 4am winter night, the father has no reason to fear anyone seeing him. The streets of this dingy neighbourhood are empty except for wet, brown snow that collects the deep footprints of strangers. The father has no reason to fear anyone robbing him. His pockets are light. They only hold an empty wallet, an expired driver’s licence, and a dead cell phone. And yet, the absence of life leaves room for imaginary danger. The father’s blue eyes stare down pockets of darkness, his tense legs ever ready to sprint.

He avoids the straight path that leads to his destination. Instead, he circles the housing block like a frantic bird, riding his own wings of instinct governed by survival, anxiety, and death. His metronome heart sets his quick pace, and when he makes the final turn that brings his destination into view, his heart drums to the swell of fear and excitement.

His eyes now squint in the dying light of sparse streetlamps, and he whispers to himself house numbers he passes in the language of a stranger. He stops at a small house. Its front has a door, a window with blinds, and a broken bulb with frozen cobwebs. Before the door is a wooden deck with stairs. Rusted nails barely hold the planks in place.

He walks up the stairs to the door and raises a fist to knock.

Fuck. No one’s going to be awake. God, I’m a fool. Got too excited—

Movement, through the crack beneath the door. It sparks the warm memory of the padded pit-pat of small, socked feet on hardwood floor. The father trembles. He doesn’t know if it’s from cold, excitement, or fear. He knocks before he decides.

The pit-pats are real now. He can hear them: larger, heavier, but undoubtedly theirs. The window blinds fold to form a peephole. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and the father stares down at an almost mirror image of himself. The same messy black hair, the same weary eyes: his eldest child, better than him in every way.

They speak in the language of family. “Daa?”

The eldest child throws themselves at their father, nearly knocking him off the stairs. He can’t help but laugh as he picks them off the snow, warmth bubbling out of him into his tight embrace. His child is taller and stronger now — an adult by all definitions. But to him, as they bury their face into their father’s chest, they’re still so small, so light, so easy to tear away from him like before.

—

It has been a year since the siblings have lived in this house together. The eldest, Hrodwyn, left Auntie Elmira’s care at the orphanage when they turned eighteen. They had saved up enough from their two jobs, and the two jobs continued to be enough for rent. Their two siblings followed them: their sixteen-year-old brother Merethel who always kept his long, black hair swept over his right eye, and their twelve-year-old sister Hygd who always kept a smile on her face. Auntie Elmira let them leave. She knew they were inseparable, and their father was relieved that they were.

It has been ten years since their father was wrongly sent to prison. On the red-blue night of his arrest at their doorstep, Hygd was three and wailing, Merethel was seven and scared, and Hrodwyn was ten and bold. Hrodwyn heard the officers yell “Gavrill Vorobyev” over and over, watched them slam their pleading father against a car, and felt their siblings shatter in their arms. As the officers drove their father away, Hrodwyn knew it was now their responsibility to protect their family. They knew it was now their responsibility to fix all the broken pieces their father left behind, even if it meant pricking their own fingers.

In the mornings following their father Gavrill’s return, Hrodwyn made sure every piece of the siblings’ lives were meticulously organised like glass figurines on display. Nervously, they presented their father their handiwork within the cabinet of cutleries and Tupperwares, the closet of detergent and cleaning supplies, the fridge door of schedules and chores. All this order balanced on a rickety shelf Hrodwyn had built; all this order came crashing down in days to make room for Gavrill.

At first, Gavrill did not see this as a problem. He saw no problem at all — he was finally free, and his senses flared with life. He relished the touch of warm skin instead of thin paper, savoured the sound of rich voices instead of broken static. And with every chip and crack he felt between him and his children, an echo of his wife’s voice would comfort him:

—You’re here now, she would say, and that’s all that matters.

But it did not take long for reality to slip through the cracks of his ignorance. That was what he got for dancing around “How did you get out of prison?” — that was how he began stepping on his children’s broken pieces.

—

4 February 2017

“Daa, daa.”

Gavrill jolts awake on the couch. Foreign babble plays to colourful cartoon ponies running across the television screen.

“Ah, sorry daa,” Hrodwyn whispers in the language of family, Ingush — Gavrill ensured Auntie Elmira taught them when he was in prison. “Do you want lunch? I was going to heat up the stew you brought home last night.”

Gavrill rubs his eyes. Yesterday, his new job called him to an orientation in Rio de Janeiro. He bought the stew before he flew back. “Sounds good. We should finish that soon. It smelled great! I think you will all like it.”

Hrodwyn smiles politely. “I’m sure we will.”

Gavrill stands up. He sees Hygd at the foot of the couch, knees tucked to her chest as she watches the cartoon. He looks around for Merethel and doesn’t find him — he’s probably studying in Gavrill’s bedroom, the only other room with a table. Hrodwyn is already in front of the fridge: a Tetris map of new groceries, wilting vegetables, and takeout boxes. They move the stew containers from the fridge to the microwave, then drift from the kitchen to Gavrill’s bedroom. A minute later, they return with Merethel grumbling behind them.

The microwave beeps. Gavrill opens it, but Hrodwyn beats him in removing the containers, slipping past him with an “it’s okay”. They place the containers on the bar table that divides the kitchen and the living room. Merethel catches a sniff of it and speaks in English.

“Wow, this smells good,” he dips his pinky into the side to taste it. “And it’s not spoiled!”

“Of course not,” Gavrill responds in Ingush. He brings one container to Hygd and sits next to her. “I wouldn’t feed you spoiled food.”

Merethel raises an eyebrow.. He takes a spoon from the drawer and the container of stew.

“Hey,” Hrodwyn says in Ingush. They sit across Gavrill. “Don’t go back to daa's room. Eat here.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re always there,” Hygd says, also in English.

Merethel curls his lip. “And?”

“Hey, no English,” Hrodwyn reminds their siblings, who comply.

Hygd tries drinking the stew straight from the container and burns her tongue. “daa's been asking you to eat together with us, like, every day. Don’t you hear him?” 

“Well, I’m sorry, but are you studying for a scholarship?” Merethel sets his stew down with a huff and sits across her. “I thought so.”

“Hey, come on,” Gavrill says. “Be nice to your sister. Can you get a spoon for her, please?”

“She can get it herself.”

Hygd frowns. “But you’re closer! They’re on your side!”

“Come on,” Gavrill sighs.

Merethel grumbles. “Why do you want me to give her a spoon so bad—OW!”

Hygd had kicked him underneath the bar table. He retorts by trying to kick her back, but she tucks her legs out of reach. Merethel kicks her chair instead. It screeches against the floor. Hygd grins at her fuming brother. He growls and tries again.

“Hey-hey! Enough!” Gavrill yells then bites his tongue. Shit, too harsh? He lightens up. "Don’t be like that. Just pass her a spoon, please. And one for myself as well."

The two ignore him and continue scrabbling. With a sigh, Hrodwyn clears their throat and glares. Only then do their siblings stop. A second glare makes Merethel pass a spoon to his father and sister. A third isn’t needed to make Hygd smile sweetly and thank him.

Fragile silence falls on the table. Gavrill tries to tread across it carefully towards his children.

“Well, this is nice. Um,” he smiles and looks at Hrodwyn. “I’m glad you got off your shifts today. I think this is the first time we’ve had lunch together!”

“Yeah! It took, like, a month,” Hygd tilts her head to Gavrill. “And you still haven’t told us what your new job is!” 

Merethel scoffs. “Or what kind of company can hire a man out of jail.”

“Hey, I—” Gavrill opens his hands. “Those questions can wait until later. Why don’t you guys tell me about school?”

“Ugh, it’s boring stuff compared to what you’re doing! I think,” Hygd mixes her stew. “Why don’t you wanna tell us?”

“Yeah, daa,” Merethel says. “Why don’t you? You’ve had your orientation. You should know enough about your job to tell us about it now, right?”

“How was Rio? Did you see any birds?” Hygd swings her feet.

“It was very nice,” Gavrill smiles at her and folds his arms. “Very hot. But uh, the food was good! And there were little birds on the street. Oh! I forgot I got the three of you keychains—”

A loud slam and screech interrupts the conversation. Merethel had pushed his chair back. He stands up. “I’m going to my room.”

Hrodwyn tugs his sleeve. “Hey—”

“Don’t touch me,” he spits in English and yanks his arm away. “If he doesn't even want to talk about something normal like a job, what the hell else can we talk about?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk about it!” Gavrill shocks himself with his tone. He offsets it with a smile. “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. Come, sit, sit. You want to know what kind of company got me home, right?”

He gestures towards the empty chair. Merethel narrows his eyes and remains standing. The two other siblings also look at Gavrill in anticipation. His open mouth runs dry.

Helvetia Ltd. A private military contractor working for an R&D consultation firm funded by the G20. A company of hounds with global reach and infinite pay. A company that operates in the dark, hidden between the lines of conspiracy theories.

“A big company,” Gavrill finally decides. “Powerful, obviously, and they know I’m innocent, so they got me out. In exchange, I get a job right out of prison. And I get to be with all of you again!”

Merethel switches to Ingush, making sure his father understands him. “Very descriptive, daa.”

He storms off to the siblings’ shared bedroom. Hrodwyn reaches for him. Gavrill sighs and waves for them to stop. The bedroom door slams shut, and the two remaining siblings are left to contemplate their father’s response. They swallow it with lunch.

Soon, Hygd’s eyes creep to Merethel’s half-eaten stew, then to the hallway he vanished off to. She slides off her seat and picks up his stew with both hands.

“He still needs to eat.”

Her small feet shuffle down the hallway. Once she disappears around the corner, Gavrill deflates, burying his head in his hands. Hrodwyn stirs their stew.

“Are you not going to tell them anything?

Gavrill sighs as he picks himself back up. “I’m not going to tell any of you anything you don’t need to know.”

Hrodwyn leans towards him. “Daa, you can tell me. I’m an adult now. I can take it.”

He looks at his child, the bags beneath their eyes, and shakes his head. “It’s fine, really. It’s a good job with good pay. Contract-based, so I’ll be home most days. Don’t worry about it.”

Hrodwyn’s voice is quiet, fraught. “Then at least tell me you know who framed you. Were they caught?”

“No. And I don’t know who or where they are.”

“What? Then how does the company know you’re innocent? Did they reopen the case?”

“I don’t know.”

Gavrill continues eating his stew with downcast eyes. Hrodwyn stares at him. “Why aren’t you worried? That guy is still out there. What if you get framed again?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“It’s fine. Trust me.”

“Did the company tell you something?”

Gavrill closes his eyes and sighs. “Look. When I got arrested, the court said that they were going to lock me up until they found the real culprit. Ten years passed. No one figured it out. They’ve all moved on from that and I’ve moved on from that, too. I’m just glad I got out in the first place. That’s all.”

Hrodwyn is quiet for some time. “Will you tell me why you got hired? Is it because of something you did in Ingushetia?”

Gavrill stops eating. “What makes you think that?”

“I remember how you fought against Russians. I remember how mama died. It’s why we moved here, isn’t it? And now you have this strange job you don’t want to tell us about—”

A rap on the door interrupts them. Gavrill, relieved, quickly leaves the table. He peeks through the blinds, frowns, and cracks the door open. Wind cuts into his face. He looks down. A large package sits atop fresh snow. Its only identification is a tag taped onto it: “HROTHGAR”. The name his wife once gave him. The name he now gave Helvetia. Footprints trail away from the package to the road where it meets fresh tire tracks. No vehicle is in sight.

He scowls. He grabs the package, dusts snow off, slams the door shut, and locks it. Before Hrodwyn can see it, he rips off the tag and shreds it, pocketing the strips.

“Do you need help with it?” Hrodwyn tilts their head. “It looks big.”

“No, it’s fine. I think it’s from work. Do you have a cutter?” 

Hrodwyn hands him a pair of scissors. He carries the package and the scissors into his bedroom and closes the door. Large luggages and old boxes are spread across the floor. Their contents, the salvaged pieces of a happier life once lived, have yet to be organised into wardrobes, sorted into shelves, or fitted into photo frames. Gavrill has no time or energy to. They’re not his children’s — they aren’t as important.

Gavrill pushes the luggages and boxes aside with his foot. He drops the package in the space he made. He sits on the floor, raises his hand, and plunges the scissors into cardboard.

—

The package contains Gavrill’s uniform: a three-piece navy suit with a golden tie and a pair of black oxfords, and a durable coat designed for urban environments. The suit feels too expensive to bend his arms in. He tries wearing it without creasing the fabric. It takes a long time — long enough for his two children to knock on his door: Hrodwyn who stared in confusion, and Hygd who brimmed in awe.

By then, Gavrill still had not worn the entire uniform — he had forgotten how to tie a tie. He could count the number of times he has done it in his life on his hands, with all but one count being for court hearings. So Hygd gets to work. She pulls her father out into the living room and opens a YouTube tutorial. Time passes. Hrodwyn’s and Hygd’s fussing grows louder without them coming any closer to their goal. Their commotion annoys Merethel enough for him to bring out his own tie for a snarky demonstration. Soon, all three siblings end up circling their father for final touches: fitting the golden tie, tightening the vest, and smoothening the suit as Gavrill stands stiff like a Christmas tree.

When they’ve finished, Hygd steps back to look at her father like a panel judge. She watches Hrodwyn attach the final piece: Helvetia’ lapel pin bearing a cross in a shield. Hrodwyn steps back to join their sister. Gavrill remains frozen in place.

“I feel so embarrassed.”

“Why?” Hygd grins. “You look cool!”

“Do I?” he looks at his other two children with an uncertain but small smile. My daughter called me cool.

"You look… expensive. Very expensive," Hrodwyn gazes at the suit's double vents, the trousers cut to the curve of Gavrill’s legs, and the hand-stitched buttons. "How much did this cost, daa?"

"More than the suit I rented for my own wedding, that's for sure,” he grumbles. In a clearer tone, "I don't know. The company covered it. But what looks wrong?"

"You don't look comfortable in it. It shows.”

"When was the last time you combed your hair?” Merethel adds. “Or got a haircut?"

Gavrill grimaces. "I didn’t need to touch a comb or cut my hair back there. I only trimmed it now and then. Is it that bad?”

Merethel is quick. “Yes.”

Hygd punches his arm.

“It’s not that bad,” Hrodwyn taps their chin, “but if you did something to your hair, you can look more professional.”

"Oh! Wait, daa, sit, sit," Hygd drags her father to the couch and forces him to sit. She crawls behind him, kneels, and gently combs through his lightly greying hair with her fingers. A spare yellow hair tie comes off her wrist. She bunches his hair together. "Too tight?"

He shakes his head. "What are you doing?"

"Tying a bun," she does so expertly with a quick twist, then jumps off the couch to look at him. She grins at the team effort. “Daa! You look like a thousand bucks! Here, here.”

She grabs her father’s hand, which squeezes hers in return, and leads him into the siblings’ bedroom. Hrodwyn and Merethel follow behind. She turns on the lights and pulls him in front of the chipped mirror mounted on the wardrobe door. “What do you think, daa?”

Gavrill stares at his reflection. His smile dissolves. He doesn’t recognise himself. He only recognises Agent Hrothgar, Helvetia’s newly hired murderer, wrapped in a gallant lie of navy blue as he stands in the bedroom of children. 

Hygd smiles brightly. “So..?”

Hrodwyn notices his stare. “What’s wrong, daa?”

If he doesn’t recognise himself, will his children recognise him? After a job that hails bullets and shrapnels at his body and his mind, after he returns too splintered to shield them from the truth, will they recognise him as their father? He can try to convince them. He can try to be the best father he can be to erase the decade when he wasn’t. He can try to pretend that he’ll never leave them again, that he’ll always be there for them, that he’ll cut himself wrapping his splinters to hold them tight and never let them shatter into pieces again—

—Our children are smart. You can only do so much to protect them, Gav. How would you rather them find out? Her smile would sadden. With a voice full of conviction, she would say: —Don’t you have enough regrets?

Gavrill looks away from his reflection. His eyes drift to his children.

“You need to know about my job. Can we talk?”

Gavrill sits on Merethel’s bed, next to Hrodwyn’s and Hygd’s bunk bed. He pats his side. The siblings, surprised by his directness, move to sit next to him.

He twiddles his thumbs. "This job I have, it's... dangerous.  The company is even more dangerous. They have a lot of power, a lot of money,” he tugs at his three-piece suit. “They were able to pay my bail and hire me out of, well, you know, in exchange for my… skills. And I—” he hesitates, “I can’t leave unless…"

“You die,” Hrodwyn states.

Gavrill pauses, then nods. Their delivery stings. 

The room falls silent. Hygd curls into a ball. Merethel tries masking his nerves.

"Ah, well, it's like, uh, working for the military then, right? There's always a high chance of death, and it's a risk some people with families take."

Gavrill’s voice is soft, defeated. "I'm sorry."

“It’s fine. It’s… whatever,” Merethel looks away. “It’s not like you’ve never been gone before.”

Gavrill winces and opens his mouth. Hrodwyn interrupts him. “Don’t apologise. You had no choice and you did what you had to do. They were never going to reopen your case. There will never be another option for you besides this one.”

Gavrill hates how he sees himself in his child’s placid eyes.

"What should we know about the job?” Hrodwyn continues. “What do we have to do?"

"I'll be here until the company calls me. Whatever they tell me to do, no matter how dangerous, I must follow. The company also has enemies. Keep the blinds closed, don’t let strangers in, never enter the house when someone’s watching, and always tell each other where you are, hmm?" he raises his phone. "If something’s wrong, call me or Auntie. Don't let anyone in the house. You still have Auntie’s phone number, yes?"

The children nod.

“Good. And lastly,” he voice softens and he wraps his arms around his children, "don't worry about me. I will always do my best to come home to you. I may get hurt, but I will always come home. Okay? My fight is to go back home to you, no matter what."

He pulls them in closer. The cracks between them remain but in this moment, the family is whole.

"I am here now. And I swear by my last dying breath, I will never, ever, let anything take us apart again."

Hygd picks her head up from her tucked knees. “Promise?”

Gavrill hooks his pinky with all his children’s and smiles. He cuts himself with his words and hopes it never heals.

“I promise.”

---

First | Next About the Flight | List of Stories

[borgialucrezia]

ok so i'm re-reading blood and beauty once again, and i have to say that sarah dunant is the superior borgia fiction writer out there. i absolutely love her delicate and evocative writing as well as how she brilliantly humanizes the characters through compelling narratives. not to mention her attention to detail and meticulous research creates a rich historical backdrop, immersing us in the fascinating world of the borgia family. she also has an exceptional understanding of how hot and terrible cesare can be while still making him nuanced. it's a personal win for me as someone who's pretty much bored of his character being softened up and romanticized in other works. the more he does something awful, the more compelling he becomes to me (although he wasn't romanticized much in showtime's the borgias but his image of an over-ambitious, sadistic, gaslighting, and manipulative guy seems to appear innocent that watchers tend to overlook it, and some of his misdeeds were dumped onto juan, like making him the only one having an affair with sancia of aragon when cesare was involved as well, or having him kill lucrezia's lover, paolo, etc., which is why i wasn't as interested in cesare as i was in juan because juan does nasty acts, but you get an idea of why he did what he did and still find the human in the heinous.) the most phenomenal writing part for me was to not lean into the rumors by not having cesare kill juan because it's closer to historical reality. and as much as cesare's 'from envy to fratricide' pipeline can be groundbreaking like how it worked in showtime's the borgias, dunant proved that juan's murder can still be astounding without the fratricide. because even if cesare did have a tempting motive to kill him, as he wanted his position so badly, cesare's letters to him make me doubt that he ever had any involvement in his murder since the letters show so much fraternal love. i also want to add that rodrigo's deep love for his children, while being self-aware and devastated over the fact that he uses them and forces them into roles they're incompetent for and marriages for political gain, was a standout aspect in the book. in short, the book is emotionally engaging because it delves into the intriguing world of the borgia family's renaissance. imo, it's a must-read for borgia enthusiasts.