#her mother could have been born in 1900

[omarfor-orchestra]

I'm obsessed with that poll what do you mean your grandma's mother went to collage.

It wasn't even allowed in Italy

[elliaze]

Don't take my love away | j. velaryon

Warnings: spoiler! for the book, HEAVY!angst, twincest (let's be honest they are targaryen), their age has been changed, mention of sex (nothing descriptive), inspiration from Billie Eillish - CHIHIRO

Word Count: +1900

MASTERLIST

She remembered their first kiss. 

Innocent, because it was both their first time doing it.

Forbidden, because they shouldn't do it.

Jace was her twin brother. He was born just a few minutes after her. They were always together.

Maybe that was why it seemed inevitable. Or maybe that night, when they were both two–and–ten and fought with Aemond, they needed each other more than usual. 

Which wasn't true, because they had spent every moment together for years. 

Maybe it was the emotions that were running through them. Certainly hers, because even though the stealing of Vhagar was behind them, the maesters had dressed the wound on Jace's head and the one she had on her forehead, the adrenaline was still pumping through them. 

She remembered that they had both escorted Lucerys to his chambers and waited until their younger brother had fallen asleep from exhaustion. That evening – or even that morning – they both said Luce had been incredibly brave in standing up for them and taking Aemond's eye. They had also known that, as his older siblings, they should have been defending him, not the other way. They both felt a pang of guilt, and maybe that was the reason they had kissed.

She remembered that when they had finally reached Jacaerys's chambers, he had kept saying that he should have been faster, braver, more observant. He panicked, and she was afraid her brother wouldn't be able to control his breathing.

And then she kissed him. It had been a completely innocent kiss, but it had also been a confirmation that they meant so much more to each other than mere siblings.

She remembered his first touch. One where he touched her like a man could touch a woman.

They were six–and–ten, and the whole act seemed uncertain, even awkward. They didn't know what they were doing, and all they thought about was being as close to each other as possible.

This time, it wasn't just emotions that influenced it. They were completely aware of what they were doing and didn't think for a moment about stopping it. 

They wanted each other, their kisses and touch.

They didn't care about the consequences, or that they shouldn’t have done it. They both knew that sooner or later they would be forced to marry someone neither of them loved, and they shouldn't get so attached to each other when it was only a matter of time before they had to part ways.

But they couldn't stop. 

The thought of not being by each other's side was destroying their hearts to the core.

She remembered the first I love you he said to her, not as a brother, but as a man.

It was the day their mother found out about their forbidden affair and she couldn't do anything else but announce that they would get married. That evening, Jace came to her chamber, or rather rushed inside. She was sitting nervously in front of her mirror and combing her hair, when the sound of the door opening made her turn around.

“Jace…” she started, but he was quickly at her side. He grabbed her by the shoulders, lifting her up, and then placed his hands on her cheeks. “What are you doing?"”

“I just wanted you to know how much I love you,” he confessed as honestly as she had never heard it. She felt as if her whole insides were melting under the influence of his words, as well as his gaze full of love and devotion. “You are my whole world. My life. Without you, there is no me. I love you like nothing else. I love you more than I love myself. You are the only one. You will always be.”

She had tears in her eyes when she heard his words, and at the same time she was unable to stop the charming smile and the blush that spread across her cheeks. She was happy and finally understood all those love stories she had read. In books, the couple in love were never related to each other, but in their case, she thought that it only worked in their favour.

It was inevitable.

“I love you too, Jacaerys. And I don't want to live without you. You’re everything I have and what matters to me. Our hearts are connected forever.” She confessed a moment before she connected their lips.

The kiss was calm at first, as if she just wanted to confirm her words with it. However, it quickly turned into a hot, lustful one. Her hands quickly landed in his curls, and his lifted her nightgown to her waist and stopped at her completely exposed thighs and hips. Jace lifted her up and led them to her bed. He laid her on the satin sheets, joining her immediately.

This time they knew exactly what they were doing. They both knew their bodies and knew how to extract the sweetest sounds of pleasure from each other. Their hands were clasped together the whole time, as if to make sure that it was real. She felt shivers every time he kissed her body, and Jace did not hold back to show her that everything she did was the sweetest pleasure for him.

When he entered her, their eyes met and they both connected their lips in a thirsty kiss. Their bodies moved in complete sync, as if this was what they were made for – to be together in the most intimate way possible, the closest they could be. She saw stars in her eyes, and when she came with his name on her lips, and Jace right after her, she thought this was exactly what she wanted. 

A future with Jacaerys. 

She saw them together, their children, and the whole happy, long life that lay ahead of them.

But that future didn't include them being embroiled in a bloody war. The Dance of the Dragons, they called it.

From the very beginning, they had to deal with the loss of loved ones. Lucerys, Rhaenys... Death came to them one by one, and both feared that it would eventually come for them. But every time it didn't, the fear was still there. Maybe it was their stupid luck that kept them alive. Or – as she liked to say – this world wouldn't be able to accept their deaths. They had to live because they loved each other so much that they wouldn't be able to survive without the other.

And she was rarely wrong.

And yet, this time she was.

The Battle of the Gullet was completely chaotic. The Velaryon fleet was fighting against the Triarchy with exceptional ferocity. But she didn't pay attention to which side had the upper hand at the moment. Her only goal was to find Jacaerys and Vermax. 

She didn't think she should even be there. Even though Vermithor, who had been her companion for many years, burned every enemy ship to ashes, giving the Velaryon fleet a slight advantage, all she could do was look around for the sight of the familiar dragon and its rider.

She remembered how the four of them had gone for rides many times. The young Vermax had always been relatively witty and ready to have fun with Vermithor. The old dragon might seem to ignore his younger brethren, but in the end, the two were very much bonded, in the same way as their riders.

Finally, she spotted Vermax, and somewhere on his back sat Jacaerys. Bolts and arrows flew towards them, and her heart was pounding as she realised that Jacaerys was too low and much more vulnerable to attack. She needed to do everything she could to protect them together with Vermithor, not even caring about her own safety.

However, she was unable to stop the bolts that hit Vermax. The dragon let out a terrible scream and began to fall down with its rider.

“JACE!” She screamed in horror. Her eyes misted and tears filled, and at that moment Vermithor was responsible for what had to be done. He fell down after the dead dragon, and all she could see was Vermax's body falling into the water. 

"We have to find him" she said to the dragon and Vermithor just screamed loudly and breathed fire that consumed one of the enemy ships. They circled for a while looking for Jacaerys until she finally managed to spot him on the beach not far from the fight. She could hear the sounds of battle clearly, so when she saw Jace standing on his own two feet, she knew she had to get him out of there as soon as possible before someone realised he was still alive.

Vermithor landed hard on the beach, and she slid down on his wing and ran to her brother. 

Jace was weak and wet. She also noticed an arrow in his arm, but the wound didn't seem serious enough to prevent them from escaping together.

“Y/N” she didn't hear him say her name, but she saw his lips moving. 

Jace breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that she was okay, and she did everything to get to him as quickly as possible. 

They were only a few metres away. 

A few steps away and then she would be able to take him in her arms and save him.

However, fate can be cruel. It takes away what we love without warning.

Neither she nor Jace noticed the arrow that was shot straight into his back. Jace stopped mid–step and staggered on his feet, and she had the impression that he was experiencing some worst nightmare. However, she didn't give up and still believed that they had a chance to survive. That she would manage to save him and get him to Dragonstone, where the maester would heal every wound on his body. 

There was still a chance. 

She believed in it with every fiber of her being, because if she lost him, she would die with him.

She was almost there when another arrow whistled. Jace watched her as she approached, as if he knew what was about to happen. 

There was no other thought in his head but her.

They had come into the world together. And she was also supposed to be there when he was about to leave it.

“Y/N” he ​​said to her before the last arrow hit his neck.

Jace fell, and she caught him in her arms at the last moment.

“Jace?” She whispered nervously, her voice breaking. “Jaecerys, wake up!” She touched his face, and his skin was still hot, just like it was always when she touched her. Hot dragon blood. “Jace, I beg you. I can’t live in a world without you.”

Her prayers were in vain, and when she kissed him for the last time, he was already dead.

She remembered their first kiss, touch, and declaration of love.

But she never wanted to remember the last time she tasted his lips, how he looked at her with love and told her he loved her. Their story had no right to end in such a drastic way.

They were only twenty. Their whole lives ahead of them. They deserved more time. 

They were supposed to be king and queen after they helped their mother get back what was rightfully hers. 

He had no right to die in front of her, and above all, to leave her alone in this cruel world.

She never believed in gods, but if one of them stood before her and asked her what she wanted, her answer would be only one.

Don’t take my love away from me.

She didn’t want to stay in this world when he was gone.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Why Is Misdemeanor Of the Heart's Reader...

White Coded?

Yep, I said it. Come, take a seat and get cozy in the Fox Den while Mamma Kit answers some questions.

CW: Discussions of race and racism in a historical context and me being a wordy ass bitch

I've seen some discourse around Human!Alastor readers and writers and have gotten some of these questions myself over the last few months.

Firstly- I am white. I'm so fucking white that I use SPF 100 sunscreen. I grew up in Alaska. The history I learned growing up wasn't African American history; it was Alaska Native history. I didn’t learn about how we fucked over African American people in America’s early history. Instead, I learned how we fucked over the villages of the land I was raised on.

Why does this matter? The current accepted fanon for Alastor's human life is that he was a Black or mixed-race radio host who died in 1933 and reached his mid to late 30s or 40s. We know he had a successful career and was also a serial killer. He favored jazz, and rye is his drink of choice. He exists somewhere on the ace spectrum.

Time for a little math. Let's go with the middle ground—he was 40 in 1933. That means he would have been born around 1893. Let’s assume his mother was 25 when he was born. She would have been born in 1868. Using the same age for her mother, Alastor's grandmother would have been born in 1843. Remember this—it’ll matter in a minute.

For MisD and all of my human Alastor writing, as well as the works of many other human Alastor writers, we approach Alastor's life through a historical lens. I, like many others, enjoy exploring a time period rich with change—dynamic and vibrant with energy, money, and hope.

What does this mean? This means Alastor would have faced significant amounts of racism. Being Black, mixed-race, or how well he could pass as white would all drastically impact his life. It affected what opportunities he had, the education he received, and how laws were applied to him.

Ready for a history lesson? The Emancipation Proclamation was issued by President Abraham Lincoln on January 1, 1863. It declared all enslaved people in rebellious areas of the United States to be free. Alastor's grandmother—based on the ages we used earlier—would have been a 20-year-old woman at that time.

Alastor would have been raised by a first-generation free woman. He likely wouldn’t have had access to public education, instead being taught in group homeschool-like sessions by those who had learned to read and write.

If he was mixed-race, he would have faced significant discrimination from all of society.

The Civil Rights Movement in the USA didn’t begin until the mid-1950s—a full twenty years after his death.

The reality is that we don’t know a lot about the Black experience during the early to mid-1900s. Much of this history wasn’t recorded by (white) historians. Instead, it was passed down through stories from parents to children, and so on. Only now are we starting to uncover and listen to the histories, stories, and experiences of Black Americans during this time period.

Remember how I mentioned at the start that I’m white as fuck? I don’t have grandparents I can go to and ask about the Black experience when they were children. First—my grandparents are all dead, and second—they were somehow whiter than I am. Their perspective wouldn’t help me because it isn’t my family’s story to tell.

What I can do is look at what we do know, listen to the voices of Black Americans who are finally being allowed to share their stories, and reflect that in my version of human Alastor. I can spend the time to research and learn. For instance, Alastor would have been ahead of his time—the first Black radio host was in 1929, a man named Jack L. Cooper from Chicago. He hosted the first Black-produced weekly variety show and showcased Black entertainers.

I can listen to stories of how mixed-race men were afforded the privilege of their lighter skin as long as they were useful to their white employers, only to be scapegoated the second anything went wrong. I do my best to reflect these stories in Human!Alastor's experiences and behaviors.

Why A White Coded Reader? I cannot even begin to hope to understand the Black American experience as it is now, let alone how it was in 1922, when MisD is set, or in the late 1910s, when my other Human Al fics take place. What I can understand on a deeper level is the white woman's experience, the experience of poverty, the experiences of abused women, and what it’s like to view the Black experience from the outside looking in.

And so that is what I try to highlight with my Human!Alastor fics. Yes, when I’m writing a Human!Alastor fic that deals with racial, class, and social politics as one of the themes to be explored (such as MisD), the reader is coded as white. It is through a white reader that I can have conversations with Alastor about why he feels he has to be perfect, why he straightens his hair, and so on. I cannot do proper justice to these feelings on a deeper level from a Black perspective because I can’t even begin to hope to understand it.

I cannot truly understand what Alastor’s Blackness would mean to him or how he would feel about being mixed. However, I can learn and understand how it impacted his life from the outside looking in. This is what I strive to do—to shed light on what Alastor’s accomplishments would have meant and how much his mistakes would have cost him.

I would love to see more Black writers in the fanfic space, especially within the Human!Alastor space. I would also love to see fewer readers written as blank slates. The Black experience in America and other white-dominated cultures is still not spotlighted often enough, both in present-day and historical settings.

These are stories that need to be told—perspectives that need to be explored, seen, and heard. However, they are not my stories to tell. Personally, until I am far better educated on the matter, I feel it would take away from these stories and be disrespectful to the lives of the very real people who lived them if I were to write from a perspective I cannot hope to understand.

I will continue to strive to write readers as racially neutral as often as the plot allows. However, I also ask that readers respect that, when the plot deals with racial, social, and class divides in a historical setting, if the reader is coming from a place of privilege, their skin tone is often the reason for such privilege.

Of course, I encourage readers to suspend disbelief and insert themselves into the fic regardless of their personal skin tone. I write from a historical setting, but as readers, you can imagine a set of historical laws or circumstances that allow for the same dynamics without requiring a white reader.

Can I do better? Absolutely—we all can. We’re always growing, improving, and learning. I was blessed to be raised in one of the most diverse places in the country (over 45 languages were spoken fluently at my high school). However, since leaving, I’ve struggled with the realities of having that bubble burst—not that Alaska was without racism.

I always welcome respectful discussions about the themes in MisD and all of my fics, as well as the reasons things may be portrayed the way they are. I prefer to write dark content, and with that comes the opportunity to educate and shine a light on topics many people avoid discussing. I simply ask for respect in return for the respect I give.

Much love, Kit

[book--brackets]

The BFG by Roald Dahl (1982)

Captured by a giant! The BFG is no ordinary bone-crunching giant. He is far too nice and jumbly. It's lucky for Sophie that he is. Had she been carried off in the middle of the night by the Bloodbottler, the Fleshlumpeater, the Bonecruncher, or any of the other giants-rather than the BFG-she would have soon become breakfast. 

When Sophie hears that they are flush-bunking off in England to swollomp a few nice little chiddlers, she decides she must stop them once and for all. And the BFG is going to help her!

Graceling Realm by Kristen Cashore (2008-2022)

Graceling tells the story of the vulnerable-yet-strong Katsa, who is smart and beautiful and lives in the Seven Kingdoms where selected people are born with a Grace, a special talent that can be anything at all. Katsa's Grace is killing. As the king's niece, she is forced to use her extreme skills as his brutal enforcer. Until the day she meets Prince Po, who is Graced with combat skills, and Katsa's life begins to change. She never expects to become Po's friend. She never expects to learn a new truth about her own Grace--or about a terrible secret that lies hidden far away . . . a secret that could destroy all seven kingdoms with words alone.

Oz by L. Frank Baum (1900-1920)

Join Dorothy and her little dog Toto on the yellow brick road, as they set off to explore the magical Land of Oz. Can they find the Wizard, defeat the Wicked Witch of the West, and return to Kansas?

Stardust by Neil Gaiman (1997)

Catch a fallen star . . .

Tristran Thorn promised to bring back a fallen star. So he sets out on a journey to fulfill the request of his beloved, the hauntingly beautiful Victoria Forester--and stumbles into the enchanted realm that lies beyond the wall of his English country town. Rich with adventure and magic, Stardust is one of master storyteller Neil Gaiman's most beloved tales, and the inspiration for the hit movie.

Inkworld by Cornelia Funke (2003-2023)

One cruel night, Meggie's father reads aloud from a book called INKHEART-- and an evil ruler escapes the boundaries of fiction and lands in their living room. Suddenly, Meggie is smack in the middle of the kind of adventure she has only read about in books. Meggie must learn to harness the magic that has conjured this nightmare. For only she can change the course of the story that has changed her life forever. 

Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine (1997)

At birth, Ella is inadvertently cursed by an imprudent young fairy named Lucinda, who bestows on her the "gift" of obedience. Anything anyone tells her to do, Ella must obey. Another girl might have been cowed by this affliction, but not feisty Ella: "Instead of making me docile, Lucinda's curse made a rebel of me. Or perhaps I was that way naturally." When her beloved mother dies, leaving her in the care of a mostly absent and avaricious father, and later, a loathsome stepmother and two treacherous stepsisters, Ella's life and well-being seem to be in grave peril. But her intelligence and saucy nature keep her in good stead as she sets out on a quest for freedom and self-discovery as she tries to track down Lucinda to undo the curse, fending off ogres, befriending elves, and falling in love with a prince along the way. Yes, there is a pumpkin coach, a glass slipper, and a happily ever after, but this is the most remarkable, delightful, and profound version of Cinderella you'll ever read.

The Witches by Roald Dahl (1983)

This is not a fairy-tale. This is about real witches. Real witches don't ride around on broomsticks. They don't even wear black cloaks and hats. They are vile, cunning, detestable creatures who disguise themselves as nice, ordinary ladies. So how can you tell when you're face to face with one? Well, if you don't know yet you'd better find out quickly-because there's nothing a witch loathes quite as much as children and she'll wield all kinds of terrifying powers to get rid of them.

The Kane Chronicles by Rick Riordan (2010-2012)

Since their mother's death, Carter and Sadie have become near strangers. While Sadie has lived with her grandparents in London, her brother has traveled the world with their father, the brilliant Egyptologist, Dr. Julius Kane.  One night, Dr. Kane brings the siblings together for a "research experiment" at the British Museum, where he hopes to set things right for his family. Instead, he unleashes the Egyptian god Set, who banishes him to oblivion and forces the children to flee for their lives.  Soon, Sadie and Carter discover that the gods of Egypt are waking, and the worst of them--Set?has his sights on the Kanes. To stop him, the siblings embark on a dangerous journey across the globe -- a quest that brings them ever closer to the truth about their family, and their links to a secret order that has existed since the time of the pharaohs.

Discworld by Terry Pratchett (1983-2015)

In the beginning there was… a turtle.

 Somewhere on the frontier between thought and reality exists the Discworld, a parallel time and place which might sound and smell very much like our own, but which looks completely different.

 Particularly as it’s carried through space on the back of a giant turtle.

 It plays by different rules. But then, some things are the same everywhere. The Disc’s very existence is about to be threatened by a strange new blight: the world’s first tourist, upon whose survival rests the peace and prosperity of the land.

 Unfortunately, the person charged with maintaining that survival in the face of robbers, mercenaries and, well, Death, is a spectacularly inept wizard…

Daughter of Smoke & Bone by Laini Taylor (2011-2014)

Around the world, black handprints are appearing on doorways, scorched there by winged strangers who have crept through a slit in the sky.

In a dark and dusty shop, a devil's supply of human teeth grown dangerously low.

And in the tangled lanes of Prague, a young art student is about to be caught up in a brutal otherwordly war.

Meet Karou. She fills her sketchbooks with monsters that may or may not be real; she's prone to disappearing on mysterious "errands"; she speaks many languages—not all of them human; and her bright blue hair actually grows out of her head that color. Who is she? That is the question that haunts her, and she's about to find out.

When one of the strangers—beautiful, haunted Akiva—fixes his fire-colored eyes on her in an alley in Marrakesh, the result is blood and starlight, secrets unveiled, and a star-crossed love whose roots drink deep of a violent past. But will Karou live to regret learning the truth about herself?

[jasperhaleobsessed]

If you live long enough, you see the same eyes in different people

Edward Cullen // Cedric Diggory x female reader

Summary: you loved Cedric Diggory, you would never stop loving him, he would always have a place in your heart. But what surprises you is when you meet him again but as Edward Cullen. You couldn't understand what happened or how it was possible. All you knew was you needed answers and closure.

Word Count: 1,600

Notes: I know this is a bit of an odd idea but I thought I'd be fun. Bella isn't mentioned and in this au edward wasn't turned in the early 1900s. I know in the first year vampires in the newborn stage can be very bloodthirsty and strong but for the sake of this fic I'm ignoring that fact!

Cedrics age

Warnings: Mentions of Cedrics death.

Voldermort was back. You couldn't believe it. But you did, it was hard to swallow but never would you believe the bogus the daily prophet comes up with. But because you were a muggle born they decided to move you back to the states, to Forks Washington where you grew up. When you were 10 your family decided to leave the states and move to England because your parents got better job offers there. And when you were 11 you learned you were a witch, and the rest was History. With Voldermort being back in all they weren't going to risk you getting hurt and in all honesty you needed a break after Cedric's death. Being in the wizard world would only hurt, it was too soon you needed time to heal.

You looked out the window and you couldn't help smiling at the familiarity of it all. Your family pulled into the driveway and you unbuckled and opened the car door. "Wow this is strange being back here after so long."

Your mother smiled, "It sure is but we'll get adjusted don't worry." She smiled warmly.

"Your mother's right, don't worry too much." Your dad said, encouragingly.

"Thanks." You smiled warmly at your parents. "I think I'm gonna go ahead and start grabbing stuff and heading upstairs, alright?"

"Sounds good, sweetheart."

You headed into the house and walked upstairs. You grabbed a few boxes and started to unpack. Your parents brought up your other stuff. After a few hours of unpacking you ate some dinner and collapsed onto your bed.

Surprisingly your dreams were peaceful for once in the last year. You were a year younger than Cedric. He was in 6th year while you were in 5th year. You had returned to Hogwarts last school year for your 6th year but you couldn't continue to do it. It had been awful to put it lightly. You needed a break from the magical world.

The next morning you woke up early and got ready, you picked out a cute outfit and book afterwards heading down to get breakfast. After breakfast you did the rest of your routine and were heading out the door, "Are you taking your bike?" Your mom asked.

“Yup.”

"Alrighty, be safe!" Your dad yelled, "I will!" You said as you walked out the door. You grabbed your bike from the car and glided down the road. It always puts you at ease, the fresh air is always calming and refreshing. Luckily the school wasn't far from your house and quickly the trip was over and you arrived at school. Wonderful.

You chained up your bike and headed to the office. But the question was where was the office? You were wishing you had asked your parents instead of rushing out of the door. You decided to try to look for someone friendly to ask. You looked around the place, hoping to find someone, anyone who could help you. And then you saw a girl with spiky dark hair who seemed friendly enough . You'd think she wouldn't be but she had this light and warmth about her. So you decided to take a deep breath and walk over to her and tapped her shoulder, "Hi, there I'm sorry to interrupt but I was wondering do you know where the office is?" You asked politely. She gaped at you but then regained her composure, gracefully which confused you. Why did she look so...surprised?

"Hi, I'm Alice!" She greeted you warmly and held her hand out for you to shake it. You took it without any hesitation, "Nice to meet you, I'm really sorry I startled you!" You apologized, quickly. You didn't want to get on the wrong foot with anyone. "Not many people do that much these days." She laughed.

You couldn't help but wonder why, "How come?" Before she could respond, a voice interrupted our conversation, "Alice, what's taking so long?" You stopped dead in your tracks. You turned slowly and met his eyes. Your heartbeat quickened and your eyes went wide. No it couldn't be, right? You met his gaze and he looked shocked.

Alice stared at you and Edward like she was trying to figure out some secret. "Is everything okay here?" She asked. You snapped out of your shock and said, "Sorry, you just remind me of someone I used to know."

He looked shaken as well. "It's okay." His voice cracked, he looked heartbroken. You didn't know what to think all you knew was you needed to get out of here, you needed to catch your breath.

"Do you mind giving me directions now?" You asked, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible. You could feel yourself trembling as you felt ready to leave.

She looked at you sympathetically, "Of course." She grabbed your hand and led you to the office. And you couldn't help but glance at that boy who should have been a ghost. But he wasn't. Somehow he was here. Or someone who looked like him was here. Cedric. Was that him? Who is it, if not? Many questions ran through your brain but at the moment you couldn't worry about that.

Alice had been helpful and you were able to get your schedule, luckily. But you couldn't get that look out of your face. You looked down at your schedule and headed to the 1st hall for your biology class in 108. You clutched your books close and kept moving forward. You arrived at class without anything of interest happening. You greeted the teacher and he told you to sit by Edward Cullen. You couldn't help but wonder who that could be but then you looked around and saw him. Cedric or Edward was sitting alone, the only seat in the class left. You tried to steady your breath and walked towards your new seat.

The class was chatty and the teacher, Mr.Banner told everyone to settle down. "Now class, let's get started." He turned away and started to write notes on the board.

You grabbed some paper and a pencil from your bag and started to write the notes down. You were focused on him until a note slipped to you. You unfolded it and read:

Can we talk after school? Meet me outside of school, I know this meadow it's quiet, we can talk there, if you want to.

You turned towards Cedric or was it Edward. You raised your eyebrow in confusion. You mouthed why to him. He gave you a pleading look that read 'you know why' you nodded in understanding. And turned back to Mr.Banner. In all honesty you didn't know what to think or feel. But you felt like you needed closure, you needed answers, you needed to know whether or not Cedric was okay.

After school you met him in the parking lot. You talked to your parents and shockingly they were okay with it. But then again you were a witch so it makes sense. You didn't say that it was Cedric but that he might have answers, you didn't think it was a good idea to go around saying things like that.

"So where's this meadow?"

"It's better if I show you." He said.

You couldn't help but joke, "You aren't gonna kill me are you?"

He smiled softly, "Definitely not." You grinned.

"Now, come on." He led you to his car. Once you got in you buckled and got settled. For most of the ride the two of you were quiet. You thought about what could be going on and what to say, you tried to collect your thoughts. Cedric or Edward was collecting his thoughts it seemed as well. He parked his car close to where the trail started and the two of you got out.

The two of you arrived at the trail to the meadow, you couldn't hold it anymore, "Okay what's going on? Who are you?" Your breath quickened and you fidgeted with your hands, worry coursed through you.

He looked at you with tears brimming in his golden eyes but didn't spill, "My name Is Cedric Diggory and two years ago I lost everything, I lost the girl I loved, I lost who I was, I lost my family, I lost everything that I held dear. But I especially and most of all lost you, the girl I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I had decided to compete in a tournament but because of that choice I was killed by Voldermort himself or so I thought somehow I was barely alive. And a man named Carlisle Cullen found me and saved me. But it wasn't as perfect as I was hoping it would be. I was turned into something monstrous, a vampire. And that's why I never came back because I was scared to death that I would hurt you. But I've missed you so much and I don't know what to do without you." He stepped closer to you and carefully caressed your cheek. You held it close. You leaned closer and hugged him close. "I've missed you so much." You started to sob in his arm, you felt like you were falling apart. He wiped your tears away, "it's okay, I'm right here I'm not going anywhere." You gave him a bittersweet smile as tears poured down your face. You hugged him close and for once in the last two years you felt complete again. And all you could think was how grateful you were.

"I love you." You looked at him hopefully, a huge smile crossed his face, "I love you too." He leaned closer and pressed his lips to yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck and smiled as he kissed you. He pulled away smiling brightly. "I've missed you so much, you don't know how hard it's been." You caressed his face, "I do. But we're together now, that's all that matters."

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Worth The Wait: Part One

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~900

Warnings: fluff

Request by anon: Hey so every one know that Jensen like Batman, so i have this ideas where the reader is Jensen wife and popular actress who is casted to play Cat woman with Robert Pattinson or other one and the reader never tell Jensen because she want to be a surprise or something like that and she bring him to the premiere where was the Batmobile and him was just fanboy? Fluffy between Jensen and reader 

Summary: You've been working on a movie you know Jensen will love to see, so you've managed to keep it from him until the world premiere. Now it's your chance to unveil the surprise.

Square Filled: hereditary for @spnonewordbingo (deleted bingo)

Author’s Note: we're all gonna pretend that the movie Batman v Superman had Catwoman in it. okay? okay.

x

This all started when your great-grandmother got scouted to be in short films in the early 1900s. Actresses weren't a big thing back then but someone took one look at her and knew she was meant to be on the big screen, whatever that meant back then. She was known all throughout the state as a big-time actress even though all the things she was in were silent films. She had a great facial profile that really embodied everything she was thinking and feeling. She started young but that’s what people did back then. They started their professions at a young age.

When your grandmother was born in 1934, your great-grandmother was already moving on to bigger and better things. She starred in the movie It Happened One Night, The Thin Man, and MGM’s musical/romance adaptation of Cat and the Fiddle. Those were just to name a few. Your grandmother saw what she was doing and wanted to follow in her footsteps, doing everything she could do be in television, the big screen, and in theater.

She got her big break when she got cast in Treasure Island and Fantasia with Disney. She got acting gig after acting gig until she had your mother in 1954. She took a few years off to be with her family but got right back into it. Your mother had a knack for theater and did her time on Broadway more than she did in film. She starred in musicals like Applause, Fiddler on the Roof, Annie, Sweeny Todd, and Grease.

She had you in 1989, and you started singing and acting at a very young age. You got into commercials and TV shows from the get-go. Probably because you come from a line of Tony, Oscar, and Emmy winners. You tried not to let your line of succession lead you to getting good parts, but you’ve managed to get a small role in Jurrasic Park as a child, and into much bigger roles in Charlie’s Angels, Mr. & Mrs. Smith, Saw I, Avatar, The Hunger Games, and many more.

You worked your ass off to be where you are today, and you’re actually working on putting your own album out because you’re striving to be the first EGOT winner in your family. You’ve gotten one Tony Award, too-many-to-count Oscars, and two Emmy awards.

To think you were the shy theater kid who only sang in front of people if you were starring in a play at school. After graduation, you got into a good acting school even though you didn’t really need it, but you still welcomed the challenge they put you through, even starring in most of the plays there. Now you’re a thirty-five-year-old woman with awards like no other, a husband who is just incredible, and an amazing career that is nowhere close to being done.

Your husband is also an actor, a big one for Supernatural. He’s been nothing short of amazing and you’re so proud of him and his work. It sucked at the beginning of his career since you two barely saw each other but the longer you did this, the more you settled into your own groove. You got to take the time off to be with each other a lot more.

You get to go to conventions with him and he gets to go to movie premieres with you. There is nothing you’d trade for this little life of yours. Speaking of movie premiers, you just got done filming your movie Batman vs Superman where you played Catwoman, but you refused to tell your husband anything about it. He is a big Batman fan, and if you were to surprise him with a Batman premier, he’d go feral. Jensen respected you enough to not go snooping when he knew you wanted this to be a surprise, and his friends respected you enough to not tell him about it.

Jenson has been bouncing in his seat since he entered the limo, and you’ve been watching with a wide smile on your face. When the limo gets to the red carpet, Jensen gasps at seeing everything Batman.

“Surprise! I’m Catwoman!”

“You got to be in a room with Batman?”

You two leave the Limo and smile at the cameras flashing in your face. Jensen doesn’t care if he looks like a little kid, he is going to be excited over anything Batman (even though you’re a tad more of a Marvel girl than DC). You’re trying to get in on one of their projects so fingers crossed! There is a section before the red carpet where people can take pictures with a real-life prop of the Batmobile.

Jensen loses his shit and rushes over with a giant smile on his face. You don’t care if a million people are watching or if it’s just you two, but you’ll always love the way he gets excited over things. He gets his picture taken with the Batmobile alone and then with you, and you pull him off to the side with a smile on your face.

“Is this a good surprise? Was it worth the wait?”

“So worth the wait. This is amazing.” Jensen leans in to kiss you but stops with a gasp. “Is that Michael Keaton?”

Jensen’s favorite Batman is Michael Keaton.

“Yeah, he showed up on set a few times. He’s a nice guy!”

“I’m nervous. Should I go up to him?”

“Yeah. He won’t bite,” you chuckle.

You escort Jensen over to Michael who is more than happy to talk to your husband. He hasn’t been this happy and excited in a while, and you’re glad to be part of it.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[trumpkinhotboy]

Chronic protective brother syndrome

Pairing: big brother!nick nelson x little sister!reader

Type: Request (thank you so much!!)

Warnings: Mention of fainting, having a chronic illness, but nothing too intense

Word count: 1900

Requests: Open! For Heartstopper, twilight wolfpack, chronicles of narnia and harry potter

A/n: honestly… i dont have much to say except that i love writing for requests and that big brother nick makes me weak in the knees. Hope you enjoy angels xxx

*gif is not mine

Summary: The reader has been living with diabetes her whole life. She's grown quite accustomed to it and manages it well with the help of her supportive family. Although sometimes, support can feel a little suffocating...

Through your 14 years of existence, you have grown quite accustomed to life with type 1 diabetes. As you grew up and became more conscious of what it meant to live with a chronic disease, you learned to accept and care for yourself quite well. 

Your mother, Sarah, was a real trooper and never let you down, always carrying you when you felt exhausted and done with your condition, which did happen more often than you care to admit. Luckily, you also had someone else in your corner: your older brother. 

Nick is known to be quite protective. Especially with the people he cares for. However, that aspect of his personality gained a new high when you were born, and your mother explained why you could never do everything just as he did. Of course, you would still be able to do most of them. You would simply need to be a little more careful. 

Sarah remembers very clearly the look in little Nick’s eyes when she explained why you were always sick. You were resting in bed after a substantial flare-up when his eyes welled up with tears. That's when he finally understood that there was something in your own body that would always try to fight and hurt itself. That’s also when he promised himself he would do everything to protect you. Your mum still tells that story with a few tears welling up in her eyes. 

Nick knew you could have a lot of complications from your disease. To avoid them, he always made sure you had everything you needed at all times. You usually didn't mind, seeing how your ADHD sometimes made it a little harder for you to remember to pack your stuff. Plus, the fatigue diabetes often fogged you with did not help in that department. 

The thing is you were now 14 years old, finally starting to make new friends and explore the jungle that is social life in high school. So when your 16-year-old brother comes over, and all your lady friends swoon over him, or worse, when he comes over to baby you, it gets a little irritating. Luckily, Nick was quite stubborn about that stuff and was not about to let you get hurt just because of the image you wanted to project.

That was until you made quite a scene in front of everyone.

You had been feeling particularly irritated and moody that day. So when you saw your brother walk over to you with a backup diabetes kit, which was his creation, you felt anger boil in your blood.

It did not help to hear some nasty year 10 make jokes from a picnic table near your friends and you. "Oh, would you look at that? Diabetes Nelson still needs her big brother to bring her her little drugs. I don't understand how someone like him could be related to her."

It was stupid. It wasn't even a good insult. Plus, the people who kept making comments were not something to be impressed with. Still, you couldn't help the shame from creeping on your cheeks.

So this time, when your big brother came to check on you and offered you your safety pouch, you refused.

"I already have the normal one. I don't need this one."

"I know, but I don't think you've put the new insulin shots in. I brought you the safety one just in case."

The snickers you heard from the people behind had you gritting your teeth. You couldn't understand their exact words, but you knew it wasn't positive. 

"Don't you have anything better to do than watch over me all day?" you hissed. "I'm not stupid Nick."

Your diabetes also made you prone to mood swings, mostly when your blood sugar levels were too high or low. That's why Nick usually did not make a big deal out of these outbursts, but this time felt different. Hurt flashed in his eyes, and briefly, you regretted the words.

"I never said that. I just want to make sure you have everything you need. You know the risks." His tone was soft, his gaze focused on you. He tried as much as he could not to make a big deal out of this, but your reaction had the exact opposite effect. He knew how the fear of being judged could make a person act in such a terrible way. 

"I don't need you to remind me how weak and useless my body is, okay? I'm the one living with diabetes, Nick. Not you." You whispered angrily.

You grabbed your bag and left him planted there without looking back. Nick and you were usually like two peas in a pod, and to leave him there hurt much more than you would care to admit. 

You got back in class, trying to act normal, but after an hour in, you felt queasy and feeble. You had indulged in some sweets some friends offered after your altercation with Nick, brushing off the risk with your ongoing anger. Subtly, you pricked your finger and couldn't help your eyes from growing two sizes when you saw the little numbers your tracker presented. You were in hyperglycemia and urgently needed to get a shot of insulin. Swiftly, you asked to be excused from the class and headed for the bathroom. The walls seemed to shake around you, and your vision kept warping up. Cursing yourself for being this dumb, you opened your bag with shaking hands, searching for your shots.

"Shit."

There was only one thing worse than fighting with Nick, and it was when you realized he had been right. You mumbled under your breath, trying to stay calm and figure out a quick solution because this was becoming urgent, and you needed the care right now. Calling Nick would do no good since he was at Truham anyway. You decided to head back to class to ask for your teacher's help, but once you tried climbing the stairs, a thousand little dots started dancing around. You were able to mutter an 'I feel kinda dizzy' before everything turned black.

You awoke to a commotion. Distorted sounds and everything around you moved too fast to register. Someone was holding your hand while you felt a pinch in your arm. 

"It's okay, it's okay Y/n. You're going to be okay. I'm here."

You knew that voice. You lifted your gaze with an effort and only saw a flash of red hair before darkness swallowed you once more.

This time, when you woke up, everything was silent and peaceful. You were lying in a bed, a hospital bed, with an IV drip set up in your arm. Nick was resting in the chair next to you, his worried eyes set on his phone as he quickly typed.

"Hey," you croaked. 

His head whipped up in surprise when he heard your voice. He immediately dropped his phone to come by your side. His hand flew to your forehead. The coolness of it felt incredibly refreshing as you leaned into the touch.

"Hey, kid," he whispered. He tried putting a smile on his face, but it couldn't hide the worry he was truly feeling.

"So, I'm guessing I fainted? And someone found me? And they panicked ?"

"Panicked is an understatement."

He explained that Imogen found you at the bottom of the stairs. She didn't know whether you had fallen from them or just fainted at the bottom, so she immediately called for help and texted him.

"I ran to Higgs faster than Charlie ever could," he added with a smirk, his joke stealing a chuckle from your chest.

"I'm sorry for causing such a commotion. I should wear a bracelet that says fainting is normal for me so people won't worry."

His gaze hardened at your comment. "Fainting is not normal for you. It's a bad sign, and you know it."

You sheepishly dropped your gaze. Okay, he wasn't ready to make jokes about it yet. Charlie would have laughed, you secretly thought.

"I don't understand why you pulled that crap. I just wanted to help you." 

You lay back in bed with a sigh and covered your eyes with your forearm. You did know Nick only wanted to help, but still. His kind gestures irritated you so much sometimes.

"It's already hard enough to be the sick kid. That was my only thing when I was in middle school. I thought now I could step away from it, that I could be someone else. Be known for other things than my messed up immune system." 

You noticed Nick's expression softened once you uncovered your eyes. 

"And I know you want to help and trust me, I appreciate it. It's just that sometimes it feels like you don't believe in me. Like you don't think I'm capable of doing stuff. Instead of helping me become stronger, you keep worrying me with your horror scenarios."

It was now Nick's turn to look all sheepish and guilty. You might have been right in saying he tended to get a little paranoid when you wanted to try new things. He only thought about protecting you. He never realized the effect it would have on your self-esteem. 

"I'm tired of being afraid. I've looked it up, and there are so many people with diabetes who are doing amazing things. I can stay healthy and still be a badass kid who tries new stuff."

He looked up, his eyes holding so much uncertainty and fear. Though through it all, love was the strongest thing in his gaze. He grabbed your hand once again with a tight smile.

"I hear you, I'm sorry. I never thought it would make you feel like this, or else I wouldn't have done it."

"Nick." You gave him a knowing look.

"Okay, okay. I might have still done it, but only because you're my baby sister, and I want you to be healthy and have a long, long life, okay?"

You nodded while tightening your grip on his hand. 

"I promise I will be less overbearing, and I will support you in whatever new thing you want to try."

"Thanks, Nick, and for school, could you maybe not come and do your big brother number in front of all my friends? I appreciate the gesture, but I'm over dealing with the dumbasses." 

He sighed heavily but still agreed to your request. "About that, just a piece of advice. I've learned that sometimes the thing we are afraid will show our weakness or vulnerability only does when we allow it to. Once you reclaim your power and own it, it all switches around. Anyone who has something to say about it will suddenly disappear, or you won't care what they have to say anymore."

You nodded sheepishly. You honestly didn't care about your diabetes. I mean, it could be a gigantic pain, and you would have to be careful for the rest of your life. But all in all, you were pretty lucky. You had your condition mostly under control when you weren't a sassy dumbass, and you had the best support system someone could wish for. 

"Look at me. You're going to be okay kiddo." Your brother squeezed your hand tighter in a reassuring motion. 

You lifted your head to meet his supportive gaze and smiled in return. Yes, you would be okay.

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Things Learned and Unlearned Ch. 1

Series Summary: Y/N has spent her life trying to outrun her mother's reputation. When she meets the rich and successful playboy, Dean Winchester, how quickly can he get her to stop running?

Pairings/Characters: Dean Winchester x Y/N, Sam Winchester, Jessica Winchester, Lucy Winchester (OC)

Warnings: Each chapter will have it's own warnings, but there will be smut, seduction, virgin!reader, playboy!dean, Edwardian era BS attitudes surrounding sex and women. (Technically it's set in 1900 and the Edwardian era started in 1901, but you get it.) Angst, Fluff, all the good stuff that regularly pops up in my series. 😁

Chapter Warnings: None really in this first chapter.

Word Count: 2,656

A/N: Okay, so this is the series that I orphaned over on fanfiction.net and I conducted a poll on what people wanted me to do with it if I brought it over to Tumblr. Converting it into a Dean x Reader AU won quite handily. So, that's what I'm doing. I hope you enjoy.

Just so everyone knows, this is a historical AU set in 1900, and there is no hunting involved. (Though there is a family business. 😄)

Series Master List | Main Master List | Tag List

Dean Winchester was bored; he admitted it. He was bored of the balls, the soirees, the empty conversations, the glittering jewels and the painted smiles. He needed a break. So he'd left New York City and all its glamor and come to Newburgh to spend time with his brother, Sam, Sam's wife Jessica and their little girl, Lucy.

However, now that he was standing in the quiet train station, waiting for Sam to pick him up, he had to wonder what he'd been thinking. With the sleepy ticket agent sitting behind the counter, gently dozing, and an old man sitting on a bench, lazily browsing through a local newspaper, this no longer seemed like a solution to his restlessness and boredom. This place actually seemed like the town that boredom was born and raised in!

But what could it hurt to stay for a week or two? He'd visit with Sam and Jessica, see how much Lucy had grown in the last year and maybe it would wash away the taste of sweaty, over-crowded ballrooms and smoky parlors with too much lemon furniture polish.

He shook his head. He didn't know what had gotten into him lately. That life was all he'd ever been interested in. Certainly, he'd never wanted his brother's life. Slaving away at his private law firm, saddled with a wife and child, and living in the middle of nowhere, a six hour train ride away from civilization; it had always horrified him.

In the last few months, however, the idea of breathing fresh air, of laughing with and even arguing with his brother, of bouncing his niece on his knee, and even the idea of listening to Jessica's bouncy chatter, had been growing in his mind until it was a constant disruption in his thoughts. So, he'd left the reins of his family's shipping and trade business in the hands of his very capable manager and sent a telegram to Sam that he was coming to stay, and to pick him up at the station.

But Sam was late. Dean had been waiting nearly an hour. Tired of standing around, Dean decided to wander a little. He woke up the ticket agent briefly to ask if he could leave his suitcase behind the desk with a message for his brother. The agent yawned and gave him a pen and paper, reaching over to take his suitcase.

Sam,

Got tired of waiting for you. Went exploring. Be back in an hour - two o'clock.

D.

"Thanks." He said to the agent, and set off on his quest to cure his boredom. There had to be something in this town to interest him.

***

Y/N breathed in deeply, and let out a long sigh. The air was crisp, fall air that smelled faintly of damp leaves, spice, and wood smoke. It was a warm and inviting smell and it made the lonely chasm inside her heart widen.

"Miss Y/N, watch!"

Y/N gave her attention back to the little girl who was running down the hill, scattering the birds, and laughing loudly. She couldn't help but smile at the little hellion. It might not be very ladylike behavior, but she wasn't even four years old yet. Y/N decided to save the admonishment and let her be a carefree little girl while she could. These years of innocence and abandon were fleeting. The little one should enjoy them.

"Hello."

Y/N jumped abruptly at a man's deep voice. With a hand over her thumping heart, Y/N turned to scowl at the stranger who'd startled her. As she looked up into his face however, her scowl melted and her heart started beating hard enough to jump out of her chest.

The man was smiling at her, a smile that hitched up one side of his mouth and made Y/N's breath catch in her throat. He was very tall, towering above her where she sat on the park bench. The perfectly tailored, brown traveling coat he wore stretched across broad shoulders and narrowed in a V shape over his flat stomach. His wool pants were of very fine quality and accentuated the strength and muscle of the legs beneath them.

He was beautiful, there was no doubt, but his eyes were something more than beautiful. They were a bright emerald green, long-lashed and penetrating. They stared into Y/N, like he could see through to her back collar button. His eyes alone caused Y/N to blush and she realized she was blushing because there were promises in his eyes, promises of something dark and sensual and all consuming.

He was speaking. She tried to clear the buzzing in her brain so she could hear him.

…"Dean."

She shook her head. "What?" she asked quietly.

He chuckled softly and Y/N's stomach clenched at the sound.

"Dean. I said my name is Dean Winchester and I asked you for yours."

"Y/N!"

At the sound of her name, Y/N turned, thinking wildly for a moment that someone had simply been telling this man her name, but then she realized it was Mr. Winchester, her boss. And as she realized this, the name the man had just given her penetrated through the haze in her mind.

She looked back at the stranger. "Winchester?"

But he wasn't looking at her anymore; he was looking at her boss who was jogging slightly towards them. "Dean!" he called out. "You weren't at the station, so I thought I'd track you down. Sorry I'm late." Mr. Winchester threw his arms around the man and pulled him into what looked like a bone crushing hug. But the man simply pounded Mr. Winchester on the back before her boss turned to face her.

“You’ve met my brother?”

***

Dean closed the door of his wardrobe and leaned against it, closing his eyes so he could bring that perfect face into his mind's eye. Beautiful (y/c) eyes, soft features, and an incredibly succulent mouth. He'd immediately had plans for those perfect lips and he'd already begun imagining them beneath his own, or moving down his body, slowly…

Then suddenly, he'd heard his brother's voice and was crushed in an embrace. When he pulled away, he could see the woman (Y/N?) was blushing profusely and trying to stare a hole into the ground.

He had quickly learned this woman was governess to his niece, his brother making the formal introductions. Lucy came running over and launched herself into Dean's arms.

"Uncle Dean! What did you bring me?"

"Lucy, manners." Sam had scolded. 

But Dean chuckled, and pulled gently on one of her braids. "I have lots for you, kiddo, but it's back at the station."

So, Sam had herded them all back towards the station. He'd told Lucy and her governess that they should get into the carriage as well and ride home with them, but Y/N had refused quickly, blushing again.

"No. Thank you, Sir. You're very kind, but Lucy needs to stretch her legs and wear off her energy. We'll walk back. I'll have her ready for supper at six o'clock." With that she took off with Lucy's hand in hers, walking fast enough that the little girl had to jog a bit to keep up.

"What did you do?" Sam had asked immediately, cuffing Dean none too softly in the back of the head.

"What?" Dean asked innocently. "I barely said two words to the woman."

"Really?" Sam asked, disbelievingly. "Well, two words from you and my level-headed, almost stoic, governess has turned into a blushing school girl."

Dean had just grinned. Sam rolled his eyes and cuffed him again.

Now Dean was changed out of his traveling clothes and into a fresh suit having bathed and rested. And he was bored once again. Sam had returned to his office in town to see his last client of the day and Jessica was out paying calls. He wandered around their modest, but beautiful home, reacquainting himself with the warm wood floors, expensive oriental rugs, and the smell of freshly cut flowers that Jessica grew in a hothouse in the back.

After a half hour, he was officially restless and all the signs of his brother's apparent domestic bliss had him desperate to find a distraction.

He wandered into the library hoping to find a book that might do the trick. Instead he found the beautiful governess he'd met so briefly. She was sitting on a green chair in the corner. She had her legs tucked up on the seat and one stocking clad ankle was showing as it peaked out from beneath her skirts. Lucy was nowhere to be seen, and he assumed she was taking an afternoon nap.

His body thrummed with desire immediately and he had to give his head a shake. He wasn't some green boy about to lift his first skirts. He needed to get control of himself.

Then she looked up from her book, sensing him, and her look of surprise mixed with the innocent desire that flooded her gaze took that control away in an instant. He pictured pulling her into his arms, and ravishing her sweet, lush mouth, which was now open slightly in surprise.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "I apologize, Miss Y/L/N. I seem to startle you each time I see you."

She closed her mouth and shook her head. "Not at all, Mr. Winchester. I'll leave you to your reading." She stood to go, but Dean leaned against the closed library door and crossed his arms.

"No, I'd like you to stay, please. Can you recommend a book? What are you reading?"

She took a moment before answering, swallowing several times. She held up the small book. "It's a book about biblical poetry."

"Oh?" Dean couldn't think of anything less interesting, but he moved to her side, and took the book from her hand as an excuse to get closer.

The scent of something sweet, but spicy hit him as he stood near her, making his head foggy, so it took him a moment to register what he was reading as he looked down at the page she'd been on, it was marked with a piece of ribbon.

Taking the ribbon out, he read the words again and then looked back at Y/N with an incredulous expression. "You were reading…this?" He turned the book back to her and pointed his finger at one passage in particular.

"Yes, that's right." Y/N confirmed. "I must confess, I'm not much of a poet, it all sounds fairly confusing to me. This poem talks about a man and woman who are gardening. What a mundane subject to write poetry about." She shrugged delicately. "But it is biblical, so I thought it could only enrich my mind."

Dean couldn't help the wicked grin that spread across his face. "This is the Song of Songs. It's love poetry."

Y/N looked puzzled. "Love? Of what, gardening?"

Dean's smile deepened. "It's written in metaphor. You know what a metaphor is, don't you?"

Y/N's expression became slightly annoyed. "Of course I know what a metaphor is, I'm a governess."

"Of course." Dean said and suddenly he had a wonderful idea. "Let me see if I can help you see the metaphor here. Sit back down, and allow me to read this section to you and see if you understand."

***

Y/N was trying hard to pull air into her lungs without appearing to pant. There must be something truly wrong with her that made these kind of thoughts run through her mind. She couldn't focus her gaze on anything. When she looked into his eyes, thoughts fled completely and her mind was just a rolling mass of red haze.

So, she tried to focus on his neck. But the column of his throat and square corner of his jaw, with it's slight shadow of stubble made her breath catch again. She looked lower to where his hands held the book. But his hands were large and his fingers were long and thick, with blunt squared tips. They made visions pop into her mind's eye, visions that no respectable lady would be having. She pictured those fingers taking hold of her hand, wrapping around it, she imagined the warmth of his skin on hers, and soon she was nothing but a mass of nerves again.

She was very proud of herself for getting words past her lips. But then he'd suggested he read to her and she heard herself agreeing. A part of her mind was telling her to simply leave, but she thought it might seem rude, he was the brother of her employer after all. So she sat.

He opened to her page and began:

Awake, north wind, and come, south wind! Blow on my garden, that its fragrance may spread everywhere. Let my beloved come into his garden and taste its choice fruits. I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride; I have gathered my myrrh with my spice. I have eaten my honeycomb and my honey; I have drunk my wine and my milk. I slept but my heart was awake. Listen! My beloved is knocking: "Open to me, my sister, my darling, my dove, my flawless one. My head is drenched with dew, my hair with the dampness of the night."

Y/N listened and the words themselves held no new meaning, she could find no metaphors in them. But she heard the husky timbre of his voice, heard the low rumble as his tongue and lips formed the words, and she suddenly knew that what he was saying was scandalous. She could hear the impropriety in his voice, knew it from the way it made her shiver. Quoting the bible shouldn't create such a hedonistic reaction!

She jumped to her feet, unsure of what her next move would be, but she knew she couldn't stay in this room alone with this man another minute.

Dean stood slowly, putting the book down.

"Did you like it?" He asked and his voice was rough and low, slow and drawling.

She shook her head. She definitely didn't like this feeling. Her head felt stuffed full of cotton and her body tingled. He stepped closer to her and reached out to take her hand.

It felt exactly as she had imagined. It was warm where his fingertips held hers.

"I just realized that when we were introduced earlier I was very rude. I didn't even offer a kiss for your hand."

He tugged gently on her hand and she shuffled forward until only a few inches separated them. Her breathing was rough and her mind screamed at her to pull away. But she didn't. Instead she watched as he brought the back of her hand up to meet his plump lips. They were smooth and warm, and his breath just heated her skin there.

He moved his lips slowly, turning her hand in his so he could kiss the inside pulse point of her wrist. She had to tell him to stop. He was behaving with unbelievable impropriety. But his lips…they moved again, grazing her skin as they did, up to the tip of her thumb. Then he kissed the tip of each finger, before grasping her hand more firmly and pulling her the last inch toward him, so that now she could feel the heat radiating off of him. He dipped his head and she felt his lips in the center of her palm. Suddenly she felt his tongue flick out briefly to taste her.

It was the jolt of fire that shot up her arm that brought her to her senses. She gasped loudly and wrenched her hand out of his. She stood frozen for a moment, staring at the mouth that had brought on such a feeling. Then, desperately, she bolted from the room, trying to outrun the image of the heat burning in those stunning green eyes and of the wide, sensual mouth she suddenly longed to feel against her own.

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters:

@lyarr24

@lacilou

@deans-spinster-witch

@globetrotter28

@suckitands33

@alwaystiredandconfused

@evznackles

@jackles010378

@impala67rollingthroughtown

@krazykelly

@candy-coated-misery0731

@envyaurora95

@spnwoman

@deans-baby-momma

@luvr4miya

@arcannaa

Dean Fics Only:

@roonthelittlespoon920

@slamminmine

@zepskies

@safiyas-world

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom:

@kazsrm67

@slut-for-evans-stan

@sexyvixen7

@nancymcl

@hobby27

@waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits:

@k-slla

@leigh70

@eevvvaa

@kickingitwithkirk

@foxyjwls007

@notinthislife50

@roseblue373

@mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@avanatural

@mrsjenniferwinchester

@all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

@deangirl96

[docholligay]

after episodes 110 and 111

Okay so four things might have been aiming for the stars, given my output this year, but if I get a little over a thousand words more it'll be 3,000, which is more than I've written in a day in....more than a year. Maybe two.

SO HERE is this one. More canon-complaint, or at least canon-friendly than usual (boo), it's about 1900 words.

You are special. There is something inside you, that makes you different. Important. 

She’d left the light on in her room, bright as day. Her mother wouldn’t bother coming in and telling her to shut it off, to go to sleep, to take her book and tell her she had school in the morning, and what was she thinking, reading this stupid thing at midnight? 

Haruka wished she would. 

The young boy on the page, a dragon at his side, sword in his hand, destiny in his blood--it was always boys who were brave, who were special, who did things, and did not need to be rescued--was the culmination of Haruka’s desires. He was upright and noble, even in his momentary sadness. It was true, what the wizard said. He was different. He was important. So important that it had been necessary for the beautiful sorceress, Aralith Starfall, to die to save him, her undying love on her lips to her last breath. 

Haruka wiped the tear, that was most certainly only from holding her eyes open too long, from her cheek. 

To be loved so deeply that someone would die for you, Haruka could not imagine, at 14. To have been born to a higher cause, every struggle and difficulty imbued with meaning. To carry a promise inside you. She closed her eyes, and wished into the starless sky. 

She should have realized that if there are no stars, you pray to the dark. 

Haruka had everything she dreamed of that night. A destiny. An importance. A woman willing to die for her. A sword, even. 

But Griffin Steelblade didn’t seem so bothered by it. His carefully-drawn face had betrayed no confusion, no uncertainty. Haruka, on the other hand, suddenly didn’t like any of it. 

It was true that they both had died, and the apartment was silent as the graveyard they both should have been in, but it wasn’t the same. They were fated warriors, chosen by God and Destiny, doing what they needed to for the princess yet to be revealed. It wasn’t a Steelblade story, and Haruka wasn’t supposed to be Griffin. They were both soldiers. It was a different story.

But Michiru lied. 

------

Michiru was, to put it mildly, unaccustomed to explaining herself, and she had no intention of starting now. 

What was done was done, and it had all worked out in the end anyhow, in a manner of speaking, and the princess was revealed, talismans obtained, so what Michiru had done or not done was immaterial at best. Pluto had said not a word to her on the subject, Usagi had been dismissed with a quick bow and a hissed, ‘at your leave, Majesty,’ and Mina had merely tossed her hands in the air while walking away. 

Michiru would do it again. 

The overwhelming burden of being chosen, of being special, was already Michiru’s at a tender age. Rich, pedigreed, almost certainly likely to marry within the circle of latter-day global debutantes, her head had felt the weight of a crown long before it had fallen to others. Not even the crown of a queen, but the crown of a princess, born only to be groomed and sacrificed as a perfect lamb in spring. 

When Sailor Neptune was draped upon her, Michiru was hardly surprised. Another requirement Michiru was born to, another kingdom or family pyre to burn herself upon. To fight a monster was not so different as to speak to some failing Duke looking for a dollar princess. Over more quickly, at the least. Michiru was quick and decisive in her work. 

She had not saved Haruka out of love. A creature like her could not feel it, the blade and the crown wrought in iron and gold. But Haruka was hers. Haruka was the only thing she had ever wanted for herself, in recent memory. Oh, perhaps a lovely dress, or a fashionable handbag, but that wanting was not like this. Desire. It curled in her mind, red and hot like the end of a cigarette. 

Michiru had been affronted that Eudial thought she could take what was rightfully Michiru’s. Everything else was merely detail. The only rules she had broken were self-imposed. 

Now the worst of it: Haruka was no longer sweet and amusing. She looked at Michiru as if the apartment were a boxing ring, and she was looking for a clear space, somewhere she could insert herself and claim victory. It was silly, of course. No one yet born could feint and jibe as Michiru could. They could circle each other until the end of time, round for round, and Haruka would never be the victor. 

Time would pass. Haruka would forget whatever silly little promise they had made to one another, and they would return to festivals and other amusements. Michiru would fight and curtsy and whatever else they wanted her to do, but this moment would pass without comment. 

Michiru did not explain herself. 

---

She lied. 

“If one of us should fall, the other will go on. It is a matter of duty. You understand duty, do you not, my gallant knight?” 

Michiru had tilted her head in the way Haruka loved, where the light would gently catch the edge of her eyelashes, the curl resting next to her cheek. 

“Yeah.” 

“So if I should be captured?” 

Haruka nodded. “I keep going. We gotta get the talismans.” 

Michiru smiled her closed-mouth smile. “Yes. Very well. Let’s begin.” 

But she lied. Haruka wasn’t stupid, she knew what Michiru said, even if she said it all flowery. Just like in the Steelblade comics, sometimes. Like Aralith used to talk. She said they both had to keep going, if one of them got caught. That was the rule. That was what they promised. 

Then Michiru came after her. Then Michiru died. 

Then they weren’t dead, which made bringing up harder. Easier, also, because you can’t bring something up when you’re dead. But harder. Michiru’d walked away from the cathedral that day saying there was no harm done, and was that cafe still open by their apartment? 

There was a dull ache behind Haruka’s breastbone, and she wasn’t sure it was from the gun. 

Michiru lied. 

The other reason it was hard to bring up was that Haruka had killed herself. Well, it was to get the talisman. So not killed herself, more like, ‘nobly sacrificed herself for the cause.’ But it didn’t sound as good as dying for someone. And Michiru died for her. But she wouldn’t say that, either. 

Did Michiru love her? She’d never said so. She let Haruka live in her apartment, but that was smart, because they were looking for the talismans together. Haruka went a lot of places with her, but it seemed Michiru was kind of lonely, so that made sense too. Sometimes, the way she touched her…but it was all silly. Michiru wasn’t going to fall in love with someone like Haruka. It was all business. 

But then she died. And she lied about it. And Haruka couldn’t stop thinking about those comics from when she was a kid. 

“Haruka, I won’t let you die.” 

It wasn’t “I love you.” It wasn’t. Besides, Michiru liked things her way. She was kind of spoiled, honestly, though Haruka thought it was a little cute. So, it could just be that Michiru didn’t like Eudial thinking she could do what she wanted. 

Every time she tried to say something, Michiru would dodge it, like they were kids fighting in the backyard, and she was too quick and too clever for Haruka. And she wasn’t Griffin. She was special, sure, but she was a side character. She did the dying. She wasn’t worth dying for. 

But Michiru did die. And she died for Haruka. She didn’t die for the talismans, even Haruka saw that. 

It had been easy to die. It was like she’d been holding her breath her whole life, waiting to die for something. To be a hero. 

There’s something inside you that makes you different. 

Maybe the hero got to live. Maybe true love conquered all. 

That was the end of it. From the moment Haruka said it to herself, she realized that whatever Michiru herself thought, and however broken and scuffed and worthless Haruka was, Haruka was in love with Michiru Kaioh. This had been true for months. Every time she looked at her, there had been a soft wash, like a watercolor painting, as if Michiru were too beautiful to be a real thing. Every time Michiru spoke, there was a light breeze, music, she could smell roses in the air. There was a perfect love, hidden by Haruka’s own fear. 

But if Michiru were brave enough to die, Haruka must be her knight gallant. Must be brave enough to live. 

If Michiru could lie for love, Haruka could tell the truth for it. 

---

Like a dark shadow in the sea, Michiru saw the moment approach. It lingered, and waited, peering up at her from beneath. Surely Haruka would say something, had been trying to say something since the whole incident. She opened her mouth, gaping like a big mouth bass, and when Michiru looked at her with whatever seemed most offputting: coyness, indifference, even laughter, she would close it. She would not speak on what she had done. 

Truly, the saving grace of the matter was that Haruka was not burdened by emotional eloquence. 

But the point was coming, whether Michiru liked it or not. Eventually, one’s opponent does attempt to land a blow. But no matter. Haruka was unaware that Michiru had more than heard of Haruka’s asinine little dalliance with martyrdom. The invocation of that, and all the waste of Michiru’s own sacrifice that it implied, would be enough to close the book on the matter for ever. Haruka would never be quick enough to catch her. Whatever had happened in the cathedral meant nothing. Might not even have happened quite as Haruka remembered it, over time and retelling. 

Michiru was the undefeated champion in this game, and Haruka would have nothing against her. She would not explain herself. She would not reveal the game. They would continue in their little play, and she would continue to have Haruka, and nothing would ever change. If she was to be Saillor Neptune, she would take this as her prize. 

It was true, that Michiru was sculpted and twisted into the thing that she was, and that Haruka could never understand that, but an inability to be a real thing did not--apparently--disclude her from wanting. And like a lovely dress, she would have Haruka, and she would take the thing she desired, and it would be hers. Haruka would stay because Michiru had everything, and would give it to her, and Michiru would never admit what she was afraid might be true. 

Haruka rose from her spot by the window and sat at the end of the couch where Michiru read. She drummed her fingers on the edge of her knee, licked her lips, and looked over Michiru, two short slow breaths coming as she let it rush out of her mouth. 

“Michiru, do you love me?” 

MIchiru sat up straight, closing the obsolete book in her hand, and tossed her back, ready to speak. 

“Because I think I love you.” 

It was the sort of think only Haruka could say to her: open and true and utterly artless. Devoid of artifice or poetry or anything but the raw bleeding edge of the moment. Her hands dropped, book in her lap, overwhelmed by that horrible leviathan of truth. The great punch, with no respect at all for rules or footwork or anything but what she felt, full on her face. 

K.O.

[aria-greenhoodie]

I’ve talked a lot about Abigale Blackwing and how I characterize her, but not so much about the other Anti-Cipherites… Let’s fix that!

Thurburt Mudget Waxstaff III - a clumsy and extremely passionate journalist and wannabe salesman (Couldn’t sell jack for shit without help from a certain demonic triangle, forever cursed to have only the worst possible ideas for how to pitch a sale). Can be EXTREMELY petty and spiteful, especially when he feels he or his friends have been wronged. Very pathetic, this man is a mess. Also extremely silly, one of the silliest men you will ever meet. The only reason he’s made it this far in life is because his whimsical nature makes his incompetence more endearing rather than annoying… that and his dad is rich. Has a… distant relationship with his father. Was always more of a mama’s boy, but his dad still finances his lifestyle while he tries (and fails) to keep a proper steady job. Only child (derogatory). Incredibly homosexual, never understood other men’s interest in women, was always enraptured by the men in his life. Tries to repress most of these emotions, due to societal pressures and legal restrictions on homosexual acts, but rest assured if he was alive today he’d be whoring it up with damn near any man he could find. Born to be a slightly problematic nepo baby in a giant gay polycule with drama and toxicity levels you could never even dream of, forced to be a failed journalist/salesman in the late 1800s, early 1900s plagued by triangles.

THINGS I ASSOCIATE WITH HIM - hydrangea flowers, rats and mice, snowy weather, jazzy piano music, the color light blue

Horace Broadshoulder - quiet and surprisingly soft spoken. Often used his sheer size as an intimidation tactic against those who have wronged his loved ones. Will not hesitate to punch a motherfucker for the people he cares about. The tough-guy persona easily melts away writhing a few minutes of talking to him, though. He’s a big sweetheart, very considerate and in-tune with his and other’s emotions. A lot of his tough-guy persona was created in response to growing up dealing with intense racism as a mixed race man in the Victorian and Edwardian eras, built in order to protect himself. His biggest dream is starting a family and raising the next generation to be smarter, stronger, and of above all else, kinder and more understandable than the current one. Has a bit of a temper towards strangers, but most of his friends and family have never seen him mad. The ones that have knew he was just trying to protect them (even if they think sending a man to the hospital over one rude comment about Horace’s sister is a bit extreme). Speaking of, Horace grew up with three sisters, one older and two younger. Loves his sisters to death, would give them the moon if he could. Really values family. Jessamine reminds him a lot of one of his younger sisters, gets along very well with her! He and his sisters were raised basically alone by his mother, funded by their wealthy father in secret. His father, as a white man of considerable influence, couldn’t risk being seen having relations with a black woman in a time of anti-race-mixing, so he rarely was in his children’s or his lover’s lives. Horace’s poor mother was head over heels for his father, but his father saw her more as a burden then anything else. Horace hates his father, low key, but would never tell his mother that. Horace is also bisexual, but wasn’t really aware of that till he met a certain pathetic journalist… cough cough…

THINGS I ASSOCIATE WITH HIM - chrysanthemum flowers, the smell of oak wood and freshly baked bread, the color peach

Jessamine Delilah Gulch - takes no shit, very no-nonsense. Raised in poverty and made a name for herself via the traveling western sideshow she joined as a teenager for extra cash. Has much more than “a bit” of a temper. Used to be known as “Trigger-Jolly Jessie” in her small home town due to her habit of “accidentally” shooting people in the leg or hip when they did something that pissed her off. It’s a wonder she never got apprehended for that, actually. Was taught to use a gun at a very young age by her uncle, who raised her along with her aunt. Her father was a drunk and her mother was institutionalized just one year after Jessamine’s birth for “hysteria.” Her uncle (her mother’s brother) and aunt took her in to protect her from her father’s drunkenness, even though they didn’t have a lot of money to spare to raise a child that wasn’t technically their’s. Has a massive respect for her uncle and aunt, but couldn’t stay with them for longer than what was absolutely necessary due to her not wanting to burden them. Always dreamed of becoming a famous singer and actress, but settled for being a sideshow’s sharpshooter in order to make ends meet. Many describe her as “severe” or “frigid,” but she absolutely melts around those she trusts, especially her dearest Abigale. Abbey loves her far more passionately and sweetly than any man could, she’s sure of that! Absolutely a lesbian, probably also on the grey-romantic spectrum too. No one has ever nor could ever catch her heart like Abigale has. She also has a puppy! Her name is Rosie, she was a mutt Jessamine found in her time on the road, and decided to take in. She’s a feisty little thing, but such a sweetheart!

THINGS I ASSOCIATE WITH HER - royston turquoise stone, daffodil flowers, hunting dogs, sherif stars, revolver pistols (specifically the U.S. Cavalry 1873 Henry Nettleton Revolver), the color grass green

Father Tinsley O’Pimm - a drunkard and a former man of the faith with no faith left in him. His family was middle-class and severely religious and suspected him of being gay at a young age, so they sorta forced him into training to be and eventually becoming a priest in order to “fix” him, or at the very least prevent him from doing gay shit. Never knew what he wanted to do when he grew up, so he sorta allowed his parents to set his life up for him without much complaint, even though he really didn’t like being a priest. Is now incredibly bitter and jaded about life in general, and no longer speaks to his family. Took up drinking in secret to ease the agony of living a life that was never truly his, but was eventually found out and excommunicated from the church. Clings desperately to his former-priest status, not because he truly believes in God nor because he liked being a priest, but rather just because he doesn’t know what else he would have been if not that. This man is going through it. Arguably the most sane of the Anti-Cipherites, when he’s sober anyway. Also the oldest, and often feels like he has to wrangle the rest of the society in at times. Extremely starved for love and affection. Discovers a love of gossip while talking to Abigale, as well as his love of men through two particular men in the society… guess his parents were right about one thing. Would never dare act on these emotions under normal circumstances, and starts actually sobering up a bit in order to prevent any “slips” from himself under the influence.

THINGS I ASSOCIATE WITH HIM - pomegranates, candles, golden jewelry, ruby stones, pigeons, the color red

Abigale Blackwing - eccentric, loud, and infectiously passionate. Born to a wealthy couple, her mother died tragically in childbirth, leaving her architect father to raise her alone. She was his world, and he did anything and everything to set her up for the most happy and fulfilling life possible. Crossdressed for much of her adolescence in order to sneak into prestigious engineering schools that did not accept women, backed up by documents her father forged for her. Completely fell in love with machines, wanted to dedicate her entire life to making mechanical marvels the likes of which no one has ever seen before! Youngest of the Anti-Cipherites, and also the most enthusiastic. Besides machinery and mechanics, Abigale also has an interest in fashion, as well as a love of gossip. God, she loves to gossip. She’ll talk your ear off for hours about some juicy new scoop she found out about that day, and when she’s done, she’ll talk your OTHER ear off about her newest invention and how it works. No sense of self-preservation, she’s blown herself up and set herself on fire for the sake of her inventions more times than she can count. It’s a wonder she’s even still alive. No regard for the law, she is ruled by her own wants and that’s it. Very touchy, especially for a woman in the Edwardian era. Always holding or grabbing or patting the shoulder of her friends. Also prone to playfully punching or swatting her pals while joking around, unfortunately also prone to forgetting her strength and accidentally hurting them (“Oh dear, I’m so sorry Thurburt, I hadn’t meant to hit you so hard!” “Oh no no no, that’s quite alright Abigale! You’ve got quite the arm there, haha! Ha… ow…”). Knew from a very young age that she had no interest in men, and a LOT of interest in women. Tried to court a few young women in her crossdressing days, but always felt terribly about having to lie to them about her true identity. When she met Jessamine, she fell completely head-over-heels crazy in love with her after only a few days. Obsessed with that woman, would litterally blot out the sun for her if she asked.

THINGS I ASSOCIATE WITH HER - allium flowers, gears and mechanisms, birds (specifically corvids like crows, ravens, and magpies), the moon, comets, the color purple

[mariacallous]

In her 1996 novel, Fieldwork in Ukrainian Sex, Oksana Zabuzhko wrote that for Ukrainians, “Fear was passed on in the genes.” Zabuzhko, one of the most important living Ukrainian writers, was referring to the childhood fear of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person in the Soviet era. Anyone who approached you could be spying for the KGB, and if you let a careless word slip, the bad men would come “and put Daddy in prison.” But that line captures what Zabuzhko’s novel is about: the inherited fear of oblivion born between the hungry jaws of empire, or what she calls the “eternal Ukrainian curse of nonexistence.”

Fieldwork in Ukrainian Sex was a sensation when it was published in Ukraine, but it took 15 years for it to be translated to English. Even then, it didn’t find a U.S. readership until the full-scale Russian invasion in 2022. The book’s path is emblematic of the tough road to English translation, much less readership, for novels written in Ukrainian. Until this year, not a single novel translated from Ukrainian had been published by a major U.S. publisher.

Tanja Maljartschuk’s Forgottenness, the first to break that barrier, is a book about Ukrainian identity and the struggle against nonexistence. Originally published in 2016, when it won the BBC’s Ukrainian Book of the Year Award, it tells the story of a contemporary Ukrainian writer who becomes obsessed with Viacheslav Lypynskyi, an important Polish figure in the early 20th-century Ukrainian independence movement. Lypynskyi studied Ukrainian at university in the early 1900s, when teaching the language was scandalous; both Russians and Poles considered it “a dialect of either Russian or Polish, or both concurrently.” Printing Ukrainian works was also prohibited, “punishable by imprisonment or exile.”

Throughout history, Ukrainians have faced this paradox: a denial of their existence (Ukrainian isn’t a language) combined with brutal repression (and you are forbidden to speak it). As Maljartschuk writes, the struggle makes many “lose their minds.”

Forgottenness is full of characters shrugging, often in dramatic situations. While American critics often lament shrugs (along with nods and smiles) as lazy dialogue tags, for the Ukrainian writer, the shrug is an important gesture. Soviet-born U.S. writer Gary Shteyngart once wrote, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, that Ukraine’s coat of arms could be a man shrugging. This attitude can easily be mistaken for nihilism, but it is far more complex than that. On its most basic level, it comes from a learned acceptance that many situations are beyond one’s control. For generations of Ukrainians, this acceptance has been necessary to maintain sanity.

Ukrainians have found different ways of shrugging. In Forgottenness, the unnamed narrator remembers how her father, like many Ukrainian men of his generation, became immersed in kung fu in the 1980s, needing to feel like he could protect himself. Her grandfather, after feigning insanity to avoid military service, worked as a forced laborer, melting down church bells that were transported across the Soviet Union to be made into weapons; for years, he responded to most things with a joke, fueling himself on laughter.

She remembers how her grandmother was left at an orphanage by a father who would soon die in the Holodomor, Joseph Stalin’s terror famine of 1932-33, during which millions of Ukrainians starved to death. In an attempt to understand and connect with her family, the narrator asks her mother how this genealogy of suffering affected her. “Mom shrugged. ‘What was there to be affected by? That’s how things were, and that’s all there is to it.’”

The narrator has the opposite reaction. Her fascination with Lypynskyi, who almost lost his mind, falling into infirmity under the weight of defending the idea of a Ukrainian nation, comes partly from identifying with him. For the narrator, her inability to shrug leads to an existential crisis. She becomes terrified of the outside world. For months, she stops going outside. She begins to mop her floor relentlessly. She stands on her head to see things from a different perspective. She obsessively reads old newspapers in search of references to Lypynskyi. She is desperate to understand history. In a recurring image of the novel, she imagines time as a blue whale eating plankton by the millions. There is no mystery as to whom the plankton represent.

The historical parts of Forgottenness can be challenging, both to follow and to witness, for the simple reason that Ukrainian history is challenging. Lypynskyi lived through the early 20th century, a time when hope for a Ukrainian nation flickered before being brutally smothered.

As the narrator puts it, in the three years after the Russian Revolution, “Kyiv, like a loose woman, changed hands over ten times … and each new seizure ended in bloody purges.” Borders change, names change, empires come, empires go, and everyone dies. One reason that Maljartschuk’s is the first Ukrainian-language novel to break into U.S. commercial publishing is that so many Ukrainian writers from the 20th century were permanently silenced.

As Ukrainian writer Anastasia Levkova recently wrote, under Stalin, 500 of the foremost Ukrainian writers were executed. But she is quick to point out that Stalin was not solely responsible for silencing Ukrainian literature: For example, Vasyl Stus, one of the most famous Ukrainian poets of the 20th century, died in a Soviet forced labor camp decades after Stalin’s death. It is not just Stalin, nor is it just current Russian President Vladimir Putin—it is the Russian Empire that denies Ukrainian history, Ukrainian language, and Ukrainian existence.

Ukraine, one character in Forgottenness laments, “has so many million bodies but so few actual people.” The Russian Empire won’t even allow remembrance of the bodies. When the narrator goes to visit Lypynskyi’s grave, she cannot find it, because the cemetery’s headstones were bulldozed and used to line the floors of pigsties during collectivization. How is she to come to terms with her past when the empire has erased it?

As she’s fighting panic attacks, the narrator watches pigeons across the street building nests and laying eggs on neglected balconies. “Once in a while, the building’s owners would toss the eggs off the balconies onto the asphalt below. The pigeons would then sit on the roof and dispassionately observe the destruction of their offspring.” The pigeons shrug not because they don’t care, but because—what choice do they have?

The narrator’s inability to be like the pigeons almost kills her. But she can still think, write, and face her crisis head-on. In what might seem like an anti-climax, but is actually a triumph, she seeks out a therapist. As she puts it, in her part of the world, “the human head has one purpose—to eat.” Her mother condemns her for being a drama queen. But the narrator finds another woman, a professional, who listens and who cares. She begins to trust her. She starts talking her way out. Through language and solidarity with a fellow Ukrainian, she finds her way back to the world.

Maljartschuk, a Vienna-based Ukrainian novelist, wrote Forgottenness between the Maidan Revolution in 2014 and the full-scale Russian invasion of 2022, a period when Ukrainian art, newly liberated from colonial shackles, was blossoming. Its Ukrainian title, Zabuttya, means both “forgetfulness” and “oblivion,” and although this is not a novel about the war, no event has brought the threat of oblivion into more urgent focus than Russia’s invasion.

According to Forgottenness’ promotional materials, Norton’s inspiration for publishing the book was a March 2022 article in the New York Times about the urgency of bringing Ukrainian literature to the West after Russia’s invasion. Because of the sudden prominence of Ukraine in the American consciousness, there is the temptation for Americans to read Ukrainian literature today anthropologically, approaching it as a window into the country instead of an imaginary story about Ukrainian characters.

To be clear, this is not a criticism of the publisher: I am very grateful that Norton published Forgottenness, and I hope that more U.S. publishers will follow its lead. But how does it affect the reader’s experience to approach the book with images of rubble in mind? How does an American reader get around the trap of reading Ukrainian fiction like it’s nonfiction—of reading it for information rather than emotion—when current events are the reason for its translation into English? The narrator’s panic attacks are brought on not by missiles but by the chaos in her mind and the fear in her genes. Is it not disrespectful to read the book as a guide to understanding Ukraine in 2024?

Fortunately, Forgottenness shares a way to read itself and also to read Ukraine’s latest fight for survival. Maljartschuk personifies the statewide struggle against oblivion in the individual struggle to accept the things you can’t change while refusing to accept the things you can. The struggle, I believe, applies to both the narrator and Ukraine, past and present. The story speaks to what came immediately before the book was published: the Maidan Revolution, in which Ukrainians from every class and background risked their lives to drive out the pro-Russian puppet government, holding Independence Square in Kyiv for three months in the face of a harsh winter, police snipers, government-hired thugs, kidnappings, and torture. But Forgottenness can also speak to what will come after.

The narrator says of her grandfather feigning madness to get out of fighting: “Between a slavish existence and a heroic death, he chose the former, and only thanks to this choice did I become possible.” In her words, she is “the offspring of meekness in the face of power and fear in the face of death.”

But there is no trace of meekness in today’s Ukraine. A generation of Ukrainian writers and artists are now on the front lines of battle or in the rear guard, tirelessly fundraising for equipment for soldiers.

“Everything I’ve done in my life has only come to be by overcoming great fear,” Maljartschuk said in an interview following the 2022 invasion. Fear, as Zabuzhko wrote, lives in the genes. But fear need not paralyze. “Ukrainians are no longer victims,” Maljartschuk added, “but fighters.”

[adarkrainbow]

Sometimes, people wish fairy tales were real life. But in some cases, we deeply regret it...

Today I want to briefly talk about an actual real-life case of Bluebeard - the infamous French serial killer Landru. Of his full name, Henri Désiré Landru. Of his mediatic nickname, "The Gambais Blue Beard". Never had a criminal case been so close to the world of fairy tales: people like to call murderers "witches", "ogres", "devils", but this man is an actual real-life Bluebeard.

The criminal investigation began in 1918, when the mayor of the small town of Gambais (Yvellines) received a letter from a certain Miss Pellat. Miss Pellat was worried about one of her friends, Anne Collomb: she had recently taken domicile with her fiancé, Mister Dupont, at Gambais, but since then had abruptly cut off all communications. The mayor unfortunately could not be of help: he had no knowledge of any "mister Dupont" at Gambais. Not much later, the mayor received another letter about a missing woman - this time it was a "miss Lacoste", who asked about the wellness of her sister, Célestine Buisson, who had recently moved to Gambais with a "mister Frémyet". But again, the mayor was at loss: he knew not of anyone by this name.

The mayor however had the two families get in contact, and they realized that mister Dupont and mister Frémyet were one and the same... And both women had answered almost identical matrimonial advertisements. This opened an investigation, led by inspector Jules Belin. They found that the this mysterious man had taken his fiancées to an isolated villa near Gambais, called "L'Ermitage" (the place here the hermit dwells) because it was 300 meters away from the nearest house. The owner of the house explained that he did not live by it - he was renting it to "mister Frémyet". Said mister Frémyet claimed to live in Rouen, but this was a lie, and all of his letters were actually redirected to the mailbox of a certain "mister Guillet"... located at the house of Célestine Buisson, the second missing woman, in Paris.

The investigation could have stopped there, if a neighbor of miss Lacoste hadn't recognized the mysterious man, getting out of a Parisian earthenware shop with a a woman. The inspector Jules Belin discovered that this man was the famous "Lucien Guillet", and he had left an adress to the shop - for a special delivery. Finding the adress to be in Paris, he was arrested, in april of 1919, on the very day he was celebratng his fiftieth anniversary with... his family, his wife and kids. And this is where the inspector discovered that Dupont/Frémyet/Guillet was in reality called... Henri Désiré Landru.

Let us go back in time to understand how Landru became the monster he is known as. He was not born in a wealthy family, though his family was not miserable and he had quite a happy childhood. He was born in 1869, his mother was a seamstress, his father a factory worker. In school he proved to be excellent at drawings and mathematics, which led him to perform some architecture studies (though he did not pursue there very far - enough to get some low-ranking positions at an architecture firm as his first job).

In 1889, the same year he got said first job, he encountered his future wife, Marie-Catherine Remy, daughter of a laundress. To seduce her, he lied - the first of the many lies he would tell her. He pretended to have a better job within the firm he worked with than he really had, and as such he managed to marry her in 1893 (he had to do three years of military service in-between). Together they had, beteen 1891 and 1900, four children. After the crimes of their father was revealed, they demanded to have their family name changed to one of their mother, Remy.

Landru was not someone whom fortune smiled upon. Between 1893 and 1900, he practiced a dozen of different jobs and was hired by fifteen different people - sometimes he was a plumber, other times an accountant, sometimes he made roofs for houses, other times he draw maps for various projects... With four children to feed, this clearly wasn't enough - the Landru clan was living in poverty. So, to take care of his family as best as he could, Landru decided to abandon honest jobs, and he got into scams.

From 1900 to 1914, Landru organied many different scams and crooked operations to steal people's money. His first scam was organizing a national advertisement campaign about a future motorized bicycle factory (he had indeed prepared the previous year an actual, serious project for motorized bicycle, which he used to fuel his scam). He took pre-commands, but asked for a third of the price to be paid in advance - and of course, no bicycle was actually built...

Constantly switching names, he kept inventing more and more tricks. Buying garages but selling them immediately before even giving the original owner their money ; encouraging investors to fund a factory that did not exist ; organizing engagement celebrations with a woman only to run away after stealing her bank shares... Unfortunately he wasn't really good at fleeing justice - he regularly got minor condemnations to prison, spending there some months or years a handful of times. One of these condemnations was cut-short after he attempted a suicide, and the psychiatric reports of the time are very interesting when it comes to Landru's mental state. Because they noted that he clearly was not insane... but they still wrote that he was not fully sane. Not disturbed enough to have any mental disease, but still too disturbed to be treated like a regular person.

What happened in 1914 that made Landru fall into his "Blue Beard" ways? Why switch from being a petty crook to a serial killer? The most common and accepted theory is that it is due to the justice system. Due to having been sent to jail for a given amount of sentences "above three months", it was decided that his next sentence was to be sent "au bagne" - at the Guyane penal colony. Not only would this mean an exile and a life-long sentence, but back in the 1910s, many people di not survive the penal colonies due to the awful living conditions prisoners had to undergo. This was a true death sentence. So, Landru decided that, next time, he wouldn't be caught...

From 1914 onward, Landru put together a large "marital scam" with deadly conclusions. He put out matrimonial ads, again inventing all sorts of names and pseudonyms, but always presenting the same identity - he was a wealthy and lonely widow searching for a wife. By lying like this, he attracted 283 different women, that he seduced and entertained for a time - but many he rejected and did not do anything with. Why? Because they were ot isolated enough, or not rich enough. Landru was searching for victims with no direct family or close friends, and with some money and goods (even if they were not wealthy or upper-class). He managed to find some... he found ten of them, and he killed them one by one.

Landru was an expert liar and a sweet-talker. After making his victims believe he was indeed the wealthy widow he pretended, he convinced them to sign papers that would allow him to take control of their bank accounts. Then he took them to an isolated villa, where he killed them. He killed his four first victims in a villa of the small town of Vernouillet, but he then switched to the Gambais villa he is most famous for, where he murdered seven more people. Why the change? Because one day, as he got back from the Vernouillet house, he got caught with an expired train ticket and he was forced to leave papers with the villa's adress. Not wanting to get caught, he changed his "murder lair". Once the murders were performed, he took all of the money of his victims, and then went to their house to remove their furniture and belongings. He was even helped by one of his sons to move the items into garages and storage rooms he rented, before selling them at auctions.

His son, you ask? Well yes. Because you see: Landru pretended to his wife and kids that he was an antiquarian, and second-hand dealer - and they thought that all these furniture he handled, he had actually bought... And wait, you still ask, seven plus four? It makes eleven victims, not ten! Indeed... Not all of Landru's victims were women. One was a man. When he killed in 1915 his first victim, Jeanne Cuchet, a 39 year old widow... he also killed her son, the 17 years old André, who had been taken with his mother to the Vernouillet villa. Landru seemingly did not want to leave any "collatoral damage" behind... Not even animals were spared: we know that around the time of the murder of his final victim, Marie-Thérèse Marchadier, the 37 years old owner of a prostitution house, he also strangled her three dogs and left their corpses in her house in Paris.

It has been regularly pointed out that the context of World War One, "The Great War", whose dates match the dates of Landru's murder (he began his fake marital ads in 1914, killed his first victims in February 1915, his last in January 1919), it what definitively helped and eased Landru's transformation into a serial killer. His mental state, already withered by his family's poverty, his mythomania and his fear of the punishment of justice, clearly worsened with the ambiance of death and destruction of the conflict. And the confusion and chaos caused by the war made his murders much easier. If he could regularly return to his wife and kids for brief sojourns, even though justice knew he was a convicted crook fleeing his sentence and his sending at a penal colony, it was thanks to the war keeping everybody busy. If he managed to attract so many lonely bachelors and widows in search for some money and a more stable situation, it was thanks to the war. And the war even helped him with his lies and fake identities: he kept pretending he was a refugee from Northern France (which was then occupied by the German forces), and used this as an excuse for him not having any official papers.

Let us go back to when Landru was arrested.

The police found the many garages where he kept the furniture of his victims. It also found his full and complete comptability - which not only revealed the vastitude of his marital scam (as he had kept the names and adresses of all of his 283 "eventual fiancées"), but also listed all of the tools he had bought for his murders (metal saws, wood saws, lot of coal). How did Landru killed his victims? We don't know exactly how - did he poison them, strangle them? It is a mystery to this day. But we do know how he got rid of the bodies... When investigating the Gambais villa, police found burned remains in the chimney and in the stove. A few pieces of burned female garnment... and burned human bones. Three heads, five feet, six hands. It is considered today that Landru cut off the body of his victims in pieces - the large parts (torso, arms, legs) were buried in the forest or thrown in ponds, while the smaller parts (head, hands, feet) were burned in his stove and/or chimney. In fact, despite being isolated, L'Ermitage still got complaints by those living closest to it due to the "foul smells" that came out of its chimney from time to time.

But what condemned Landru more than anything was a little black notebook he had with him all the time... A notebook in which he had noted the name of the eleven missing person, with hours associated with them - likely the hours of the murders. As I said before, Landru had been an architect and accountant as well as a scammer - he was talented for mathematics and preparations, and from his days as a simple mythomaniac thief he had kept the habit of noting down everything. The name of his victims, the amount of money taken, his fake identities... And he had kept this habit, even as he had put up murderous plans. A final proof, which he tried to explain poorly to the justice: every time he brought one of his victims to Vernouillet or Gambais, it was by train, and he always got a two-way ticket for him... and a one way ticket for the woman.

Landru's trial began in 1921. It was one of the marking cases of the decade. All the newspapers were talking about this (even regularly mispelling Landru's name), and many famous singers and actors of Paris at the time came to assist to the trial - even foreign aristocrats came in France just for this occasion. It wasn't just because of the enormity and morbidity of such a case, as serial killers weren't truly a "thing" back then ; it was also due to Landru's own behavior.

Landru tried to use his eloquence, arrogance, humor and talent for acting to move the trial into his own way. It did not work, as he was condemned for his crimes, but it still managed to make his trial a true show. Many of Landru's lines were preserved by records and newspapers - his jury was known to often laugh at his jokes. He kept denying having killed anyone. "Show me the corpses!" he said. "If these women have any problem with me, they should file a complaint!". He admitted to the lies, the scams, the thief - he even cried when he admitted he cheated on his wife... But he pretended this story of "murders" was fully invented. "Mister, you keep speaking of my head - I am sorry I do not have many to offer you!" ; "Me? I made people disappear? Well, if you start believing anything the newspapers claim...". To the jury he kept saying they shouldn't bother to come all the way to the courtroom for "such small things", and he even had this crazy exchange with the judge. When the judge asked him what his children could think, seeing him with so many women, h answered "Mister the Judge, when I give orders to my children, they obey it, and I do not need to explain the why or the how. I wonder how you raise your own kids!"

The lawyers also kept putting out "coup de théâtre" after "coup de théâtre" - such as bringing in the courtroom the very stove in which Landru burned his victims. But the most famous episode is this one: the lawyer in charge of defending Landru claimed that the victims were not dead. They were alive, and about to enter the courtroom... right now! Immediately, all of the people of the jury turned their head towards the door, from which no one came. The lawyer, happy with his trick, explained that this was a proof that, deep in their heart, the jury knew there was a possibility for these women to not be dead, else they wouldn't have turned their head. He wanted to convince them that, subconsciously, they could feel these accusations were ridiculous and unfounded. However this turned against him when the other party noted "But... have you noticed? Landru did not turn his head."

Landru was beheaded at Versailles in 1922, and up until the end he still had a good word. To the priest who asked him if he believed in God, he answered "I am going to die, and you want me to play a guessing game?". To the man who offered him a last glass of rhum and a last cigarette, he answered "No, it's bad for the health." And to his own lawyer, who asked him if he was ready to finally confess to the murders before dying, he answered his last words: "This, Master, is my small luggage..."

There are many more things to say about the Landru case - the drawing he made of the stove, and behind which he wrote a mysterious sentence which might have been a confession ; the way his murder-villas and his stove kept being sold around and transformed through the following decades, but since we are looking at a Blue-Beard, I want to focus on how, despite being recognized as a well-known murderer, he still had women fall in love with him... After his arrest, and until his execution, he received four thousand letters of admiration from women, eight hundred of which were apparently marriage proposals.

The last of the lovers of Landru, the woman he was living with when he was arrested, and the one who might have been his next victim, was Fernande Segret. Fernande Segret, who admitted in court that Landru had tried to poison her two times during her relationship... Fernande Segret, who organized a trial for diffamation when in the 60s Claude Chabrol made a movie about Landru and partially won it... Fernande Segret who, on the anniversary of Landru's wedding proposal to her, in 1968, killed herself by drowning at the Flers castle: she still had a picture of Landru in her bedroom...

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Breaking the Class Ceiling Chapter 1

This is set in early 1900s U.S.A., during the Edwardian era with some style changes into the upcoming Art Nouveau period. I've changed history a bit for this. Pretending that America didn't have a full Civil War and trying to create a more optimistic outcome for the purposes of the story. I've also tried to research what the rules for society/socializing were back then, and tweaked some of them.

Warnings for upcoming chapters: minor character death, some sexual harassment/assault (but nothing too graphic or traumatic), smut.

Next chapter

The year was 1904.  America was in a technological boom and desperate to prove itself as a major power.  After infighting and a near civil war there had finally been peace and treaties made just years before, and as everyone learned to live with each other and create equity within their communities, prosperity flourished.  The World Fair was to be held in St. Louis, Missouri, that year, and the entire eastern seaboard was abuzz with excitement.  As families who had been previously destitute were now doing better financially they were all making plans and investing in the finer things in life, including making the big trip to St. Louis.  

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, the son of an office manager, was taking up on his father’s work under a local lawyer in Brooklyn, New York.  He’d been working as a clerk in the office since he was a teenager, balancing books and ordering supplies.  His penmanship was the best in the office out of all the other clerks and receptionists, thanks to his mother, so he was in charge of handling official letters and working with dignitaries in the area.  It got him connections with the high class, and he was able to make good friends with business men’s sons, who were born into money.  He was able to get invited to all the big parties, hitch along with the high-brow at sporting events, and court the higher class women.  

His father, George Barnes, was proud of him for rubbing shoulders with the old money men.  Bucky and George were able to make a good living, but nothing that compared to the types of things that Bucky had been able to experience.  George encouraged him regularly to find a well off young woman to marry so that his future would be set.  Bucky worked and saved to make sure he had the best clothes and accessories so he would blend in with his friends, saving for his future when he could.  No woman in high society would give him a chance otherwise.

As Bucky was partying and scouting the local women, you moved back into town.  A rich woman whose family had hit it big in the beginning of the oil industry, you were the only one left after a long bout of illness that took your family.  All you had left was your uncle Alonso, who pretended to care for you, but was hitching his wagon to yours in hopes of a monetary gift and retirement.  He acted as your chaperone and matchmaker, looking for promising young men that he felt were worth your fortune.  Unfortunately for him, you were not looking for the same criteria of men he was.  He wanted someone high class, also from a well off family, or someone who would add to your fortune.  You wanted love, friendship, companionship, with someone who wouldn’t be intimidated by your fortune and your confidence.  A rich woman with full access to her own money was few and far between in this century, and you knew it.  You didn’t need a man, you wanted one.  A good one. 

The news of your arrival spread quickly.  Your last name was plastered on many a product and business, as you invested heavily in your home state, and the idea of an American princess returning after years of traveling was an exciting change of pace for Brooklyn.

“Good morning Bucky!” Steve Rogers greeted loudly as he swung open the office door, making it bang against the window behind it.

“Jeez, Steve, don’t break the glass, will ya?” Bucky grimaced, but gave him a clap on the shoulder in greeting.  “‘Morning, punk.”

“Oh, sorry,” Steve said sheepishly, checking on the glass then turning back to the front desk.  “Hey, did you hear about the Y/L/N girl coming back to town?”

Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork, “Yeah, I heard.”

Steve looked at him expectantly.  “And?”

Buck glanced from the papers, the pencil in his hand hovering over the stack, “And what?”

Steve snorted at his best friend.  “And what?  She’s throwing a party!  It’s gonna be the biggest party Brooklyn’s ever seen!”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you got your invite already,” Bucky looked back down at his paperwork.  Steve came from a wealthy family who had made good money after selling a number of sugar and tobacco plantations.  His father had invested well and they were able to live on without needing to work anytime soon.  Of course he’d get an automatic invite.

Steve sneakily took out an envelope, a sly look in his eye.  “Yep, and I may or may not have bribed the mailman to give me yours, too,” he waved the envelope in Bucky’s face.

Bucky gawked at him, his eyes widening as he stared at the envelope.  Sure enough, his name was written on it in pretty script.  He ripped it from Steve’s hand and hastily opened it.  The paper was high quality, the writing done with a neat hand.  His eyes flew over the page as he tried to comprehend the words.

“I got an invite?” he wondered quietly.  

“Yep, that’s all you, bud,” Steve beamed at him.  “And before you ask, no, I didn’t pull any strings or make any calls.  She invited you specifically.”

Bucky was having a hard time understanding.  He never got personally invited to things, he was always the tagalong, the guy who had to be let in by his friends who put a good word in for him and opened those doors for him.  

“But…why?” he thought out loud, looking off through the window at the people passing by.

“Beats me,” Steve said nonchalantly.  “But it’s gonna be the bee’s knees.  That mansion we’ve always wondered about downtown?  That’s hers!  The whole place is being cleaned up and prepared for a big night.  You’ll need new clothes,” he finished quickly, straightening up and dusting off his suit jacket.

Bucky sighed at that.  “I don’t have enough savings for a whole new outfit, Steve.”

Steve waved him off, “Please don’t insult me.  When you’re done today stop by Barton’s and he’ll get you fixed up on my tab.  And I’ve given him strict instructions to not let you barter him down to cheap materials, so don’t you dare try it, Barnes.  You will go to that party in glad rags just like everyone else.”

Bucky wondered what he’d done right in a past life to get a friend like Steve.  “Thanks Stevie, you don’t have to do that.”

“Bullshit I don’t,” Steve countered.

“Language!” a yell came from the back.

“Sorry Mr. Fury!” Steve yelled back, looking sheepish again.  

“Alright, I’ll go,” Bucky quickly agreed, knowing he’d have no other way of looking appropriate for such a fancy function.  He knew of you, hell anyone would have to be living under a rock to not know who you were in America and many parts of Europe.  He wondered how you’d heard of him and what made you want to invite him at all.  Things were changing in society, but inviting a clerk to a multimillionaire’s mansion was still strange.

***

The weeks seemed to fly by as the party approached.  Bucky had been fitted with a whole new suit from Clint Barton’s warehouse.  Steve bought him a new straw hat for it being the first spring party with a crimson red ribbon, a matching crimson lounge coat and pants, white dress shirt, an off-white and navy plaid waistcoat, cobalt blue bow tie and cognac-colored Oxford boots that were shined to perfection.  To up the ante Steve threw in gold chain cufflinks and a matching plaid pocket square.  Bucky always brought his own pocket watch given to him by his father.  It wasn’t in the best condition, so it could give away his status, but it was the one piece he wouldn’t compromise on.

Bucky had seen the hustle in town get worse as the party got closer.  The women were desperately trying to find new fabrics and accessories to make them stand out and be in-fashion to catch your attention.  The barbershops and salons were busier than usual as people got themselves cleaned and spruced up.  There was one particular day where the sounds on the street had become quite intense as a crowd followed someone.  He looked out the window and could only make out the top of the hat on your head as people not-so-discreetly-whispered your name repeatedly, some being brave enough to approach you on the street and introduce themselves to try and gain favor.  He wondered what you looked like, what you’d be like, what things you’d seen on your travels.  He didn’t want to get his hopes up.  He was getting older than most of the upper class men around him, and hadn’t been able to peg down an upper class woman, let alone any woman yet, but you had invited him to what would be the biggest party of the season, so he hoped you were a little more open to people from all walks of life rather than just the upper crust.

Party day began with a buzzing excitement over the city.  Bucky could feel it himself as he finished work that day and ran home to wash up and get ready.  Steve was going to pick him up in his car so that they could come in style, and Steve was desperate to show off his new 1903 Pierce-Arrow.  Bucky knew he wouldn’t be able to fool you into thinking he may be in a higher social standing than he was, but he would at least show you he could play the part.  

The mansion was nestled in between other downtown homes that paled in comparison to its opulence.  The gilded aged home was covered in turrets and filigree detail around the edges and doors.  Fresh flowers were adorning every window facing the street and the front entrance that people were filing into by the time Bucky and Steve pulled up.  Pastel floral colors and shining buttons with pristine white satin gloves shone in the sunset as they entered the front hall.  Traffic jams were happening every ten steps as the partygoers got lost in the decor of the mansion, craning their necks as they looked up at the paintings on the walls and the murals on the ceilings.  Bucky found himself getting caught up in the majesty of the mansion as well.  He and Steve had peered into the windows through the years as it sat empty, wondering what it looked like inside.  Nothing in his wildest dreams could have prepared him for what it was.

The ushers herded the people along the hallways towards the middle of the house, which opened up into a grand ballroom.  Seating was scattered along the walls with waiters holding platters of decadent-looking food and sparkling champagne flutes.  A small orchestra was playing in an upper balcony above the party, with another balcony across the way holding a band that waited for their turn to play.  The fresh flowers continued inside along the walls and pillars providing a sweet smell to waft through the room.  As everyone was finally admitted and waited in the ballroom the orchestra became louder to gain the attention of the audience.

Everyone fell silent as the orchestra finished and all turned their eyes towards the doors at the other end of the ballroom from where they’d entered.  After a brief pause the doors opened and presented the host of the party.  Good god, Bucky thought.  You were dressed in a cadmium blue evening gown that had elaborate ruffles and appliques that shimmered under the lights.  The neckline was wide, the off-the-shoulder sleeves hanging on your upper arms showing off your upper body, and the front dipping lower down your chest than what was considered normal or appropriate in American fashion, displaying a tantalizing view of your cleavage.  Whereas all the other women had their hair curled and pinned up on top of their heads, your hair was in intricate braids and wispy curls with pieces deliberately falling out, the rest pinned up with sapphires.  Instead of traditional white pressed gloves your hands were adorned with lace gloves that matched the color of your dress.  You also weren’t wearing an overly restricting corset.  Everything about your outfit made you stand out.  Bucky could hear a few light gasps and whispers in the crowd at your dress choice, and it made him smile.  As you confidently walked into the ballroom, smiling kindly at everyone, he noticed a mark on your upper left arm.  Was that…a tattoo?  Unheard of.  You were a walking contradiction, and he felt like he was going to like you already.  Just a step behind you was an older man that was dressed more in the British fashion, looking out at the crowd and scanning carefully.

“Well, this should be interesting,” Steve murmured next to him, raising his eyebrows and taking a sip of the champagne in his hand.

“Mmhm, this should be fun,” Bucky agreed, his smile widening.

A butler walked forward from the side where you entered and cleared his throat, “Presenting, Lady Y/N Y/L/N, and her uncle, Mr. Alonso Y/L/N!”

The band now took a turn as you let people come up to you first, greeting them politely and giving customary head bows and occasional handshakes.  As you glided through the people Bucky pulled Steve along to a point where you’d be walking by soon.  “Come on, Steve, you gotta introduce me,” Bucky urged him.

“Buck, you introduce yourself, you got a personal invitation.  You don’t need me,” Steve protested, trying to finish his drink.  

As they settled in their spot, slowly pushing forward to greet you soon, you finished talking to a man who evidently thought highly of himself, a Mr. Rumlowe, who eyed you like something to eat.  Bucky knew him and his reputation.  Seeing the tightness of your eyes as you dismissed yourself from him, he hoped you could already see past his facade.  Your eyes fell on him and Steve and you smiled politely as you walked up to them.

“Miss Y/L/N, my name is Steve Rogers,” Steve spoke up first, giving you a head bow.

“Ah yes, Steve, your father was a good friend of my late father,” you said, your eyes shining at the recognition of his name.  Your uncle behind you shifted as he recognized the name as well, his mood lightening.  “He always spoke highly of your family.  I am planning to call on your parents at a later date, I hope you’ll join them when I do.”

Steve seemed delighted at the prospect of the meeting, “Yes of course.  My father has spoken of nothing else since your arrival.  You may get his card before he gets yours.”

You laughed lightly at him, introduced your uncle to him, who was very interested in Steve, then turned your attention to Bucky.  Your bright Y/C/E eyes gave him a quick look up and down, as if memorizing him.  Bucky knew he looked a bit more colorful than the other men in attendance, a purposeful choice that he was now patting himself on the back for making.

“And you must be James Barnes,” you offered him in greeting.

Bucky’s eyebrows raised, “Yes, Miss Y/L/N, I’m surprised you know me already.”

You raised an eyebrow conspiratorially at him, “I do, your mother was a favorite of my mother’s.  I do wish I had had a chance to meet her.  My mother always spoke fondly of her,” you added, a look of mourning flashing across your face.  “I have a photograph of them together, and you look just like Winifred.”

Bucky’s breath hitched at the mention of his mother.  She had died suddenly a few years ago, taking his father’s cheerfulness with her.  She had been a bright light in the community, always looking out for others and educating the girls in the neighborhood.  He remembered her mentioning your family’s name before as being good people, but nothing concrete that would have made it seem like they were close friends.

“Oh, that’s very kind.  I am sorry I didn’t know they were good friends, but she always spoke highly of your family,” he added politely.

You nodded, your eyes searching his face for a moment.  You then surprised him by reaching your hands out for his.  He quickly met you halfway, reciprocating the greeting so as not to embarrass or reject you.  Your uncle scoffed and excused himself at your actions.  If his dismissal bothered you, you didn’t show it.  A quick glance at your hands and arms revealed that the tattoo peeking out from your sleeve was an elephant with an Indian print inside of its shape.  He could feel the stares on him as you held his hands, stepping closer to him to speak lowly.

“I hope you and your father will accept my deepest condolences.  Losing a mother is…” you trailed off, your eyes growing sad as you searched for the right words, “it is one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced,” you squeezed his fingers.  “I plan to call upon you and your father as well, please promise me you’ll accept?  I’d like to be your friend,” you proclaimed.

Bucky was floored.  It was extremely bold for a woman to ask for friendship outright from a man, and yet you showed no signs of embarrassment or hesitation at the situation you’d just created with him.  He lightly squeezed your fingers back, giving you a small smile.

“Yes, of course, Miss Y/L/N.  I’d love to be your friend, as long as you save me a dance,” he teased her.  He knew he was pushing his luck and protocols of manners, but he was rewarded when you gave him a hearty chuckle.

“Of course, Mr. Barnes,” you answered him, letting go of his hands and lacing yours together in front of you.  

“Oh please, Mr. Barnes is my father.  Friends call me Bucky,” he added.  Although it was incredibly informal to give you the option to call him his nickname, he could tell you were more open to a break in etiquette.

You smiled widely at that, “Hm, Bucky.  I like it.  Well my friends call me Y/N,” you offered him your first name back.

“Y/N,” he repeated, liking the way your name sounded on his tongue.  

You gave him a quick sly smile, “I like your candor Bucky.  Come find me soon for that dance.”

“I will, Y/N,” he gave you a smirk back.

As you bowed your head in farewell and moved on to the next person Bucky couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.  He turned to Steve whose wide eyes were gaping at Bucky in amazement.

“What just happened?” Steve asked once you were out of earshot.  

Bucky shrugged as he picked up a champagne flute from a nearby waiter, “I don’t know, but I like her.”

As the night drew on and you had greeted everyone at least once, the dancing began.  The orchestra and band took turns each song, playing slower European melodies and then switching to more American upbeat tempos.  You flitted across the dance floor, taking short breaks here and there to speak to the groups of women in the room, making small talk and promising audiences and outings.  Bucky was impressed with your ability to charm each person you talked to, ignoring the stares and sideways glances from disapproving eyes and enjoying yourself.  You ate freely, which was also strange, as most women didn’t snack offhandedly in upper class dance settings, and you nursed a champagne flute between each break you took from dancing.

Bucky decided it was time to take you up on that dance, moving through the crowd until he was on the outskirts of the dance floor, waiting for you to finish your current dance with Steve.  You spoke with him as you danced, your laugh ringing out periodically at something he said.  As he watched he felt a hard nudge to his side.

“You’re a real popinjay,” Brock Rumlowe muttered, bumping his shoulder into Bucky.  

Bucky rolled his eyes, not deigning to turn towards him, “And how’s that Rummy?”

“Don’t call me that,” Rumlowe grunted.  He pulled out a small box, opening it to reveal a white powder.  “Tonic?” he offered it to Bucky.

“No,” Bucky scoffed.  

“Your loss,” Rumlowe shrugged, taking a quick sniff before pocketing it so no one would see.  “You think you’re real big stuff, hm?  Getting to hold her hand and get an invite?”  He circled around Bucky’s back.  “You’re nothing,” he spat.  “Here among the high life, you’ve got nothing to offer her, or anybody for that matter.  I wonder if she knows your clothes were bought for you, by your beau Rogers.  Just go home, you mooching, freeloading, indigent bum.”

Bucky breathed deeply to calm himself.  Normally he’d just sock Rumlowe, but not here.  His father would never forgive him.

Rumlowe chuckled at his silence.  “We’ll see who she chooses.  Her uncle’s scouting for suitors.  She’s getting older, needs to marry and hand down that fortune to somebody.  Don’t want a spinster with that much money and a dead womb, such a waste.  I think he likes me,” he added.

Bucky sighed, “A woman with her fortune doesn’t need an elder to decide her future for her, Rummy,” he chided, finally giving him a glance.  “You’ll have to impress her, not the uncle.  And judging from the look on her face after meeting you earlier, I’d say you’re not winning any prizes soon.”

Before Rumlowe could say anything the dance ended, everyone clapping as they separated from their partners.  Steve saw Bucky on the side and led you over to him.  

“Ah, there you are, Bucky!” you chimed, your eyes lighting up.  “I was beginning to think you’d disappeared on me.”

“Never,” he said, placing a hand on his chest in jest.  It made you giggle.  “May I have that dance you promised me earlier?”

“Yes,” you answered, nodding resolutely. 

Bucky offered his arm to you and led you out to the floor, giving Rumlowe a triumphant smile.  Rumlowe gave him a scathing glare then stalked off.  Steve laughed and pumped a proud fist in Bucky’s direction.  As they got into position and the music started Bucky tried his best to look like he knew what he was doing.  He’d had some practice in dancing at other parties, but wasn’t the best at remembering which dances went with which songs.

As you came together and he took your right hand in his left, then wrapped his left hand around your waist, he pulled you in a little closer than he would normally.  Your eyes widened slightly but you smiled easily, letting him guide you across the floor.  

“You’ve come back from some long travels, is that right?” He started the conversation, wanting to learn more about you.

“Yes, I’ve been working my way through Europe, Africa, parts of the Ottoman Empire, and then the East Indies,” you answered.  “After my family passed, I was looking for an escape, so I quite literally ran away from my problems to tour the world.”

Bucky laughed at the forwardness in your answer.  “Well what better way to handle grief than to ignore it?”

You chuckled at his joke, enjoying the fact that he was willing to entertain you and speak plainly without such pretense.  You meant it when you said you enjoyed his candor.  You were looking for someone to not only share your life and fortune with, to create a family, but for someone you would genuinely enjoy spending time with and who would let you live your life without constant chastisement about rules and standards.

“I wouldn’t say ignore it, more like work through it while working through the countries,” you explained.

Bucky’s eyes lit up, “Oh? And what did you find while you were out there?”

Your eyes glazed over slightly as you remembered your travels.  “I found a new god in each place.  Rejection of a god.  A new way of living.  A new way of grieving.  Acceptance,” she trailed off.  

Bucky tightened his hold on you, grounding you back into reality.  You wistfully came back to the present, squeezing his arm that you were holding.  “It was beautiful,” you whispered.

He smiled at your tone.  “It sounds beautiful,” he agreed.  “I would like to see more of the world someday.”

“I hope you do.  It’s good for you,” she smirked at him.

“Is it?” he chuckled again.  He then leaned in and lowered his voice, “If you don’t mind me asking, is that where your tattoo comes from?  The east indies?”

You glanced at the tattoo and nodded.  “Yes, India, it was amazing there.  The air is filled with spices!” you whispered at him, your nose scrunching and eyes narrowing as if you were telling him a secret.  

Bucky had never met a woman like you.  All the etiquette and propriety that everyone else was adhering to you seemed to throw to the wayside.  It was hard to get to know women in society well before courting them, and even then everything was watched by chaperones or the public around you.  Finding someone with a full personality that she was unafraid to boldly show off was new.  He wasn’t sure how to handle it, but he liked it.

“I’ve read about India, my father was always picking up books about far off places.  He loves learning about tropical flora and fauna.  He used to have quite a garden before my mother passed,” Bucky continued the conversation, not wanting to lose the momentum in their interaction.

Your eyes widened considerably.  “Ooh!  I have a greenhouse!  In the back courtyard!  I was able to bring home many tropical plant species, and I’ve had a gardener taking great care of them.  I will show it to you when you and your father come to visit,” you offered excitedly.

The music died down and you both pulled away to give a proper bow.  As you straightened up Bucky quickly took your left hand, and in a quick flourish pulled your glove off your hand and kissed over the knuckle of your ring finger.  There were audible gasps around you at his brashness, whispers and gossip erupting in quiet fervor.  Pulling off a glove was scandalous, seen as a form of undress.  You gasped lightly, a look of shock briefly gracing your features, but you quickly schooled yourself and smiled widely at him.

“Thank you, Y/N, for this dance, and your offer,” Bucky held your bare hand in his for a moment longer, giving you a deep gaze before placing your glove back in your hand.  “I look forward to the greenhouse tour.  My father will be pleased.”

He bowed his head, gave you a wink, then walked away into the crowd.  You stayed still, your right hand sliding over your bare left hand, gingerly touching the knuckle where his lips had been.  A blush filled your cheeks as multiple women surrounded you, giggling, gossiping and fussing over getting your glove back on.

NEW STORY!

Here's something I thought of. I hope you guys like it. I tried to write it as a "You" fic rather than Y/N, but there are a couple of Y/N's here and there for dialogue.

[guerim]

Parallels/the story between mother Miranda and mama Isabella in my rpg with them being a couple

So, they have been together for ten months, married but not everything has been easy.

Isabella managed to escape from Gracefield (and alive), we know what supposedly happened, right? She adapted and began living in France, even adopting the surname "Desrosier" She became a great lawyer and she is a great woman in business, in getting what she wants and knowing when to back down and act like a good person. She has many social skills except when her feelings are genuine.

And one day, she was traveling to Romania, there she met her new client, Alcina Dimitrescu, who was having many accusations about the situations of the castle maids and the horrors that happened there. Serious accusations from those who managed to escape the castle.

And for Isabella, it was like working with demons all over again.

Alcina gets very stressed about business, it is difficult to be an entrepreneur in the new century, different from what it was in the 1900s onwards. She and Isabella met regularly in the capital of Romania but one day Alcina couldn't go, she sent one of her daughters instead; in fact she wanted to send Bela but Bela was busy with her "grandmother" and in her place went Cassandra.

Cassandra always liked fun and business was boring for her but she behaved herself and at the end of the day she managed to drag Isabella to a party to take advantage of the fact that they were in the capital. Isabella hates parties. So there she was hiding in the bar drinking a good wine and after a few hours she managed to talk a little with Cassandra and in that conversation Cassandra mentions her "grandma" Miranda. This caught Isabella's attention.

Miranda's small cult had become something big, now she owned beautiful churches, beautiful cathedrals and had enough money to invest even more in research to save her Eva.

And Isabella was determined, she knew that now that she was over forty, getting married would be difficult, not that she cared about it, she didn't care. She even dated a man before but ended it. But she wanted to meet Miranda, a woman with a lot of power, maybe it was Isabella's instincts to go after that.

So, she finds Miranda at the church and she waits for everyone to leave to talk to Miranda. She is then impressed, Miranda is beautiful, blonde, tall with hers 1.85 meters. And nervously, she doesn't know how to hide what she feels when it's genuine so she says to Miranda:

"you're my wife."

Miranda laughs, she looks at that woman, beautiful but bold. In disbelief she asks "what?"

Miranda has always known she was a lesbian, she knows it's normal, she's a biologist and she knows that homosexuality is normal at the same time she was born in the late 1800's in Eastern Europe where it's not normal, at least it wasn't in the past.

Isabella gets mad, why is her new wife laughing? She wants something, she gets it. But she doesn't show anger, she has a calm smile. "You are my wife."

Miranda was in disbelief, she could kill this woman with one hand without making any effort and she was there wanting to impose something. She was also suspicious, what does she want?

"And what makes you believe that I like women?"

Isabella remained silent, staring at Miranda as if it were obvious and Miranda with her arms crossed.

"I know what my wife likes."

Miranda raised an eyebrow, still in disbelief at how bold this woman could be.

"And what's your name?"

"Isabella."

And in this way, Isabella convinces Miranda to go out with her. Miranda wanted to find out what this woman wanted.

But Isabella was serious, she imposed herself and was going to get what she wanted even if it took months and Miranda, suspicious, was going to dissect and know everything about this woman and her intentions.

And so their story begins.

@isabellasgfriend

[deathbystero]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 - 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐨

𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐠𝐞 (𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟗𝟑𝟔) - 𝟏𝟖 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐧 - 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖

Marko grew up in the early 1900s with his mother and siblings in a little house in Italy. He knew very little about his father for the man had died in a work related incident a little after he was born and his mother never seemed very open to discuss the topic further.

The family lived in poverty, rarely able to scrape together enough money from their meagre wages to feed everyone, and more often than not, there was no food at all. Marko did what he could to help out, but it was always down to his older siblings to bring in the money. At times, he was left feeling rather helpless, as if he was just an afterthought,  an unwanted burden on his mother's shoulders. He was another mouth to feed, another being to clothe and shelter. 

When there was nobody home, his siblings were usually forced to take him along when they went into town to sell their wares. As far as Marko knew, none of them ever made much money. His mother would make her own way in the world by sewing dresses and selling whatever she could find but it wasn’t enough. 

Eventually, when Marko had just turned thirteen, the dreaded letter came through the post, giving the family a month’s notice to pack up everything they owned before they were evicted and forced out onto the streets. It was a cold hard truth that had been long awaited, one that everyone in the family had known was coming but which none of them had truly believed. 

His siblings hadn’t stuck around, running off to start new lives just days before the eviction, while Marko was forced to stay behind, clinging to his mother like a scared child. She couldn’t afford to pay rent on even the cheapest of places and they didn’t have any relatives willing to let them stay over until they could get back onto their own feet again. So, with little left to offer, they packed whatever items they had left and ended up on the streets, surviving on the bare minimum. 

Marko's mother found a job washing dishes at a small inn, spending the money she made on alcohol and drinking herself into oblivion every night. He was forced to watch helplessly as she fell apart, unable to do anything other than be there for her as best he could, cleaning up after her and keeping her safe at night. 

While she was at work, Marko roamed the streets, stealing whatever he could get his hands on and eating what scraps he could find. He found himself hating his siblings, hating the idea that they'd gotten away so easily while he was stuck here with no money and an alcoholic mother to take care of. They were lucky. He wasn’t. 

One evening in August,when Marko was sixteen, his mother disappeared, never returning from work. He had tried searching for her, running up and down the streets like a lost puppy, wailing and calling out for her, but it was futile. The woman was gone and he was alone.

He returned back to their pitiful shelter and wept into the night, praying desperately that someone would come for him, would care for him. That night, he cried himself to sleep,  exhausted and starving, whilst he dreamt up a carefully formulated plan; a plan to flee the country and start anew. 

There was a boat, Marko discovered, set to leave early the next morning, taking both cargo and passengers to America. It was his only chance and so he grasped it  eagerly, leaving their sorry shelter behind in search of freedom and adventure.

He snuck his way into the storage hold where the ship was docked and hid under a blanket until dawn broke, the ship pulling away from land and taking him away from the only place he’d ever known and to somewhere entirely foreign. He held onto the hope that maybe things would improve once he found his way there, but deep down he knew he was being foolish. He was a sixteen year old boy, underfed and poor, who hardly spoke a word of English and had no family to fall back onto if all things went downhill. What could he possibly expect to find?  A life amongst strangers would not give him a better chance than he already had, who wouldn't spare him an ounce of pity even if he begged on his hands and knees? What was he thinking? He had to have been totally crazy. No sane person in his right mind would risk their life like this. And yet, here he was still trying. Still trying his hardest to make something of himself. 

The ship docked in America about a week after it’s departure, and Marko was greeted with a strange mix of excitement and dread. He'd been expecting something akin to Europe, but what lay before him was anything but glamorous or fantastical. He felt completely at odds with the people that walked past him,  some laughing and chattering loudly, others barely sparing him a passing glance. He was surrounded by strangers and so incredibly out of place. If anyone should've noticed him in the crowd, they gave no indication of it as they continued talking and laughing and chatting around him with equal gusto, unaware of his plight. 

He wandered about the bustling streets for hours, eventually finding an alleyway to curl up in and wait out his hunger pangs. He’d found very little food on the boat, taking what he could from crates and boxes without  much thought, not caring if he was eventually caught. His clothes were dirty and tattered, worn thin and threadbare, his shoes covered in dirt and grime, and he was positively sure he looked absolutely deplorable. Biting his lip against his inevitable tears, he buried his face into his knees,  hugging himself tightly, shivering violently. Sleep seemed like a far off thing,  impossible to come by as his thoughts kept circling around how utterly hopeless he felt, how utterly alone he was.

It wasn’t until several days later that his luck seemed to change, a not so dim light appearing at the end of the tunnel. He'd found a little abandoned warehouse full of art supplies; crates of leftover paint, paint brushes which had certainly seen better days, and canvases, most of which were torn and tattered, but usable nonetheless. 

Marko has gathered up everything he could get his hands on, seeing an opportunity to make some cash, and spent almost the entire day painting whatever came to mind. He was surprised at himself - he didn't remember the last time he painted, but somehow this was different.  Like he was drawing for the first time, like he was creating something entirely new. There was a sense of wonder that he couldn't explain, an awe he hadn't known since childhood. This wasn't about making money. This was about finding himself. 

When he finally emerged from the building, covered head to toe in brightly coloured paint stains and tired from lack of sleep, he decided he might as well try his best at selling what he had created, knowing that nothing else would provide him with any kind of income. It didn't matter that he lacked experience with art, that he was untrained. The paintings were his ticket. The only way out of this misery he lived in. 

And so he set about selling everything he had, working his hardest, desperate to make every penny count. And, boy, did people pay. It was almost comical at how careless the rich were with their money, throwing it at him with no regard as to what it might go towards, as long as they got whatever it was they wanted in return.

Marko was soon able to afford enough money for food and clothes, settling into the little warehouse and sleeping on an old uncomfortable mattress stuffed into one corner, surrounded by crates of paint and brushes.

He took pride in the fact that he had made something of himself, having managed to carve out his own niche with a little bit of paint and a couple of worn out brushes. He felt good about the fact that he had managed to become somebody, somebody who had a purpose, somebody that mattered in the world. 

When he turned 18, Marko took to wandering a little further into the city, searching for inspiration and finding plenty. It became routine for him;  he worked late nights painting whenever he was able, waking up with the sun so that he could spend the morning wandering before returning to paint once more. He sold his creations out on the streets, bought  meals and slept rough. He was happy. He felt complete. He should've been happy, content with his living situations, besides it was more than he'd ever thought he'd have, and yet he still felt as if something was missing. That loneliness still lingered, that hollow feeling that wouldn't go away. 

In November of his third year on the streets, Marko met two men whilst out wandering at night, shaking off the disturbance of a rather unpleasant nightmare. 

The first of the two was blonde, his hair messy in a styled kind of way, with piercing blue eyes and sharp, handsome features. The second was tall with dark hair and a strong jawline, seemingly just as striking as his friend. Both were dressed entirely in black and approached Marko much in the same way a predator would its prey, a smile adorning each of their faces. 

“Can I help you?” Marko asked quietly, his accent thick and heavy, despite his best efforts to hide it. 

The blonde one grinned, “You’re a runaway, aren’t you, kid?”

Marko hesitated for a brief moment, weighing up his options before nodding slowly.

The man reached out a gloved hand, offering to shake, “I’m David.”

“Marko,” Marko replied quietly, shaking his hand.

David nodded, seemingly satisfied. His friend said nothing. “Where are your parents?”

“My mother's dead…” At least that’s what he thought. 

“Your father?” David pressed.

“Dead too…”

“So… it’s just you then?” David questioned, tilting his head slightly. Marko nodded, looking down at the pavement. What did these guys want? Money, drugs, sex? Who knows, but Marko certainly wasn’t too keen on finding out. 

“Hey,” This time, it was  the other man, the brunette one, who reached forward, his hand landing upon Marko's shoulder. “We ain't here to hurt you, kid. We're here to help.”

Help?  Marko furrowed his brow.  “I don't need no help.” “Of course not,” David interjected before the boy could say any more, “But that doesn't mean we can’t offer it. You're young, lost and all alone in this world. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a friend or two?” 

A friend...  That’s what he’d been seeking, someone to rely on. Someone to show him that he wasn't completely alone in this. But was it really possible for him to turn to these strangers, especially after everything he'd been through so far? Could he trust them? They were probably just playing a trick on him. They'd probably planned to kill him and leave his body somewhere and never bother him again. So why should he believe them?

“Look,” David began, “I know we seem shady, but I promise we'll do nothing to harm you. Right, Dwayne?” 

The brunette nodded. “We just want to help.” 

This was a mistake. These two men could easily kill him, leaving him to die on his own somewhere. Or they could rob him. Or beat him senseless. Either option would be equally horrible.... but something about them told Marko that maybe they were being truthful. Maybe they did actually want to help him.  Maybe they meant what they said, because they weren't bad people.

“... okay…” Marko muttered softly, raising his eyes to meet theirs. 

The two men smiled, sharing glances between each other before turning back to Marko. “Great! Let's get going now shall we?”

Marko stared at them for a while longer,  trying to gauge if they were telling the truth or lying, before nodding slowly and following after them. 

Marko became the third member of Max's family that night, and for the first time in his life, he felt complete.

A/N: This is way longer than I'd expected it to be, and, although it started of a little bit shitty, I think it got better towards the end. As I've said before, this is my own take on things; none of what I have written is canon in any way, shape, or form and is simply a silly little thing I came up with over the x-mas break!

[absoluteocellibehavior]

Oscar and Our Lady of Guadalupe

I've talked a bit about Oscar and his connection to Mary on here, but I figured it would serve best to actually put it together coherently.

Firstly, I must address the fact that, like many of the other people in the Malevolent fandom, see Oscar as Hispanic. Now, you may be saying "Ocelli! How in the world could Oscar be Hispanic? He is very clearly Scottish. Listen to him." yada yada and I hear ya. I hear ya. However, I cannot get the image of it out of my mind and this was before there was a lot of fanart of him out there. However, I do have some mild evidence of this. The Hispanic population in New York is very little in the 1900 area which is about the time we are estimating that Oscar was born. However, it's not zero. Additionally, there is a large percentage of Hispanic people that are Catholic, making Oscar's parents much more likely to have given him to a Catholic orphanage. With such a low population of Hispanics in New York coupled with the spike in racist nationalism occurring at the time due to European immigration, it is very likely that Oscar's family didn't have the means to raise a child. Based on the fact that Oscar never knew his parents, it's most probable that he was dropped off as a baby in which he was still learning how to speak. Therefore, he has a Scottish accent because he learned how to speak from his Scottish caretakers. This also gives reason for Oscar ostracization in the orphanage. Unfortunately...racism. It's assumed that Oscar never got adopted due to his violent act against Father McKenna, but this probably only agitated the motivations of not adopting him due to his race as well. Oscar's role in the church is somewhat in the background. It's assumed that he would run certain masses but based on the amount of availably he had in Season Four, it's probably just to fill in for daily mass. Rather, he focuses on serving the community. He would have been increasingly difficult for him to have been an authority figure in the church, but he fought tooth and nail for it in order to be able to balance out the evil in the magisterium like Father McKenna. This doesn't mean that they'd allow him to do everything he should be able to, hence him being put in the "messy" jobs so to speak. Oscar loves what he does, and he won't ever complain about it nonetheless.

With that explanation out of the way, I'm going to double back to the fact that Oscar NEVER was adopted. He never had a healthy father or mother figure in his life. So, I find it likely that Oscar would lean into Mary and Joseph as his spiritual parents. Think about it. I love the idea that he wears a rosary constantly. Someone once explained to me that holding the rosary was the equivalent of holding Mary's hand. So, Oscar wears a rosary as a symbol of his mom's protection and her watching over him.

Something that only enhances this, is Oscar discovering the appearance of Our Lady of Guadalupe. As Catholics, we believe that there have been multiple appearances of Mary all over the world. One of which (my personal favorite) is Our Lady of Guadalupe. As the story goes, Mary appeared to St. Juan Diego, an Aztec convert to Christianity in the 1500s, four separate times as a woman of mixed Indigenous and European features. She asked for a shrine to be built on the place which she appeared at (Tepeyac Hill) which the bishop of the region hesitated to do. On the fourth appearance, Mary instructed for Juan Diego to gather roses from that hill and bring them to the bishop. These roses were miraculous for two reasons: they were blooming in the middle of winter, and they were native to the bishop's homeland of Castile. When Juan Diego opened his cloak full of roses, an imprint of Mary was revealed to be on the inside of the cloak that we know as the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Our Lady of Guadalupe plays a large role in not only Mexico's religion but in its overall history. All that is to say, I think Oscar would find great comfort in not only Mary, but specifically Our Lady of Guadalupe. In the face of persecution, he was able to look up to Our Lady of Guadalupe and St. Juan Diego for guidance and spiritual support (yes, yes, he wasn't canonized until Pope John Paul II but this happened centuries earlier and he would have heard about it. Sue me). Additionally, I’d like to think Oscar picks his birthday to be December 12th, Our Lady of Guadalupe’s Feast Day, in order to share it with his “mom”.

Well! There you go! This is a very important Oscar headcannon to me and I thought you all might appreciate it!