#he's been going through rough patches but in truth i still consider him more successful than jannik

[rolandkaros]

not pitting sincaraz against each other just pointing out an objective truth that jannik was not a dominate player/potential grand slam winner last season (age 21/22) and carlos will finish this season semi-dominant and with two more grand slams (+ an olympic medal) (age 20/21). you can see how quickly a player's career can turn around within one season. so any talk about carlos being washed/playing badly sounds silly to me i can't lie. yes carlos wasn't as successful this year as last year. yes carlos wasn't as successful this year as jannik. last year jannik's highlights were throwing up in a trash can and beating djoko in davis cup (exaggerating.) so i really feel like carlos's struggles this season are slightly overinflated. we talk about "he has time he has time" let's be clear not only does he have time in his career (he is literally 21) he also has time on his closest current rival (age-wise, carlos's 2024 season is jannik's 2022 season). it will be two years before carlos is even the same age as jannik is now. so like. lets be chill here u know.

[monkey-network]

The Odyssey of Spongebob Squarepants

A lot can happen as you grow up. Your tastes will change, you will have more responsibilities, and unless you can literally live under a rock, you can’t turn things back for yourself. So... after over 20 years, when the time keeps going in spite of yourself, does your past evolve and how should you feel about it? Spongebob Squarepants is a show so many have noted as the greatest of all time, but has grown to not be wholly beloved as its later years have not been as well received as it’s golden era. But I’m one to think: how has Spongebob evolved over time? What of this show makes it the greatest in my eyes despite thinking more about those vaunted first three seasons with its movie? Well, let’s roll back...

Back to the Past, To Remember Episodes that Sucked Ass

Despite what some may say, I don’t believe season 4 and 5 was where Spongebob started losing its mojo. There were definitely stinkers like Good Neighbors and Driven to Tears but the good ones definitely outweighed the bad. Not like the quality Golden Era didn’t have its duds, I really don’t like I’m With Stupid, Party Pooper Pants, and Spongeguard on Duty. Season 6 is where I say things surely falter, where for a good amount of time more episodes became unpleasant in retrospect. I noticed it’s more season 6 through 8 that people really take issue with. The Splinter, Boating Buddies, Pet Sitter Pat, the many we call the worst are some good time after the first movie. The first movie came out in 2004, season 6 was spring 2008 so it’s fair to say we had a grace period.

But it begs the bucking question: why did Spongebob stop being good? Numerous people have tried wrapping their heads around the decline citing reasons from flanderization, creative fallout and changes. Emplemon believed in his Spongebob video that the spirit of what connected the show to adults was severed due to merely become a cartoon for children, especially when Spongebob and Squidward’s dichotomy as adults was broken in later seasons. But you know what? I think I truly have the answer. It’s not so much production wise, but it certainly explains the many differing bad episodes that many have covered. It explains why I don’t like Sponge on the Run but we’ll get to that later. But a truth I’ve noticed, remembering and looking at Spongebob in its seperated eras is one I haven’t seen anybody talk about when it comes to why it could be considered bad:

The Plot Drives the Characters Too Much

The greatest episodes of Spongebob, I’m talking Band Geeks, Pizza Delivery, Ripped Pants, Chocolate w/ Nuts, Karate Choppers, etc., don’t have the premise take over the characters. Meanwhile the worst episodes always have the plot push the characters in noticeably different directions because it demands it. Spongebob is strictly a character based cartoon, and when you have episodes that, while can appear fitting on paper, force the cast to be somebody they’re not, people aren’t gonna be on board. Take the episode A Pal for Gary where Spongebob gets Gary a new pet that dangerously hates other pets only for him to be completely ignorant of Gary’s pleas and blames him in the end for banishing the monstrous Puffy Fluffy away. Reasonably, Spongebob is very much the asshole but unfortunately has to or else the plot would need to be seriously reworked. We can chock it up to poor direction but this is indeed a common occurrence for when Spongebob gets bad, not just in post first movie era. I’m With Stupid is a great classic era example where yeah, Patrick becomes an ignorant jerk but on paper, it works with the plot of him trying to please his parents. It does the job at the visible cost of the characters. We generally say the characters are bad but I’ve hardly seen people say the plots are bad like Family Guy where, despite also being character focused, the plots they have can go off the rails in favor of trying to get laughs and the sake of a status quo. The highlight of this problem lies with the coined ‘Squidward Torture Porn’

Squidward Tentacles can be a jerk. A real cynic, a character that’ll gladly try to bring down Spongebob’s childlike wonder in favor of giving him a dose of reality. The most memorable episodes of him are where him and Spongebob are in the same situation but have their clash of outlooks, with Squidward ultimately understanding Spongebob’s POV enough to have a moment of genuine happiness or a modest bit of karma. He’s indeed the most important character because adults grow to see where he’s coming from but at the same time wants to be on Spongebob’s side. The best provide Squidward the chance to understand differently and potentially enjoy a new perspective. The worst punishes him for simply wanting to live.

The plots of the worst Squidward episodes have Spongebob and/or Patrick actively antagonize Squidward because on paper, it makes sense to make someone like Squidward the punching bag like Elmer Fudd to Bugs Bunny or an egotistical asshole to the Warner Siblings from Animaniacs. But in the effort to do so, they never give Squidward the chance to fight back. It’s like they took the whole “No One Wants to be a Squidward” line and utilized that to make him the go to for misery based comedy without giving him any upside. Cephalopod Lodge, Good Neighbors, Choir Boys are stories designed around Spongebob ruining Squid’s life because... what? He doesn’t want Spongebob to be around every time of day? As a child, it can be some fun just seeing Squid get punished but for an adult, it can definitely be a turn-off. Some people see themselves in Squidward, for better or worse, so what’s it to them when Squidward is basically forced to suffer for no reason other than the plot demands it? Later stories give Squidward far more of a break, even some successes, but the idea of making him the butt of life’s joke is still leftover from the episodes that called for him to casually suffer.

The worst plots of the show can be the safest, the simplest, and pretty predictable because unlike the best where the characters are just allowed to make things happen, the story has to contain the characters in a way that’s fitting to who they can be but notably sacrifices who they were before. Why they got made is very up in the air, I’d have to listen to a ton of commentary to potentially pick that apart and I don’t have that much time. 

But it doesn’t the change the fact that the plots were never what made Spongebob good. And it doesn’t mean all those bad episodes make for bad seasons either. We could say there was a decline but that would mean giving up on the show merely because it lost it’s footing with more bad episodes than good for a few seasons. Because I believe 4 to 5 years after season 6, things got back on track even if things weren’t exactly the same.

Return to Form, Change in Energy

I don’t believe that Stephen Hillenburg’s departure was what proposed the decline, I’d say the show never really declined, just had some real potholes within three particular seasons. But I say it’s clear that the direction of the show shifted because you gotta understand, with or without Stephen the show has to be unique, has to have fresh ideas in the midst of potential competition despite being the most popular of the network. Even the trusted of Hillenburg’s team might’ve figured Spongebob couldn’t make lightning strike so rough patches might be expected. This is where Spongebob’s 2nd film, Sponge Out Of Water comes in.

I wasn’t as into this film with my first watch. I know it wouldn’t compare to the first film, but things felt segmented to where it hardly felt like a structured movie. Going back to it again, it kinda showed how Spongebob was going to evolve as a series. A lot of Sponge Out of Water lies in the characters getting into a more chaotic adventure than before. Spongey’s dream sequence, the whole Mad Max apocalypse, inter-dimensional dolphins, really told that the show post 2nd film would follow in its footsteps both in the stories and in animation.

It’s to say the golden era of Spongebob was more... grounded with itself. The charm of the characters was what made the plots unpredictable in nature but mostly not to a visible extent. Idiot Box, one of the greatest episodes, literally have moments where we see nothing but a box but the episode’s carried by the performances. Modern Spongebob, post 2nd movie, started to run all over the place. That’s not a bad thing but clearly a change of pace. I think it’s befitting to say the modern era got more cartoon-y where it’s way more expressive and the plots themselves go in unpredictable places in a way that all feels refreshing. It’s not the same as before, but well enough in it’s own time. It’s like Teen Titans ‘03 vs Teen Titans GO! The two have their clearly different tones but they’re appealing in their own way, only Spongebob isn’t trying to poke fun at its older audience like a snarky ass motherfu-

That is the thing as well that I haven’t seen many people consider when it comes to the modern era: it always tries to be fun. I can say an episode’s bad, but there are times where a bad Spongebob episode was enjoyable at least. It isn’t like modern Simpsons where you could tell they’ve been running out of steam and you’d just wish it died. It feels like the staff were given some time and space to make Spongebob back into as intended, even when most moments aren’t as strong or memorable as before. It can appear as just another cartoon for children but it never felt like it wasn’t Spongebob anymore, especially after the 2nd film and with Stephen Hillenburg’s consulting return. Unfortunately, only after a few more years is where say Spongebob’s going in a direction that I’m admittedly not fond off. It isn’t on par with The Simpsons, but it’s not as comfortable a fate.

A Spongebob Cinematic Universe

I enjoyed Sponge on the Run, but I don’t like it what it stands for. Many say it’s a poor backdoor for the spin-off Kamp Koral and I can’t help but agree. I’m not speaking for Stephen’s behalf nor will I shame everyone who comes to love this mini-series when it comes out, but I can definitely see where he was coming from with his abstain of spin-offs. Spongebob is a show that works, always worked, on its own. It has many characters that, to this day, they’re bouncing with to create new adventures and jokes. Now, I’m actually okay with giving some spin-offs revolving around the other characters; a show for Squidward would be hype as all hell. 

But Kamp Koral, by extension Sponge on the Run, feels less like a creator’s passion and more like a marketed decision. The fact that they scrapped a potential alien cat invasion movie all for a visually pleasing yet heavily derivative story tells quite a bit. It’s a movie that, compared to the previous, is just hitting certain beats; the plot again driving the characters instead of the other way around which leads to really off-putting moments. There’s fun to be had, but it feels superficial. And while I don’t think this’ll affect the next generation of Spongebob, the most recent episodes are good, but I have a bad feeling that it’ll be morphed into something Stephen genuinely didn’t want for the series and they do it because regardless of what the fans don’t want, they truly own the show now.

I was okay with Spongebob having its merchandise and a Broadway musical because the show helped make them work. After seeing SCOOB! and countless talks of making cinematic universes thanks not only to the MCU but stuff like Spider-Verse and Lego Movie though, it’s starting to feel more like an corporate sanctioned omen that I fear too much becoming a reality. But really, it begs one more question...

What Do I See in Spongebob?

I’ve said this when talking about the 1st Spongebob movie: “[It] works so well was because, speaking for adults, it is about embracing the you that you love as opposed to trying to be someone you aren't. You can grow up for taking that journey, but you don't have to be grown up all the time.” Even with its not so great history, Spongebob personally never comes off as a show that’s lost its identity. If there’s anything learned from the likes of Steven Universe and Family Guy, yeah, it’s that bad episodes or changes in tone doesn’t make for a buried series. Vast majority will definitely notice the difference between classic and modern Spongebob, but I don’t believe they’ll say it isn’t Spongebob anymore. I keep bringing it up, but it doesn’t feel like the Simpsons where you notice the burnout, the age of its existence in the late late seasons. Not that Viacom/Nickelodeon won’t hesitate the same fate because they can be fucking scum, but otherwise the show has run out of steam yet. 

What mostly concerns me though is that the charm of the show falls by the wayside with trying to expand it outside the show. Bog down the love by making unnecessary spin-offs that try to do what fanworks like the Spongebob Anime do for the hell of it in order to retain that all age appeal. They’ll feel like memes that age horrifically the moment it’s trending on Twitter. Again I don’t wanna speak over Stephen Hillenburg’s behalf but it feels like Nickelodeon gets potentially too ambitious with something that should be simple enough at the same time. We got some good hype back thanks to the Battle for Bikini Bottom Rehydrated, but that only could boost our spirits so far this year.

To me, Spongebob was certainly a game changer and now, while still popular, it is very much among the crowd. It’s not a show we’re worrying about compared to stuff like Infinity Train, Glitch Techs, the Animaniacs reboot, Primal, shows that are continually changing the metagame in what people want for a cartoon. We might notice stand out moments and we’ll continue making memes, but it’s fair to say we aren’t as invested in Spongebob socially as back then when, as I remember, new episodes or specials felt like an event and it was considered the best out here in our friend circles. Now when we say it’s the best, it’s asterisked. Many love Spongebob Squarepants, but notably aren’t too keen with all of it nowadays.

But to truly conclude, I say for everyone who reads all of this, 1st thank you, and secondly to give modern Spongebob a chance. I can’t recommend Sponge On the Run but these later seasons (nine to recently) actually feel like the show cleaned up itself after many touted that bad episode era was what made Spongebob fall. I don’t believe the show’s fallen because I shouldn’t have expected this show to be flawless. Not every episode’s a hit, but there is not only still good variety but episodes that feel right at home. Mimic Madness, Boo-kini Bottom, Squid Noir, Moving Bubble Bass, One Trick Sponge, and any episode with Plankton are actual joys to see and rewatch if I’m in the mood. The episode premieres are all over the place nowadays but it feels like the crew are given their time at least. And I think this is the path is where I’m content with about Spongebob: it just gets to be a cartoon.

I see so many people try to prop up shows as more than meets the eye. I mention Infinity Train and Steven Universe as the new game changers but I hardly see people just recommend shows that are simple, clean, knows what they are without trying to be anything more premise wise. We just get some quality entertainment with characters we’ve come to know, just for the sake of it. We get a cartoon in its bare essence. Spongebob gets to do its thing like it always has these past 20 years and I’m grateful for that. I’ve seen a variety of shows, but Spongebob always felt like a show worth sticking with even when I feel I’ve “outgrown” it. Not because I want to regress in growth, but as an adult I see now why Spongebob worked so well as it did and why it’s worth sticking with. Even after everything, the show’s made it it’s sole passage to provide us the core reason why we love Spongebob: the show always wanted to love itself for what it was as Spongebob Squarepants always loved to be himself.

And there will never ever be another show like it.

[whitterzthefangirl]

It’s Not Right But It’s OK

Doesn’t have the ending I want, but I’m sick of looking at it. <3 <3 <3 <3  Boyfriend!Calum w/ a side of Cheater!Calum   An arm, attached to the body of the man you loved, weighed on your mid-section as you laid in this king size bed. In an effort to make sure he stayed asleep, you withdrew your body from him slowly, gently placing his arm on the bed once your feet were safe on the ground. After 2 years of resenting him for being a heavy sleeper, you find yourself thankful for the quality in this moment. Not wanting to face him again just yet, you quickly remove yourself from the dark room with windows covered by black-out curtains. 

When you stumble into the kitchen, you are met with evidence of a night out. Shot glasses, and liquor bottles decorate the counter-top. It’s easy to spot your shot glass. Not only because it’s got a Princess crown on it, but because it’s the only one with bright pink lipstick on it, 

“Your signature color,” Calum had commented, kissing the corner of your mouth when you came to join everyone in the kitchen. He pulled you close with his arms around your waist, whispering into your ear, “There’s only one place I like seeing it more than your lips.” 

You had giggled in the moment, playfully nudging him away. You had known exactly what his dirty mind was thinking, and it had made you excited to come home after a night of drinking with his friends. As you stood in the kitchen now, on the morning after, you knew that the dirty sex you had wanted to partake in with your boyfriend hadn’t taken place, instead replaced by an argument. 

You found yourself in the ladies room, alone until you were joined by another with similar hair and eyes. Due to the amount of alcohol you had consumed, you complimented her top, a black lace number with red underlay. 

When you heard her mumble back, “Your boyfriend loved it on the floor of his hotel room, too,” you asked her to repeat herself, you were taken back when she didn’t back down, instead producing video evidence of your very blonde boyfriend making out with her in what looked like a very public place. 

While you knew this video  didn’t prove the pair had sex, it did prove that another women had touched the blonde hair you had loved so much. This thought pushed forward the memory of when you first came home to that new hair, giggling and running your hands through it, claiming you had a new boyfriend. ADD DETAIL HERE That had sparked sex in the? In that moment, your memory of sex with Calum didn’t matter. Afterall, this woman was flaunting video evidence of his infidelity in your face as if she wasn’t destroying everything you knew. She instead looked satisfied with herself. 

“I just wanted you to know,” she looked at your head tilted to the side, no trace of empathy in her eyes. 

Not wanting to give her the satisfaction of seeing you rattled, you smiled back, pit in your stomach, and stupidly prayed that Calum had a good answer for this. You lied through your teeth, “Just started dating him a few weeks ago, and his hair has always been dark. Good to know we’re eskimo sisters,” you laughed harnessing every portion of sober you had, while taking so much effort considering the amount of shots that had already been consumed, “Feels so great to sleep with a popstar, am I right?”

Unsatisfied with her loss, she left the bathroom as your world shattered. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you began to shake, “This can’t be happening.” You shook your head from side to side, hoping something in your world would change. You found yourself praying that the last few moments hadn’t happened, instead wishing you could go back to living in ignorant bliss. Knowing what that truly meant, you found yourself putting your best face on, shuffling back to the booth where you had left everyone. Approaching the table, Calum smiles in your direction. 

 “Took you long enough. Want another drink?” Calum asked, pulling  you close to him with one arm around your waist. He attempted to kiss your temple, but missed when you dodged the gesture, hoping to avoid any contact with him for the rest of the night. 

“No drink, thank you,” you stood in a spot between him and Michael, not making eye contact. Never one for conflict in front of others, an effort you both made to save face, Calum didn’t pry but looked confused as he joined a conversation with Luke, and Ash about ordering more shots. 

With the knot in your stomach, it was difficult to remain upbeat, so it only took moments for Michael to lean over, asking if you were “OK”. “I’m good,” you had answered, smiling back at him, more to convince yourself than him, which you knew was the sad reality of your life in the moment. Despite the truth you now knew, you were internalizing the worst kind of pain, in an attempt to salvage a good night. Due to his action, you found yourself taking solace in the fact that eventually he too would be in pain, hurt by what you knew. 

With a pat on your thigh, Michael turned away with a smile. Looking at the others in the conversation, you had prayed for a good explanation, but your optimism was cut short when you remembered the 6 months following Calum’s blonde hair. 

“The rough patch,” you whispered out loud, drawing attention from Calum. 

As you stood there in shock, remembering how difficult the months with blonde Calum had been, you recognized the looks of worry on your tablemates’ faces. Following their eyes, you had realized their attention wasn’t on you, but instead behind you. WIthout turning, you suspected that the girl with similar hair and eyes was standing behind you with her black lace shirt, and red underlay. The look on not only Calum’s face, but Ash, Luke, and Michael’s face spoke volumes, confirming what you had hoped wasn’t true. 

Calum had cheated on you.

“What are you guys all looking at?” impressing yourself with how well you were holding it together. 

Luke and Ashton began opposite sentences, trying to come up with a good story, but neither were successful, so you moved your eyes to Calum’s. He looked as though he was going to be sick. His face was bright red, and he had begun to sweat. You turned to confirm what you suspected, seeing the girl with similar hair and eyes laughing with her friends. After making eye contact, you were aware that you could no longer hide. Stuck in your worst nightmare, in a very public place, you turned back to the members of the table, you made eye contact with Calum, “Who is she?” you asked, voice shaking, directing the question towards Calum.

You no longer cared about the girl with similar hair, and eyes, all that mattered in that moment were the next words that he created, “I don’t know. I’m not sure who she is,” you were disappointed to hear the lie continue, wishing you hadn’t seen what you had, because you wanted to be blinded with love enough to trust him. 

You turned to Ashton. He had been your first friend in LA, and the one to introduce you to Calum. At that moment, you could tell by the look in his eyes, that he was begging you not to ask him a word about the girl. This piled hurt onto your heart, confirming what you had feared in the bathroom. His friends, people you had considered your friends knew about his infidelity all along. How had none of them convinced your boyfriend to tell you about it after it happened? 

Redirecting the question to the entire table, you hoped one of them would speak up. When they didn’t, you spoke up more, louder this time, “Who is she?” If Calum was unwilling to admit what he had done, you were going to force someone else into it. 

It seemed as though time stood still, as seconds passed by, Luke finally spoke up, “She’s a friend of Sierra’s. I’ll go say hi,” you look on in confusion, unsure if it’s a lie. When Luke hugs the girl, it’s confirmed that he does know her. It forces you to wonder if this is how Calum had met her? Through someone you thought to also be your friend, Sierra. 

When it became obvious that Luke was asking her a question she didn’t like, her face turned angry, and you saw her look in your direction. Breaking eye contact with her, you had looked to Calum, who had moved his eyes from his drink up to the scene with Luke unfolding. The girl began shouting towards your table, and you felt forced to speak up, to end this before things got out of hand. While your friends continued their deceit, you couldn’t continue falling victim to it. 

“Calum,” you hissed,  “I know you slept with her. She told me in the bathroom,” you said it loud enough for only him to hear, but could feel the eyes of everyone on you. In another attempt to save face, you sighed loudly, and closed your eyes, blinking back tears in an attempt to take hold of your emotions, and continued, “Please go save your friend. I’ll be outside. I’m going to call an Uber, and if you aren’t there by the time it gets here, I’m going home without you.” 

The look on his face spoke volumes about this moment. Luke appeared to be arguing with the girl with similar hair and eyes as you walked by to exit the bar. He looked surprised to see you leaving, and with Calum hot on your tail, you were sure it wouldn’t be long before he knew what was going on. 

When you made it outside, you called an Uber, desperate to get out of here before the others made it to you. You immediately felt frustrated recognizing the cameras outside. With sunglasses on your face, you slipped past. You weren’t the one they were after, instead hoping for a photo of any member of 5SOS. As you took your spot on a nearby corner, you took inventory on how you were feeling. Drunk. Sad. Warm. Angry.  Broken-hearted. Spiteful. Wishing Calum never exited that bar. Wishing Calum never existed. Wishing you didn’t exist. 

A tear slipped down your cheek, as you heard the camera shutter click.. He’d typically wait inside for a car to come, but you knew you hadn’t given him much of an option with your ultimatum inside. 

He politely handled the cameras, then came to join you on the corner. He stood close, but didn’t say a word instead taking your lead. You typically found yourself afraid of silence, instead opting for small talk with anyone, but always him. You loved to randomly ask him about his favorites, checking to see if they had changed, but in this moment, you knew you wouldn’t be able to speak without crying, so silence was what you chose. And it spoke volumes. 

The silence continued through your shared Uber Ride. It had marked the single most awkward interaction for anyone in the car, including the driver. Never one to let the person who had hurt your feelings see you cry, you were fearful of speaking. Your inner voice was mocking you, reminding you of every insecurity you had ever held while dating a pop-star. That voice reminded you of the unflattering pap photos that had been taken two weeks ago, and the fact that the headline suggested you had gained weight. Had that been why he cheated? The voice accused Calum of being a liar, while your heart continued to hope he wasn’t.  What types of words had he said to not only her, but other girls in the dark? Had he spoken the truth or was he lying the entire time? 

As you stood in the kitchen of his home, you realized you had been on auto-pilot getting here. 

“Babe,” he started the sentence with a pet name, moving closer to you. He attempted to make physical contact with you by touching your shoulders. You dodged his touch, instead pushing your back against the counter top, and crossing your arms. You were shaking with emotion, but you were unsure if it was sadness or anger. You didn’t make eye contact with him, needing to avoid it for fear of crying. He sighed and moved back to his original space across the island from you. He placed his hands on the counter, and looked you in the eyes. You could tell he wasn’t sober, and as he spoke, you could tell he was upset with himself,  “It all happened so fast. Things weren’t - ya know, they weren’t going well with us. You wanted me to commit, and I- I was having a hard time with it,”  you had moved your eyes to meet his, which he took as a sign to continue, “It’s not right, I know, but when I woke up the next morning, I immediately wanted to tell you, but - but the guys they didn’t think it was right, and so I didn’t, but that morning I knew I didn’t want to lose you so I came home, and ya know, I asked you to move in here, and things got so much better for us.” 

For a moment you were beginning to forgive him, but upon his final words, you furrowed your eyebrows, confused.  

He was right. It had been a turning point for the couple, it had also been a favorite memory of yours. Every conversation during that tour had been you  wanting Calum to really commit. You didn’t want to get married, you didn’t even want to get engaged, you just wanted to quit paying two separate amounts for living spaces. It only made sense to you, spending more time at his house than at yours, meant that when you did try to spend the night at your place, it no longer felt like home. It also felt like the next step to you after a year of dating. 

But for Calum he hadn’t been ready. You were unsure why, but you had felt firm in your beliefs, never failing to bring it up no matter where you were at. A romantic weekend in New York, the last time you had seen Calum before he returned home had ended in you choosing to break-up, but deciding against it at the last minute, citing stress of distance as a reason for your ever present annoyance with one another. Boarding separate flights, you had kissed goodbye at a security checkpoint, and vowed to really work on the relationship, but until he returned home from tour, neither of you truly made time for the other. Instead both of you had used work as an excuse, free times never lining up. 

On the day he was returning home, you had been anxious in a negative way the entire week. On the day of, you could barely focus, sure you were going to go home and get broken up with, but instead you were surprised when you had returned home to a homemade dinner, followed by hot and dirty oral sex in the middle of the dining room table. When you had asked him what the occasion was, he hadn’t answered, “I’m trying to make up for the fact that I cheated on you”, instead opting for something sexier along the lines of, “I just couldn’t wait to taste you.” 

The following days after his return were a whirl wind of hot sex, multiple orgasms, and so many words of affirmation that had caused you to feel terrible for ever doubting that Calum really cared for you. A week into his return home on your first date night since he had come home, he had pushed you against a wall, grabbed your thigh, and pushed himself into you so that his semi was lined up with your core. Excited by his bold move, you had moved to kiss him, but instead he stopped you, placing 1 finger to your lips with a “shhh”. You took a deep breath, and waited for him to continue, “Move in with me.” The words had knocked you into a state of bliss, having wanted him to speak them for months. You answered him with a hot, passionate kiss, pushing against him even harder.   

To know now that it was clouded in his mind with the guilt he had felt for cheating was doing no wonders for silencing your inner voice that was continuing it’s assault on your self-esteem. Choosing for you the next words, “Did you ask me to move in because you fucked another girl?”

[brattyfics]

Pairing: Miguel Galindo x Daya Galindo [Black OC]

Word Count: 4,681

Synopsis | Masterlist

Chapter One

On the last leg of a week-long trip to San Diego, Daya Galindo did her best to remain engaging, open, and approachable.

Along with thirty other members of San Diego’s elite inner circle, she occupied one Petco Park’s most expensive and exclusive Skyboxes. Many of her nights were spent in the same Skybox attending the Padre’s baseball games.

This time, however, the Skybox has been transformed into a ballroom of sorts. Several circular tables were spaced out in the large room, eight chairs provided at each. Simple but elegant centerpieces decorated the tables.

The $10,000 a night Skybox opened up to the empty stadium on one side, and a breathtaking view of San Diego’s skyline on the other side. The sliding floor-to-ceiling windows were closed, and Daya found herself missing the fresh air she enjoyed on game days.

Most attendees remained inside, adding to the suffocating feeling in her chest.

Her husband, commercial real estate mogul and serial entrepreneur, Miguel Galindo, was one of the few people outside on the brick terrace. He used the balcony to take a private call.

“You look so pretty!” Marcy Stevens, the wife of a potential business partner, complimented Daya in a chipper tone.

An eight-hundred dollar silk cocktail dress stopped just above her ankles. An equally expensive pair of nude heels complimented the deep red of her dress. The front was designed to cover her breasts, giving the illusion of modesty while the fabric hugged her curves, outlining her shape. Thin straps were tied intricately on the back of the low cut dress. The ensemble was on-brand for Mrs. Galindo, a perfect balance between sexy and classy.

The big, springy curls that framed her heart-shaped face, bunching around the top of her shoulders, were also on brand. Her makeup was done simply, shades of brown and gold to complement her features.

Marcy was right. She did look stunning.

Regardless, Daya did her best to appear humbled by the compliment. It wasn’t that she was cocky or arrogant. The truth was she had become numb.

“You too! I love your lipstick. What shade is it?”

“Hmm. I’m not sure.” The middle-aged woman considered it for a moment before ruffling through her compact.

With a bright smile, she held the tube of lipstick up victoriously. She passed it over to Daya to inspect.

After pretending to take note of the brand and shade in her mind, she passed the tube back to Marcy. “Thank you.”

She couldn’t care less what shade of lipstick the woman wore, but the name of the game was flattery. Fundraising galas, country club banquets, and art exhibits had all become a blur of polite one-liners one after the other.

“It’s so nice to see you.” She lied even when it wasn’t.

“We have to have dinner and drinks soon.” She said to be polite, even when she’d rather not spend her time discussing the newest fashion releases with bored housewives.

“How are the kids?” She asked, although she had no interest in listening to parents ramble on about how great their mediocre children were.

“I love your dress. Who designed it?” Chances were she didn’t care.

A lively buzz of murmurs was standard for these events. Conversations flowed as freely as the champagne. Whether it was to foster relationships or just pass the time, people desperately spewed out the words like they would die if they couldn’t get it all out.

The constant chatter annoyed her, but Daya was able to connect with almost anyone on some level.

She knew a little bit about a lot of things, so conversations about sports, stock-trading, or even spa treatments were right up her alley. She never would have imagined herself as the type of woman to participate in meaningless conversations daily, but alas, she was. Her experience as a member of California’s high society was a far cry from her upbringing.

Daya Galindo was born Dayana Sims inside a community hospital in Hawthorne, California. Her mother, Denise Sims, settled in Cali sometime during her pregnancy. Denise didn’t talk about her life before Daya much. Her daughter knew almost nothing about her mother’s family or her reasons for moving to California. She didn’t even know her dad!

Daya was as inquisitive as any kid. She often wondered about him—who he was, what he looked like, where he lived, and if he ever thought about her. Her mother shut down any questions about him. The answer was always ‘stay in a child’s place’ or ‘grow up and let it go’. That was her mother’s response to anything uncomfortable, and inadvertently she taught her daughter to shrink herself to avoid conflict.

It was one of many bad habits that years of expensive therapy hadn’t completely fixed.

Denise had also taught her daughter to not form attachments. They moved around a lot when Daya was young. Most times it was only a few cities over, but each time she left someone behind. There was no explanation for why. That’s just how it was. She made it through her teens and early twenties without feeling the need to set down roots.

Her husband, Miguel, changed that.

On paper, Miguel Galindo was everything any woman would want in a husband. He was wealthy, smart, handsome, and charming when he wanted to be.

An honors graduate of Stanford, he quickly established a name for himself in business. Fresh out of college, he moved to New York and started a career in luxury real estate. From there, his interests transferred to commercial properties, and thus the entrepreneur in him was born. Miguel now owned successful businesses on both the East and West Coast.

When Daya met Miguel, he was new to Santo Padre and adjusting to his new lifestyle. The man who raised him died, and his mother, Dita was a wreck. Miguel vividly remembered the sounds of Jose beating Dita a room over, and the way he viciously chose his words to cut her down. Everyone thought she would be excited to start the next chapter of her life without him, but Dita took his death the hardest.

Becoming the man of the family meant his own complicated relationship with Jose was put on the back burner. His mother needed him, and the family business desperately needed tending to.

As the couple’s only child, he was the obvious heir. Regardless of his feelings about it, it was inevitable. Miguel’s future had been decided before he was even born.

Through the crystal clear glass, Daya watched Miguel’s face contort in annoyance. With a quick wave of his hand, he gestured for his head of security, Nestor Oceteva, to join him at his side. A few words were uttered between them before they were making their way inside. She expected Miguel to rejoin her at the table, but instead, he made a beeline for the elevators.

She was a little concerned, but not alarmed. If anything had gone seriously wrong, Miguel would be by her side, excusing them for the evening. He probably just needed more privacy.

Daya stepped up in his absence, focusing on the Stevens’ project in front of her.

Tom Stevens was Marcy’s husband and the owner of a chain of hotels in downtown San Diego. Property value in San Diego was higher than ever and steadily increasing, which made the hotels a worthy addition to Miguel’s portfolio.

An epiphany inspired Tom. He was passionate about the hotels because he built them from the ground up, but he realized his passion was better suited for home.

Marcy was a forty-something widower who decided to give love another chance with Tom. He was ten years her senior and even more unlucky in love, but he didn’t let his previously failed relationships stop him from trying again. The couple were newlyweds, and it showed with the way they giggled and grinned at each other every few seconds. It was cute watching them interact like love-struck teenagers.

Daya and Miguel had their moments, of course, but what they had was much different than the Stevens’. The young couple had gone through their rough patches and made it out on the other side, but the newlywed glimmer was definitely gone. Tom and Marcy were still open to each other and hopeful for the future. Willfully naive in Daya’s opinion.

No, what she and Miguel had was much more complicated. Neither of them trusted anybody completely, even themselves.

In between light conversation, she admired the night sky. In the distance, she could see the top of their hotel. It would be at least another hour before she could go back there, sinking into the king-sized mattress for the night. The Egyptian cotton sheets were calling her name.

“I was out in Brawley the other day, and I saw some of your signs up. What are you guys working on out there?”

If she remembered correctly, it was Luke that was speaking to her. Daya turned in her chair to face him as she responded.

Mama always said, “A woman’s work is never done.”

Another fifteen minutes passed before Miguel rejoined them, the vein in his forehead also present and in attendance.

Daya took a quick glance over her shoulder in search of Nestor. He wore a similar expression, confirming her suspicions.

They hadn’t resolved the problem.

Her hand found her husband’s thigh, softly stroking the strong muscle through his slacks. They sat close enough to the table that the movement was hidden. She smiled at him innocently when his eyes found hers for a second, a clear warning behind them.

A young woman with toffee-colored skin, and a short coiled Afro, approached the table, introducing herself as Eva.

Daya scanned her slim frame in the bright green dress she wore while Marcy explained how they met. Seven months ago, while volunteering at Skid Row, apparently.

Tom stood to offer Eva his seat, hand resting on the back of Marcy’s chair.

Eva talked about her non-profit organization, speaking passionately with her hands about what needed to be done to eradicate poverty. She shared her personal experience with homelessness, and how it shaped her life.

The expression on everyone’s faces said they were listening intently, but Daya knew better.

Millionaires didn’t care about poverty, because their wealth depended on it.

Daya had never been homeless, but she had been poor, and it wasn’t fun. Helping to dismantle capitalism was the last thing on her to-do list. She knew it was selfish, but she didn’t care.

While Eva spoke, Daya’s fingers inched up her husband’s thigh. She wasn’t surprised to find he was already half ready for her, his length thickening underneath his expensive slacks.

Miguel leaned over to whisper in her ear, the hairs of his beard just lightly tickling her ear.

“Watch yourself, conejita.”

The words sent a chill down her spine, but she didn’t remove her hand. Shifting in her seat, she crossed her legs in a poor attempt to dull the subtle throb below.  

To her left, Luke asked Eva a question, diverting everyone’s attention to him. Daya used it as an opportunity to push her man further.

“Or what, papi?” The term of endearment rolled off her tongue with ease.

“Keep it up and you’ll find out.” He whispered through clenched teeth, speaking without moving his mouth. It reminded her of a mother scolding their child, and she resisted the urge to laugh.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” She warned Miguel, tapping his knee patronizingly.

Miguel’s arm came up to rest on the top of her chair, and his head dipped to whisper in her ear once more.

“Brat.” The word triggered something in her, and she bit the inside of her cheek.

A better woman would be annoyed by the nickname, or even insulted. Along with other words a wholesome woman wouldn’t appreciate, brat was a term of endearment between them.

Daya straightened, trying to clear her mind of dirty thoughts. The heated looks they were giving each other weren’t appropriate for the topic of discussion.

When she and Eva made eye contact, she nodded politely. When the woman stopped speaking, she would need to have something of substance to add to the conversation.

“Are you ready to go?” Miguel asked his wife, hand resting on her hip. She sighed with relief at his words.

The two of them had left the table under the guise of socializing, only to slowly make their way out onto the balcony.

"I've been ready. I hate to say it, but Marcy is working on my last nerve." Daya groaned as she remembered how Marcy kept her locked down for the past forty minutes. She had left the woman inside, and she hoped Marcy had found someone else to occupy her time.

"I don't know how many more fake bathroom breaks I could have taken before she noticed it was just to get away from her."

Miguel smirked at his flustered wife. She had a good poker face and tried to sell that nothing could face her. It was always a little entertaining to see cracks in her facade.

“I just hope this is all worth it. I have a headache from listening to everyone talk, and I can feel blisters forming on my feet.” She complained, pouting up at him.

Miguel dropped a quick kiss to her lips in apology before sparing a glance at her feet. "You don't have blisters, honey."

“You don’t have blisters, honey.”

“How do you know?”

Daya’s eyebrows raised, challenging him.

“I just do.”

“Well, how about you inspect them tonight when you’re massaging them?” She asked in a sweet tone.

Miguel laughed.

“Is that your way of asking for a foot massage?”

Daya nodded.

“Come on, loca. Let’s say our goodbyes, so we can get out of here.”

Locking hands, the couple began the slow process of trading goodbyes and promises for later dates. Another fifteen minutes later, they made it outside into the chilly night air, the California breeze kissing their skin. Daya was more than relieved to see the fleet of black SUVs that waited for them.

Nestor Oceteva stood by the truck in the middle, opening the back door for them. “Thank you, Ness.” Daya told him, accepting his help up into the vehicle.

A driver and Nestor's second-in-command and cousin, Antonio Oceteva, occupied the front seats. Daya greeted them both warmly as she crawled across the leather seats.

"I can't wait to get out of these shoes." She said to no one in particular.

With no answer, she slid across the seat to see what the hold up was. Miguel stood outside of the car, several feet away. In a heated tone, he and Nestor discussed something she couldn't make out.

Antonio turned around in his seat to stop her, hand stopping just before it touched her knee. She eyed his hesitant hand for a moment before she met his eyes. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

Antonio was all business when he gathered himself to speak. "He'll be with you shortly, Mrs. Galindo." She huffed in response.

Daya craned her neck to look out of the window once more, but it didn't do much good. From her vantage point she could see that Nestor wasn’t happy, but not much else.

"What's going on?" She asked Antonio catching his hazel eyes in the rear view mirror. He didn't look worried, and that helped to soothe her some. At the same time, she knew it could just be his military training at work.

"I'm not sure, ma'am." He spoke in an even tone, giving nothing away. She thanked him but continued to look out of the window.

Daya didn’t need to know every single gory detail, but Miguel knew she hated being left in the dark. It created distance between them and made her feel shut out.

She could almost hear her therapist telling her to slow down and think. Logically, she knew Miguel meant no harm, but it reminded her of her childhood, making her feel small and insignificant.

He found her in the backseat with her arms crossed, eyes closed, and heeled feet tapping impatiently against the floor of the car.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, mi amor.” With a simple nod, he signaled for the driver to take them to the hotel.

His warm hand found her belly, holding her there while his tongue slipped past her pouty lips into her mouth.

She responded the way he expected, melting under his touch. Soft hands cupped his face, deepening the kiss. His hands slid down to rest on the curve of her ass as she leaned into him. With each movement, Daya felt less tense. Several moments passed before they broke apart.

“What’s happening?” Daya asked, breathless from the kiss. Her eyes scanned Miguel's face for answers.

“It’s nothing you should worry yourself about.”

Miguel’s hands roamed her body, but she knew it was a distraction.

There’s a saying, “You either tell your wife everything, or nothing.”

Miguel often found himself stuck somewhere in the middle. There had been a time where he told her almost everything. Now, he operated on a need-to-know basis.

“That’s your favorite thing to say these days.” Daya said it with a smile, but her eyes told a different story.

“I didn’t mean it that way, mi alma. I just mean it’s not important enough to bother you with. I’m going to take care of it tonight, and then it’s done.”

“You’re leaving tonight?” She didn’t bother to hide that she was upset anymore.

The couple had spent the last three days in San Diego, occupying the penthouse suite of a downtown hotel. Their home was located in Santo Padre, a small border town on the outskirts of Calexico, two hours away from San Diego. Miguel had several meetings in San Diego during the week--with Tom, one of his lawyers, and the event. It just made more sense to stay in town for the week, rather than make the trek back and forth.

“I know I promised, but...yes. I have to take care of this tonight.”

The young couple had agreed to use the few days as a mini-vacation to recharge and spend quality time together. He had kept his promise so far, but she wasn’t happy their time together would be ending early.

“I understand.” Business came first. Always.

“Don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being like anything. I said it’s fine.” She pushed down the anger she felt bubbling in her chest. “Seriously, I’m not upset. There’s no point. You’re still going to do what you have to. Right?”

He nodded, watching as she checked out of the conversation. She faced the window, staring out of it at the blur of lights.

“Do you want to go home? If that will make you more comfortable, they can take you tonight.”

“No. I’m okay. I don’t want to be on the road in the dark." She told him with a grimace. "I’ll find a way to entertain myself.”

The blur of neon lights transitioned into shades of shadowy grey as they entered the parking garage of the hotel.

“Nestor’s going with me, but Antonio will be here along with…” Daya tuned out as he named the guards that would stay in San Diego with her.

“They’ll take you home in the morning.” She nodded, gathering her bearings as the driver parked.

“Will you be there?”

“I’ll try.” She was disappointed in his answer, but at least he wasn’t getting her hopes up.

Antonio opened her door, and she accepted his warm, calloused hand as she stepped out of the vehicle.

Miguel met her halfway at the back of the truck, opening his arms for a hug. She stepped into them, the smell of his signature cologne washing over her. It relaxed her, and she forced herself to enjoy the moment. She was annoyed at her husband, but she loved him and wanted to appreciate every moment with him.

“Be good.” He whispered in her ear, tone gentle, but serious.

“I can’t make any promises.”

Antonio averted his gaze, turning his back to them. Nestor and the guards followed, choosing instead to focus on different parts of the garage. There were plenty of shadows for a person to hide in, and the couple needed privacy.

Miguel’s arms tightened around her waist, squeezing to let her know he was serious.

“You heard what I said.”

Before she could get a smart response out, she felt his manhood poking against her belly. Miguel wasn’t a tyrant, but he liked to play King of the Jungle sometimes; backing her into corners, and giving her silly ultimatums that he knew she’d rebel against. It was a fun game because it elicited a carnal response in both of them to fight for dominance.

“Be good or else I’m going to have to spank this fat ass.” She gasped as his hands cupped her ass. He squeezed the fat in his hands before jiggling it.

Daya moaned quietly, pinching her plump bottom lip under her teeth.

“You’ve told me what’s behind door number one. Now, what do I get for being a good girl? ‘Cause I have to say door number one doesn’t sound so bad right now.”

He pretended to think, cocking his head to the side. “What’s the saying, ‘happy husband, happy life’?”

Daya pressed a kiss to his chin. “That’s definitely not the saying, but fine. I’ll be good, but you owe me a foot massage for skipping out early.”

“I thought I owed you one because of the heels.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” She would also have to pack his luggage for him. “Three. You’re in the hole for three foot massages, mister. I expect full payment by the end of the month. Got it?” There were plenty of people with better massage skills than her husband, but for some reason, they felt better when they came from him.

“I have no idea how you calculated three, but yes ma’am. I miss you already, conejita.”

Her arms circled his neck, pulling him for a kiss. “I miss you more."

Years of learning each other made it so they were in sync when their lips met, stoking fires in each other that wouldn't be extinguished any time soon.

“I. Love. You.” She told him in between greedy pecks. “Call me when you get a chance, ‘kay?” He nodded, understanding she meant for him to call when he reached the border. She would probably be asleep by the time he made it there, but it made her feel better when he checked in.

“I love you too.”

Entering the luxurious penthouse suite, the first thing Daya did was free herself from the designer death traps disguised as shoes.

There were plenty of amenities for her to enjoy— a jacuzzi style bathtub, and a spacious balcony with a breathtaking view of the bayfront. She intended to make the most of her time alone.

After assuring Antonio she was in for the night and wouldn't need his services, she stripped down to her birthday suit and ran a bubble bath.

The purple bottle was nearly finished from all the bubble baths she'd taken during the week. Whiffs of the lavender essential oil flowed up through her nose as she eased herself down into the rectangular tub. Powerful jets massaged her aching muscles with hot water, washing the day away.

Her hair sat in a messy bun on top of her head, loose strands clinging to her neck. Sweat beaded on her forehead and her hair puffed up with frizz, but she didn't let it bother her.

Old school R&B played on her phone. She could barely hear it over the sound of the jets, but she crooned right along with the singer enthusiastically.

Eventually, the water was too cool to stand and she was forced to get out. With wrinkled palms, she dried herself off with the fluffy white towel.

Wrapping it around her midsection, she settled into the low chair of the vanity. It took some time, but she carefully removed her makeup and moisturized her skin.

Staring at herself in the mirror without all the bells and whistles was always a little humbling. It felt dramatic, like she was in a cheesy coming of age movie or something, but it was eye-opening. So much of her time was spent pretending for others—dressing her body up, and her personality down.

The exclusive parties and expensive accessories were fun, but they weren't everything. Most people that came across her thought she was superficial, but in reality, she was the opposite. She would never be able to convince them otherwise and that was fine.

The people that knew her understood her, and that was all that mattered. She had a close-knit, but complicated relationship with her friend group. Most of them had known each other for years, so there were layers to their relationships.

Daya, her very best friend, Ariel Castillo, and Ezekiel Reyes made up the core group.

The three of them met freshman year when Daya moved to Santo Padre. Along with the pressures of going to a new school, she had to deal with being the small fry in a group of big fish. Ariel and Ezekiel had been there to make the experience bearable. They connected through honor classes and bonded over their shared desire to go somewhere else, and be someone different.

Miraculously, all of them ended up stuck in Santo Padre.

Ariel received a full-ride scholarship to UCLA. She made it through the first year and a half, completing all her core courses, but then her father got sick. She came home to take care of him, but couldn't bring herself to leave again when he got better. So she settled, forgot her dreams of being a surgeon, and went to nursing school. Ariel was great at her job, the best Santo Padre Medical had to offer, but it hadn't been her dream.

Ezekiel hadn't even made it through his first year of college when his mother was shot and killed in his father's store. Her unexpected death made him spiral, sending him on a witch hunt to find out who was responsible. One thing led to another and he made a fatal mistake that ended him up in prison for eight years.

Daya never left Santo Padre for college. She was good with academics in high school, but always had a passion for art. Her mother didn't have any money to put towards college, and she wasn't particularly excited about spending another four years in school. So, she did what she was good at, designing web pages for business owners around Santo Padre. 

It didn't pay great, but it allowed her to make connections. People were impressed with her work and shared it with their friends and partners. With a stroke of good luck, she was able to form the connections and save the money to start her own web development and design company. In thirteen years' time, she expanded the business across California from Santo Padre to Los Angeles, becoming one of the most popular and successful in its industry. Daya had touched more money than she ever thought possible.

She had traveled for a while, creating new stations took time and a lot of energy. In between, she went on trips out of the country, learning about new cultures and customs. It was hard to do with a growing business, but the experiences were worth it.

Eventually, she met Miguel, a kindred spirit who wished to be anywhere but Santo Padre. It was ironic that it was the very place they were both forced to settle. Miguel out of duty, Daya out of love and stability.

People came to Santo Padre from the north, south, east, and west.  From Northern Cali, Arizona, or Mexico. The quaint town was like a vortex, drawing people towards it from all sides. Most were smart enough to pass through, but those that stopped stayed forever.

GENERAL TAGLIST:

@woahitslucyylu @briannab1234 @sheeshgivemeabreak @breakingnewsin-no-oneasked @angelreyesgirl @blessedboo @glimmerglittergirl @apantherinmypastlife @brownsugarcoffy @marvelmaree @starrynite7114 @scuzmunkie @thewarriorprincessxo @ifoundmyhappythought @sadeyesgf @pearlkitten33 @imanerdychubbyqueen @literaturefeen @thesandbeneathmytoes

“DEARLY DEPARTED” TAGLIST:

@buttercup812 @princesscornbread @oa-zidan @tian-monique​ @lovebennycolon @aria725​

[pastpatientlywaitingforimagines]

Dragonology | Charlie Weasley x femHufflepuff!Reader Part 6.

Warnings: Romance, kissing, alcohol, dragons

Part 1

DRAGONOLOGY FAQ

You walked in silence until you were on the front steps of Hagrid’s hut, knocking on his door.

“Get back, Fang,” you heard the half-giant say from behind the closed door. With a swing it opened, revealing the bearded man inside. You were immediately crushed in a hug, feeling Fang circling your legs and licking your pants.

“(y/n) an’ Charlie! What’re you doing here? It’s so good te see ya! Come in, I’ll put on some tea,” Hagrid finally released you from his grasp.

“We’re here for the tournament, actually,” you said, settling in the chair you had spent many hours in during your time at Hogwarts. Charlie fell into his own chair, his eyes meeting yours.

“The tournament? Harry’s competin’ ya know. Don’t know why, he’s just a boy,” Hagrid shook his head.

You told Hagrid that you had heard, then the conversation switched to the work you were doing in Romania with the dragons.

“Is that why you’re here? Are there going to be dragons in the tournament?” Hagrid asked. You and Charlie both nodded.

“Would you like to see them, Hagrid?” Charlie asked, already knowing the answer.

“What kind of question is that? Of course I wanna see them,” Hagrid said.

“They’re still sleeping right now, why don’t you meet us on Saturday? They’ll be fully recovered from the sleeping draught then,” you suggested.

“Sure, when?”

“Midnight would probably be best, for secrecy’s sake,” Charlie answered after a moment of silence between you.

“Of course. Will yeh be staying for the rest of the tournament?”

“No, we’ll have to bring the dragons back to Romania. Sounds like it’ll be a good event though,” you said with a smile. Hagrid nodded slowly.

You spent the rest of the afternoon with him, then made your way back through the forest to your team’s tents. You checked in with all of the dragons, who were still all sleeping soundly, before going to the tent you would be sharing with Charlie.

“We made it,” he said with a kiss to your forehead as you settled into bed.

“Don’t speak too soon,” you teased.

“It’ll work out. We got this far, right?”

You had a hard time believing his words when you were woken by your names being called loudly from the entryway. You were the first out of bed, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

“Teca woke up,” Chris, one of the Fireball handlers was at the door, eyes wide. You summoned your sweater, tossing it over your head before heading out into the cool night. Charlie was right behind you. The area outside the tents was alight with small fires. The other Fireball trainer was spraying water from their wand to put them out, something you and Charlie aided with as you made your way to Teca.

“So much for the forest being a peaceful place for them to wake up,” your fiancé joked under his breath. Your brain started reeling with ways to calm the stressed dragon.

“I don’t want to stun her,” you voiced your thoughts to Charlie.

“We’d have to wake up the others to do it, the four of us aren’t enough to completely stun her anyways.”

“Let’s move her deeper into the forest, away from the others, and increase the protections we have around her until she calms down. If she keeps this up she’s going to hurt someone,” you decided.

“Works for me,” Charlie agreed. You gathered Chris, figuring that three levitation spells would be enough to move the large dragon, and with a wave of your wands picked up her crate and started moving. You had to be careful to avoid the bursts of flame as you moved, but your plan was ultimately successful. When you were at an appropriate distance from your basecamp, you set her down and started placing stronger fireproofing and protection spells. Charlie helped reinforce them, adding some charms of his own.

You sat down in the spruce needles that cushioned the soil under your slippered feet. Charlie sunk down next to you, rolling his wand between his fingers.

“You can go back to bed, I’m going to stay out here for a while,” you told Charlie as he settled next to you.

“Very funny, (y/n). We’ve spent too much time in this forest for me to leave you here alone. Rule number one.”

“Never go into the forest alone,” you finished.

When your team of dragonologists found you in the morning you were still in front of the dragon enclosure, fast asleep in your sweater and slippers. Charlie’s arms were around you and he was sleeping as well. After laughing to themselves for a minute, Chris tapped you with the toe of his boot.

“Might want to get up and get dressed, friends,” he teased as you blinked awake.

“What’s going on?” Charlie was the first to form a coherent sentence.

“Dumbledore and Bagman are coming out to see the dragons. They’ll be here within the hour. Figured you might want to change your shoes or something,” Amelia, one of the handlers on Team Teca clued you in.

“Thanks gang,” you said as you helped Charlie to his feet. You went back to your tent giggling like schoolgirls.

“I can’t believe we fell asleep out there,” Charlie said as he tossed you your favorite fireproof pants from across the room.

“Been a while since we’ve done that,” you shimmied them on, then started pushing textbooks and robes out of the way looking for your boots, “and now we have to meet with the headmaster.”

“Just like old times,” he laughed, tying up his own boots as you pulled yours out from under the bed, “do you think he’ll give us acid pops?”

“Not if he has Bagman with him,” you rolled your eyes, “he never gave us sweets if there was someone else in the office.”

Shaking his head with a smile, Charlie shrugged on his robes and waited for you by the door. After slipping your arms through your own sleeves, you reached over and fixed his collar.

“Thanks,” Charlie pressed a gentle kiss to your lips before holding the tent open for you. You both exited, then proceeded to check on all of the dragons. Your guess was that the rest of the dragons would be waking up before dark. As you had predicted, Teca had calmed down now that she was more isolated from the rest.

“Can you prep a whole prey item for her while we talk to Dumbledore? She’s been through a lot, no need to make her work today,” you said to Amelia, who nodded.

“(y/n)!” You heard Charlie call your name from the other dragon enclosures. You jogged back over to him, noticing the two men approaching your camp.

“How do you manage to get covered in scales every time?” Charlie asked softly, pulling a Horntail scale from where it was stuck in your hair. You took it from him and stuck it in your pocket, then dried your sweaty palms on your pants.

“Are you nervous?” You kept your eyes on the approaching men.

“A little. It’ll be ok though,” Charlie sounded sincere, so you willed yourself to believe him.

Dumbledore seemed pleased when he entered your camp, though the man at his side was less bubbly.

“Charlie, (y/n), so glad to see you again,” Dumbledore said calmly.

“Hello Professor,” you and Charlie chorused.

“Please, you’re professionals now, call me Albus,” he clasped each of your hands in his own, “shall we see the dragons?” he asked, not bothering to introduce Bagman.

“Of course. Most of them are still sleeping, but they should be waking up today,” you said, starting to walk towards the crates.

Dumbledore oohed and ahhed at each dragon. Next to him, Bagman was quiet. You and Charlie shared a smirk at the frightened older man.

“And this is Teca, the Hungarian Horntail,” Charlie said proudly when you reached the largest dragon. Bagman seemed to shrink smaller into his jacket as she swung her head around to watch you.

“Beautiful,” was Dumbledore’s word choice here.

“Isn’t she amazing?” your question was mostly rhetorical.

“How will they be contained during the task?” Bagman finally spoke up.

“They’ll be chained so they don’t fly off, mostly for their own safety. And if anything goes wrong, we have response teams set up. Each dragon has us as either their primary or secondary handlers, plus two other trainers. Our team has 10 dragonologists in total that are well prepared for everything and anything that could go wrong,” you said confidently as you made your way back towards the tents.

“Speaking of, where is everyone else?” Charlie asked.

“Ah, the house elves have taken the liberty of setting up a feast for you in your dining tent. I believe they left something in particular for you, (y/n),” Dumbledore had his signature twinkle in his eye, “thank you for all of your hard work, we best be off now.”

Dumbledore and Bagman took off into the depths of the forest, leaving you and Charlie to join your coworkers in the large dining tent. Sitting on the table amidst the food was a large, steaming cup of tea. Next to it was a scrap of parchment with “For Miss (y/n)” scribbled on it in rough handwriting.

The first task went better than you anticipated, considering you were transporting dragons on and off school grounds. You had to patch up your creatures a bit afterwards, but mostly everyone went unscathed.

“You seem grouchy,” you nudged Charlie as you once again found yourself dipping meat into sleeping draught.

“Krum was reckless. Half of the Fireball eggs we brought were destroyed. Doesn’t he know how important those are?”

“He also messed up her eyes pretty badly. Took me ages to clear them up. Celebrities are so entitled,” you rolled your eyes. Charlie knew that you were just teasing, though you were telling the truth. It had taken you much longer than it should have to cure the Fireball.

After putting all of the dragons to sleep and shrinking them down, you were ready to load them up into the briefcase again. As you closed the latches and handed them off to the trainers, you reminded them of the rest of the plan.

“Henry and Dmitri will be waiting for you when you get back. Free feed for the weekend, we should be back by Monday.”

You exhaled as the eight dragonologists mounted their brooms and flew away, leaving Charlie at your side.

“Are you ready?” he asked, taking your hand. You smiled at him.

“Let’s go surprise your mum.”

Previous Part | Next Part

[the-littlest-goblin]

I started writing this way back in Uthodurn, but the Allura appearance reignited my campaign crossover needs.

             _______________________________________________________

“We’re lost,” says Nott.

“I’m aware,” Beau growls through her teeth.

“We’re all aware,” Fjord sighs. “But we don’t have any other options. Keep moving.”

The forest looks identical in every direction: tall, thick evergreens with rough and peeling bark, the wide spreading branches creating a canopy of needles above their heads, and the sun filtering through to the ground in sheafs of dappled light. A dusting of snow covers the forest floor, just enough to make their footsteps crunch as the group steps carefully through the unfamiliar woods.

Essek had assured them that they weren’t too far off. They hadn’t exactly wanted to appear magically in the middle of a foreign city—the goal was to teleport to the edge of the forest, just out of sight. The spell had hit a bit of a snag, apparently landing them a few miles to the south, according to Essek:

“Considering how volatile this particular method of transportation can be, I’d still call this a success,” he’d said, and then promptly began clearing a patch of dirt for a teleportation circle back to Rosohna, leaving the Mighty Nein to make the rest of their journey on foot.

Now, after nearly three hours of walking through identical forest, doubt was starting to creep in and settle in all their stomachs.

“We’re sure Essek said south, right?” Fjord asks, only minutes later. “He said we landed south of Whitestone?”

 “Yes,” Caleb answers.

“And we’re definitely headed north now?”

“Yes.”

“Just… making sure,” Fjord mumbles.

“Maybe Essek got it wrong,” says Beau. “Maybe—”

She stops abruptly as Caduceus lays a hand on her arm. Tense. On guard. The shift in mood ripples through the rest of the Mighty Nein only a split second before they hear the voice.

“Stop right there!”

As one, they all turn their heads slowly in the direction of the sound. From their left, a figure emerges from among the trees. They appear to be humanoid, but any details are obscured by the gray hood pulled over their head, casting their face in shadow. One thing that is very apparent: the longbow they have trained on the Mighty Nein, arrow nocked and ready. They take a single, cautious step forward.

“Who are you?” the stranger calls. Their accent is reminiscent of Fjord’s. 

“We’re the Mighty Nein,” Jester offers tentatively, hands up in surrender. She glances around to the others, hoping for an indication of what they want to say, how much they want to reveal. Is this one of those times they tell the truth and hope for trust, or are they going with the usual plan of lying until they get caught and then fighting their way out? Or just start fighting now?

“We mean no harm,” Fjord takes over. “We’re travelers, from Wildemount.”

“What business do you have in Whitestone?” The archer doesn’t drop their bow.

“Oh good, so we were going the right way!” Jester whispers back to the group.

“We’re on a mission for the Wildmother,” Caduceus adds with a tranquil smile.

“We’re in search of a, er, certain magical resource that we’ve heard comes from around here,” Fjord continues. “Residuum?”

Honesty it is, apparently.

“Residuum?” The figure walks a few steps closer. Though the bow stays up, the hands holding it relax somewhat. 

“You’ve heard of it?” Fjord asks, eyes alight with hope.

“Of course,” the stranger scoffs.

“Right. Of course.” Fjord clears his throat. “’Course you have.”

“Are you… adventurers?” The figure steps closer still, and finally they can make out some features: a young man by the looks of it—very young, teenage, probably too young to be wandering the woods alone, carrying a weapon—with pale, lightly freckled skin and bright, blue eyes.

“Yes, we are,” Fjord answers. Behind him, Nott and Jester nod their heads vigorously, while Beau and Caleb exchange glances and shrug. “Of a sort.”

Finally, the bow lowers and the arrow points to the ground. “What do you need residuum for?” Though still cautious, the voice now sounds more curious than threatened. 

“Well…” Fjord trails off, looking to the group for help. 

“We’re not sure yet,” Caduceus steps in. Fjord shuts his eyes. That was exactly what he was trying to avoid saying.

“He’s been having dreams,” Jester picks up the thread, pointing to Fjord. “Messages from the Wildmother, telling him to come here and find residuum.”

“We’re assuming she’ll tell us what to do with it once we get some,” Beau finishes.

“I know how strange it must sound, visions from a god—” Fjord begins, but the boy cuts him off.

“It’s really not, around here. You’d be surprised.”

“Oh. You have a lot of religious types, then, in Whitestone?”

“A few,” he answers.

“…Right. Well—”

“I know some people you could talk to, about residuum,” he continues. “I can take you to them, if you like.”

A chorus of “yes, please” erupts from the Mighty Nein, complete with lots of nodding and smiles that hopefully communicate “we are trustworthy we promise.”

“I’ll warn you, though,” he continues. “If you try anything funny, they’ll tear you to pieces.”

“No, of course not—”

“—we would never—”

“—nothing funny, promise.”

“Alright. Follow me, then,” the boy says, turning.

“Wait,” Jester calls. “What’s you name?”

“Oh, of course. Where are my manners?” He pushes the hood back from his head, revealing dark brown hair and ears that end in the slightest points. He holds his hand out to Jester.

“Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo IV. You can call me Freddie.”

[efrmellifer]

Egress

Morning came, and the generous farewell process began. Etien looked like the night had been rough on her, her hair a series of tangled filaments rather than curls, the covers tight around her like she’d been tossing and turning.

Aymeric smoothed back a few stray hairs from Etien’s forehead, followed by pressing his lips to the unobscured skin. “Etien? You have to get up. We both do.”

She startled, just a little, but settled into a sigh and a stretch as she woke more fully and recognized who it was speaking to her. “Already?” she asked, fingers curling and straightening. Even through the stretch, there was a tint of sadness in her tone.

“Unfortunately,” Aymeric confirmed. “But that means little now. I would see you properly prepared before you set off.”

Etien gave a little sigh. “I think I would appreciate that.”

She sat up, and Aymeric followed, the both of them trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep.

“First things first,,” Aymeric said, reaching for a comb. “Come here, and let me get those little tangles out. Were you uncomfortable in your sleep?”

“Not that I can remember,” Etien replied, getting into a more comfortable position so she could sit still while Aymeric combed her hair.  She tipped her head back into his hands when the comb’s teeth hit her scalp, silently enjoying the gentle tug on her scalp as he worked.

“Well, if not, that is curious, because you look a mess. Still radiant, of course, but your hair--” he hit a particularly tight and complex knot, and Etien hissed-- “mine apologies, dearest. But your hair is in a state, and your clothing looked surprisingly rumpled. And not in a pleasant way.”

Etien laughed a little at the clarification, trying to straighten out her clothing. “Well, I’m sorry to worry you.”

“I would have worried regardless,” he sighed. “However, it is good to hear that you weren’t suffering in your sleep.”

When he was finished combing her hair, Aymeric left Etien so she could dress and gather her things, and he headed to the kitchen to make sure he could send her off with a good meal in her belly.

He was lost in the act of the cooking, not hearing or seeing Etien come into the kitchen, even when she stood, watching him with a keen and loving eye.

That is, he didn’t see her until he turned, jumping with the shock. “How long have you been there?” he demanded.

“Not long?” her ears flattened as her gaze left him. “I just like watching you. And I won’t get to look at you for a while…”

Aymeric sighed. “I take no issue with you watching me. I was merely surprised.” He kissed her forehead as he passed her with her plate. “Grab that cup for me, would you, dearest?”

She lifted the teacup, following him to the dining room.

When she sat, Aymeric slid the plate in front of her. “Finish it, if you can. I want to make sure that you’ve eaten plenty with this last opportunity I have to ensure it.”

She smiled up at him. “Thank you. I doubt I’ll have much of a problem plowing my way through this.”  With that, she lifted her fork, digging into the plate of food before her, broken up with sips of the tea.  

When she was finished, she pushed back from the table, sighing. “This was wonderful, just like it always is. But… I better not dawdle.”

“Is it better that way?” Aymeric asked, sadness coloring his voice more than he’d intended to.

Etien’s eyebrows lifted in a mix of amusement and something near heartache. “Darling. If I don’t go, I won’t go. If it makes you feel better, I don’t think it’s better.”

She came to his side, picking up his hand and kissing over the web of veins.

“It does, just a little,” he assured her. “But you are correct. Do what you must, and you shall have my support.”

“Please don’t think this doesn’t hurt,” she whispered. “I’m doing my best to imagine instead the joy we can feel when it ends.”

“Ever the optimist. If only I could be more like you.”

Etien laughed, leaning down just a touch to cup Aymeric’s cheeks and give him a kiss. “As though I don’t look up to you as a shining example.”

He rose from the table too, giving her several kisses in succession, each one placed between strings of words with which he was attempting to give her a proper goodbye.

“I shall think of you every day,” a kiss, “and write when I can,” another kiss, “—promise me you will too?” one more kiss, “until my pining for you is brought to—” a deeper kiss— “its proper end.” He gave her one more kiss, cradling her entire body so they could lean into each other.

“I love you, Etien. Please remember that until I can say it to you directly again.”

“Of course I will,” she said, tears sliding along her lower eyelids. “Make sure you don’t forget how much I love you either, all right, darling?”

He almost laughed. “Naturally. Now, pray do not let me tempt you any longer.”

Etien nodded slowly, but gave in to one last temptation, her fist balling in Aymeric’s shirt to pull him down for one last kiss before she was out the door.

Il Mheg didn’t have the same feeling of home that Ishgard (and a few other places on the Source) did, but it did make her feel welcome and at ease.

Still, already the sting of being separated from her home and husband was setting in. She walked the petal-laden pathways with a slight sullenness, until a familiar streak of orange made its way into her line of sight.

“My precious sapling, you look so sad! Surely nothing so awful has happened now that there are no Lightwardens left to plague Norvrandt?”

Etien smiled, embarrassed. “It’s nothing so serious, Feo.”

“Then what has you so lost?”

With Feo Ul floating so near her eye level, Etien had to tell the truth. Or at least, part of it. “I just came back from the Source,” she told them, embarrassment only becoming more evident.

Feo Ul gave a knowing hum. “Fear not! No need for tears or listless wandering! I will of course faithfully carry your letters to and fro so it can be as though you never left each other’s company.”

Etien smiled more genuinely, perking up again. “Thank you, Feo. So much. You certainly are a generous king.”

“Only to support a couple so clearly in love,” they pressed with a giggle.

Etien’s blush returned. “I don’t know how to repay that.”

“Consider it a volunteer position to keep myself entertained,” they enthused, “or as thanks for the joy you bring to Il Mheg when you visit. The fae repay what is received, you know.”

Etien settled down in a patch of flowers, pulling out her stationery set with a laugh. “You ready for the first letter?”

[thesagedahlia]

🧿Zendaya🧿

I'm going to start by saying I consider Zendaya my biracial sister (she's about 11 days younger than me) & I honestly feel like I can relate to her on so many levels. I never really was invested in much of her personal life, but I enjoy her work & she plays roles I can identify with. But energetically, I get she's kind of a hermit (which again, I relate to) & doesn't really be out there like that. I knew she dated Tom Holland but I was unaware of the duration of the relationship nor of their slept. It was also brought to my attention that she seemed to be getting close to her Euphoria costar, Jacob Elordi. I will say that she has much inner strength & wisdom for someone her age (again, another relation), & she is very in tune spiritually. She has amazing intuition, also comes off very stable or focused on stability. Her situation with Jacob took me aback & it was interesting to see her close with some other that Tom (though I will say, Jacob has some sketchiness to him; to those who are familiar with tarot, the devil card came our constantly for him). From what I picked up on Zendaya, she seems like an unproblematic character in a problematic movie we call human existence, but I digress.

**DISCLAIMER**

I am not declaring, nor am I insinuating, that anything I say in my predictions are true accounts of any of the parties involved. This reading is for entertainment purposes only, & should be only taken as such. All in good fun, folks 🤷🏾‍♀️🧿

🔮Energy Surrounding Zendaya🔮

I feel like in regards to the choices & ideas that have yet to be explored, Zendaya is beginning to explore certain life choices that will bring her a happier, healthier life with more opportunities to grow as a person. She's focused a lot on her success & she is putting people & situations behind that don't serve her growth. As far as love, she is less interested in flings & is wanting solidarity & maturity. She also wants a foundation & to cut out any recklessness or carelessness about the things she wants for herself & in her relationships. I think romance has left a bad taste in her mouth & she would rather focus on her own self reflection, & she is becoming stronger despite her losses. She decided she was going in a different direction than what her relationships were taking her. She has her idea of what stability means to her in all aspects in her life, & she's being committed to her newfound ideology. She's putting an end to situations that left her confused, & a lot of the confusion was caused by manipulation. She has anxiety stemming from what she's dealt with in the past, & the fear of it repeating itself. She's in search of her own happiness, & even if she's burdened through it, she is in walking this path alone. She may be going through a period where she's even seeing people she's known for some time for who they truly are, & she's starting to see that people around her don't have her best interest at heart; & this seems like people who are around her socially.

🔮What happened between Zendaya & Tom Holland🔮

I'm seeing that there was an unwillingness to commit fully, & Zendaya's energy & passion for the relationship beginning to die down. They had a stable relationship, but I feel they were each going in different directions & wanting different things. The relationship was going through a rough patch for some time before they ended things, & it started to become burdensome. It ended up coming down to a decision to make the transition to being friends. I feel Zendaya was becoming more cold to the relationship, & she may have been unwilling to let up on wanting a change in the relationship (or life in general). She felt like things weren't going anywhere.

🔮Zendaya's feelings toward Tom Holland🔮

She is acknowledging that their work has brought them closer together as friends, but I feel like she wasn't trying to mix business with pleasure, though the both are coming across as having mutual interest in one another. She feels like it's harder to work together as a couple. She had an emotional & sexual connection with him & it stemmed from their mutual connection; they acted upon their passions & their feelings for one another. She had her convictions about dating someone she worked with, & she already was in tune, intuitively, of the relationship itself & how it will not be what she's looking for in love. Despite this, she took the chance anyway because she cared about him. It was an equal give & take relationship, but Zendaya felt bogged down by the loyalty she felt toward Tom. She felt it best if they quietly remained friends.

🔮What is going on between Zendaya & Jacob Elordi🔮

Zendaya isn't much invested in anything serious with Jacob, & I feel she has her set boundaries so she isn't going to put too much of herself out there. She is, however, having a time being single & she considers Jacob a good friend. Right now, it's just a lighthearted friendship & opportunity, where they see where things may go. I'm picking up that he could be keeping something hidden from her (possibly a desire?) & it is coming across as being a friend to her first & being patient, but Zendaya doesn't seem like she would fall for the 'okey doke' & will nip that in the bud. She's having fun, but she's not settling in this relationship. Zendaya seems to strictly be interested in a friendship with Jacob, & Jacob may have some underlying intentions on where he wants ths relationship to go.

🔮Zendaya's feelings toward Jacob Elordi🔮

She is planning to be platonic about where she plans on taking the relationship. She's kind of introverted when it comes to Jacob, & she is even being observant & proactive to getting a general study of him as a person to be cautious of or not. She also doesn't seem to be much in contact with him behind the scenes; she's very much of a hermit in general, in which she is more in favor of her solitude. She may only want to stay friends above all else. She may also feel she relates differently from him romantically. She's feeling like she may be better off focusing on herself, as she kind of peeps some sort of game he's trying to play (she'd play up until she feels like she's about to get manipulated on some way). As far as she's concerned, she has control over the situation & will not settle for a person of ill intention to be around her or in her energy. I don't see any feelings of her being tempted, or giving flighty feelings, in fact she may not have feelings for Jacob at all.

🔮What is to come for Zendaya in the near future🔮

I see Zendaya dealing with mess & toxicity within her social circle, partnerships, &/or alliances. She may be coming into realization about those who are around her & are realizing that they may be bringing low vibrational energy & blockages to her own abundance. As of right now, all of her focus is on her own self love & stability. She's practicing self evaluation & self reflection, as well as using her own discernment & intuition to stand her ground against anyone who is deceptive or calculating. She has her boundaries established, & she isn't planning to compromise herself for anyone else. I'm picking up on a friend that may try to take a connection forward, but they are someone who has passion (or lust) behind his intention; this is a connection that Zendaya is taking more lightly. She is going to be pushing forward out of any burdens she may face, to reach a more stable place in her life. She's trying to release some stresses that can be stemming from friends or family (or she could be dealing with some conditioning due to family cycles or traditional cycles; karmic cycles). She is spending her time mostly I'm self reflection & self love & is finding her own truth to fall back on.

🔮BONUS QUESTION🔮

1️⃣Tom Holland's feelings toward Zendaya?

I feel like Tom has a certain admiration for Zendaya, & he feels like she is a woman who knows what she wants, & he has respect & compassion for her. I do have a feeling that he doesn't feel someone around her has good intentions; someone she's been publicly around. I feel like he would like to reach out to her more, but there is an energy of holding back from doing so. Even though he believes they are still friends & they have a mutual respect for one another, he feels imprisoned by the fact that he still feels a way about her. He acknowledges that there are challenges that he may have with the fact that she could be in a relationship with someone else, but I feel like he's not wanting to be immature about it, so he'd rather keep his distance. He's trying to release the dissatisfaction & hurt that he feels, because he only cares about Zendaya's happiness, while simultaneously respecting his own boundaries. I think it's hard for him to be friends with her because there may have been love there for him (Zendaya's energy was way more neutral than Tom's; his feelings in the relationship may have been deeper?). He feels like no matter what kind of mess she goes through with another person, they would always cherish each other as friends.

2️⃣Jacob Elordi's feelings toward Zendaya

Jacob is coming across as someone who has ulterior motives, & he is wanting to maintain their friendship, but he has a goal in mind, but he is acknowledging that she is strong in her convictions. He does want Zendaya to be more open with him, even though he has no intention on bringing stability to her. She's not even focused on him, he feels. He feels that even in a work environment, she doesn't want to become distracted on anything that isn't about contributing to her stability. He feels like she sets boundaries with him, which makes him feel left out in the cold with her. He's unsure I'd he is even wanting to put up a front because he knows that it isn't going to be as easy as he thought it would be. She keeps to herself a lot. He does, however, feels like he has clarity to strategic means to getting closer to her, & they seem to be to his own benefit.

3️⃣What are Jacob Elordi's intentions with Zendaya 👀?

He feels she is in need of a friend & that she may be going through her own personal issues that are a hindrance on her being open with him, & he is willing to be that person that is there for her. But I gotta be honest, his intentions on his reasons for getting close to her are a little questionable. He wants to transform the relationship between them, but he can't seem to get around her boundaries that easily, & he's playing by the rules long enough until he can take a leap. I don't know if he had recently gotten out of previous relationship, but it partially feels rebound-ish. I see Jacob as wanting to take things with Zendaya further, but I see him being blocked; I feel like Zendaya is ten steps ahead of him.

[brightlilies-a]

   cracks knuckles. i’ve long put off rewriting this one, if not because it’s not an easy or concise subject matter to discuss, so bear with me. . . ! spoilers for dnc & 5.0 msq (though the latter is lighter, so i can expand on it later with a broader scope).

   headcanon, re: purpose.    * partially rewritten from my old blog & otherwise including new stuff.

   what’s your purpose?

   if you had asked him that question during a realm reborn and heavensward, he’d wholeheartedly answer that all he wants to do is have the strength to protect others. the funny thing is that it’s a purpose that was given to him——not because he’s the warrior of light or because people are relying upon his continued success, but because it was something his older brother, albi’a, said near constantly prior to the calamity. they were to use their strength to ensure the safety of the tribe, and when they would eventually be outcast, that strength would become something to protect others with. power was meant to protect——that was all it ever meant to albi’to.

   ‘course, after albi’a’s death at carteneau and his mother pushing him to become an adventurer seemingly on a whim, albi’to ultimately ended up parroting that sentiment for a good chunk of time. if someone asked why he was an adventurer, it was always to gain the power to protect, with no deeper thought to it. he believed his would-be mantra, sure (if he hadn’t, he would have never approached the gladiator’s guild, nor walked the path of a paladin), but the words were never something that were his. they were the remnants of a promise left unfulfilled, acting as a buoy for a young man with little else to cling to in the vast, churning ocean of heroics and intrigue that was swiftly becoming his life.

   putting it like that and only looking at it from that perspective, however, makes it seem insincere——and it’s not. albi genuinely wants to protect people. he’s kind and compassionate to others because he’s had a rough go at life and he doesn’t want anyone to go through what he did. he lost his home and much of what he considered his family only to be shuffled into a place that didn’t even want him all at once, and yet, he keeps his optimism (even if at times, he didn’t think he could.). so he often sympathizes, even with people he possibly shouldn’t, and wants to keep them safe.

   but, then again, stormblood happens. namely, in crimson it began happens, as all things inevitably return to zenos. zenos, who is so uncaring to things that don’t interest him, set against albi, who feels so much toward everything and everyone. and yet, the power albi had obtained to protect others wasn’t enough. the conviction he’d allowed to guide him through combating ultima weapon and the whole of the dragonsong war fell short suddenly. the scar on his shoulder is an ugly reminder of his loss, but his shattered shield, like haurchefant’s, reinforces a reality that, for a while, he’s afraid of: he can’t protect everyone.

   so he shifts jobs to samurai, thinking if he gets stronger he can brute force his way through it. he can still protect people, but maybe he doesn’t need a shield to do it. maybe all he needs is a stronger sword that will stop threats in their tracks. but the foundation of his (brother’s) belief that the strong will always be able to protect the weak is cracked, and patches 4.4 onward really reinforce that. for much of stormblood though, there isn’t any time to waver, so the problem only rears its head once the scions start getting called away and he’s helpless to do anything to stop it. yet again, he can’t stop what’s happening, not to the people he cares so much for, and no amount of power is going to help him.

   albi doesn’t do well on his own, as he’s never really had to face who he is and process his own identity. he tends to ensure other people are near him, hiding most of his insecurities through being overly social and directing conversation away from himself. so much of the time between 4.5 part 1 and 4.5 part 2 is very, very rough on him, because he’s holding on so tightly to the image of the warrior of light people want and expect from him, punishing himself for not being able to help the people he’s losing, and ignoring those who are still around’s concerns for him. part 2 of the patch helps, as aymeric reminds him that he isn’t alone, and tataru opens his eyes to the fact he can’t keep bottling everything up and trying to handle these things on his own anymore, which are both things he desperately, desperately needs to hear at that point.

   so while they’re out looking for the crystal tower beacon… he’s not alone, and he’s doing better to include the others in what he’s doing so they can help, but it’s not perfect. it’s hard when he isn’t the same bright-eyed kid that walked into the waking sands at thancred’s behest. he’s still loud and energetic, but he’s begun to mellow out somewhat from everything he’s been through and witnessed.

   above all else, though, he’s come to terms with the truth he once feared: he can’t protect everyone; sometimes, he can’t even protect himself. which brings us back to that initial question of purpose.

   if he cannot protect with his shield and if his blade alone cannot wield enough power, then what’s left to guide him on his way? he’s relied on the scions’ support for so long, and while he’s always done what’s expected of him, he’s never really had much to offer outside of being the eikon slayer or the muscle. but while he’s not allowed to help search for the beacon himself, it gives him plenty of time to find another answer for himself, which he does on a wayward trip to limsa lominsa to visit his sister.

   “ put another way, bringing joy and succor to the scorned and the suffering is no less than our calling in life. ” - nashmeira, a soirée in the sultanate.

   while he’s never offered much besides being a weapon, albi has always had a naturally charismatic personality. he likes people, enjoys their company, delights in bringing them together and building them up. which, in some ways, goes hand in hand with being the warrior of light——sowing hope where despair otherwise reigns is simply part of being the realm’s champion, even if he isn’t fond of the title himself. so the thought of supporting the people around him is one that is more secondhand nature than parroting what his brother said while he was alive, and one that comes more naturally to him.

   natural affinity for and history of dance aside (because this isn’t about that), it’s a job that suits him infinitely better than swinging a sword around. and not because he’s simply good at dancing, but because being a dancer is about supporting the people around oneself, lifting their spirits and unburdening hearts, leaving a bit of joy and happiness in his wake. it isn’t something done alone; it requires a partner or an audience.

   and traveling with troupe falsiam, brief as it might’ve been, truly assured him that he wanted to do nothing more with his life. fighting the absolutely horrible monsters born out of the sorrow in people’s hearts, seeing their burdens manifest like that, it hurt, sure. but he had the ability to help those people, so he would. and he will, because in the end it’s what he wants to do. mistress nashmeira’s words ring true in a way he wholly agrees with——his purpose isn’t to protect people or to fight their battles, but to bring joy and help the helpless. to do as much as he can as kindly as he can, but not promise any form of salvation.

   because he’s not a god, nor is he infallible, and twelve does he know that.

   “ in a place like this, you learn to take what little moments of happiness you can get. “ - tesleen, the time left to us.

   of course, norvrandt puts this new purpose to its test swiftly. most people don’t have much of a reason to be happy, what with the end of the world being nigh. the people’s hearts are filled with doubts, shadows of disdain for the lot they’ve been given, and even by the time he goes to amh araeng to meet with alisaie (which he does first, given how things ended at ghimlyt dark), albi is keenly aware of the general condition. moreover, that it isn’t anything he can fix immediately, because as long as the main problem exists, people will continue to suffer after the fact.

   worse, having gone through what he did alongside troupe falsiam tends to make the events in norvrandt pull on his heartstrings uncomfortably. meeting f’lhaminn once more before seeing thancred struggle to let go of minfilia, dealing with the fuath wanting to make him theirs to perform again and again in endless fights on their drowned stage, watching the carers at journey’s head struggle to find even an ilm of kindness to share with the afflicted... not to mention eulmore in its entirety engorging itself on false happiness, there’s a lot that makes him hesitate. lightwardens, and knowing they were once people, make him sad, but he tries to view it as tesleen put it: the warrior of darkness comes to care for souls at their dying moment, to bring them somewhere hopefully better than where they are currently.

   not a promise of salvation, but a measure of kindness he can deliver to them. something that keenly fits along with the purpose he’s decided for himself, that isn’t asking him to be something or someone he isn’t.

[parabellum-rpg-archive]

Congratulations, Meghan! You’ve been accepted to play Zoey Everett. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: This was such a hard decision to make because there were three other perfectly written auditions. I’m not even exaggerating, they were all perfect, spot on, flawless. In the end, I think you did such an amazing job at portraying Zoey. Everything felt so fluid in the samples, I could tell that you really connected with her. I can’t wait to see this character fleshed out even more!  - Admin V

IC INFORMATION —

CHARACTER DESIRED

Zoey Everett.

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS

No need to rewrite the biography - but who are they to you? What are their goals, ambitions, or flaws? Here’s your opportunity to show us who this character is to you.

I think Zoey is someone who is a complicated balance of strength, belief, and a sensitivity that borders on vulnerable. She had always been innately strong— however, shouldering the abuse meant for both her and her mother created something unbreakable inside her at a young age. She wouldn’t be cowed by intimidation. She wouldn’t retreat inside of herself when confronted. As a child, Zoey could do nothing to change her situation— but there wasn’t a single force in the world that could dictate how she should react.

Bruce’s hair-trigger temper was as fragile as tripwire, and Zoey learned quickly nothing would please him. It was better to retain every inch of her resolve instead of folding, better to keep a tight grip on her kindness in favor of becoming hard. These things couldn’t be beaten out of her— not even when she felt abandoned by her mother, or when the weight of hiding the abuse sat on Zoey’s chest like a weight.

Strength was a necessity, a survival tactic.

She was young, yes, still knobby-kneed and freckled, but she was firm in her sense of self— Zoey reacted to things on her own terms.

It would have been easier to harden herself, as a way of protection. Many children would have. But Zoey let herself remain sensitive to a full spectrum of emotions, let herself be moved by beautiful things, by new people, culture, something as simple as trying Italian ice for the first time, or something as grand as seeing La Pieta during a college trip.

Her warmth and sensitivity was not naive; instead it was incredibly purposeful. It was this strong sense of identity that helped her to endure. She wouldn’t lose herself to trauma.

Because of Zoey’s resolve, and her strength, as an adult she has an incredible capacity for sensitivity—allowing herself to be vulnerable in the most human of ways. Her job demands vulnerability. Reacting to art requires vulnerability, particularly abstract modern art, where so much of its meaning is dependent on what the viewer brings to the table.

You react to art; art reacts to you. It’s impossible for Zoey to harden herself to emotion and do her job well— she curates based on intuition, on what she anticipates others will feel from a particular piece. She can’t look at a Kandinsky with any less emotion than a Monet. Art, every medium it belongs to, moves Zoey with a profound intensity— the intention behind it, the history —and it’s in those emotions she feels closest to her father. To an alternate life she never had.

Six years old and gap-toothed, she would often park herself in front of her future inheritance; a collection of art so extensive it would make any collector green. But Zoey never saw it as the sum of its price tag.

The love she had for it was something innate.

Which is why I think her gallery is a representative of so much more for Zoey: a connection to the father she could never meet, concrete proof she had been able to escape her childhood. It’s symbolic. She could outgrow her past. Settle into her own interests and ambitions outside of her family, outside the trial that had consumed her life, the relationships that had been ruined by it.

The freedom in her life had always cost something.

Look what Bruce’s death had.

Which is why she has to move forward; Sonoma was the dream that propelled Zoey out of the pain of her childhood, and now it’s become everything to her.

Every cent of her money has been invested in this gallery. Partnering with the Costello’s may have been reckless, desperate, but she’s come too far to let give up now. The same strength that fuels her determination is the same thing that makes it impossible to let go.

She’s no idiot— she’s not unaware, either. Zoey is just someone who is determined to stand her ground, at the possibility of exposing herself to danger, to an uncertain future that risks bringing her face-to-face with things she once left behind.

Running away from fear isn’t in her blood, nor does she see it as an option.

WRITING SAMPLE

Provide as many IN CHARACTER samples as you like. At the very least, we expect three paragraphs written in third person. Aside from that, there are no rules. Please include anything you deem necessary.

The lock is clicked firmly on Zoey’s door. The line of her shoulders slacken. She can feel an ache in her upper arm; four red dots, the rough outline of fingers that will surely blossom into bruises the next day. She shrugs on a sweatshirt, unfolds the heavy book in her lap.

Her heart-rate slowly ticks down to normal.

The house is unnervingly silent now, and her eyes flicker down to the first open page, eager for distraction, and— oh.

Oh.

Of course it opens to this—Helen Frankenthaler. Jacob’s Ladder.

The art book had belonged to her father. Her real father, of course— not the monster that had done this to her arm — and the sight of his favorite painting makes Zoey’s eyes smart with tears, makes her throat tightens in a way it hasn’t in years.

Tears for the father she’d never gotten to meet.

They plop down onto the book with each deepening exhale, warping and wobbling the page beneath it.

This sadness for him feels fitting— but Zoey won’t give the other man her tears. She never had. She bore his anger with a set jaw, a firm determination that outstripped the usual maturity of a fifteen-year-old. He would never see her cry.

Not ever.

Letting her hand drift down the glossy pages seems to center Zoey’s mind. She clears her throat, quiet and purposeful, flips through the rest of the book with a growing calm.

There’s a peace that settles in around her, despite the situation.

She isn’t in this house anymore, with her stepfather fuming dangerously in the next room. Not entirely— Zoey is elsewhere. Standing next to saints and apostles on grassy hillsides, heads illuminated by gold leaf; lost in the reverence of the Middle Ages. She’s in a Friedrich next, peering over an imposing cliff. Southern France, Van Gogh, surrounded by yellow flowers.

It isn’t escapism as much as it’s inspiration. What had all these artists endured? What had the subjects of their paintings? Zoey sees herself reflected in these works, and there’s something fortifying about it, something that clears the mind and stokes determination. There was so much beauty, in the face of pain.

It’s only the buzz of her phone that pulls Zoey from her musings.

She reaches over with a reluctant hand, slow to answer until she sees the name flashing across the screen. Kai.

She smiles.

Patches of light in her life, patches of warmth— proof that it was not all bad, not simply storms and monsters.

She answers the phone without a trace of her leftover emotion. Kai can’t hear any lingering hurt her voice, not him; there are some thing she wants untouched by the pain at home.

Her step-father caused it, and her mother ignored it.

Zoey simply endured.

Somehow, eventually, it would be her that outlasted them all.

———-

Sunlight falls through the windows like tall patches of amber, and Zoey Everett steps into the building’s doorway, the ties of her green coat knotted loosely around her midsection.

It’s cold for this time of year.

The smile she gives the approaching man is almost sunny enough to compensate.

“Hi, Mr. Addams—we spoke on the phone earlier, I—”

“Yes. You’re Zoey?”

Crisp. Quick. To the point. She wonders why all of these artistic managers have to follow the same brusque script.

“That would be me.” A half-beat later. “I’m here about the possibility of curating few of your client’s pieces at Sonoma. Given how often the—”

“Yes.”

Another interruption, but not even to agree to her proposition; that much Zoey can tell. He’s simply cutting in to control the conversations run-time.

“I remember. You’re a representative for the own—”

This time its Zoey who cuts in with a firm, polite smile. Best to clear up any confusion now.

“I am the owner.”

There’s a weighted pause as the man considers this. It’s shock, mostly— there’s few, if any people who expect a gallery owner to look like her, and Zoey simple smiles in response, tries to re-direct the conversation as she glances at the art displayed inside the office building.

“We’re going to be exhibiting a few pieces from El Lissitzky soon…”

She walks idly along the row of oil paintings, allowing for a pause. He would’ve heard of this artist before. Zoey was proud of acquiring those, of the effort it took— Sonoma wasn’t some no-account gallery. It was smaller, and it was new. But it was going to be successful. She would give anything to ensure that it happened.

“Along with some contemporary pieces from a Chicago native. Really amazing stuff— similar use of geometric design, strong influence from 20th century typography…”

She has his attention now. There’s no script Zoey needs to follow for this—just the truth, the passion that bubbles up naturally.

“We want to be the future of Chicago’s art scene. And we’re going to be. There’s too many incredible artists in this city getting passed over for recognition because they fail to meet an incredibly specific criteria; because they’re not discovered by the same ten people who dictate where trends go.”

Zoey runs her thumb along the inside of her palm, smiles.

“Good art is good art, no matter who finds it.”

She thinks she can see a shade of agreement in the man’s eyes; his client had earned his recognition in ways that many in the art community deemed showy, too mainstream. But now he’s being lauded for it.

Mr. Addams makes a noise of vague approval. She takes it as a cue to drive this point forward.

“Your client’s work would fit perfectly with this season’s exhibit— particular his most recent pieces, the mixed-media? All that red? It would look incredible next to New Man.”

Something shifts on his face. There. That’s what she needs— even a glimmer of willingness to imagine with her. Just the smallest amount. Her voice grows warmer.

“It would be the perfect home for it. Along with all the other new pieces.”

“I want Sonoma to be a place to display some colleges student’s visual thesis alongside a Pollock. Old and new.”

“Pollock?” She can hear the skepticism in his voice, but it sounds friendlier now. Less brusque. “That would be near-impossible to acquire, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Zoey agrees, shouldering her bag with an easy smile. “But I’m going to.”

[strikecommanding]

Sweet

this is a 5k commission featuring reaper and a sweet fem reader!

also on ao3

---

“You seem to be doing well, Gabriel.”

Reaper tossed a glare over his shoulder, though most of his face was obscured by the shadow cast by his hood. Then, deciding it would be more of a headache to try to dismiss Moira rather than at least humor her, he murmured, “That’s an odd thing to say to someone you’re patching up.”

Moira let out a humorless laugh, not taking her eyes off of his pale, wispy bicep as she wrapped bandages around a large wound. Sometimes, even advanced cellular regeneration wasn’t adequate in dealing with some of the injuries he received. “The reckless things you do on a regular basis would be sure suicide for a normal person, or even a super soldier. That you’re not only alive but also barely scathed is a product of my genetic work. You’ve taken well to it. Or should I say, it’s taken well to you?”

The reminder of how he’d become this way put Reaper in a sour mood, more so than usual. Once Moira was finished, he snatched his arm back from her and tugged his gloves back on, storming out of the room without another word.

Moira was a fairly recent addition to Talon, one to whom Reaper had yet to become fully acclimated. He hadn’t seen her since before Overwatch’s fall, when she turned him into this… thing. By now, he was beyond demanding a cure from her; when confronted, she would only say that the work she did in the past was only possible due to resources she no longer had. But he never missed that subtle, sinister glint in her eyes whenever they crossed paths. She always seemed to be looking at him like he was a specimen on a tray.

In short, he didn’t trust her. She could be trusted when it came to work; she wasn’t so stupid to risk the team’s lives on the field, and with them, her own life. On a long-term basis, however, he wasn’t too keen on letting her continue to patch him up so she could leer at him the way she did.

He needed a personal medic, one whom he could count on to not bring about his own destruction. When he had off-time between missions, he found himself staking out a rundown hospital in a small, isolated town. Relative to the business it saw as the only one of its kind for miles, it was severely understaffed. Reaper vaguely entertained the idea of contributing to that problem by snatching up one of its nurses or doctors for his own purposes. Anyone would be better than Moira.

He started slow with simple observation, only ever visiting the hospital at night and slinking through the shadows to look over the workers like they were items in a catalogue. They all seemed as miserable as their surroundings, and then he got an eyeful of you.

You looked young, fresh out of medical school and straight into your first full-time job. Some luck of the draw for it to be in this shithole. As if in direct contrast to your surroundings, your face was always bright with a soft, gentle smile, one you flashed to every patient and doctor with whom you interacted. It was clear in your demeanor that you only ever wanted to help, and that perhaps you wouldn’t deflate as easily as some of your more veteran co-workers. It wouldn’t be easy to break your spirit.

That was fine. You didn’t need to be broken, just easy to control.

He would come back on subsequent nights to watch you, and he quickly learned that your passion for the job was yards ahead of your actual ability. You weren’t exactly incompetent, but it was painfully obvious that this was all new to you. Not quite ready yet to jump right away at the beck and call of every doctor who needed you, or to respond efficiently to every high pressure situation. What he first perceived in you as an unceasing sense of altruism was only a partial truth; your eagerness to please stemmed from a deep desire for praise and validation, neither of which you seemed to receive very often. If all it took was a little token of praise to get you to do his bidding, then you were one hell of an exploitable resource.

Reaper couldn’t be hasty, however. Even if he could keep you on a tight leash, you had to be proficient. The last thing he wanted was to waste his time on a medic who couldn’t even do her job. If you couldn’t prove that you’d be worth the investment, he’d just have to carry on his search elsewhere. But he was already so drawn to you both by the ease with which he could control you and some force to which he couldn’t put a name, so part of him sincerely hoped that you wouldn’t disappoint.

He didn’t have the patience to wait for trouble to come to you on its own, so he elected to take matters into his own hands. That poor fuck just outside of the hospital was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and it was all too easy for Reaper to reach out to him under the cover of night and rough him up a bit. Not enough to kill him immediately, but just enough to be fatal if someone didn’t help him quick. Once he was finished, he dumped the bastard just outside the hospital doors where you would surely see him.

That night, the hospital had even less hands on deck than usual. Newbie though you were, you were the veteran tonight, since many of your more senior co-workers had either been transferred to busier floors or simply hadn’t come in at all. You jolted when you first noticed the beaten and battered man lying just outside, and Reaper half-expected you to freeze up in your tracks. He hoped you wouldn’t.

You didn’t. Though this was your first time seeing that level of gore since you started working here, you were still trained to respond to emergencies. You hadn’t been the quickest about doing that when Reaper first began watching you, but you seemed determined to turn it all around now. You flew into action immediately by wheeling over a gurney to place the patient on and quickly transported him to the trauma bay. It was a bit difficult to follow you in there considering how few shadows there were in which to hide, but he doubted you’d even notice him with your full attention on the patient.

You were the only nurse among a number of doctors all clamoring over the patient, all of whom had their own separate duties to determine the best course of action to go about next. The pressure was truly on as you alone had to handle a job that typically belonged to a team, a team that currently wasn’t here. But maybe this was exactly the right amount of pressure you needed to flourish, as you quickly and efficiently stabilized the patient’s vitals, gathered the necessary meds, and prepped him for surgery. You went with the doctors into an operating theater, but Reaper didn’t follow you there. Instead, he remained outside, waiting patiently to find out whether or not your first high-stress emergency case would end in success.

It took just over six hours, but Reaper watched you leave the ER looking more fatigued than when you’d first walked in. You had to leap into action right from a dead night, after all. You looked tired but ultimately satisfied as you exited alongside a doctor, likely the surgeon you’d assisted, and Reaper crept in just the slightest bit to hear what the two of you were saying.

“Well that was,” the doctor sighed, “exciting. More excitement than this hospital has seen in a while.”

You smiled up at him. “You did great, Doctor. Everything went smoothly.”

He returned the gesture, and seeing the way you both looked at each other made Reaper sneer. “Give yourself some credit. If you hadn’t acted as quickly as you did, who knows if he would have even made it to the table.”

When you looked up with those starry eyes and a hint of pink dusting your cheeks, Reaper’s sneer quickly became a scowl. He knew that praise as simple as that was all it took to make you light up, but that was something he alone felt entitled to exploiting. Oblivious to it all, you simply answered, “You flatter me, sir.”

“I mean it. You did a good job in there,” the doctor insisted, and, as if to drive the point home, he rested his palm atop your head. You avoided eye contact with him, but Reaper didn’t miss the way both your smile and your blush grew deeper. “You’re good at what you do, and your talent might be wasting away in a dump like this. Have you considered requesting a transfer to our parent branch up in the city? You might be better off there.”

The mention of transferring seemed to break you out of your blushing schoolgirl daze, and the look in your eyes suggested that you were pondering his suggestion. “Really, I’m just happy to be of help anywhere…”

He smiled at you again with an added emotion to which Reaper couldn’t quite put a name, but he did know that it made him mad. “You’re sweet, but sweetness alone won’t get you far. Go home for today, and contact me if you’re at all interested in what I said.”

He left you, and you stood there alone with a pensive expression. Reaper watched that expression slowly become an endearingly goofy little grin as you went off to collect your belongings from your station, murmuring to yourself, “He called me sweet.”

Something happened, something that Reaper couldn’t quite explain, but it made his decision for him. The doctor was right: you were being wasted on a place like this. If you wanted to help out where you could, he knew of a place where you’d be of use to something far greater than a sleazy doctor who looked at you the wrong way. As he followed you out to your car in an isolated corner of the lot, Reaper had a feeling he was being influenced by something other than his desire for a personal medic. But again, it was something that was better off unnamed.

---

The feeling of your small, bound form trembling over his shoulder was impossible to ignore as Reaper carried you through Talon headquarters. It might as well have been below freezing with the way you were shaking, but he knew better than to think the temperature was the cause. You were scared stiff from being abruptly swept away by a stranger. It would be hard in the beginning, but he was sure you’d come to adjust to life with him. If not from actual comfort, then you would at least learn to settle for the sake of survival.

You sniffled instead of sobbed, likely because your tears were all dried up by now. “Who are you?”

Reaper said nothing and focused solely on bringing you to a private room. On his way, he ran into none other than his annoying pest of a teammate, Sombra. She was at the end of the hall and showed no signs of moving, and the inquisitive quirk of her brow and her lips informed him that she wouldn’t make it easy for him to get past her. When he tried to sidestep her, she just perked up and questioned, “Whatcha got there, Gabe? A pet?”

He hefted you over his shoulder, almost defensively, as Sombra circled around to get a better look at you. Your eyes were covered and your mouth gagged, leaving only your tear-drenched cheeks exposed for her prying stare. You jolted when she abruptly poked the tip of your nose with her sharply manicured finger, and she got a good laugh out of it. Shifting you again and inadvertently getting another rise out of you, Reaper murmured, “More like… an asset.”

“Oh?” The inquisitive look on her face quickly became a suggestive one, and he took that as his cue to leave. Thankfully, Sombra decided to leave him be, but he knew he hadn’t heard the last of this matter from his nosy underling. He would deal with that when he needed to; right now, he just wanted to take you somewhere secure where few people other than himself had access to.

Stepping in and locking the door behind him, he finally let you go, and you fell with a muffled cry and an unceremonious thud. But you didn’t dare move, even as he crouched over you to rid you of your blindfold and gag. Your eyes were still squeezed shut, allowing the tears to flow freely over your cheeks, red from exertion. You flinched when he suddenly raised a hand to you and lightly dragged the tips of his claw over your skin. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

You were hesitant to obey him at first, but it seemed your survival instincts won out when you felt the drag of his claws wiping tears away just beneath your eyes. The stars that practically lined your irises when you were looking up at that doctor were gone now, snuffed out by your fear at being taken by an unknown man. Now, your eyes shone only with brimming tears.

Reaper continued stroking your cheek, waiting for you to stop trembling. When you finally stilled, you were stiff, not relaxed. Regardless, he asked you, “Do you know why you’re here?”

You stared up at him like you were trying to find his eyes behind the impenetrable blackness of his mask’s sockets. When your search predictably came up empty, your cautiously looked around the room in an effort to assess your surroundings and figure out where you were. Obviously, nothing was familiar, and he could see you come to that conclusion by your dim stare. You slowly shook your head no.

The very tips of his claws stroked gently along your jawline, and he could feel your breath catch in your throat. You were starting to tremble again, so he took firm hold of your chin and angled you up to look at him. Behind his mask, he wore a crooked parody of a smile. “It’s because you’re very good at what you do.”

---

You couldn’t adjust right away. Of course, Reaper didn’t expect you to immediately take to being kidnapped by a wanted terrorist and mercenary who was more monster than man, for no reason other than to serve as his personal nurse. But he didn’t care about whether or not you wanted to do it; you just had to do it. You knew this as well, and since you wanted to survive, you did what you were told.

In exchange for your swift and efficient fixes to every minor bump or bruise he received on a mission, he treated you well. He made sure you were fed and taken care of, and you were allowed access to anything on base that would keep you entertained, barring weapons or communication devices. You were an asset, after all, not necessarily a prisoner.

Perhaps you could sense that Reaper didn’t mean you any harm, direct or indirect, as you slowly became more comfortable around him. At first, simply being in his presence would render you a spineless, voiceless shell of the person you used to be, and it was obvious that your every action was solely influenced by the will to stay alive. But after months of aiding him, of being in close quarters with him without so much as him raising a hand to you, you seemed to be able to relax. This was most obvious when you started talking to him during his post-mission visits.

Reaper blew into your room, the majority of his composition smoke rather than flesh for the sake of mobility. He grounded himself firmly in front of you as you sat on the edge of your bed, setting aside your book now that something much worthier of your attention had appeared. Already used to the routine, you went to fetch your medkit while he began undressing. He shucked his longcoat to the floor, pointedly keeping the mask on, and removed just as much clothing as was necessary for you to be able to access his wound. It was a long, deep gash that cut along both shoulder blades. The ninja, his own former underling, had literally stabbed him in the back.

He sat on the edge of the bed and felt it sink slightly beneath your weight as you crawled up behind him. Your wide-eyed stare was painfully obvious, and he didn’t even need to turn around to confirm it. Instead, he counted down in his head to when you would start speaking to him. “What happened today?”

He was just about half a second too slow. You were getting bolder everyday, talking more, and more frequently as well. “Visited some old friends.”

The chill of your damp washcloth as it dragged against his skin and soaked up all the blood was bracing, and the sting of the disinfectant that shortly followed was comparatively lesser. “What kind of friend does this?”

Turning his head this way and that, he rolled the kinks out of his neck and let out a deep sigh. The reflection of his mask was vaguely visible in the ends of his shotgun shells, abandoned on the floor. “The kind that I let down.”

You were quiet after that, and Reaper thought that might have killed the conversation for good. He didn’t tell you much about his past, and even less about his condition, but what little he did reveal to you included his involvement with a black ops division of a military organization. Downplayed, of course, so you wouldn’t come to the right conclusion that that organization was Overwatch. You spoke up again, but softer, “Did they used to work with you too?”

“...Yeah.”

It was only then that you stopped talking, like you could sense that he wasn’t willing to broach the topic any further. Though it wasn’t something he would ever openly admit to himself, he appreciated that you knew when you were allowed to probe and when you should hold back. You were considerate, even towards your own kidnapper, and it only emphasized what Reaper already knew: you were sweet. Even after all this time spent with a man as rotten as him, your big heart never eroded or decayed. Sometimes he felt guilty keeping it locked up all to himself, but he believed no one else had the right to it. But then that begged the question: what did he do to deserve the right to your kind heart, other than be the scumbag who kidnapped you? Once he found himself falling down that rabbit hole, he shut the thought out violently and tried to think of you as a medic, and nothing more.

Reaper’s thoughts were fortuitously disturbed by an outside force, which was the feeling of your delicate fingertips lightly pinching the skin of his bicep. He turned slightly, tossing you a vaguely curious look beneath his mask, but that only prompted you to pinch him harder. It didn’t hurt, but he decided to humor you. “Ow.”

You leaned back and returned your attention to the wound on his back, an odd, dry smile playing on your lips. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen a genuine smile on your face since the night he took you away. “That’s for going out and being reckless again.”

He let out a curt exhale, his version of a laugh. “It’s in my job description. Yours is to patch me up so I can go back out and do it all over again.”

“Well,” you replied, voice lilted with amusement, “if it keeps you coming back. It’s lonely when you’re not around.”

The shift in the atmosphere was distinct after you said that, like you’d revealed something you didn’t mean to. That suspicion was confirmed immediately by the soft gasp you emitted, surprised at yourself for speaking so candidly. But, since you respected Reaper’s privacy, he respected yours by not pressing you further. He simply sat in silence while you stiffly stitched him up and treated any other wounds he might have suffered. Once you were finished, you let him know with a gentle pat against the base of his neck, prompting him to stand and redress. He glanced at you while he did so, only to find that you were too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

Words failed him now, but even if they hadn’t, what was he supposed to say to that? At the same time, he felt like leaving on that note would have offered you no relief, so he had to do something. Ultimately, he defused the situation by raising a gentle hand to the top of your head. You stiffened just the slightest bit until he began smoothing your hair down, at which point you relaxed significantly. Reaper stayed with you like this for just a moment before abruptly leaving the room with plumes of smoke billowing behind him. At first, he tried to deny he’d seen it, but he spent the rest of the day thinking about the fact that being touched by him made you genuinely smile for the first time in months.

---

Of all people to run into, it had to be the fucking soldier. Morrison was undoubtedly the highest name on Reaper’s hit list, but he was the last person he’d wanted to see after he was already wounded from a prior engagement. Moira’s healing sustained him long enough to get away, but now that he was back on familiar ground, he needed a more permanent fix.

He crashed into your room without much regard for grace, as he immediately hit the ground once he made it through the door. This prompted you to scramble towards him and try to help him to his feet, which was something he could barely do in his current state. You were also asking him far too many questions about what happened, where he’d been, who’d done this, all in such rapid succession it made his head spin. So he silenced you with a very decisive fist against the wall, hard enough to leave a small crater in its wake. You jolted at first and then became deathly still when he gritted out, “Fucking fix me.”

Without so much as breathing a word, you nodded and hurried him over to the bed so he could lie down. You got your medkit together and began undressing him yourself, searching everywhere for his injuries since he was in too much pain to tell you. Reaper was riddled with bullet wounds, barring the helix rockets Morrison shot directly into his shoulder. He was lucky to have moved the right way at just the right time, or else those rockets would have been lodged in his heart.

You worked in very tense silence to fish out every individual bullet with a pair of forceps. Your hands were steady, but you couldn’t hide the sweat beading at your furrowed brows as you tried to work quickly and efficiently. By now, Reaper had no qualms giving you access to more advanced healthcare items than you’d known in the hospital, one of which was an experimental biotic field not unlike the ones Morrison carried around. You’d activated one immediately before you began working, alleviating Reaper’s pain just a bit. What he really needed you to do now was dig those rockets out of his flesh.

You seemed to know this too, as your eyes immediately fell on his large shoulder wound once you were finished cleaning up the smaller ones. The rockets weren’t huge, but they also weren’t so small that pulling them out would be as painless as pulling out a regular bullet. He could see the apology in your eyes as you gripped the base of the first rocket and swiftly pulled it out, like ripping a bandage. Reaper let out a grunt at the sensation, and he was fisting the sheets hard enough to tear them once you pulled out the second one. Thankfully, the worst was over now, and you moved in to clean the gaping holes they’d left in his shoulder. But something stopped you, and Reaper turned to see his cells already getting to work on rebuilding the flesh that was once there.

Because his body was focused on that one area, it was up to you to clean up the rest. You did so quietly, bandaging the smaller wounds and stitching up where bullets had overlapped. Reaper was feeling better already, partially due to the biotic field and largely due to your presence beside him. He watched you work from behind his mask until giving in to his impulse to look at you unobscured for the first time.

You were just finishing up the last stitch when he sat up abruptly, and he could see you getting ready to tell him to lie back down. But you were stunned into silence when he reached up and ripped off his mask, as he’d never revealed his face to you before. He didn’t give you much time to take in his features, instead choosing to pull you in for a deep, long-awaited kiss. You were stiff in his arms, like you didn’t know how to react, so he set the pace for you. He held you close and tight, most definitely staining your clothes with any blood that wasn’t completely cleaned off of his torso. That wasn’t an issue for long, as he deftly undressed you until you were wearing even less than him.

If you were at all opposed to being touched by him like this, it wasn’t evident in your body language. You were clinging to him like your life depended on it; Reaper supposed this was what happened when you were ripped from your old life with only a man like him to call your companion for several months. The way you held him made him feel like someone you genuinely cared about and not just a quick fix for your loneliness and hunger for affection, and he wanted to make that feeling last for as long as he possibly could.

When Reaper pulled his lips away from yours, you tried to follow him, like you still hadn’t had enough of him. Instead, he kissed down your jaw, your pulse line, and then square between your breasts, licking and sucking hard enough to leave angry red marks in his wake. Still clothed from the waist down, he thrust upward and ground his clothed crotch against your pussy. Your heat was apparent even through the fabric, and he began undoing his belt in a hurry. Then you intervened with a gentle hand against his, murmuring, “You’re hurt. Just sit back, and let me handle everything.”

Reaper was too full of impulses and adrenaline to sit back as you’d instructed, but he wanted to see you take charge. He watched you pull his hard, leaking cock from his pants and begin rubbing yourself up against him, and you were already so wet that you hardly needed any prep. You sat yourself down on him and took him in in one go, hardly needing a pause to become acclimated. It was a testament to just how touch-starved you’d been, and Reaper tried to make up for that lost time by thrusting up as harshly as you’d let him. “Good girl.”

You just whined in reply and rode him harder as your hands awkwardly tried to find purchase on a spot on his torso that wasn’t covered in bandages or stitches. In the meantime, he grabbed your waist and pulled you harder and tighter against him, wanting you to be able to feel the passion for you that he’d kept bottled up all this time. Even this position was stifling, as he felt it didn’t allow him to fully express just how badly he wanted you, how badly he needed you.

So, despite your wishes for him to remain passive, he flipped your positions so that you were lying on your back and he was the one on top. One hand held your waist down for him while the other was on your neck, tracing the bites he’d already left and idly squeezing every once in a while. It was never enough to hurt you, but it took your breath away and made you tighten around him. You made him feel alive, and it made him want to rough you up just a bit more than you could take. “Fuck! That’s it, good girl, sweet fucking girl-”

Reaper interrupted himself by leaning down and claiming your lips once again, nipping at you more than actually kissing you. But you didn’t complain, instead reaching behind him to drag your nails down the uninjured portions of his back. This spurred him on and encouraged him to continue biting and marking your skin, specifically around your chest and neck. Only when he moved in to kiss your throat did he realize he was still gripping it tight enough to leave one big hand-shaped bruise. The sight of his marks littering your otherwise unmarred skin was just enough to bring him over the edge, and he pulled out to release on your stomach and heaving chest.

Once the high of his climax faded, he was left with the dull, thudding ache of overexertion that struck him just about everywhere. You must have sensed what he was feeling, as you scooted over just enough to give him room to lie down. He took your offer, but only after reaching into your medkit for a clean rag to wipe off your torso. Then, once he settled next to you, his uninjured hand reached between your legs and made sure you finished too.

You gasped, as if you weren’t expecting him to tend to your needs too, and he felt sufficiently insulted to make sure you experienced the best orgasm you’d ever had. His ring and middle fingers sank in deep and stroked your walls while his thumb deftly and persistently flicked over your swollen clit. The motion easily turned you to putty in his hand, and you turned to curl up against him while keeping your legs wide open. In moving, you’d exposed to him a bit of flesh on your shoulder that had yet to be touched, and he couldn’t resist moving in to leave a soft bite.

That seemed to boost you forward towards that steadily building peak, and you came with a sharp cry and your fist in his hair. You trembled against him as the last waves of euphoria ebbed away, allowing you to finally fall limp in his arms. Even after lying down, Reaper’s heart was still racing, and he suspected that was a product of just having you like this after months of denying everything he felt for you. He brushed your hair out of your eyes and you looked up at him with those starry eyes that made his heart skip a beat. “...Sorry for the marks.”

You closed your eyes and shook your head, that familiar bashful blush spilling all over your cheeks. “I don’t mind. Something to remember you by while you’re gone.”

Hearing you say that made Reaper truly recognize the value you had beyond being a medic, and his grip on you became tighter because of it. “I’m not leaving for a while.”

[shrapped]

The year of inbetweens

Today marks the day of one year being with me and only me. Don't be mislead. I'm not saying I locked myself in a cabin and didn't see a single soul for a year. It was another kind of commitment.

On the 20th april of 2018 I broke up with my last boyfriend, who was my second big love. Like the kind of person you picture yourself growing old with. The kind of person that makes you seriously consider kids as a 20yr old. The kind of person you get crazy about.

It wasn't that I didn't love him. It was that I wanted to love me first. He couldn't meet needs I felt pressing to have met. I did what I had to do, but trust me it wasn't easy.

We were sitting on a bench in a park and after he cried, after he screamed, after he cursed me, after he left, I just kept on sitting there. For half an hour I couldn't move. I sat in tears, knowing I did the right thing, but it felt so wrong. How could I let go the guy who felt like the love of my life?

I wanted to do all the bad things. I wanted to smoke a cigarette, numb my feelings. Wanted to drink or hook up with some random dude. I wanted to really hurt myself. But how could I? How could I hurt myself after doing the hardest thing just to do right by me. That would've made me a cheat.

One week later I ended up talking to an acquaintance about the breakup, relationships in general and the ways we run from things. And that night I made a commitment to myself: To stay single for a year, no matter what. To come back to myself, and to stay there, no matter what's pulling me.

I remember well how my therapist reacted. She didn't take me serious. She asked what would happen if I met someone? Wouldn't it be stupid to force it? I got really mad at her.

This decision felt a hundred percent like my truth. It came from a place within me that's wise, that knows my truth, even before I do.

I on the other hand was feeling so excited. I thought this was awesome and just what I needed, and just about this year anyway, and very bearable. But really, man, I didn't know what I was getting myself into. And I keep thinking now that that's a good thing, because if I had, it may would have scared me off. And man, would I have missed out.

In hindsight, I'm calling it the year of inbetweens. I'm really feeling that word. Inbetween.

I was letting go of old stuff, drugs, people, behaviours, just everything that wasn't of any use to my new, self-loving me. But I did not yet have anything new to fill up these spaces. And there still are lot of spaces to fill. New ways to pick up. I'm inbetween, and it's a very scary place to be in, but I wouldn't wanna miss it for the world.

Saying Yes to Yourself means saying No to Others

I was a person who'd always put themselves at the end of the row. And trust me, it was a long row. My Mom, my Dad, friends, aquaintances, colleagues, even strangers on the street. I was always in a hurry to please them. I got lost somewhere along the way.

Before learning to say yes to things, to adventure and being spontaneous, I had to learn to say No.

No to doing what they wanted instead of what I felt like, no to friends of friends when they are not my people. No to parties and no to drugs.

Trust me, it wasn't easy. In the beginning while it may have felt a tad better than ignoring my authentic self, sitting home alone on a Friday night felt wrong. Like I was missing out on something. But was I, if what I was missing out wasn't what I wanted in the first place? No!

Like all the areas, change came slowly. As I started to feel better with going with my gut when it came to my need, I started to change the way I arrange my life.

I stopped arranging my life around other peoples wants and needs, and their lifestyle. Instead I started asking, and learning, and sometimes failing my own wants and needs. And whatever didn't fit anymore was tossed out. I may sound like a bit of a dickhead now. And you know what? I was. Still kinda am, though the worst is over.

I'm sorry for every time someone got to feel consequences for something they didn't cause. But to me it was natural.

I'm a hundred percent certain if you want to get in balance and have been living one side of the story, you need to live the other one in the same extent. It may just look a little crazy if you compress in a few months what happened over years on the other side.

I spent years, actually, my whole childhood putting myself last. So now I come first. End of the story.

Don't wait for meaning, create meaning

We, as humans, often look for meaning. In life, but also in the small things. If what happened to us makes sense in a bigger picture, if we can shift our perspective, something bad may not be just bad anymore.

I know there are people out there who went through much more struggles than me, but I also wouldn't say it was all easy.

I think one of the key lessons from my last year was when I turned towards sobriety. First I stopped drinking alcohol – by choice. Then I was forced to quit smoking weed too. The last couple months I've been having my fights with the plain old cigarettes. So slowly turning my back on drugs alltogether.

There was a reason I couldn't start stopping earlier. A family member of mine is an alcoholic, and only when I severed all contact with them, that I could start working on my relationship with alcohol. Everything else was just Domino effect.

I'm not happy about the rough patches in my life. I wouldn't wish tragedy on anyone. But I am thankful for the lessons. In hindsight, everything fits into the bigger picture. As soon as I realized that, I startet creating my meaning as I went along. I didn't wait for the Aha-Moment, I created it.

Asking myself:

What can I learn from this?

How is this helping me grow?

Healing is about love a lot. But it seems, healing is a lot about responsibility too. The moment you start taking back responsibility for your own happiness instead of letting it depend on other people and outer circumstances is the moment you will start to heal. I'm not saying you're gonna be magically alright and nothing bad will ever happen again. What I'm saying is you'll be fine with not yet being alright, or not being alright all the time. You'll grow so strong and confident when you realize how much power you really hold, that when a bad thing comes along it might make you struggle , it might even knock you down, but it will not knock you out.

You can think of creating meaning as a time travel – when it's too difficult experiencing the here and now, you can travel to your future self, a few years from that moment, and see how you did benefit from it after all.

Be your own kind of brave

Learning to say No, for me, started with still saying Yes, but then saying No somewhere in the middle. It started with saying maybe to gain some time. And to use that time to realize that I should've said No. It started with more fuck ups, than successes.

Here's a little story about a time I messed up quite badly:

A friend asked me to join him on a holiday. I agreed to accompany him to a trip to Italy, visiting a Rainbow Gathering. (Rainbow Gatherings are not festivals. They're intentional gatherings of all kinds of people who come together for a month somewhere in nature to cook together, sing around the fires, make workshops, share experiences and generally come together as 'a family'.)

We wanted to take a flight there, but the flight was cancelled. We both decided to hitchhike our way down to Italy. But boy, I really didn't know what I was getting myself into.

Being 2 months in on this journey of self-discovery my mind was already overflowing with information to proccess, and these days of hitchhiking were no better. Being constantly surrounded by the noise of the highway, lacking sleep, lacking structure or security in any kind of way. I was worn out after one day already, to be honest.

We were still in Germany, in a touristy town by a lake. The weather was beautiful, there was a fleamarket and the summer breeze rounded it all up. What an evening to be crying. Yet that's exactly what I was doing. I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to run away so badly, be safe, go home.

I knew I couldn't keep it up, I told my friend I couldn't do the rest of the trip with him. Boy, was he upset. And of course he was. That was just anything but cool. He told me I was just being a coward.

But I knew, that I was just being my own kind of brave.

It's a process

You know, it's a funny thing. I started playing guitar a few months ago. And it's working, without a proper teacher or anything. Okay, that's not funny. But here's something that is:

This is not the first time I'm trying to learn the guitar. I did so 5 years ago, and even with a teacher.

I just didn't have the right mindset. I was the all or nothing kind of person. Way too perfectionist to ever get anything done. I picked up the guitar, tried and failed. It didn't sound like those great musicians I admired. So obviously I just didn't have it in me. Practice was tiring and success so slim it didn't seem promising.

So what was different this time?

I started slow. I started with a Ukulele which is a way more thankful instrument than guitar could ever be. You get easy success and a feeling for string instruments and strumming. Everything else came naturally. I got bored, I wanted more variety, more possibility.

I didn't fear failure. When making a mistake stopped meaning that I am a mistake, it was okay. It maybe wasn't fun, but it was endurable.

I could cherish the small silver lining, instead of waiting for the big fireworks. Every success, no matter how little, I could appreciate as making some kind of progress. And everything else is just perseverence. And trust me, stubborn I am.

I'm still working very much to stay in that perspective, but it got me way further than being perfectionist ever has.

So be gentle with yourself. Be kind in your words, as you would be with your friends. Let yourself make the mistakes you are learning from. Give yourself the space you need, and fill it with whatever is there. Whether it be laughter, or tears, or screams, or running from things, or letting go completely. Fill it. Let yourself be empty, let yourself be overflowing. Let yourself be.

[itkeepsgettingworsethings-blog]

Oh god everything sucks

Jesus fucking Christ. It’s been a downhill slope ever since getting to my college and I don’t even know what to do at this point. So many bad things have happened to me that it’s simply unbelievable. 

I started off with a shitty-ass roommate who decided it was his business to get into MY business--he criticized how long I washed my hands, insisted I was responsible for creating a “smell” in the room despite the fact that none of my friends or I could smell it, refused to stop setting unnecessary alarms early in the morning until I brought in the RA, left pubic hair all over the toilet, and peed all over the floor and then denied it. He gave me a sense of paranoia that I still carry with me; my new roommate has been chill af, but I still worry I upset the new roommate with tiny, unimportant mistakes even though they don’t matter. 

I recently found out that I have a combination of cubital tunnel syndrome and wrist tendonitis (specifically De Quervain's tenosynovitis) after months of trying to figure out exactly what I had. This has been a bit of a problem, since I am currently a viola major. Backstory: In late November, I found nerves in my wrists twitching after a particularly long piano session, leading me to drop viola and piano for over two months. Since I was set on doing music, I was constantly stressed and worried. I have, up to this date, had 6 doctor’s appointments to try to fix me. I feel the cubital tunnel is slowly getting a litttttle better, but my wrists still are not good. In fact, the bases of my thumbs have started hurting. Not looking great.

My viola playing, which had begun to suddenly deteriorate over the summer, has just spiraled downward. I used to be able to play difficult concertos relatively easily, but now I literally (and I mean that word fully) struggle to play an easy Bach Cello Suite movement. I tried to improve the way I played, but instead I made myself unable to play. I literally am going to switch majors to Economics because I can’t play anymore. I’ve never told anyone--not my girlfriend, not my best friend, not my parents--but the only reason, pretty much, that I’m quitting is because I can’t play for SHIT. If I could suddenly play again, I’d gladly keep up classical music. I’ve made up excuses to the aforementioned people because the truth just sounds so absurd, but it’s the truth. I still enjoy classical music, and I wouldn’t really want to give it up normally. If any of y’all out there still think there’s hope for me to change the way I play, you can lose that hope--two months without playing, and my bad habits are still getting in the way of my playing? They’ll never go away.

I also started off this semester with shitty-ass grades. Last semester was a breeze; I was a committed music student and classes were easy as pie. My calculus class (my only really difficult class other than theory) was a breeze because I had an easy professor. Now, I’ve started off with two C’s in calculus and a B+ in Econ. Fucking great.

Finally, for the first time in my life, I got a girlfriend. I’m not trying to throw her under the bus or anything, but handling a relationship is fucking stressful as fuck. Not only do you have to worry about your problems--you have to worry about someone else’s as well? It’s a responsibility--one that, in my current mental and physical state, I am ill-equipped to handle, especially considering the fact that I have never done anything like this before. At least my girlfriend is a great person to be around and she seems to like me, which feels nice. But we suddenly had our first roadblock (not even really an argument, but I’m worried that I unintentionally hurt her), which will be discussed below.

And today. Holy fucking shit I’m typing this at 3 AM. I normally associate Fridays with positivity--I don’t do much work outside my classes, I go out to dinner with friends, I hang out late into the night, I watch a movie, etc. etc. Today, everything just went completely to shit. This guy--let’s call him “Diego”--came with us to dinner, and he just fucked everything up. 

Diego and I have been pretty good friends for a while. We met in the same calculus class, and he was one of my first real friends here. We’d often get breakfast together and hang out with other friends on weekend nights. He didn’t seem to be a very emotional kinda guy, and I got the sense that he didn’t really give much of a shit about other people, but that was ok with me. He’s got a weird but good sense of humor, and is reaaaally smart. He’s also the same major as me and hangs out with the same friend group as me, which makes him the ideal friend to have on my side. We’ve actually been working with a group of friends to form some kind of business club at our college, and I was also planning to room with him and a couple other friends next year.

Then today, Diego and my girlfriend are messing around. My gf jokingly says, “Punch me. You won’t, bitch!” AND THEN HE ACTUALLY FUCKING PUNCHES HER. HARD. I was shocked. I knew Diego wasn’t a very empathetic person at all, but I didn’t think he’d go that far. My gf was understandably VERY pissed, and exploded at dinner, telling him to apologize. He didn’t. (I have a theory about that; more about that down below). My gf was understandably even MORE pissed, and we spent one hour starting from 2 AM just talking about it. It didn’t help that another personal issue in her life was going on that she found out about that same day, so she was having a really bad time.

So, my theory on why Diego did that? Here it is: he’s a fucking asshole piece of shit. My best friend (we’ll call him Steve) is a little closer to Diego, and so Steve tried to justify his behavior, saying that Diego wasn’t usually like this and that Diego was normally a really nice guy. However, I personally know Diego quite well as well, and as far as I can tell, Diego didn’t seem off his game at all; plus, when Steve and me messaged Diego later asking if Diego was going through a rough patch, Diego claimed he was “fine.” Diego constantly insults and roasts other people, and I really honestly don’t agree with Steve on this one. However, the problem is I can’t disassociate myself from Diego. He’s a central part of my friend group, first of all. Second of all, he’s a smart guy who wants to live abroad after college, so he’s bound to be successful and influential later on; I’m going to probably run into him later on. Finally, I reallyyyy want to create that organization with him, especially now that I’m leaving my school’s music program. My gf was hurt that I still didn’t want to ditch him completely, but what the hell can I do? I didn’t give her my reasons either, which probably looked hella sketchy, but I’m pretty sure my reasons wouldn’t convince her at all.

Man everything is so bad right now. I just need some sleep, but I don’t think I’ll be able to, despite how tired I am. Fucking Christ.

[nebula-starlight]

Virus (Part 3 - Choices Made)

Hi there...

I know it’s been a while since we last talked but I’m-

“No, that won’t work!”

Tossing the unusable letter into the air with a swat of his paw, Geer spat out a tiny spark of electricity, frying the paper into a pile of ashes before he rested his forehead against the counter in his kitchen. A frustrated sigh left him as he closed his yellow eyes wearily. Why did he think writing an apology to Narssia for his lack of communication would help any when the last thing he received from her had been a refusal to advance their friendship past where it was months ago. It never would have worked out anyway with her being busy so often.

It had been nearly a week since his episode in the library and he’d requested some time off from his work to figure out what was going on. His supervisor had been more than happy to grant it, especially since he never usually asked off to begin with, but now the loneliness had kicked in. The one bedroom house he rented only had so much within its walls and Melvise was busy at the clinic so he couldn’t bother her. Still there had to be something he could do! 

Lifting his head from the shaped, speckled marble of the countertop he glared down in disgust at the small diamond-like patch of scales that stood out along the top of his breastbone. It didn’t act like any fungus would or even itch but just sat there, beckoning to the world as though it was a sign...

He gasped, stumbling back as he suddenly remembered what he’d read in the old tome about how a fallen or Shadowling would mark its chosen. What else had the book said? Something about a mental connection forming? But he hadn’t experienced anything of the-

No, he had. The event in the library. It had been his only warning that he was marked. Why then hadn’t he seen Nether since? If the spirit was supposed to seek out its host then what was the delay? Sure he was starting to have nightmares every so often but he was used to them anyway from years of blaming his lack of wings on why he was abandoned before hatching. Some might say he even drowned in secret guilt but he tried to never let it show, always wearing his specially made cloak when he was outside. Now in his own home, however, he felt fine to move around unhindered by fabric, only pulling the shades on his windows shut to deter any passerby’s snide comments. He didn’t even live in a busy part of the city but a fair share of dragons took the road he was on to get to the market square located in the dead center of town.

Deciding he wasn’t going to get the letter written just standing there in his kitchen, he sighed and headed out into the connecting den with his head barely higher than his chest in shame. Why wasn’t he a good friend? Sure he thought he wanted more from Narssia but even still, reading her last letter hurt just as much as it had on the day he’d gotten it. That rejection was just another blow to his already fragile heart. How much more could he take at this point!

Throwing himself on the ugly tan couch he obtained shortly after he moved in, Geer curled up on the worn fabric and yawned. He hadn’t really noticed how tired he was but laying there with the late afternoon sun on his back through the drawn shades seemed to be the push he needed to nod off for a quick nap.

The ground was covered in mist when he opened his eyes, looking around in confusion as the sight no longer resembled where he fell asleep. Where was he? Curious, Geer got to his feet and started to walk, hissing slightly as the raised pattern of scales suddenly begun to burn.

“I-Is anyone out there?”

‘So you finally heard mine call?’

He froze mid-step, eyes going wide as the voice echoed across the vast empty expanse. The deep rumble was all too familiar, baring a trace of an accent that registered in his mind as German. It couldn’t be! Sure he hadn’t seen the spirit since accidentally setting it free but how in the nine realms had it been the one to find him?!

“Net- Nether, how?” He stumbled forward, falling onto his belly as he scratched uselessly at the rough, uneven ground. “How did you find me? Why am I even your chosen?” Tears sprung to his eyes, all of the emotions he had been suppressing for the past week surging to the surface all of a sudden. “I’m not special. Not even whole by the standards of my peers... Why waste your time on an outcast like myself?”

‘You are mistaken. Why wouldn’t I choose someone like myself? Look at me, Geer...’

Gentle, nearly invisible pressure against his jaw only made the flightless drake start to sob, his heartbreaking cries echoing through the desolate space. He thought he heard the spirit sigh but wasn’t sure, shaking his head in denial. They were nothing alike! Nether was strong and fearless while he... While he was a complete coward who hid behind useless trivia and tried to overlook the stigma society placed upon him for his disability.

‘Nein, mine friend... If you won’t look up then listen at least. You wonder why I waited, why I did not go to you after realizing what had occurred? The implant, it...’ Nether paused to sigh once more, Geer’s sobbing finally starting to subside as the mist flickering around him slid over his scarred back. ‘I won’t lie. The adjustment period - if you wish to call it such - wasn’t pleasant. Having mine language snatched from me as the poison continued to... Well let’s say there were several mood shifts over the last few days. Only now did I feel composed enough to visit you.’

“Why though? What can I offer that you don’t already have?”

Two softly glowing crimson orbs met his gaze as Geer looked up from where he lay on the ground. He blinked, sniffling as the mere presence of the fallen spirit brought him a sense of comfort he realized he had lacked for far too long. For years he had built up this emotional wall of stress, shoving every disappointment and criticism behind to the point where he’d isolated himself away from those that had only been trying to help. Anger was all he had carried in his heart. Bitterness over his abandonment driving the biggest wedge in his friendship with Narssia. No wonder she rejected him and went silent...

‘Do not blame yourself for the female’s actions. She is as much to blame for what happened, if not more.’ Nether’s low voice washed over him, the truth difficult for Geer to believe but necessary if he was to accept his part of the blame. ‘Now then, you asked a question earlier and wanted to know what I gain out of this. Why I chose someone who only sees what the world expects? And yet, in doing so, never embraces the unique position their differences brings.’

The spirit advanced, his familiar bat-like shape now visible against the mist as his eyes shone like welcoming beckons in the midst of a terrible storm. ‘I suppose an explanation is needed for mine words. Call it a defect if you wish but I am, to an extent, a highly susceptible empath. Each emotion of those around I feel and were it not for my dangerous abilities I would have lost myself long ago. The fact I still have sanity is a testament to years of study... and then being Sol’s most successful interrogator. Fear is something many wield as a weapon but forget it can also be used for good.’

“But how?” Geer asked, crawling closer to the only being he could properly consider as an emotional lifeline in his current situation. “All those taunts and quips over the years about my back... Not to mention the cloak that they try to rip from around my neck. Explain why that can be anything more than the cruelty of dragon nature!”

‘You give credit too quickly, Geer. Mine words are not an end all however much you may wish. I speak only from my own experience, plus what little I have gleaned from your mind already. Wars start in the heart after all...’

“Sure they do,” he hissed back, digging one paw into the ground under him for stability as he started to rise, voice slowly rising into a frustrated scream. “And parents cast aside an imperfect child because they don’t want to be seen as anything less than ideal members of the storm!”

‘Are you surprised really?’ Nether questioned, his form flickering slightly. ‘Society shapes what the perfect representation looks like and all those who obey react in kind. The old, sickly and deformed are forgotten in favor of having the grand image be of an unbreakable nation. Time and time again this is the case and never will change unless action is taken by all.’ He ventured closer, wisps of faint magenta visible along the edges of his wings.

“Just come out and say it! Why am I so special to you?” Geer screeched, screaming the question as the emotionless slitted irises watching him finally narrowed in what he knew was anger.

The fallen spirit growled, trails of crimson light flickering from his eyes as the surrounding mist turned black. ‘Because you offer a light to mine darkness. A counterbalance if you will. I ask not for an answer immediate but consider what I suggest. I’ll give you a few days to decide what you want but keep in mind that I can erase all the shame. You could be airborne within a month should you choose...’

Geer hesitated, uncertainties running rampant through his mind. Would he still be himself then if he accepted the role before him? It seemed so tempting but was it the right thing to do? Had he missed something while reading that tome?

And more importantly was there a way he didn’t have to become Nether’s host?

He flinched suddenly, shaking his head as he tried to ignore the low buzzing that had crept into his thoughts roughly about the same time he’d seen the mist turn black. Looking closer he could almost see sparks of green flickering through it, curiosity prompting him to reach out with a paw.

‘Oh, are you going to ignore me now? Well then... LEAVE!’

Geer woke with a start, falling off the couch as he tried to calm his racing heart. So he was Nether’s chosen then. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t just go out and search for the...

Wait, where was that staticky noise coming from? He lifted his head, glancing up at the kitchen to see the faint, glitchy shape of a pixelated cloud flickering overtop of the paper he’d left. That’s right, he had been trying to write a letter before he fell asleep.

Intrigued, he got to his feet and followed the noise to its source. As he had seen earlier, it was indeed a glitchy black and green cloud... one that seemed to recognize his presence despite the fact that he’d never seen it before in his life.

“Uhh... hi there.” He was used to seeing somewhat odd things in the past but the fact that the staticky hum only grew louder should have been his signal to leave right away.

Key word being should because he didn’t, watching as it slithered around his forepaws before moving up to his shoulders. There was this entrancement to the way it moved, glitchy but still extremely fluid as it briefly vanished from his sight. Turning his head to keep up with the progress, he suddenly heard a multitude of low, overlapping whispers all crying out for attention.

Help... Pain... Make it stop!

“Hold on! What are you? I know I heard talk of a glitch showing up but...”

The corrupt figment curled around his neck, specifically avoiding the mark announcing he was chosen, while its influence set his scales aflame. He coughed, stepping back to try and breathe as the whispers grew louder, more demanding. Something was very much wrong but he was in far too deep now to turn back!

He tried to lift a paw, only to find he couldn’t actually move the limb as the glitch coiled tighter around Geer’s neck. Black spots danced across his vision, limbs shaking as the lack of oxygen was starting to pull him down. This couldn’t be how he was going to die!

‘Either get moving or I will drag you out of this house by your tail. That warning wasn’t just meant to be ignored, Geer. She’s not known for her patience I’m afraid. Better start walking before you drown in the static.’

He... He couldn’t see. All he could hear was the noise, the constant, oppressive hum that snuffed out any trace of Nether’s warning. Become her vessel it seemed to suggest as the constriction around his throat eased gradually. Just accept her inside long enough to write one simple letter...

Geer’s eyes opened, the normally yellow irises glazed over with a layer of green as the glitch lifted one of his paws and dipped a clawtip in a small bottle of ink he had set out beside the paper. With long, curving strokes the possessed drake wrote, eyes staring blankly at the paper as images of blood-splattered snow and blinding fiery beckons flashed through his mind too quickly to decipher.

Draw attention... Get vessel... Seek-

‘What the hell are you doing?’

The kitchen exploded into shadows, a single shape rising up from the ground with a distinct bone-chilling hiss that seemed to finally break through to Geer. He jerked back, blinking fiercely as Nether glared down at him in disappointment, breathing heavily.

‘Idiot. Did you conveniently ignore every single warning I gave you?’ His gaze turned towards the glitch who remained curled loosely around Geer’s neck and hissed, anger causing his voice to fluctuate between two different registers. ‘Why do I even bother? You won’t listen anyway to a word I say. And you, parasite, I’d get lost if you wish to remain in any visible state. Let me catch you anywhere near him again and...’

“Nether, I...”

The fallen spirit barely acknowledged him as Geer’s attempt at speaking dissolved into a coughing fit, focus instead intently resting on the still unmoving intruder. ‘One moment... Perhaps I was not clear, pest. Your presence is not wanted. Get lost!’

The glitch finally took the hint and vanished in a burst of green sparks, leaving the kitchen noticeably quieter than before and also missing one piece of paper. Geer, however, was still desperate to speak and explain himself.

“Let me talk...” His breath hitched, stumbling forward until he was almost touching the ethereal. “I think I... Um, would it be possible to give me a few days? I’d need to say goodbye to Melvise and...”

‘I wouldn’t worry about her.’ The emotionless remark bothered Geer, head tilting to the side in confusion as he started to scratch at the mark but thought better of it. ‘Now that the glitch knows she’s important to you and the other dragoness as well... Although I suspect we led it straight to that discovery.’ Nether huffed, twisting around the silent drake. ‘Enemies will come after you now once they know we are familiar with each other. I will grant your request but do remember this delay only makes it more likely someone will find out...’

“Thank you,” Geer breathed, flinching slightly as the spirit faded away to leave the kitchen empty.

‘Nein, mine Chosen. The battle has only begun.’

The knock on her front door startled the slumbering dragoness who stumbled to her feet and forced herself to answer the frantic pounding. It must be urgent to wake her in the middle of the night.

“Alright! Shut up, I’m coming. Sheesh, don’t they know it’s the dead of night.”

Grabbing the door handle, she jerked it open towards her to see a small little patchwork wyvern who squeaked excitedly at the sight of her. Rolling her topaz eyes in annoyance, she noticed the envelope hanging in its tiny, glitching claws.

“Got a letter for me?” She asked, still holding the door handle with one paw while the other lay flat against the wall beside her, balancing on her back legs and tail.

The stunted messenger chirped in agreement, flapping closer to her to release the white package. Catching it with a quick swipe of the paw that had formerly been against the wall, she thanked the tiny beast with a curt nod before shutting the door in its face and returning to her bedroom.

It was the middle of the night and yet someone cared not for her sleep schedule apparently. Lighting a lamp beside her bed with a huff of smoky black energy, she read over the writing on the envelop first - not recognizing the slightly slanted clawscript which had written her name. How odd.

Opening it and pulling out the letter within, her eyes scanned over the near identical wording inside. Geer hadn’t written her back after she sent him what could only be described as a drunken rant as she spilled her emotions out over the page. How could she open herself up to him after what had happened in her last relationship? She barely got away from that drake with her life intact! Running away from all she’d known to save herself from certain death. It wouldn’t be right to drag such a sweet, naive soul into that mayhem. She fervently hoped he had understood and hadn’t taken her words at face value...

Narssia,

It has been some time since we spoke last and I apologize severely for the silence. I know this is sudden but would you like to meet up during the upcoming dry season? Surely work won’t be killing you then I hope.

I look forward to your reply,

Geer 

She frowned, opening the drawer on her nightstand and pulling out another letter he had sent not long after they first started talking about four months ago. The dry season was about three months away if her sleep-deprived brain calculated correctly. Still had plenty of time to respond on whether she would like to meet or not. 

Smoothing out the slightly crumpled paper, her eyes widened as the difference in the script became clear. Whoever had written the one she just received was using an old style similar to that of the first few dragons. It was deliberately crafted, suggesting to her there was more meaning than just what her eyes saw.

Where she had been tired, and slightly irritate before receiving the note, now she was wide awake and practically buzzing with energy. Or was it the lamp that was humming? That was strange. She thought she fixed it weeks ago.

Sighing deeply, she reached out to disperse the magic... only to get shocked as a result. Stepping back, Narssia snorted in surprise, wondering if she had fallen asleep again given how odd her simple lantern was behaving. It wasn’t too odd for her to just pass out at night after staying up for hours fearing vivid nightmares of the past. She was lucky she could even handle her wildly fluctuating emotions sometimes with all the damage that monster did to her.

Even stranger was the fact that she had been sleeping rather well before the letter came. Of course she had to get enough rest to perform her job as a healer at the local clinic in her small mountainous town. Helping dragons get better brought her the biggest joy... one that was able to mask the terror that haunted her dreams.

‘Sleep...’

The word pressed upon her mind, drowsiness suddenly overwhelmingly strong. Could she at least make it back into bed first? She turned, only to collapse as the low buzz of static grew louder before it was joined by a glitchy, pixelated cloud which seemed to be the origin of the sound.

‘Promising...’ The distorted mist swirled around Narssia’s body, crackling green sparks hitting the she-dragon’s black scales. ‘Tempting even...’

Without another word it seeped into her body, causing the limp dragoness to jerk wildly. Smears of green streaked over her black scales, marking several locations along her forelegs and back before trailing up her neck where a rippling diagonal slash was formed across her throat. She continued to trash around for several more seconds before falling still, the dead of the night once again consuming all within its wake.

The glitch had made its decision... and it only had the idiotic flightless one to thank. Things would be fun now since it had a chance to ruin two lives instead of just one.

A choice has been made, now she must pay...

The glitch is here, there’s nothing to fear... except the darkest corners of a mind burdened by repressed guilt and shame 

[tripletigersashay]

The Tale of Two Chiefs - Ch 5

Does the plot seem to be moving too slowly for your tastes?

Word Count: 3148

“And you never thought to tell me any of this because?” you trailed off, waiting for Dagur to finish the thought for you. The shrug you got in return was not what you were looking for. You were patient as Dagur told you his side of the story, but his dancing around your questions was wearing that patience thin.

“I’ll admit I don’t know as much about the Blessed Isles as I should, considering… you know,” he said. “I didn’t know if you guys were dragon-friendly, that’s all. I swear that I didn’t hide Sleuther to use him against you.”

“Sleuther? Him? You keep that dragon as your pet?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. You and the Harvesters were no dragon hunters, but to keep them? It was unheard of. Dagur’s mouth set itself into a hard line.

“Sleuther is not a pet,” he said, nearly growling. “He’s a companion. A friend.” You let out a breath and it sounded like a scoff.

You shook your head. “I can’t do this right now,” you said before standing from your seat and walking out of the house. You needed air.

“So that’s how you’re going to handle this? By running away? What happened to working out our problems, Y/N? Where is the fierce chief of the Harvester Tribe?” he called after you. You grit your teeth so hard as you walked out that they started to hurt.

Any greeting that was to be given to you for the rest of that day stuck in the throat of its giver at the sight of your stormy expression as you stalked through the village. You were grateful for the opportunity to sort your thoughts out on your own.

Your trek took you all the way back to where you’d first learned about Dagur’s dragon, at the northernmost shore of the island. You looked around to get a better idea of the state your watchtowers were in. They were in worse shape than you remembered. The towers themselves were in a fair state, but the new shields you’d had built didn’t hold up nearly as well as you hoped they would. Most of them had been burned beyond repair and there were patches of burnt grass not too far off, a few clumps of black pitch still burning. You wondered what happened after you lost consciousness, but judging from the look of things, it was best not to bring it up. You tightened your shoes around your feet and set to work with the few who were still there to clean up the rest of the damage.

You tore the shields and their fastenings off the cliff face in silence. You got a few concerned stares when you threw the scraps onto the trash heap with more force than necessary, but no one asked any questions. That was just fine with you. You needed the space to sort yourself out.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. Dagur had a dragon, and he rode it. The people and the dragons on your island had an unspoken agreement to leave each other be. You didn’t bother them and stayed away from the nesting grounds during the breeding season, and they avoided your farms and fishing points. To mix the two groups was… you weren’t sure what word you would use to describe it. All you knew was that you couldn’t handle it right now. You still weren’t completely used to your marriage and with all the work that needed to be done to repair your northern lookouts, you couldn’t allow this whole mess with dragons to be added to the pile.

Oh, how the village women would laugh. You thought back to the feast on your wedding night, and how easily you could banter with your husband. You weren’t sure if it was the drink, or the nerves, or the fact that you knew nothing about each other, or maybe even some strange combination of the three, but you had never been able to recreate that easiness between you. Things were so much simpler back then that you almost couldn’t believe that it hadn’t even been a full month since that day.

You wanted to tell Dagur that you actually weren’t upset, that you were open to the idea of making friends with the dragons, but you weren’t sure if you truly were. You wanted to say that you were thinking of your people and how they would react to the sudden change, but you knew deep down that wasn’t true. The truth was that you were scared, and unsure of how to admit it to anyone, even to yourself or your husband. You sighed to yourself, wondering-- not for the first time-- if you deserved your name of Fierce.

You only looked away from your work when a familiar set of hands took the splintered wood from your hold and tossed it onto the pile before stopping you from going back for more. Dagur nodded off to the woods and started walking. You followed without a word. He stopped just on the edge of the forest and waited for you to catch up.

Before you could open your mouth, Dagur said, “I’m sorry. What I said this morning was uncalled for.” You nodded, and went on to apologize for disrespecting Sleuther when Dagur obviously cared for him. “Come with me,” he said, nodding deeper into the forest. “I want you to meet Sleuther officially.”

You followed him, looking around the forest as you walked. You’d played in this very forest all through your childhood. You thought you knew it like the back of your own hand, but now it was entirely new to you, knowing that a dragon might be somewhere in here. No, you decided, that wasn’t quite right. There was always the chance of a dragon being anywhere on the island. It was just now knowing that there was a dragon you would meet and not fight that threw you. You pulled at your sleeves the deeper into the forest you went, glad that Dagur wasn’t looking back to see.

You guessed that you were somewhere near the heart of the forest when Dagur stopped and whistled a special tune. You took a deep breath and finally released your sleeves as leaves rustled nearby. There was a moment of watching the branches and shrubs in front of you bend and sway before Sleuther finally bared his face from behind a bush. The way you could only see his face over the bush made him seem smaller than he actually was, and you wondered in the back of your mind if he was doing that on purpose.

“Slowly now,” Dagur said softly. He crooked his fingers to edge Sleuther forward. You were thankful that he was trying to take things slowly, but your apprehension only grew the longer the moment went on. By the time Sleuther stood in front of you on his hind legs, you were paralyzed and you felt your heart was in danger of beating out of your chest.

Your breath hitched when Dagur took hold of your wrist and moved your hand toward Sleuther’s face, but his grip didn’t tighten even when you pulled it away. Instead he tried again, somehow more gentle than anyone would expect a Berserker to be. He didn’t offer any words of comfort, but somehow you felt more appreciative than if he had. With your hand mere inches away Sleuther moved forward and touched his nose to your palm. You tensed and Sleuther only closed his eyes serenely.

“Sleuther, meet Y/N. Y/N, meet Sleuther,” Dagur said, voice still soft. You slowly willed your muscles to relax and they both waited patiently as you did. You looked into Sleuther’s now open eyes and what you saw stole your breath away. His eyes were so bright, so clear, so expressive, so human.

You took your other hand and felt around his face. His scales were much smoother than the rough volcanic rock you thought it would feel like, and cool to the touch. Not knowing what else to say, you only breathed, “Hi.” The dragon crooned at you and you couldn’t help but find it endearing. “You know, for a creature that breathes fire, you’re not as hot as I thought you would be.” Sleuther only pushed his face more into your hands.

“You say that now, but wait for a sunny day. He and Toothless get almost too hot to ride on those days. We’re still trying to figure out why that is,” Dagur said beside you.

“Toothless?” you asked, not taking a bit of your attention away from Sleuther, who gave little licks to your palms when they passed near his mouth. You laughed at the ticklish sensation and leaned in closer to coo at him the way you would a baby.

“Toothless is a friend’s dragon. He’s a Night Fury.” At this you stopped and pulled away, a shade or two paler than you were before. Sleuther crooned in confusion, nudging at your hands to pet him again, but you took a step back and turned to face Dagur.

“I thought those were a myth,” you said. “A Night Fury? The unholy offspring of lightning and death itself? One of those? Your friend rides one of those?” You were looking more uncomfortable with each question you asked and you turned to Dagur, hoping he would deny all of it.

“Yeah, what’s the problem?” That wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

“You ride a Triple Stryke. Your friend rides a Night Fury. How many others are there? Do they all ride dragons this strong? What do you do with them?” You asked each question in quick succession, fearing the worst. A group of people with that much power… you didn’t want to think of what could happen.

“No. No, it’s not what you think. They’re good people, Y/N. You’ll see. We’ll meet them on our tour.” Dagur tried to calm you, but you could still feel the same sense of panic you felt when you first saw Sleuther creep up on you again. You took a few breaths, hoping to keep your cool, but it must’ve shown on your face that you weren’t okay.

“Y/N, what are you thinking?” he asked softly. You laughed breathily and ran a hand through your hair as you paced back and forth.

“I’m thinking you were right about me not being fierce,” you said, laughing again. Oh gods, you were not ready for this today. The headache you had earlier when you woke up was starting to creep up on you again, and you held a hand to your temple.”I’m not ready to take all of this in at once, Dagur,” you said. “I need to go be by myself. Don’t follow me. Please.”

He didn’t. You were grateful that he didn’t as you trudged back to your home and curled up in the thick furs on your shared bed. In your safe ball of furs, a failsafe to calm yourself as a child, you took deep breaths, one after another. You tried your best to clear your mind of all thoughts and for once it worked, and you fell into a deep sleep.

You hadn’t a single dream as you slept and when you awoke, the sky was dark with night. You blinked blearily and automatically scooted to one side of the bed to make room for Dagur, so used to doing so that it was not until a moment or two later that it occurred to you that he was not there. You called his name in a mumble. No answer. You sat upright and lit the lantern beside your bed, sleep falling away with the fur as you did so.

Your worries didn’t have much time to take root as you found your husband just downstairs, snoring away and sprawled across a chair by the fire pit. Your brows knit together and pity took hold of you. That couldn’t have been comfortable. You inched closer to him and called his name.

“Dagur,” you said softly. His snores continued, but quieted somewhat. You tried again and again to rouse him, calling his name, and each time his snores lessened until he cracked his eyes open with a groan.

“Y/N?”

“What are you doing down here?” you asked. “Come on, let’s get you into a real bed.” You pulled him up by his arms and he leaned into you. You weren’t as muscular as he was, but you took pride in being able to support him with relative ease. He obediently stumbled along with you and nearly pitched you halfway down the stairs when he suddenly straightened himself up and gasped.

“Wait!” he said, taking your hand. “Sleuther and I have something to show you.” Having had time to yourself, you were no longer so apprehensive of anything to do with Sleuther or any other dragon, but you weren’t so eager to jump back into the subject.

You glanced out a nearby window. “Whatever it is,” you said. “Can’t it wait until morning? You won’t be able to show me anything at this time of night.” Dagur shook his head.

“Trust me, the moon and the stars will give us more than enough light for you to see it,” he said, leading you down the stairs toward the door. You pulled back, not moving from your spot. His eyes begged you more than his words did, and ultimately they were what swayed you. “Please, Y/N?”

Rather than speaking, you took slow steps down the stairs and motioned with your hand to lead the way once you’d caught up with him. With a nod, he took hold of your hand and brought you out into the night.

You didn’t have to go as far as the northern woods, for which you were glad. You weren’t particularly clumsy, but tempting Loki in the dead of night when there was no one awake to help you was a chance you would not take if you had all the luck in the world. You stopped on the northern edge of the marketplace and Dagur whistled the same tune you’d heard earlier that day.

Without any thick foliage to alert you of Sleuther’s whereabouts, you instead listened for footsteps, but even those were hard to detect. It was incredible for a dragon of Sleuther’s size to move so quietly on the ground. You undoubtedly only heard a few of Sleuther’s footsteps but you didn’t have much to fret over as he clicked to announce his presence. Dagur whistled again, quieter this time, and Sleuther finally stepped into view.

You were having doubts about whether you’d actually be able to see whatever it was that Dagur wanted to show you. You could barely even see Sleuther if it weren’t for the moonlight bouncing off of his skin and making his scales shine like wax. Even his yellow scales were hard to see in the light. Sleuther crooned as you approached and bunted his head against you, like a cat. You ran a hand over his smooth scales, still marveling at how everything you thought you knew about dragons was being proven wrong bit by bit, all by this one dragon to whom your husband had introduced you.

It was a wonder; you’d had next to no interaction with Sleuther and yet he was trying so hard to be your friend, to seem welcoming and unintimidating. You felt you owed it to the both of them to give this-- whatever it was-- a chance. With a grunt, Dagur hefted himself onto Sleuther’s back and offered you a hand.

“Care to take a flight?” he asked. You tentatively reached out to take hold of his hand but then quickly drew back.

“Promise you won’t drop me out of the sky and say it was an accident?” you asked. Dagur laughed and reached out again. This time you took it and took some time to adjust to the feeling of being on a dragon’s saddle. Once you were situated you wrapped your arms around his waist and waited.

“Okay, I promise I’ll tell the truth about dropping you on purpose.” Your arms loosened slightly.

“What?” And then Sleuther lifted off the ground. Any other words you had died in your throat . All that came out was a whimper as you tightened your hold around Dagur’s waist, adding your legs into the knotted mix. You were sure to have left scratches with your nails on the leather beneath his plate armor as you squeezed your eyes shut. Truth be told, Sleuther wasn’t flying especially quickly or violently, but your fear held strong all the same. You held yourself as closely as you could to Dagur without physically melding your skin to his, trusting that he wouldn’t jump off the back of his own dragon just to scare you.

Sleuther eventually leveled off in the air, not that you could tell, and Dagur patted one of your hands. “I was kidding, you know,” he said. “I wouldn’t drop you; you’re my wife.”

“Men who loved their wives more have done worse things,” you mumbled, daring to peek an eye open and shutting it tight once again when you took note of the distance between you and the ground. You tucked your head into your chest and willed your stomach to calm its roiling waves.

“Those men have no honor, Y/N,” Dagur said. “We had a wedding ceremony, we wear matching rings, we share a home and a bed, and we have two cats.” You laughed at the mention of the cats, as if they were what truly tied your marriage together. “We are now lifetime companions, whether we like it or not. I say we make the best of it, how about you?”

Just to be cheeky, and to calm your own nerves, you said, “We haven’t even seen one of the cats.” Dagur shrugged.

“No, but he’s ours all the same. Heather’s just looking after him until we get to Berserker Island.”

You hummed. “We have such an unconventional marriage,” you mused. “I feel like all the advice I received during my cleansing will end up being useless. Our cats don’t even live on the same island. What other couple can say that?” You don’t know why you were suddenly so fixated on the cats you received as wedding gifts. One was from your family to live here on the Blessed Isles, the other was from Heather to live on Berserker Island.

“None,” Dagur answered. “Which is why our marriage will be one that people tell stories about.” You smiled softly to yourself. Because being the most powerful couple the archipelago has ever seen isn’t quite so momentous as having two cats on two separate islands.

[thelegacyproject]

Chloe Howard - STAND Beautiful!

Chloe Howard was born with a clubfoot. This meant enduring much corrective surgery and not growing up walking and running freely with her peers. From a young age, Chloe learnt to deal with physical and emotional suffering. Her parents wisely instilled in her the belief that she was born special and that God has a beautiful plan for her life.

With the love and support of her family and community, Chloe shone her special light despite her difficulties. This was until she was subject to the injustice of physical assault and bullying from fellow teenagers. Stripped from her position of security with her unique being, her confidence in herself and her faith in people fled in a simple day. Clouds settled over her bright self as she processed her experience and learnt that the very thing that made her special was in fact what made her feel ashamed.

Standing beautiful comes naturally to this wonderful youth and Chloe reveals, that despite being born with a congenital deformity, she has tapped into what makes a person beautiful. An inspirational meeting with Bono of U2, encouraged her to use her voice. He helped her understand that when she speaks truth, her voice will be supported by the voices of many. Making herself available for God’s work enabled her healing to begin, her confidence to return and gave her the strength to tell others her story.

We are privileged to share the story of this brave young woman, whose courage and wisdom is beyond her years. She helps us remember that whether we are born with or without a blemish, with or without a defection or deformation, true beauty radiates from within. Thank you Chloe for the essence of you that you share with our readers here:

About my Life Mission:

“To help others embrace their uniqueness and STAND Beautiful.”

My Definition Of Success:

“I think success is standing beautiful and celebrating your uniqueness wherever you are. When we are able to embrace ourselves in whatever state we are in, we learn to love ourselves and that leads to emotional healing and, ultimately, leads us to living a more successful life. Success is trying something that is out of your comfort zone and believing you can achieve whatever you put your mind to. I grew up really shy, so I consider it a success that I was able to give my TEDx Talk. However, I believe that I still have so much to learn so I continue to strive to speak my truth which has helped others on their journey of transformation.”

My Highlights:

“As a freshman in high school, I was victim of assault due to a congenital deformity I was born with. I began to see myself as imperfect and powerless. However, I was able to prove that I am stronger than my perpetrators when I testified in front of a judge, the perpetrators, and their families, and I began to feel empowered by speaking the truth. Also, I managed to give a TEDx Talk as a sixteen year old – before I even got my driver’s license. I was the only youth chosen to speak at TEDx Santa Barbara and also was honoured to be the keynote speaker and kick off the day.”

Principles, Values and Ideologies I Live By :

“Since my assault, I’ve been living based on the idea that we are all beautiful and special not despite our differences, but because of them. I believe this is a valuable concept because it completely changes our perception of both ourselves and of others. When we start living like we were meant to live – embracing the way we are formed – we reach our full and complete potential. I’m also a Christian, so I believe that Jesus loves me and died for me and that when He puts obstacles in our lives, He equips us. God tells us that we are made for a reason, and I am doing my best to live that out.”

Dealing With Doubt:

“I deal with self-doubt, fear, and negativity by choosing to overlook my imperfections and instead see myself as beautiful and imperfectly perfect. I doubted myself after I was assaulted and felt useless, worthless and powerless. However, I slowly was able to see myself as beautiful, and worth so much more than how my perpetrators made me feel. I started writing the word “beautiful” over one of the scars on my foot, and in doing so made the choice to redefine how I saw my foot and myself. I wrote the word on myself so often that I began to associate my foot with beauty, and slowly began to believe it. In this way, I was able to conquer self-doubt.

There has been a positive knock-on effect from turning my doubt around. I have received numerous emails from others stating how my story helped them get through a rough patch in their life. For example, after speaking at one of the churches I was invited to, a young girl with a Clubfoot came up to me with tears in her eyes and told me that hearing my talk inspired her to stop hiding her foot from people.

Now? I want to change one more person on this Earth, and then another. There are 7 billion people right now on this Earth that feel broken and alone and imperfect – so I’m going to do what I can to reduce that number. I want to reach as many people as I can.”

The Best Advice I’ve Received:

“I had the opportunity to meet Bono of U2 the summer after I was assaulted, and I worked up the courage to tell him my story. In response, he told me that my voice is powerful, and that whenever I speak I become the voice for those that cannot speak for themselves. This advice changed my life, as Bono inspired me to become the budding activist that I am now.”

I Am Inspired By:

“I’ve always been inspired by Bethany Hamilton and her story. She is a professional surfer who was bitten by a shark and lost her arm, but didn’t let that stop her; she went back in the water and is now not only a professional surfer but also a motivational speaker. Her story, in a way, inspired me to “get back in the water” in my own life: start speaking about the very thing that had made me feel so powerless.”