#i feel if it was a constant life or death situation i would DEFINITELY recall

[grapecaseschoices]

just a smaaaaaaallll nitpick. but it really annoys me how da4 over explains ... or rather hand holds the audience. to the point that they neglect/forget what makes sense for the character.

what you mean my ANTIVAN CROW MAGE doesn't know how templars work in the north?? like unless i missed something and it's just that way in tevinter. but like .... shouldnt they at least know THAT. as a crow? even as a bad student??

it could've easily been rectified by having rook be like oh my bad, i've been in the south too long. or brain fart moment. i'm tired. or whatever else could fit there.

but nah. rook stands there like newb. why?

[solelifauna]

Definitely NOT Invincible (Yandere Invincible & Reader)

Pt.3

When depression hits hard.

Later that day, you and your friends gathered at the usual spot behind the school—an old, forgotten storage shed that had become your makeshift meeting place. It was secluded enough to keep your conversations private, and right now, privacy was exactly what you needed.

You all sat in a circle, the air heavy with unspoken tension. The reunion earlier had been emotional, a moment of pure relief in the chaos, but now reality was crashing down on all of you. The weight of the situation pressed on your shoulders as you faced your friends, each of them looking as shaken as you felt.

“How the hell are we going to do this?” Hallie muttered, running her hands through her hair in frustration. “We have to stop the world from being taken over, fight off Demogorgons, and—” she gestured wildly, “go to school like nothing’s wrong? My mom’s already noticed I’m acting different. I’ve barely been back a day, and she’s asking questions.”

You winced. Hallie had always been the one who had a close relationship with her family, and hiding things from them wouldn’t be easy. If her mom was already suspicious, it was only a matter of time before she started digging deeper. “What did you tell her?” you asked quietly, dreading the answer.

“I told her I wasn’t sleeping well, which, I mean, isn’t a lie.” Hallie sighed. “But it’s more than that, you know? She can tell something’s off. I can’t just pretend everything’s fine. I’m… different. We all are.”

Connor, who had been sitting silently up until now, finally spoke up, his voice shaky. “My family knows something’s wrong too,” he said, staring down at his hands. “I had a full-blown panic attack yesterday when I heard explosions on the TV. It was just a show my brothers were watching, but… I freaked out. My parents had to spend half an hour calming me down and coaxing me out from under the table.”

His face was pale as he recalled the moment, and you could see his hands trembling slightly. The trauma of being in an active warzone, of watching the world fall apart, had left scars that none of you could hide. It wasn’t just the physical scars from fighting; it was the emotional ones, the kind that didn’t heal easily.

You all exchanged grim looks. None of you had really considered just how hard it would be to hide what you’d been through. Surviving in an apocalyptic world, facing death at the hands of the people who were supposed to protect you, and then actually dying—it was too much. Too much to carry, and now you were back, thrust into your old lives, expected to pretend like none of it had happened.

“I guess we didn’t think about the trauma,” Weston murmured, breaking the silence. “It’s not like we didn’t deal with it before… I mean, fighting Demogorgons wasn’t exactly easy on any of us, mentally or physically.”

He was right. In your previous life, the constant battles with Demogorgons had already left you scarred. You’d all had nightmares, sleepless nights, and moments of pure terror even back then. But now? Now there was another level of horror you had to contend with. The memory of your skull being crushed by your own father, the feel of death creeping in—it wasn’t something you could just shake off.

“And now we have even more to deal with,” You said grimly. “It’s not just the Demogorgons. We have to stop Omni-Man and Invincible from taking over the world. How the hell are we supposed to do that while we’re still dealing with all of this?”

You didn’t have an answer. No one did.

“It’s not fair,” Weston muttered, and all eyes turned to him. “Why does everything always fall on us to solve? We’re just kids! Freshmen in high school, for crying out loud! We should be–I don’t know, playing, going to parties, worrying about homework and who’s crushing on who.” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Instead, we’re stuck trying to save the world, fighting monsters, and keeping it together so our families don’t figure out we’ve been dead. It’s not fair.”

His words hung in the air, the truth of them sinking into everyone’s minds. It wasn’t fair. Not in the slightest. You were all supposed to be worried about grades and fitting in, not about war, apocalypse, and death.

You sighed, nodding in agreement. “You’re right. It’s not fair. None of this is. But we don’t have a choice.”

“We never really did, did we?” Hallie said quietly. “Even before this—before all the time travel and Viltrumite stuff—fighting Demogorgons wasn’t exactly a normal kid thing.”

You sighed. He had a point. None of you had ever really been kids, not for a long time. While everyone else your age had been worried about tests and dances, you were out there fighting for your life, battling creatures that no one else even knew existed. The things you had seen, the things you had done—no child should have had to face that. You hadn’t felt like a kid in years.

“Feels like we never got to just be kids,” Connor murmured, his voice strained. “We’re always the ones stuck with the impossible. Every time, it’s on us to fix everything.”

You bit your lip, the anger inside you simmering. It was like the universe had decided to heap every impossible task on your shoulders, expecting you to carry the weight of the world while everyone else went on living their normal lives, oblivious. And now, even with the chance to live again, to be back in time, it still wasn’t really your life, was it? Not with everything you knew.

You were forced to be soldiers in a war that hadn’t even started yet, while everyone else was blissfully unaware of the destruction to come.

“I’m just tired,” you admitted, your voice softening, the exhaustion you felt finally bubbling to the surface. “We should’ve gotten to feel normal, at least for a little while.”

The group fell silent, the truth of your words settling in. No one argued with you because they all felt it too. The unfairness of it all was suffocating. None of you had been kids in a long time, even though, by all rights, you should’ve been. Life had robbed you of that, forcing you into roles you never should have had to take on.

“But,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat, “it doesn’t matter how tired we are. We don’t have the luxury of being kids anymore, do we?”

Hallie looked down at her feet, her lips pressed into a thin line. “We haven’t been kids for a while.”

You nodded, looking around at your friends—your teammates, your family. “And I guess we’re never going to be. So we have to handle this the way we always do.”

“We fight,” Weston said quietly, but with conviction.

“Yeah,” Connor agreed, though there was a distant, haunted look in his eyes. “We fight.”

It wasn’t fair. It never had been. But deep down, you knew you didn’t have a choice. You’d survived worse before, and now you had a second chance. As much as you wished things could be different, the reality was clear. The world needed saving, and once again, it was up to you to do it.

The conversation eventually shifted from emotions to logistics. You all knew what needed to be done, but the how of it was trickier. “We need to tip off the Guardians,” you said, glancing at your friends, who nodded grimly in agreement. “The sooner they know what’s coming, the better.”

Hallie bit her lip, thinking it over. “But it can’t come back to us,” she said, her voice firm. “If the government finds out it was us, we’re screwed. They’ll lock us down, probably treat us like we’re a threat or something.”

Weston nodded, his brow furrowed. “Yeah, and if Omni-Man and Invincible find out…” He didn’t need to finish that sentence. You all knew what would happen. If your father and brother found out you were behind the warning, they’d kill you without hesitation. You couldn’t afford to be sloppy about this.

“So we’re agreed then,” Connor said quietly. “No one can know it’s us. We have to figure out a way to warn the Guardians without leaving a trace. But… how?”

You all sat in silence for a moment, the question hanging in the air like a dark cloud. It wasn’t just about warning the Guardians—it was about doing it in a way that kept all of you safe. There were so many risks, so many things that could go wrong. You’d have to plan carefully, every detail accounted for.

“We’ll figure it out,” you said, though you didn’t sound nearly as confident as you wanted to. “We just… need more time. We can’t afford to mess this up.”

Hallie sighed. “Yeah. But we can’t wait too long, either. The Guardians don’t have much time. We don’t have much time.”

Connor let out a shaky breath. “We’ll come up with something. We always do.”

The conversation continued for a little while longer, but there were no concrete solutions yet. The weight of everything was heavy, and the longer you talked, the more overwhelming it felt. Finally, you all came to an agreement—you’d figure out the details later. Right now, it was getting late, and school was looming over you like a grim reminder of the double life you had to live.

You hated it. The thought of going back to school, pretending everything was fine, acting normal when nothing was normal anymore. But for now, that’s what you had to do.

With another emotional goodbye, none of you really ready to leave each other, you finally parted ways. It was always hard to say goodbye these days, even though you knew you’d see each other the next day. Still, after everything you’d been through, every goodbye felt a little too final.

As you made your way home, the cool night air helped clear your mind a bit. But as you approached your house, you glanced at the time on your phone and cursed under your breath. It was late—too late for you to just walk through the front door without raising suspicion. You’d have to sneak back in, the way you’d done so many times before.

Luckily, your bedroom window was right next to a large tree, its thick branches stretching out toward the house. You’d used it countless times to sneak out during the night—mostly for Demogorgon hunts, other emergencies, or just moments when you needed to breathe. No one had ever noticed you were gone before, and you hoped tonight would be the same.

You scaled the tree easily, slipping through your window with practiced quietness. Your room was dark and empty, just as you’d left it. You landed on your feet with a soft thud, shutting the window behind you and breathing out a sigh of relief. Another successful sneak-in.

As you peeled off your jacket and kicked off your shoes, your mind buzzed with everything that had been said tonight. The Guardians. The warning. Your double life. You were exhausted, but sleep didn’t feel like an option. Your thoughts raced too fast, the weight of everything too heavy to ignore.

But you’d have to manage. You had school in the morning, and you had to act like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t living on borrowed time in a world that had no idea what was coming.

You stared at the ceiling, the darkness of your room feeling more suffocating than comforting.

We’ll figure it out, you reminded yourself.

But you couldn’t help wondering if there’d be enough time for that.

Sleep didn’t come easy. Your mind was racing with everything you had discussed with your friends—plans, risks, the weight of the world. You tossed and turned for hours, until at some point, exhaustion finally claimed you around 1 AM. But it wasn’t peaceful. Your sleep was fitful, plagued by nightmares that wrapped around your mind like chains.

Suddenly, you jerked awake, a small scream ripping through your throat. You bolted upright, cold sweat drenching your skin, your heart pounding in your chest as if it were trying to escape. For a moment, you couldn’t remember where you were—your mind still trapped in the vivid images of your dreams. It took a few seconds to realize you were in your bedroom, safe in the quiet of the night.

You took a few deep breaths, clutching your chest in a futile attempt to calm your racing heart. Your hands shook slightly as you ran them through your hair, trying to shake off the lingering terror of the nightmare. It had been so real, like you were reliving every moment of your death, your father’s hand crushing your skull all over again.

Carefully, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your feet touching the cold floor as you nudged the door ajar. You peeked through the crack, listening for any signs of movement in the house. The hallway was dark and still, and after a few moments, you sighed in relief. It seemed like your scream hadn’t woken anyone up. The last thing you needed was to explain why you were screaming in the middle of the night.

You checked the time on your phone. 3:17 AM.

With a frustrated groan, you realized there was no way you were getting any more sleep tonight. You felt too wired, too shaken, the adrenaline still rushing through your veins from the nightmare. Instead of lying back down and risking another round of restless tossing, you decided to head downstairs.

The kitchen was your destination, and you had every intention of making yourself a cup of tea or coffee—anything to calm your nerves. But once you made it to the dining room, something inside you crumbled. You found yourself sitting down at the table instead, your head falling into your hands, elbows resting on the worn wood surface.

You zoned out, your mind going blank as you stared ahead, your hands cradling your head like you were trying to hold yourself together. You felt small. Pathetic, even. You couldn’t even bring yourself to make coffee, let alone deal with the impossible task that lay ahead of you. Everything felt too heavy, too overwhelming. For all the strength you had shown fighting Demogorgons and surviving the apocalypse, right now, in this quiet house, you felt more fragile than ever.

Unbeknownst to you, someone was watching.

From the shadows of the staircase, Mark stood silently, his eyes locked onto your hunched figure as you sat there, lost in your own world. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t move. He just watched.

From where he stood, you looked so small, almost frail. It was crazy to him that the two of you were even related, considering how different you were. You, with your fragile human body, your easily bruised emotions. He, on the other hand, had grown stronger, more powerful. The gap between the two of you had widened so much over the years that, in his eyes, you weren’t even in the same league anymore.

But that’s what Mark had always obsessively loved about you. His precious little sister. You were human, weak, and that meant you relied on him and Dad to protect you. To him, that was your role—to be the one he could shelter and protect. The one who couldn’t do it on her own.

At school, he had made it very clear to everyone: you were off-limits. No one dared lay a hand on you, not with Mark’s reputation looming over them. If anyone even thought about hurting you, they’d meet his fist—and death—before they had the chance to follow through. That was the silent promise he had made. Nobody was allowed to hurt you.

Except him and Dad.

As he stood there watching you, a strange mix of emotions twisted inside him. He couldn’t help but feel a strange satisfaction knowing you were dependent on him, that your weakness kept you under his protection. But at the same time, something about the way you looked tonight—hunched over in that chair, lost in your thoughts—stirred an odd feeling in him.

He wouldn’t admit it to himself, but something was off about you lately. He’d noticed it. The nervous energy, the odd silences, the way you seemed to be… slipping away from him somehow. But it didn’t matter. Whatever was going on, he’d keep a close eye on you. You were his sister, his responsibility.

And no one could take that from him.

Morning arrived far sooner than you would have liked. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the window, cutting through the quiet of the house and landing directly on your face. You groaned, blinking against the harsh light, realizing you hadn’t moved from the dining table. Your body ached from sitting hunched over in the chair for hours, your mind still foggy with the weight of your sleepless night.

Today was going to suck. A lot.

You rubbed your eyes, feeling the heaviness beneath them, the exhaustion settling into your bones. You could practically feel the bags under your eyes, the dull ache of tiredness seeping into your skin. You didn’t even need to look in a mirror to know you probably looked like a mess. Red-rimmed eyes, pale skin, and the exhaustion you could never quite hide.

Just get through the day, you told yourself, trying to muster some kind of resolve.

You slowly pushed yourself up from the chair, every muscle in your body protesting. The kitchen felt too quiet now, the soft sounds of the house waking up adding to the strange stillness of your thoughts. 

Gods, you need a warm shower. Or maybe a baseball bat to the head.

With a tired groan, you shuffled toward the stairs, deciding a shower might at least help clear the fog in your mind. You hoped the hot water would be enough to wash away the exhaustion clinging to your body. Maybe it could ease the tightness in your chest.

You stripped off your clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over your shoulders, washing away the cold sweat from last night’s nightmares. The warmth soothed your muscles, but it did little to ease the knot in your stomach. The events of last night, the conversation with your friends, the weight of everything still hung over you like a storm cloud.

There was no escape from it.

You sighed, leaning your head against the cool tile. The shower wasn’t helping as much as you had hoped. You were still exhausted, both physically and mentally. The knowledge that you had to face school today, pretend everything was normal while juggling this monumental responsibility, was almost too much to bear.

But you don’t have a choice.

You had to go on like you always did. Put on a brave face, go through the motions, act like everything was fine, and then meet with your friends later to figure out how to save the world. Again.

The water began to cool, and with another groan, you reluctantly stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and drying yourself off. You stared at yourself in the mirror, wincing at your reflection. Red-rimmed eyes, pale skin, and exhaustion etched into every line of your face.

You look like a wreck, you thought, shaking your head. But there was no time to dwell on it. You had to get through the day, no matter what.

You sluggishly dried yourself off, the warm water doing little to shake the exhaustion clinging to you. Once you were dry, you threw on some clothes, not really caring much about what you wore today—just whatever was clean and comfortable. You glanced at the clock on your dresser. 7:00 AM.

School wouldn’t start until 8:20, so you had some time. Normally, you’d still be asleep, trying to squeeze in the last few minutes of rest before rushing to get ready. But after last night, sleep wasn’t really an option.

For the next thirty minutes, you just sat on your bed, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly. You weren’t really looking for anything specific, just trying to remember who you used to be. Pictures of you and your friends popped up—Hallie, Connor, Weston. The four of you, smiling at the camera, carefree, before everything went to hell. Then there were other photos—random shots of acquaintances from school, parties you barely remembered attending, school dances where you smiled like the biggest worry in your life was whether your shoes matched your dress.

How different things had been. How different you had been.

The sound of movement from down the hall snapped you out of your thoughts. You heard Mark getting ready in his room, the familiar sounds of him moving around as he prepared for the day. Right. He drove you to school most mornings, and today would be no different.

You used to be excited about these car rides. Before, it was one of the few times you could really spend with Mark. He was a senior, always busy with schoolwork, football, or hanging out with his friends, so the drive to school was a guaranteed window of time where you could talk, laugh, and catch up.

But now? Now you dreaded it. The idea of sitting in a car with Mark, pretending everything was fine, made your stomach churn.

With a sigh, you got up from your bed, scrambling around to find your school bag. You mentally checked off the things you’d need for the day—binders, notebooks, pens—but your mind was elsewhere. Without thinking, you checked the small hidden compartment of your bag, making sure it was still packed.

A small knife. A bottle of hairspray. A lighter.

For the Demogorgons. Their biggest weakness was heat, especially fire, so you and your friends always carried around something to ignite them with. It had become second nature by now—packing your school bag with both homework and weapons. Sure, if the school ever found out you were carrying that stuff, you’d be expelled without question. But you were usually one of the good kids, known for being respectful and doing your work. That bought you a bit of leeway.

Did you occasionally miss class, ducking out to handle Demogorgons or chase down whatever creature was lurking nearby? Yes. And when you got caught? Detention. You smirked a little at the memory of you, Connor, Hallie, and Weston all sitting in detention together, exchanging looks across the room, barely holding in your laughter after a particularly difficult hunt. You had spent more than a few afternoons in those detention rooms, trying to explain your absences in ways that wouldn’t raise suspicion.

Grumbling at the thought, you slung your bag over your shoulder and headed downstairs. You grabbed a protein bar from the pantry as you slipped your shoes on, trying to push the nerves out of your stomach as you mentally prepared for the car ride with Mark.

You could hear him coming down the stairs behind you, and for a second, you froze, bracing yourself for the interaction. It felt like every moment with him now was tinged with tension, with the unspoken knowledge of what was to come.

“You ready to go?” Mark’s voice was casual, as if everything was normal.

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing a smile as you glanced over your shoulder at him.

He smiled back, though there was something in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the weight of everything you knew, or maybe it was just your paranoia creeping in, but for a brief second, you felt like he was watching you a little too closely.

You pushed the thought away and grabbed your jacket, trying to act like everything was fine. You think you’d gotten pretty good at lying and pretending everything was okay, i mean, you did successfully hide the fact that you hunt Demogorgons in your past life.

So, it should be no different this time around, right?

Taglist: @plsfckmedxddy, @marsmabe, @leiiasurez, @shycreatorreview, @naina326, @neverano, @couldeatthatgirlforlunch,

[lalaluvvs]

vampire bf satoru

cw: slightly suggestive, fluff, bloodsucking (??)

Contrary to popular belief, Satoru Gojo definitely has a morning routine- one he follows from beginning to end. It's the only constant in his life, not including Suguru.

In fact, it was Suguru that suggested the routine and helped him stick to it. Gojo would probably be nowhere if it weren't for his best friend.

When Gojo wakes, he palms the bed groggily, searching for the familiar warmth beside him. It takes him a few tries before he finds purchase on a bare shoulder, its' owner grumbling with annoyance.

As part of his routine, Gojo will hold him close, chest to his chest as he runs a gentle finger down that sensitive part of his neck. He'll linger there a moment too long, hesitant to savor the skin there. He can smell the dark blood rising to his cold touch, eager to be released. His fangs extend from his mouth, small for a typical vampire but just the right size to stab into Suguru's neck. He winces at the sensitivity- he hates that part the most- and grazes them across his neck until they catch onto the scabbed lumps along the base of his nape. Meanwhile he holds his best friend like a lover, gliding careful fingertips over his back. Those same fingers dig into the flesh of his back while he slowly presses his fangs through the healing scabs.

If it were up to him, he would feed all over his neck, covering the expansive canvas in little love bites to mark his claim.

Suguru is almost never fully awake before feeling the fangs puncture the lower side of his neck. He prefers it this way, so he can get it over with. He's trained his body to sleep through a good amount of it, though he would generously trade his sleep for Satoru. He would be happy to give him everything- body and soul- if it could benefit Gojo in any way.

The blood-sucking idiot has to restrain himself half the time, his body feeling the overwhelming urge to drain. While he feeds, Suguru stirs and leans into the embrace, running his fingers through snow white hair. A warm smile pulls from his lips as he thinks of the times Satoru would hide his face, or be too embarassed to feed. Luckily, he could only go so long before he ran out of options and was forced to drink his blood.

After moving away from the Gojo clan and moving in with Suguru, it was hard to find ways to feed himself. The Gojo clan always had new sacrifices, and when they ran out they would just start feeding from their employed humans. Satoru only knew starvation in the Gojo clan. He couldn't bring himself to feed from innocent people. He can recall the pain, and how badly he wished for a death that would never come.

His body hates him for that. He's sure of it. But he can't help but feel anything short of blessed for the situation he's in now.

When he's finished, Satoru politely wipes off the blood from his neck and stares in awe as it pools. He takes a small lick before dressing his wound, causing Suguru to grunt in disgust.

The world stops for him when Suguru meets his eyes, a grin pulled taut across his face. He looked ethereal in the morning light as the sun came down to set in the sky.

Suguru yawns, stretching his limbs before pulling Satoru close again- careful to avoid pulling him to his neck. He trusts Satoru with his life, but not his own self control.

"Mornin'." Gojo yawns, eyes barely open. He smiles lazily, dark blood dripping from his retracted fangs.

Suguru pushes him back by his chest, staring at him incredulously.

"Are you kidding? Go wash out your mouth, I don't wanna see that shit."

Satoru pouts, whining as always, "But Sugu, it's your blood. There's nothing nasty about it!"

He tries to reach around him, pull him back into his strong arms, but Suguru knows better by now.

"No, brush your teeth first. Fuckin' animal."

"Hey, that's totally unnecessary!"

Suguru raises a brow. "Only animals would have manners like yours."

The other man pouts deeper, brows furrowing contemplatively before giving it up.

He rolls over, pushing himself out of bed and makes his way toward the shared bathroom. He drags his slippers against the cold tile, only because it feels nice to wear the things Suguru gets for him. Even if he only bought it to keep Satoru's dirty feet off the bed after walking barefoot.

Well- he did forget a few key parts to his routine, but Suguru was there to keep him in check. The other part of the his routine is the cleanup- which he can't stand but he does it because Suguru asked so nicely. If he gets to drink his blood, it'll be on his terms. Not that there would need to be blood involved for Satoru to give him what he wants. He would always spoil his best friend.

His mind wanders to other pleasant Suguru thoughts while he brushes his teeth. Warm arms wrap loosely around his waist, pulling him out of his dream-like state. His radiant smell alerted him before his touch did.

Suguru rests a sleepy head on Satoru's shoulder, leaning into his back. " 'M so cold. You should quit feeding from me so early in the winter."

Gojo gasps loud, pausing his brushing and turning his head to see him. "You mean... you want me to skip breakfast?"

Suguru grimaces and shakes his head, pulling away to lean against the doorframe.

"You don't need a full meal in the morning. It's just convenient for you."

And it's true. Having a full breakfast means he'll be full of energy throughout the day while Suguru recovers from his blood defeciency. Even with the iron supplements, he didn't seem to be getting much better with that.

Suguru grabs the small blanket at the edge of their bed and wraps it around himself. "You could just feed from the bag for a while, right?"

Gojo has to turn his whole body to face him, mouth agape as if he'd heard the most vile thing from his mouth.

"Dude. No."

He continues with his routine, putting away his toothbrush and walking around the room to pick up the remnants of bandages and bloody napkins.

"Don't 'dude no' me. It's my blood." Suguru crosses his arms. "I say you're getting too spoiled."

"Spoiled?" Satoru shouts, pausing his routine yet again. "It's my food! I need it to live!"

"You don't need a whole liter of blood a day, 'Toru."

Satoru huffs, continuing to clean his mess. "Oh, it's not a whole liter." He waves his hand dismissively. "Trust me I keep track. It's two."

All Suguru can do is stare at him, dumbfounded. Two whole liters?!

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"Not particularly, no. I don't think I'll ever find someone with blood as sweet as yours." He says, matter-of -factly.

His features darken noticibly, his hyperactive mind returning to thoughts of life without Suguru. It would come, when Suguru goes grey and his bones wither beneath him. Gojo would have nothing but distant memories to keep him alive.

But they were so far from that now. It didn't make sense to ruminate on something so depressing before it even reached that point.

Suguru sighs, fingers brushing against the bandage on his neck. He felt the lumps underneath, tender and sore. He's lucky Jujutsu High was so flexible with dress codes- he'd need to cover this up.

"Listen... we'll talk more about this when we get back. You need to get ready for work before I leave your ass here."

Gojo's eyes widen and he swears there are tears forming. "You wouldn't dare!"

Suguru chuckles, running into the bathroom before he does. "Watch me!"

a/n: this is my first posted fic but it was so much fun to write, i love my boys :PP

[tomfoolies]

begin again

ship: corporate affairs words: 722 a/n: finally, here's the tomja s4 finale fic that i promised!! i actually wrote most of this all the way back in june when i finished my first rewatch, so it's about time i posted it <3 definitely more stream of consciousness kinda writing than what i usually do, but i had fun with it and i hope you like it too :3

--

Tom did it. The impossible, the unachievable. Something he once thought he’d never want to do, let alone be capable of doing.

Once again he was at a crossroads, two distinct lifes ahead of him. A lot of those happened in these past few years, he muses. Constant choice-making, choosing sides, chasing coattails and proclaiming his usefulness to anyone willing to take him on. But the hunt has grown stale, apprehensive, even terrifying in certain moments. 

He looked around the place, one pretentious establishments amongst the others, recalled the time he sat across Kendall, in a situation all too similar; being wooed for his loyalty that seems to have always felt easy for others to win, because he should’ve felt lucky that he was even being wanted in the first place. He looked at Mattson, the man who had now revealed his plans to him after what he thought was just something for entertainment, for evaluation. In his mind, Logan’s dead body on the airplane floor, a divination of things to come if he decided to walk down that path. I grind because I worry – it’s the truth, and it would’ve been the death of him. 

On the surface, his fears, his makeshift predictions. And at the heart of it all, her. 

“You know Sonja would respect you much more if you decided to help me out…” The memory of Kendall’s words resurface, the way he flashed the information like valuable cards in the intensely complex game they’ve played for years now without ever really knowing the rules. “Because she already did just that. Didn't she tell you? I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her.”

He hadn’t given Kendall the satisfaction of being surprised. Of feeling some sort of betrayal. Of thinking about it, even if only for the briefest of moments. But he knew he’d get fucked, Sonja knew he’d get fucked. It wasn’t a viable choice. 

Sonja waits for him at their apartment, but anticipation and trepidation greet him first when he unlocks the door. Only after that comes her, in her anxious stance with her arms crossed, her shuffling walk. She'd turned in her resignation just a few days ago, waiting for this moment and its consequences with baited breath. The dogs feel the tension too, gingerly pad over to smell their dad to see if he’s changed. If he’s still the same Tom from before. 

Watching her now, with a dizzying sense of freedom in his chest he doesn’t ever remember feeling, he knows that today’s choice wasn’t one to begin with. Ironically, when it’s exactly what she taught him; the knowledge that he always has an opportunity to choose differently. But maybe with it, also the ability to know when there is only one road to take. 

She doesn’t have to ask. He gives her his answers with honesty that still humiliates him sometimes. 

“He wanted me to step up, take on the mantle. But I said no,” he says, and watches her face change. From confusion to clarity. “I'm done.”

Just like the first time, their beginning that feels so long ago that they must've lived lifetimes since. When he came to find her after a fight that left him reeling and relieved and with the taste of deliverance, telling her he’d ended things with Shiv. Sonja had been waiting for him, the tension between them had come to a standstill and had to be resolved. They’d both felt it, and everything around them conspired to make their collision happen. That time it ended with her body against his, as fast and as fervently as possible with the realization that there is something between them that can’t be quelled. 

Perhaps later tonight they will do that, too. But now her arms wrap around him and she sighs her relief into his collarbone and he buries his face in her hair. Caught in a moment where it’s just the two of them, the rest of the world gone somewhere else at last. 

She pulls back to look at him, almost like seeing him in a new light, cradling his face in her hands and then she’s pulling him under and he takes to it gladly, their foreheads touching. 

Something unknown yet great is right at his fingertips. He decides to grasp it with both hands.

[alluringjae]

it’s a royal order - jjh

⤑ summary: one of your royal campaigns became a success, and your bodyguard jaehyun was there to see it all happen. it’s only fair to celebrate, right?

⤑ pairing: jaehyun x female reader

⤑ word count: 2k

⤑ genre: fluff, suggestive (dirty talk, jaehyun got a daddy kink, superiority complex!!), implied smut | bodyguard!jaehyun, princess!reader, slight enemies to lovers!au, modern royal!au (where south korea remains under monarchial power)

⤑ warnings: mentions of alcohol, drugs, family problems and therapy, explicit language

⤑ playlist: lows by pink sweat$ | céline by gallant | i put a spell on you by iza | nasty by ariana grande | dance for you by beyonce | body by sinead harnett

⤑ author’s note: this is definitely less emotional than all i do is wait! i got this idea from a show i really enjoyed before it got cancelled named the royals. specifically, i really liked the story of eleanor and jasper, which is the whole princess x bodyguard dynamic. the pining and tension, ugh! if you know this show or not, it doesn’t matter. anyways, thank you for the 30+ followers and 200 notes on aidiw! enjoy!

i need holy water because of this piece.

⤑ credits to jeongjaehyuns for the gif above uwu

⤑  leave me some feedback, constructive criticism or hellos!

“On behalf of the royal family, I would like to extend my utmost support for the Anti-School Violence campaign for all students to have a safer and more meaningful learning environment.” You proudly announced to the board of officials alongside other influential individuals in Korean society.

Being the only princess in the current royal line may have its pressures, but holding a strong, direct impact for a brighter future for the people motivated you to take advantage of your platform for the better. As the image of pure innocence and revamped women empowerment, you aimed to accomplish all the things your mother wished she could before her untimely death alongside your personal aspirations.

Expressing genuine joy with the campaign, with a tinge of desire to annoy the old-fashioned and closeminded officials, your prying eyes were more enamored by a certain man in the back clapping by the ballroom doors. You can’t help but act flustered whenever he witnessed you in a state of success and satisfaction.

This man went by the name Jeong Jaehyun, your trusted bodyguard since you were in your early twenties. 3 years later, he still stuck by your side and helped you endure all the darkness as a royal.

Back then, you went through a rebellious phase that was ruining the image of your family. Clubbing almost every night, drugs, skipping school, you even managed to get all assigned bodyguards to quit! The media ate up all your tricks, turning them into scandals. That was the plan, of course. You desired your own freedom from all the royal obligations because you didn’t ask to be born into that lifestyle. To all of your peers who wished to be in your footsteps, you would’ve impulsively passed your title to them. There’s so much deception that lies behind the glitz and glam of it all.

This unexpected change in your former untainted attitude came to the point that your father, the king himself, stepped in and personally assigned one of his men to get you in check. He figured that appointing a guard nearest your age may lessen the tension and mend you back together.

In the start, you absolutely despised him. There was no way to fool him when you were up to no good. He easily found your alcohol and drug stash which he disposed of on the spot and stood by your bedroom door every night so you wouldn’t sneak out past curfew (which your father also strictly implemented).

One big turning point in your relationship was when he rushed you to the royal hospital when you drank a cocktail that went unnoticeably spiked. To think that this was a typical social gathering with other royals and officials, you’re a constant target to many. You didn’t wake up for a few days, and the entire time, Jaehyun willingly stood by your bedside and outside your hospital room.

Since that and more instances your father insisted you get involved in royal affairs, you softened up. As cliché as it was, the more time spent with him, the more you knew about him and vice versa. He was the one that got you to fully open up about your grief towards your late mother, encouraging you to seek help. Turns out you weren’t as different as you thought despite your differing ranks in society when he also had a void for a missing parent. In his case, it was his father, who ditched his family for his mistress. Silently, you helped each other recover from your traumas alongside therapy. From dreading his presence, you started treating him more casually. Your father’s tactic of assigning a bodyguard around your age admittedly worked.

Oh, how time flies.

This campaign was the last thing on your weekend agenda, so you had the entire late afternoon and evening to yourself. Bowing one last time to the audience, you stepped down from the platform and accepted the soft hand of your bodyguard, who quickly made his way to you despite the flashing cameras. It was something he got used to as it is part of the job.

Once he successfully ushered you out of the ballroom, his hand still held yours. Nothing new, except this event was quite public and you didn’t want anyone to get any wrong ideas. Strolling down one of the many hallways in the palace became a pastime for the both of you, where no one can catch you. It was a safe haven within the destructive life of the Park kingdom.

“You did phenomenal as I expected, your highness.” Jaehyun complimented, recalling your panic the night before as the stage fright hit strong when you were reciting your speech to him over and over again.

“We are in private, Jaehyun. Must you really use those formalities with me?” You taunted, bobbing your head sideways mockingly. With him could you felt like a normal young adult, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Jaehyun loved being frisky with you, catching you get irked up. And he was up to do it again.

“Hmm last time we strolled these halls, Yuta caught us making out after a successful meeting with the Prime Minister.”

You gasped at his statement, conscious of whoever may be in the vicinity. But before you could refute, your hand that was interlocked with his were mightily slammed against the white wall. You lost your breath for a moment, his warm body closely on yours. His free hand freely roamed up and down your covered waist. His lips were dangerously near your neck, where you’re sensitive. Your hips naturally grinded against him to release the pent-up tension.

“Something tells me you want to do it again, princess?” Now he’s just using your title as a pet name, but you couldn’t complain. It just hits differently when the situation was set up like this.

“I deserve it, don’t I? Got a lot of those hell-driven officials on my side for this round.” You raised both your brows cockily, licking your lips.

“Hell yeah, you do.” Finally, he rids of the tension and plants open kisses on your bare neck. Your throaty moans were uncontrollable, and you could care less.

“My princess,”

Kiss.

“So intelligent,”

Kiss.

“So benevolent,”

Kiss.

“So helpful,”

Kiss.

“But,” He changed his pace and direction, swollen lips near your ear.

“But?” You question naïvely. He scoffed, smirking at your antics of playing dumb.

“But a total slut for her bodyguard.” He dominantly planted his lips against yours, one of his veiny hands gripping on your waist and the other by the arch of your butt. He was hungry, needy even. Due to your shared schedules, it’s been a constant struggle to have proper alone time from the snooping eyes of Korean society. After all, it wasn’t in the norm for a princess to fall deep for her bodyguard. Nor were you sure you would be accepted by anyone. Yuta, the bodyguard of your oldest brother, the crowned prince Jinyoung, finding the both of you at that time was a total shock but didn’t care either.

All that mattered was that your feelings towards each other are real and strong. Accepted or not, you had each other.

All this lust put you in a daze, wanting much more than another smooch fest in the hallway. Tugging on his belt, he squeezed your butt tightly. You emitted a moan, which allowed his tongue access. No way could you keep your hands to yourself, touching his upper body and the flexing of his abdominal muscles from his button-up. You felt his now hard member poking through.

Analyzing your area, you were on the other side of the palace. Farther to your bedroom where numerous rendezvouses were made, one kink you’ve considered in the past amplified your mind. Considering this area was also the king’s side, and he was abroad for royal affairs, this was your chance.

“I have an idea, my love. You up for it?” You rose a brow at your lover, challenging him. Not one to overpower this man in bed, but always suggesting a way on how to spice it up.

“And what exactly does your feral brain want to do with me, princess?” His finger lifted your chin so you meet eye to eye. You can just see the fire still burning, and oh how you were ready to intensify it.

“The main ballroom, where my father and late mother’s throne rest, are a few doors away.” Your fingers signal him to lower his stance as his tall height was difficult to reach. With a sneaky smirk,

“Let me ride you in the king’s throne, my love.” Your lips brushed over his and sucked his bottom lip, tugging him by his belt. He groaned, squeezing your butt. “It’s a royal order.”  

“Nasty, your highness. Insanely nasty, you are.” His hands hoisted your waist, boosting you up in his arms. You gasped with profanities, ravenously cut off by his lips again. His nails digging deep in your bare thighs, your legs naturally linked themselves around his torso while your arms passionately intertwined his broad neck.

In between kisses, he carried you to the said main ballroom. One of your wildest imaginations, just a second away. This room remained to be the only place without any guards stationed technological advancements or updated interior designs to preserve its traditional beauty. Dated as far as the 19th century, only special events were held and the highest of the high were allowed inside. Spacious, surrounded by gold linings majestic paintings of angels from above with a huge crystal chandelier right above the center. Right ahead, the original thrones that your ancestors, grandparents, and parents sat on when they were throned in its pure glory.

Pushing your lover on the king’s throne, the gold sun-like rays plastered behind the headrest, he cockily leaned back and manspread his legs for comfort. He rubbed his hands before patting his thigh, waiting for your submission. But you weren’t going to give in just yet.

Not when you prepared a mini-show just for him underneath your designer silk dress.

Jaehyun’s solemn eyes marveled over your gorgeous figure as you stripped down one strap after the other. Due to its silk fabric, it effortlessly dropped down to your figure to reveal a new set of black lace lingerie from your previous trip to Paris. Ages ago, Jaehyun unhesitatingly ripped your favorite ones during his birthday, so you decided to get a mature version of it. A version where your bra lifted your breasts more and undies hiked up to your waist to elongate your legs. Only for the eyes of yourself and the man in front of you, establishing that you were a powerful woman who can be absolutely anyone she can be. Princess, a normal young adult, or his slut, it’s up to you how you see yourself.

Jaehyun mumbled all the profanities he could think of at the moment. Looking like a divine angel when the sun from outside shuns behind you, his slacks tightening so much more than a while ago.

“All this for me?” He ogled shamelessly, undoing the buttons of his dress shirt and untying his necktie. “What did I do to deserve such regal treatment?”

You sneered at his comment, stepping out your dress in your heels and stationing right in front of his luring lap. “You’ve always been there for me, thick and thin. I think you deserve a reward, don’t you think?”

Lowering yourself to straddle him, his breath hissed when your damp core collided with his crotch. Distracted and caught in your trap, “I don’t think you answered my question, my love.”

Rather than a verbal response, he roughly pulled you back in for a kiss. His hands scattered to explore from your back down to your waist. Your hands messily ran through his hair, tugging on some when your body got too sensitive to his wild touches. The thrilling sounds of the two of you drowning in your fiery romance bounced throughout the ballroom, not minding if anyone passed by the hallways outside. It was a private room after all, and whatever happens here, stays here.

Rolling on his crotch while his lips trailed down to your collarbones, the quick snap of your bra wires echoed. The tight lift lessened as Jaehyun’s fingers dropped the straps, unveiling your bare chest covered in his marks.

“Enough playing, princess. Let daddy have some real fun with you.”

[s-brant]

Baby Names

(gif: @mishellejones) (SERIES MASTERLIST)

Summary: Y/N gets frustrated while putting the crib for her and JJ’s baby together and finds herself missing her dead brother more than ever.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Fluff and minor angst.

A/N: Asks and ye shall receive, here’s a little blurb about what happens after Tokens! You don’t really have to read the other parts to enjoy this fic if you don’t want to, but I do recommend it for some backstory. This was slightly inspired by this fic by @cognacdelights, so go give her stuff a read! Let me know if you liked this. Have fun!

Y/N Routledge thought she got over her brother's death long ago.

Though you never truly "get over" losing a loved one, though there will always be a small part of you, however small, that aches for their presence again, she thought she moved past the tragedy to the best of her ability...until last week.

To say that the pregnancy was a surprise would be the understatement of the century. She and JJ were both on the same page about children when their relationship began, and that page was that neither of them wanted them yet. Sure, the idea of it in the future stirred their hearts with fond emotion, but considering that they had yet to graduate high school and barely scraped by on their own, they weren't jumping headfirst into that aspect of adulthood.

They were meticulous about safe sex. They couldn't afford another mouth to feed, she wasn't sure she could handle the emotional trauma of having an abortion, and, underneath it all, he had some reservations about being a father. It wasn't that he didn't envision a future with kids in their relationship, he did, but the topic of fatherhood always took him down a dark path within his mind.

So, she went on birth control once they started dating and they went along with no scares for the next six years as they graduated and started figuring out what the next step for their lives was going to be.

Y/N could get lost thinking about it, honestly, but she tries not to get too swept up in the minor mistake that led to this.

"You, my friend, need to stop moving around in there," she whispers down at her protruding belly with a hand cradling the heavy weight of it, "I'm trying to get your crib set up without JJ yelling at me for not asking for help, and if you don't stop kicking me, I'm not gonna get anything done."

She's sprawled out on the floor in the living room of the Chateau with her legs stretched comfortably in each direction while she hunches over to read the directions of the Ikea furniture. The sugarcoated description makes her want to hunt down the company CEO for sport, because for how "simple and easy!" the construction of it claims to be, she is at her wits end.

The last thing she needed after having her grief over John B's death reignited by their decision to name their kid after him last week was to stress herself out over something as stupid as this, but she won't quit. With how much JJ has been coddling her the further into the pregnancy she gets, she wanted to prove that she could do something for herself.

Whenever she brings in the groceries from the car and goes to lift the bag of dog kibble out of the trunk, he rushes up behind her back and scoops it out of the trunk before she dares to touch it. It always ends with her hollering after him that it's under twenty pounds, the upwards limit of the weight she's allowed to carry according to her doctor, but he refuses to hear any of it.

Inside of her, she feels a sharp sensation of something hitting her right in the ribs in response to her comment, and she groans in frustration. It's as if he did it because he knows she wants it to stop, the feisty little fucker.

"You're definitely your daddy's son, aren't you? It's already enough having one of him, the last thing I need is a JJ clone."

Their three-year-old Rottweiler rescue huffs a sigh from where he lays, frog-legging it, on the floor next to the unboxed crib pieces she can't put together to save her life. His drooping jowls produce a puddle of slobber on the her favorite carpet that is past the point of saving from his constant wear and tear. After a year of having him, she decided to stop trying to prevent him from ruining it. There’s no point.

She smiles at him as she leans forward to read through the directions for the billionth time, saying, "I actually think he'll be a lot like his uncle, but that's just me. If he isn't, I'll feel a little stupid over the name situation."

John Booker Routledge-Maybank.

Hell of a name if you ask her yourself, but for every internal struggle it reopened inside of her, she couldn't help but love it as soon as JJ casually proposed the idea on his way out of the door for work one morning.

Going on without John B has been a learning experience in every aspect. Any time she wanted to turn to him for advice or tell him something about the recent events in her life, she had to walk out back to their dying magnolia tree and sit under the shade to talk to the wind. Then, once the tree finally died and they were forced to cut it down, she took to sitting on its stump and doing it there.

It got easier as time went on, but she can't keep herself from wondering what it'd be like if he didn't die ever since she saw the results on the pregnancy test six months ago. Whenever she does something like going to her OBGYN appointments or, case in point, setting up the crib, she pictures him there.

She can see him here now, petting Bowie's shiny coat until he falls asleep with his head propped onto John B's outstretched legs. He'd be twenty-three years old by now with his life barely starting to blossom to its full potential, yet here they are. Correction, here she is, and he's off somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, already decomposed to the extent that not even his bones can be salvaged anymore.

Her chest sinks in another sigh, and she flips through page after page of the instructions with increasing aggression.

"This crib is so fucking—"

"What are you doing?"

The sound of her yelping in surprise at JJ's voice coming from the door is enough to make him laugh to himself, though his amusement is buried partway by what he's walking in on. He specifically asked her to wait for him to put the crib together, knowing damn well it wouldn't be the easy task she thought it was, but he should've known she'd do it anyway.

She looks over her shoulder with a mixture of guilt and frustration painting her features as she throws her hands up in the air and gestures vaguely to the unassembled crib. Her eyes are shining with the rapid onset of hormone-induced tears.

"I can't put this crib together 'cause the instructions aren't right, all the pieces are labeled wrong, your son won't stop kicking me, and I miss my brother so much right now," she spews the words with no pauses to breathe until the very end, when she stops short to suck down a breath as soon as she gets the last part out.

It leaves JJ standing at the entrance to the house with this stunned expression.

There's no amusement to be found anymore. Once she turned and flashed those wide, teary eyes that never fail to spark an ache in his heart at him, his tired smile vanished and his feet started moving before he could say anything to her.

The floorboards creak beneath his half-laced boots on his way across the room to her. It prompts Bowie to pop his head up from around the side of the coffee table to catch a peek of whoever it is that's approaching his emotionally distraught owner. Upon seeing JJ's familiar face, the dog relaxes back into his lounging position atop the carpet and tracks JJ’s movements until he's seated next to her.

"This is about John B?" he asks.

Her cheeks are flushed in embarrassment at her sudden outburst, and she can't bear to meet his gaze right now. Despite him being her closest friend and husband, she feels as small and vulnerable as she did six years ago when she first learned of her brother's death from Shoupe. Time might as well be shaped in the form of a never-ending circle for them, directing them back to their seventeen-year-old state of mind every time things turn sour.

Y/N finally lifts her hanging head to look over at him after another few seconds and thinks she might crumble at the look on his face. He hates watching her cry.

"I guess," she says through a sniffle, "It's about the crib too, but I've been thinking about it a lot more since we picked the name. Our baby’s gonna grow up never knowing who his uncle was..."

With that, JJ takes it as his cue to pull her closer.

He scoots up behind her and lets his chin rest on the curve bridging her neck and shoulder together as he twines his arms around her body. It's a closeness that's as natural as breathing for him, so natural that he can hardly remember the years before it became normal for them to take part in little moments of intimacy like this. The warmth of their bodies cohabitates in the blurred line distinguishing where she ends and he begins, and he feels her relax, sagging in his embrace in appreciation of his miraculous ability to make her feel better no matter how worked up she is.

One of his hands rests on the swell of her bump in an absentminded effort to calm him too. Even though he isn't consciously thinking of it, he knows that her distress must upset the baby too. The contact steadies her, keeps her grounded to the moment rather than allowing her to slip away into the current of her negative thoughts, and she clings to every word he has to say.

He says, "You and I both know that isn’t true. He's gonna grow up seeing all the pictures you have of John B and ask about him all the time. And we'll tell him all the stories"—there's a pause of contemplation as he recalls a few particularly non-PG memories of his best friend—"Well, maybe not all of them, but you know what I mean."

This draws a soft bout of laughter from deep within her chest that he feels with how her body shakes ever so slightly with it. It seems so wrong to laugh with tears in her eyes but she can't help it. Her emotions have been scattered in every direction since the pregnancy began, and it has only gotten worse the further along she gets.

"If you ever tell him about the kief incident, I'm never giving you a bl—"

His free hand smushes over her mouth before she can say the rest.

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”

It's said so frantically, it makes her erupt in laughter hard enough to tickle her abdomen muscles with the aching sensation of it. The vibration of it under his palm makes him drop his hand a second later with the need to hear the beautiful sound. After seeing her cry, it's a welcome shift in mood, even if it's at his expense.

Her head is thrown back on his shoulder, mouth parted into a smile with the gleeful giggling filling the room. His stomach churns with butterflies at the sight of her. Even after all these years, he has the same reaction to her laughter every time. It makes him smile to himself and watch her in quiet reverence. It makes him ache with the same inklings of longing he felt for the first time when he was much younger.

Her laughter begins to die down by the time she can draw enough breath in to murmur a soft, "Sorry, angel," to him and reach down to hold the hand he rests on her belly as consolation for her joke.

They remain this way for another few minutes, tangled up in each other's arms on the floor of the living room with Bowie snoring a few feet away, before he manages to convince her to let him be the one to set up the crib instead. It takes a good five minutes of playful back and forth before she concedes under the condition that he'll let her paint the nursery by herself when the time comes, and that's all it takes for her to abandon the task in favor of finding something to snack on in the fridge.

In her defense, the crib is actually quite difficult to put together.

JJ doesn't consider himself an expert handyman by any means, at least not with anything outside of his area of expertise as an electrician, but he likes to think he knows enough to put together a "no assembly required" Ikea crib without wanting to bang his face against the wall.

In the end, it gets finished by the two of them in the middle of the night over a box of cold leftover pizza from the previous day. It takes them two hours of struggling before they get it fully assembled and placed where they want it in the room that'll soon belong to their son.

He pretends not to notice her sneaking back in to tie John B's old bandana around the wooden railing before they go to bed.

Tag List: @gabiatthedisco, @fangirlvoice, @black-syren, @apparrio, @particularcth, @planetdemon, @idk-ijustworkhere, @krisphann, @astrydis, @k-k0129, @zarahsloves, and @stilesflannels.

[toujourspur13]

The Black family / Walburga Black / canon.

As I said before I do not care that much about canon/fanon/headcanon because transformative works by definition include a wide variety of different interpretations. However, I am forever perplexed when I see uncompromising opinions on the Black family - particularly the unwavering certainty that Sirius Black’s parents were psychotic abusers. All personal opinions aside - why is this so popular?

I mean - it’s absolutely ok to headcanon this version and to play with it - but saying 'don’t you dare say they did not physically and emotionally abuse Sirius' is a little strong, isn’t it?

This is a mystery to me. So…let’s discuss my favourite subject…Again.

Let’s stick to the facts. The frequently cited things proving the abuse in the Black family are as follows:

Sirius said his parents were awful maniacs (pureblood ideology)

he ran away from home

he was severely depressed in OoTP

Kreacher

Portrait

So…when you say that Sirius’s parents were abusive…you mean exactly what? These people got cold feet when they saw the real nature of Voldemort - I guess it somehow implies that they did not share his methods…that they were against violence as a tool to get purebloods in charge.

But then it usually goes this way: ‘well at least he was verbally and emotionally abused by his family’ - but is it so? Is this based on the portrait of Sirius's mother? She insulted strangers who took over her house and her runaway son - how does this prove anything about how Sirius and Regulus were raised and treated when they were kids? I agree it’s rather impolite - jkr did a good job showing how purebloods perceived others ( those below them) -but in all honesty, this has very little to do with Sirius and his childhood.

Why to make Sirius a victim at all? - c’mon he was tougher than this, he spent 12 years in Azkaban; are you actually saying that a portrait throwing insults at everyone is worse? I doubt that. And is it such a surprise that a mother who lost her son (that said son actually ran away and abandoned his duty) would be that furious at him when seeing him again...even if it’s only a portrait...I believe it to be a rather unpleasant experience for a parent when a child runs away.

We already talked about the portrait a lot - I don’t even want to mention it here- - I feel we should rather pay more attention to the fact that Sirius himself was not an angel.

I am not saying the colourful vocabulary of Walburga Black should be used…but Sirius himself upon seeing Snape  immediately  recognised his weakness and went for it without any hesitation …we are talking about Sirius who in fact was quite a renowned bully ( I mean - we know for a fact that from time to time Sirius and James got carried away)…

And it was Sirius who sent Snape to meet and chat with a real werewolf (yes, I agree - he was not thinking this through - he probably was just vexed and fed up with Snape and thought he wouldn’t go there, would get cold feet or idk run away…But it actually changes nothing. If a drunken driver hits someone it will be 100% his fault whether he means it or not. Whether he is in a fragile mental state or not - such situations are definite. It’s the same with Sirius - even if he did not mean anything bad he should have understood the cost of his mistake - all teenagers make silly things but not all of them send their classmate to meet a werewolf - James thought it not a very good idea as I recall… -

So we see that Sirius was not an angel from the start and I can hardly believe he was a victim by nature. His behaviour loudly manifested that he used to get what he wanted with no thought of the consequences.

And all those pictures of bikini-clad girls on the walls in his room prove that he was quite a spoiled boy who had nothing to fear from mum and dad. Harry himself noticed «Sirius seemed to have gone out of his way to annoy his parents». All this shows that Sirius was not afraid of his parents at all. What kind of masochist would suffer for motorbike posters? That would be ridiculous.

Let’s move to Kreacher: If Sirius’s mother had been a monster why even mention her heart?  JKR wrote this for a purpose and this heavily implies that Sirius's situation was never meant to be ‘the abusive heartless parents vs the poor helpless victim’.  

The fact that Sirius ran away and hence broke his mother’s heart says against the popular idea that he was not loved by his family, that he was always the second one, that they abused him. I’m 100% certain that Kreacher told the truth in that scene. Why would he say something like this if it were not the truth - something like…that his beloved mistress having been so upset over Sirius running away that it broke her heart. Just tell me one reason that would have justified such a lie - why to say this at all?

Then this: “Leave?” Sirius smiled bitterly and ran a hand through his long, unkempt hair. “Because I hated the whole lot of them: my parents, with their pure-blood mania, convinced that to be a Black made you practically royal … my idiot brother, soft enough to believe them … that’s him.”…. “He was younger than me,” said Sirius, “and a much better son, as I was constantly reminded.”

I’ve already said it before - this ‘better son than me’ is exactly what insecure 14-year old kids like to say. Well...he’s a bit older but it’s not as if he had a life and a chance to mature. Moreover, I don’t know if it comes as a great shock but a lot of teenagers like to badmouth their parents…usually, it involves something like ‘those bloody uptight retrogrades know nothing of the real world’ (it fades away when they get closer to thirty).

To be serious, I find that it’s just another example of similarities between Sirius and his mother. They clearly did not know what it means to be composed, polite, and respectful. Yeah…I think that, on the whole, parents are owed their children’s respect (unless they are completely inadequate - somehow I don’t believe this was the case). Someone should teach both of them what mutual respect means. Anyway, there is nothing in this quote that says that Sirius was subjected to any forms of abuse - it’s about how Sirius justified his running away,  how he saw the situation.

There’s also the fact that Sirius was incredibly unhappy because he was back at his childhood home and having to spend time around anything that reminded him of his family: “Hasn’t anyone told you? This was my parents’ house,” said Sirius. “But I’m the last Black left, so it’s mine now. I offered it to Dumbledore for headquarters — about the only useful thing I’ve been able to do.” Harry, who had expected a better welcome, noted how hard and bitter Sirius’s voice sounded”.

Here it comes…the severe depression that makes people question the severity of his abuse… I have thought a lot about this because it is the reason why some consider ‘the abusive blacks' canon while others believe it was more of a tragedy of the family rather than the banal brutality.

Of course, Sirius was upset in that house - but I don’t think he suffered the memories of his unhappy childhood - I think he suffered from the strong feeling of guilt. Being in that house meant an everyday reminder that he was a failure. And it’s not even a lie. If you look at his whole life you’ll see that he literally failed everyone in his life: he failed James and Lily - they were dead and he unwillingly became the reason. It was his plan that turned everything into a tragedy.

And, to some extent, he failed Harry- he was not around him like James and Lily would have wanted. Sirius did not give him the real family - he only promised they'd be the one «when it’s all over».

And finally - he failed his parents, his brother, his own family.

Is it possible to live with so much guilt in your heart?

I don't think that Sirius completely forgot who he was born to be. If the family keeps traditions and can trace its existence back in centuries you can't shake it off even if you want. I doubt Sirius switched it off just because he had griffindor friends. He was the last Black - it is tragically poetic that he was once the hope of his family and then this family died with him. If Sirius had heart (and I truly believe he had a heart) he knew exactly what it meant to be trapped in the house that represented the death of his family. A constant reminder  that he was the last one.  

“The others’ hushed voices were giving Harry an odd feeling of foreboding; it was as though they had just entered the house of a dying person”. 

I think that the scene when he threw his father's ring away - he threw it away because it was all over for his family. It was the end of the dynasty - and for him it was all over long before he met Bellatrix for the last time.

Well, I admit Sirius' situation is open for wide interpretation but I don’t think the abusive black household is a canon thing - of course, it’s fanon. It makes Sirius a hero who broke the chains when in fact he ended up being a victim of his own life.

You know, it always seems strange to me that fandom when discussing Walburga usually overlooks the simple truth of life - that even if you are clever enough and mean good for your loved ones it is still possible to end up on the losing side, on the dark side.  However, mistakes don't automatically turn humans into monsters.

To some extent Sirius’s story represents the consequences of war.  No-one is protected; the whole families could be wiped off the face of the earth. It’s a simple yet profound idea. It correlates with the main idea of hp books far better than the ‘abusive psychopaths’ (there are already Voldemort and Bellatrix - there is no-one who can beat them in this department).

All I say - it’s okay to imagine them bad if you want- your right - but don���t write everywhere that it’s canon because it is not.There is no need for such inflexibility especially when it comes to the fandom - a place where everyone should be welcomed and their views on the books be respected.

[constancelaufeydottir]

Help me, help you

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: Attempted suicide, mentions of mental illness and eating disorders, angst, fluff(?)

Summary: You seek help from the stranger who saved you the night you sought for an escape, maybe you weren’t the only one who needs saving.

A/N: This is my first ever fic here! I’ve never written anything before and I’m really anxious to put this out here, please bear with me if I make any grammatical mistakes and let me know what you think!

You probably shouldn’t be doing this. They said you’d disappoint your family and people around you would be sad. But the water, it’s tempting. A dive, and your problems would be gone.

To be honest, you don’t think you family cares at all. They’ve got bigger things to worry about, you sister’s engagement, your brother’s enrolment in college. After all, you were the unwanted kid, an accident. The only time you caught your parents’ attention was when you butchered your job interview. You had prepared thoroughly but a stomach bug ruined it all and your parents blamed you for it, saying they always knew you were a failure, a disgrace to the family.

They didn’t even ask where you were going tonight. They never cared unless you had big achievements in your life or maybe when your failure was too huge for them to ignore.

The sloshing of the water is luring you to jump into it. The deep dark waters inviting you to join the others who had succeeded before you. You moved your feet a little towards the edge of the railings, embracing the chilling midnight wind as you closed your eyes. This is the end, you thought, your foot dangling over the railings ready to plummet into the river.

You felt an arm circling your waist and pulling you backwards until your back hit the ground, a palm caging the back of your head, preventing it from hitting the hard ground.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” You heard a deep voice coming from the right side of your body, hands were on your shoulders gently shaking. You blinked a few times, the blinding lights made you wince as you closed your eyes again with your hand shielding them.

The man who saved you helped you sat up, kneeling beside you to ensure your safety. You took time to have a close look at the good Samaritan. His hair was long, stopping a little lower down his ears. Eyes was the colour of the ocean, almost enticing as the water. His chin adorned with a scruffy beard, lips curving in a small smile. If it weren’t for your bad mood right now, you would have joked that he looked like a modern version of Jesus.

“Why?” You whispered, so quietly if not for his enhance hearing, the man wouldn’t have heard you. “Why did you save me?” You cried out, hands trembling as they grasped the collar of his bomber jacket. Your teary face surprised him and your sniffles made his heart tightened.

“I- I can’t let you die!” He exclaimed. The tears in your eyes spilled out again as you collapsed into the stranger’s chest, crying your heart out. He felt the vulnerability in your voice and hugged you tighter, palms meeting behind you and patted your back to comfort you.

You didn’t know how long you sat there crying in the man’s arms. Your tears soaked the dark red Henley underneath his jacket, causing it to stick onto his firm chest but he did not utter a single word, instead opting to calm you down.

You had no idea how you got home, except for the fact that you vaguely recalled ending up in the arms of a certain stranger, the rest was a blur.

You woke up on the couch the next morning, your phone alarm blaring. The hard rectangular metal was digging the soft flesh of your butt and you groggily dig it out of your back pocket turning the alarm off.

There was a sweet smell of pancake wafted from the kitchen and you sniffed at the smell, face scrunching when you didn’t remember having someone over. The thought of someone unfamiliar inviting themselves into your house alarmed you and your hastily got up from the couch, a pillow in your hand as you inched slowly towards the kitchen. Peeking your head around the corner, you found a tall and broad figure in the space, hands fumbling around with something. You couldn’t see clearly who that was, your glasses were in your bedroom the last time your saw it.

You knew the stranger in your house could never be your brother because one, he was an asshole who gave no fucks about his sister’s life and two, your both hated each other’s guts. Your breath quickened as the intruder suddenly turned his head towards your direction. You yelped as you threw the pillow at him, or the general direction where he was standing.

Of course, you missed the target when he walked towards you. “Shit, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die.” You shut your eyes as you heard his footsteps getting closer and closer to you.

“Hey, you’re awake!” You squinted at the man, trying to make out the features of his blurry face. He looked oddly like the guy who saved you on the bridge last night. He moved closer to you when he realized you couldn’t see him clearly. Your eyes widen at the sudden close proximity, your lips were slightly parted. You could feel his breath against your face, his long lashes and that steel blue eyes.

“Y-you!” Instantly, you were conscious of your own appearance, your eyes must have been puffy from last night’s non-stop crying. There were probably still dried tears on your face. Adverting your gaze from his, you looked to the side as you slid out of the slightly awkward situation. Walking towards the counter, you pulled out a wet tissue and wiped your stiff face with it then retrieving the cold spoons you kept in the freezer.

He laughed when you put the spoons on your eyes, you sighed at the cool sensation soothing the puffiness of your eyelids. “Don’t laugh. It’s effective,” you glared at him.

“Alright, alright.” He threw his hands up. “I’m Bucky,” his hand extended outward, waiting for you to shake it. “Y/N.” He smiled, eyes crinkled as you reciprocate the gesture.

He cooked you breakfast, although it was a simple one, you were still grateful.

“Thank you for last night,” you gave him a genuine smile as he was seated across you on the dining table, stuffing his mouth with the pancakes. “It’s nice to see that someone cares.” This time you smile didn’t quite reach your eyes and he caught it.

Grabbing your hand across the table, he looked at you in the eyes with sincerity. “It’s the least I could do.” Taking a deep breath, cautiously he spoke up. “Y/N, I know it’s not my place to say this but seek for professional help if you aren’t feeling fine. Maybe just talk to someone or … go see a therapist.”

“Are you insinuating that I have depression?” You scoffed. Your eyebrows furrowed in annoyance as you snatched your hand from his grasp and crossed your arms in front of your chest defensively.

Depression? No, you couldn’t have had depression. It’s a sign of weakness, you father said. Depression is just a fancy term to describe one’s laziness, that’s what your mother told you.

“I’m not insinuating anyt-”

“Get out,” you interrupted, “get out of my house!” Enraged, you pointed towards the door while snapping at him. How dare he, a stranger suggested that there was something wrong with you.

Sighing, Bucky gave you a taut smile while nodding then placed a piece of paper on the coffee table on his way out. “Here’s my number in case you needed any help.” He paced towards the door opening it, giving you a last glance before leaving.

It’s been weeks now since you yelled at Bucky to get out of your house. You felt bad and deep down there you knew he was right, but the stigma surrounding mental illnesses was extremely terrifying to you. Not to mention what will happen if your family found out. You were a major disappointment in your household already and you definitely wouldn’t want to add a mental illness into the mix.

You were sitting in your office, typing on the keyboard furiously. Honestly you didn’t know why you were still here. This job sucks, even though the salary was high and you’d just been promoted to manager of the department. Chewing on your nails and bouncing your legs under the desk, you felt the need to just leave everything and go home.

The drive home was painful, you simply had no energy to do so but you still had to go home, your only safe place. Taking off your shoes, changing out your clothes, you lied on the bed. Your stomach grumbled, protesting at the lack of food in your system but you just couldn’t get yourself off the bed to make something for yourself. Your mind travelled back to the day you were on that bridge. You didn’t actually seek for death, all you sought for was an escape. An escape from reality, from your parents, from the constant judgements of people surrounding you.

As you closed your eyes, you wished that tomorrow never comes.

Another day, another disappointment. You were still alive, and the world seemed a wee bit duller than before. Skipping breakfast, you went to work as usual, plastering the faux smile on your face which everybody seemed to liked and expected from you. In this workplace, everybody’s gotta put on a façade and that included you but you dreaded the day where there would be a crack in your mask. Until then, you just had to work harder to reinforce it because according to your parents, nobody would want to see the real you, it was unpleasant … and ugly.

“I gotta say. Miss Y/L/N, you are spectacular. Being one of the Y/L/N, I bet it was a lot of pressure but you have done such amazing job, I think your parents would be so proud of you.” A client who was a family friend was seated across you, a wide grin on her face as her face crinkled rambling about how lucky you were being born into a family filled with successful people.

You smiled and thank her for her compliments, cutting the steak your ordered into bite-size pieces. Poking into one of the pieces with your fork, you lifted it up to your lips. Taking a deep breath, you put it into your mouth and instantly you felt like you were about to throw up. Fighting the urge to spit it out, you endured the taste of the meat as you bite at it mechanically. Looking down at your plate of steak, you no longer feel the appetite to consume any more of it.

Everyday you woke up, you wondered how long would it be until the colours faded into grey. Perhaps it was the only thing keeping you alive right now, counting the days until the beautiful hue of the sunsets no longer amazes you; the sight of puppies doesn’t excite you; the thought of having ice cream whenever you can no longer sounds appealing to you.

You should get some help, you really should. Your body was deteriorating, you could feel it. You weren’t in denial anymore; you knew there was something gravely wrong about you. Your body couldn’t afford being in denial. The loss of radiance in your face, the hair and weight loss and most importantly, you couldn’t put on a façade anymore.

Bucky rushed towards your apartment when you called, he could hear how shaky your voice was. He was extremely worried the past weeks even though he had only met you once. Maybe it was because he was in that dark place before and was able to relate or maybe he took a liking to you. He found himself constantly wondering whether you were well and how long would it take for your stubborn ass to call him.

He arrived at your place as fast as he could, probably drove past a few red lights but he couldn’t care less. He was more worried about you that the fine he would have to pay.

Bucky stormed past the hallway, straight to your unit and knocked on the door when he couldn’t open it. He received no response from you and his mind immediately went straight to the negative thoughts. His heart raced as he banged on the door, shouting your name several times.

He was about to break his way into your apartment when he saw the door opened slightly, your tired eyes meeting his concerned ones. He made his way into the space and immediately got the wind knocked out of him when you hurled yourself into his chest.

“Imsorryimsorryimsorry.” You kept chanting your apologies as you broke down in his embrace. You felt as if you were floating in the middle of the ocean succumbing into nothingness and he was the anchor, helping you to stay in one place. He was a mere stranger to you yet he witnessed every vulnerable side of you, if only your family could share the same level of concern as he did.

“Shh, shh. I’m here now,” he guided both of you to the couch with you still tightly in his arms, smoothing a palm on your back gently patting you. You hiccupped, eyes teary while you tried to calm yourself down. The tears however would not co-operate, it was like a broken faucet and no matter what you try it wouldn’t fix itself. “I’m really sorry for lashing out last time.”

He didn’t say anything, only wiped your tears with the sleeve of his sweater instead. Maybe it was the fatigue of crying too much or the absence of food in your body, you drifted into sleep in his arms while he hummed songs to you.

You woke up in the middle of the night when you heard the heavy breaths of the man. Half awake, you blindly reach out for your glasses on the night stand, vision clearer as you saw the door to your bedroom was wide opened. Getting on your feet, you moved towards the source of the noises carefully and realized it came from Bucky who was now thrashing on the couch in your living room.

He was groaning, clutching at his left arm painfully as if it was burned. A sheen of sweat could be seen on his forehead, strays of hair sticking onto the sides of his face. The front of his wife beater clung onto his chest soaked by perspiration. His groans soon turned into agonizing screams as he tossed and turned on your couch. You noticed webs of burn scars littering the expanse of his left shoulder to his arm and felt your heart tightened at the sight of it.

You hastily knelt in front of the couch, hand gripping on his shoulder and his face. “Bucky! Bucky!” His eyes shot open at your voice, flinching at the sight of you. Hands balled into fists in front of his chest, he was ready to take on any attack coming at his way. He visibly relaxed when he broke out of the haze, pushing his hair back with his hand with a bashful look on his face.

His muscles tensed when your hand reached out to his shoulder, but then slackened when you pulled him into a hug. His head fell onto your shoulder as you patted on his back like how he did for you just a few hours ago, ignoring the sweat gliding down his skin.

It must have been hours; the two of you sitting there in an embrace on your couch, not wanting to let each other go after what you both have been through. No one spoke a word and there was only silence in the large apartment of yours. The faint ray of sunlight peeked through the blinds, gleaming into your apartment reminding you to start the day.

He was the one who broke the hug, an awkward silence now surrounding the both of you. “Thank you … for helping me, even though I was supposed to be the one helping you,” his voice was raspy from the groans and moans. “It’s … uh nothing,” you shrugged, dragging your worn body to make some hot chocolate for him even though your body was screaming for you to lay in the bed, rotting your day away.

Your hands trembled as you passed him the mug. “Where’s yours?” Your head tilted at his question, not quite sure what he was asking about.

“Y/N, how long have you not eaten anything?” You turned your head away, not meeting his determined gaze. You wished he didn’t catch the glint of guilt in your eyes, but you knew he did.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He clenched his jaw at your statement.

“You called me, Y/N. You called me because you need help and I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.” You gulped at his words. His eyebrows were furrowed and it triggered a fear in you; you didn’t want to disappoint him like you did to your parents.

Your lips quivered a little, eyes darting to the carpet. “I couldn’t find the energy to eat, it’s just too much work. These days it’s either eat or shower. Since I don’t have any appetite anymore, I dedicated all the energy to shower then. But I have a feeling that I might not even have the energy to drag myself to take a shower or even get up in the mornings soon. It’s just so tiring, where do people even get those energy from?”

“Well, we’ll deal with it one step at a time, okay?” Bucky tilted your chin up to make you look him in the eyes. You whispered a meek ‘ok’, suddenly tired at the lack of sleep.

He handed you the now warm hot chocolate, a stern stare on his face. “At least have some fluids in your system, please.” His gaze softened when he saw you gulping at the sight of the warm brown liquid, nose scrunched up in disgust.

He noticed your discomfort and gestured you to wait while he went to your kitchen and rummaged around the drawers only to return with a spoon.

“Baby steps, okay? Just 5 spoons of it then we’re done.” You nodded while he passed the spoon to you.

The whole morning was spent with Bucky in the living room, him giving your warm encouraging smiles whenever you managed to swallow a spoonful of the chocolate drink.

“Go get some sleep,” he gave your knee a few light taps before proceeding to pull you off the couch and guide you back to your room, then went back to the couch himself to get some shut-eye.

Sending a message to your assistant that you would have to take a few days off, you didn’t wait until you get a reply and plopped yourself on the bed, once again drifting into sleep hoping tomorrow would be better than today.

[carpsurprise]

bro 👁👁 if u wanna talk more abt jodi and her parenting i would LOVE to hear it :D honestly you worded it much better than i could asdmsbf ty!!

THANK U SO MUCH IVE BEEN DYING TO TALK ABOUT THIS FOR A HOT MINUTE ok im gonna bleed this in with some of MY headcanons personally and some of the canon dialogue!! i’ll bold my headcanons so its easier to differentiate what im talkin about bopbop also this is SO long im sorry

also this makes it seem like i don’t like jodi i do!! (thats my mom in law hehe) but like... just some of the stuff she says points to deeper insecurity issues. 

so in short: this is kind of a jodi analysis.

it’s def touched upon by multiple people that she doesn’t seem happy (her dialogue is full of ‘i wants’ and ‘i wishes) but i do think that’s not entirely the case, it’s just a classic mother thing to feel sort of (lack of a better word) trapped into motherhood and her responsibilities. and i def think kent being away probably worsened that.

with kent being away she was pretty much a single mother, and as seen in sam’s canon character, he has to do a lot to make up for kent’s absence... financially and emotionally, for both her and vince. vince needs a positive male figure to look up to to inspire him to be the best he can be, and jodi needs stability and help with her own responsibilities. sam tries to fulfill all of that and even some of his marriage dialogue (and his three heart event) it definitely puts stress on him.

so, sam tries his best! but in some dialogue and sam’s heart events you can see she still gets on him for things that makes him like :/ she still views him as a child occasionally despite being a full adult who is also sorta-parenting vincent, acting as some sort of doing-good role model for him, and i believeeee he says he tries to be his best specifically for vincent’s growth.

jodi still treats vincent like a child, but she still treats him better than she treats sam often. which kinda ties into the point i made about sam being the trial/error kid. i’ve headcanoned and i’ve seen others also say that kent and jodi got married straight out of high school. u kno typical military stuff. this also kind of explains her sort of ‘trapped feeling’ dialogue since it seems like she didn’t get much time to explore the world or maybe even explore herself as an individual. caroline likes gardening, marnie loves animals to death, and robin knows woodworking/a trade but jodi... just has regular ‘housewife’ things like cooking and cleaning.

^ like this doesn’t sound like someone who had a CHOICE in what her life has turned out to be. and i think sam got the BRUNT of that.

and here ^ she’s kind of immature in some of her dialogue, esp since (like u said in ur post!!) that sam caught on to it and has reacted negatively to it. i would venture to a point and say she most likely suffered with post-partum depression for sam especially if she felt trapped with kent as she does in game. i def think that with this and in canon, sam was probably used as her guinea pig for parenting. obviously no one is a natural born mother but if kent had just gone away in the military and she had sam, i can definitely see where some resentment for kent and sam would come in... along with resentment for herself for getting herself into that situation.

which that kind of train of thought could be an explanation for some of her self-deprecating/wants and wishes dialogue. once the issues of raising sam had kinda smoothed out, and he became old enough to realize exactly what was going on with his father/the war and his mother’s reactions to that stress, she probably already figured out how to parent vincent. esp since sam and vincent seem so similar (adhd imo) what didn’t work with sam jodi was able to figure out.

but going back to how she treats sam! i do think she would still kind of hold some resentment. obviously she loves sam but she still views him as a child, despite how mature he really is... like in his marriage dialogue and his three heart event. i honestly think his whole sunshine/golden retriever boy personality is ofc true but. partially true. i think he does it as a save face for how he really feels, which is anxious (about his fathers return and vincent growing up).

but one of the first tags i put! def more headcanon-y just from the stuff i mentioned above. jodi definitely gives me the ‘weaponizes basic needs’ in an argument type of mom. u kno the whole “i feed you, you have a roof over your head, i put clothes on your back” kind of manipulation. which.. yeah jodi you should! i think she’s very insecure about herself and very anxious over her situation and is at a constant state of trying to prove to herself her own worth. like.. the only thing she is/does is be a mother so when sam (or not so often vincent) fuck up, she takes it personally because raising those two is the only thing she really does. if she sees herself as a failure there... then what as she spent her life doing (instead of travelling/having hobbies/etc)

kids naturally fuck up she learned through sam!! one of the things my mother told me all the time while growing up was that it was “her first time ever being a mother” and i think jodi would honestly... have those same thoughts. she’s tired and overworked and on top of that has to raise two boys as a ‘single mother’. i think she’d snap easily on sam from too much pressure, whether he was younger (by accident) or as he got older (on purpose). it seems like there’s little room for accidents on anyone else’s part in her house.

like sam’s four heart event. ignoring the obvious why-the-hell-are-you-handing-me-an-egg issue, sam very obviously drops the egg on accident, and jodi storms in and creates an issue out of it. which... it’s an accident. it seems out of character for sam to drop the egg on purpose and cause an issue for his MOTHER. obviously he does stuff that makes lewis mad on purpose, but he doesn’t do stuff like that to jodi. but she still gets upset over... his hand slipping.

and his ten heart event. why don’t we talk about that more often? from her dialogue its hinted at that she thought he was ... y’know... but still had said if i recall correctly!! “i’m coming in”. there was no question and it gives sam no option to tell her no. so it seems she has that kind of ‘control’ in their house where she can just invade sam’s privacy (granted.. she knocked but still) even when she thought he was doing THAT. idk i don’t like the “i’m coming in”... it seems like she is not giving sam the further consent for her to enter his room (or private space)

ok this is long i need to wrap this up but bottom line she loves her kids. of course she does! but i think sam definitely gets treated ‘worse’ and kinda has as the firstborn/oldest. jodi, with her kids, finally has some control of her life back since she is their mother and they have to listen to her. she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing still, and once one of the boys (sam) messes up she takes it as a personal attack since the One thing she does in her life is be a mother. this was very long but thank u !!!! i love doing a lil character analysis

[craftypeaceturtle]

Folk Stories

Summary: Hakoda has been rescued from Boiling Rock and now has joined the little family his children have created. What a better way to warm everyone up than to tell a folk story he heard while he was in the prison?

Note: This is my first ATLA fic so feedback is crucial!!! I tried to get a grasp on the culture presented in the show but I’m not entirely sure I got everything. So please feel free to give feedback!!! A bog standard Gaang finds out about the scar fic!

Slight discussion around child abuse, no depiction but still be careful. 

.

Arriving at the Western Air Temple was bizarre. That was the only way to describe it. The air was chilling with a constant gust. It felt somehow both fresh but also deadened. Like it wasn’t a new wind but rather the same old air forever cycling through the walls. The Temple itself was crumbling to pieces. The place felt… haunted. Not that that was a very sensitive thing to say. But despite the eight children running about and claiming it as home for a couple of weeks now, the place just felt wrong. Like it was wrong to even be standing here. He couldn’t imagine what Aang felt. Maybe it only felt so bizarre because it was the exact opposite of the modern spacious war ship with his very hyperactive chatty son who remained glued to his side.

Not that Hakoda could really complain. Sokka walked away once halfway through to relieve himself and he felt like he had lost a limb.

He walked off the ship as casually as he could and stiffly walked forward to the rest of the group. Immediately, he was knocked over with Katara. He tried to laugh it off but he clutched her just as tight. It still felt weird to be able to stand and hug her rather than ducking down. Her hair was wildly wispy over his face. She smelled of the campfire smoke that was cracking nearby. That was what was probably bringing tears to his eyes. After a heartful clinging hug, he finally noticed the rest of them looking at him. Right. Other people. He sat down with a welcoming smile and beckoned them all. They all sat and chatted.

 What was made instantly clear was that all these kids were close. Like family close. Really, he should’ve saw this coming. Like when he tried to subtly ask Sokka on the warship if he was really sure he wanted to hang out with someone like Zuko and he was immediately met with a stern lecture. It almost made him laugh. His kids had the bad habit of just seeing a potential friend and deciding they would defend them to their deaths. Must have got that from their mother… probably.

 He didn’t really mean to but he was so glad he was taking the time to sit with them all. While it did feel a little awkward, it made his chest glow to finally have the chance to actually know who his kids were hanging out with.  

 Toph seemed a lot, honestly. She was firm and extremely confident in her actions and morals. Which sounds like the exact thing the group needed. A firmer hand to guide them to their goal. Someone to help point Sokka’s genius. Someone to stop Katara and Aang from getting too emotional and getting them out of bad situations. Only problem was that she was a twelve-year-old girl. Her confidence in her actions was her being absolutely certain that punching was definitely an affectionate gesture and that crime should be allowed if it’s fun. But Hakoda found himself laughing along with her so he couldn’t complain much.

Haru seemed the closest thing to an actual responsible adult the group had. But he was very quiet. Very polite. But he seemed content to live his own life and try to get back to some form of normal. He was willing to fight and help the group survive but it was clear he was never going to be involved in helping Aang defeat the Firelord. Maybe that’s a good thing. Destiny wasn’t something he tried to understand but it was obvious that Aang should be the one alone to face him.

The Duke was a child. He was very fun to joke with but then again, every now and then, he would say something make it clear he was a child who had seen the very worse parts of war. He was a child who had never experienced a moment of childhood. His heart hurt for him, but he wasn’t an idiot to say that out loud.

Teo seemed so bright and cheerful compared to the deadened temple. Even compared to his usually bright loud kids. They were so stupidly excited at his arrival, but they still seemed dimmed in comparison to the little boy who was zipping about the place and chattering about potential inventions. He seemed like Sokka but younger.

Zuko… was also a lot. He was biased against him, so it was hard to judge an opinion. Zuko was mostly silent. Sokka would occasionally joke with him and force him into the conversation and Zuko seemed like any other average awkward teenager. But mostly the others let him keep quiet and he focused on what looked like some form of meditating at the campfire.

 It was getting late. But no one dared stated this. Zuko only let the fire burn brighter or occasionally forced Aang to make the fire larger to light the room as a form of practise. Katara stood up at one point, “I’m grabbing my blanket, I’m getting cold. Does anyone else what theirs now I’m up?”

“Ooh! Me!” Aang whipped round with a sleepily excited smile.

“I’m good,” Sokka and everyone else mumbled without even turning, “So, dad, did you hear anything around the prison?”

“Hear anything?” Hakoda chuckled off but everyone turned serious. Sokka sighed and awkwardly fiddled his hands.

“Uh I mean any Fire Nation gossip? Any Firelord plans or propaganda? Anything that could help…”

Hakoda tried chuckling again but Zuko remained completely focused on the campfire. His chest slowly expanding with the flames. He didn’t even flinch. Maybe he could believe that Zuko truly wanted to help them but there was no way he’d appreciate the tiny whispers he heard about his nation. “I didn’t hear anything really useful. I heard some folk stories and a lot of twisted propaganda.”

“Hey, I’m still up for some Fire Nation camp stories!” Toph shrugged. Katara had now returned and flung Aang his blanket and draped another on Zuko’s shoulders. He finally opened his eyes and awkwardly nodded at her. Katara also stiltedly nodded back.

“It’s not a nice story…” Hakoda tried very much to hint as he looked directly at The Duke. Thankfully Haru took his hint.

“That’s fair, we should be heading to bed anyway. I’m exhausted!” He stood and pulled a half sleeping The Duke up as well. They all waved them goodnight. Their footsteps echoed across the empty stone hall as they disappeared into a room.

 “Right. Now the babies are gone. Tell us the Fire Nation horror stories!” Toph chanted way too loudly for how late it was.

“It’s not a very happy story but I guess a story is a story,” Hakoda sighed. Being honest, while it wasn’t nice, it also didn’t sound at all real. But at least it would be a good way to wind down the emotional day.

 “There’s this story about the Firelord and his sons. The younger son had grown jealous of his older sibling learning how to become a rightful heir to the nation.” Hakoda began, despite the fact he couldn’t really recall if it was the older or younger son. It made more sense if it was the younger son. But everyone was immediately clinging to his words. So, he continued, “Eventually he begged his father to attend an important meeting to gain experience and prove he could be responsible. The Firelord, well… the guard who told this story worded it that the Firelord was so gracious and kind to allow his son into the meeting but obviously… That doesn’t seem right.”

“The Firelord let him into the meeting despite knowing his son was not ready. The younger son was very immature and spoiled. He was rude to everyone, even the fellow royals…. That was something that I found odd. The guard worded it as fellow royals rather than family...”

“Hmm,” Zuko spoke, striking lightning through the atmosphere with just that hum. Hakoda now felt awkward. While it was clear the folk story wasn’t talking about his father, how wise was it truly to retell a story based on his family. “The Fire Nation places significance in respecting your elders but there’s also significance in following your own determination.”

“What, so you don’t care for your family,” Katara frowned.

“No… Respecting and bringing pride to your elders is a huge deal but… honestly, I think the Fire Lord wanted to still get people to report any rebelling ideals that family members might have. It’s… complicated.”

“Well, either way the son was a pain in the ass by the sounds of it and he was let into the meeting under the one rule, not to talk out of order. He explained that the councillors were sensitive and easy to anger and wanted to protect his son from harm. Of course, the son then immediately talks over a general in the meeting to suggest his own plan despite having no experience and no idea of the politics.”

 At this, Zuko now frowned. Hakoda spoke slowly, fully expecting to be interrupted (maybe Zuko had heard this as well and he was telling it wrong), but he didn’t say a word. He just merely tensed his shoulders and stayed sat, frowning intensely.

 “The general was furious and the Firelord tried to calm him, but he knew there was no way words would be enough to stop this. A duel was ordered. The son agreed without pausing to think this through. The Firelord tried to explain what would happen but the son brushed him off and interrupted him from explaining what would happen. The day of the duel arrived and the son stood to face his opponent only to find his father, the Firelord, at the other side of the court.”

 Zuko’s eyes opened now. But he was now frozen facing the campfire. Hakoda paused again to let him talk but he said nothing.

 “The son then proceeded to beg for mercy. But the Firelord had enough. The son was greedy, stupid and lazy. And now here he was begging after proposing an aggressive military strategy over an experienced military general. He offered to explain how the duel would work and protect him from it but he ignored him. The Firelord then gave him a chance to fight before declaring that the son was no longer part of the royal family for his disgrace. To try and teach his son one last lesson, the Firelord battled the duel to try and teach him how to fight. But the son didn’t even try, didn’t even stand up to face him. The son walked away that day with a hardy battle scar and no family.”

 The silence in the temple felt like a presence around the campfire as well.

“Well!” Toph leaned back, “You were right. That was kinda a downer.”

“Yeah…” Aang mumbled.

“I think the point of the story is how forgiving and firm the Firelord is and how amazing he must be,” Hakoda grimaced, “But all who overheard it just thought it was more proof that the Firelord and his whole family are evil.”

“Who was it even based off?” Sokka asked.

“Two sons so maybe Firelord Azulon? But didn’t uncle Iroh leave by himself. Like he wasn’t kicked out or anything, was he?” Toph tilted her head to Zuko but he never reacted.

“Zuko?” Aang placed his hand on Zuko’s shoulder. He shot up. Like he was electrocuted.

“I am needing to go to bed.” Zuko scampered backwards. His eyes stuck on the flames. Sokka stood as well but he hovered awkwardly.

“Are you sure? Was it the story-“ Sokka tried to ask but he was immediately ignored. Zuko walked off to his room.

 But he turned just as he was about to disappear from their view, “You should never repeat that story. It’s… not good.”

 The night was just as awkward as the temple after that. A moment silently passed.

 “Maybe we should all call it a night. It’s certainly been an emotional day,” Teo explained, tilting his chair towards the rooms behind where they were all sitting. Everyone agreed and stood as well. Aang was the last to stand and took a couple of breaths before finally manipulating the campfire to fizzle out completely.

“I’ll stand guard first,” Aang said, facing away from them.

“I’ll take over for the morning half,” Sokka volunteered. Hakoda walked away with the others.

 The morning was a little better. If there was one more thing Hakoda could criticise the temple of, it was the fact that there was no way the sun could reach them on the underside of a cliff. He woke up and stretched his back, wincing at the horrible click, and stood and walked out of the room. Toph and Katara were half-heartedly arguing about how to cut some vegetables. He smiled at the quiet normalcy. You never realise how much you miss normal life until you hear people arguing about veg rather than battle strategies. “Morning everyone. The others still sleeping?”

“Hey dad! Aang is practising with Zuko, the others usually all crowd round to watch,” Katara answered, “Feel free to go watch too. It might be another twenty minutes or so for breakfast.”

“I’d go if I was you,” Toph interrupted, “It is so cool to see firebending up close without being in actual danger. And if you ever tell Sparky that then I’ll attack Sokka.”

“Yeah?” Hakoda asked, quietly ignoring the threat to his son.

“Oh yeah. The fire and the colours. It’s just mesmorising. A real sight to behold.”

“Toph,” Katara scolded and now Hakoda felt his face heat up. Right, she was joking. She was blind. “But she is right. It is impressive to see.”

 After bothering Katara by asking if she needs any help, Hakoda followed the sounds of blasts of fires to a courtyard like space. Aang was standing proudly in the middle, his chest puffed out powerfully as he took deep even breaths. His arms twirled around, almost like waterbending, with a solid stance and footing, like earthbending, with powerful flames licking along his movements. Sweeps of orange. Katara really wasn’t joking. He stopped dead in his tracks.

 Zuko was standing to the side with his fingers tapping along his chin. Aang finished whatever exercise he was doing and looked over with the proudest most childish grin ever. Hakoda found himself grinning too. Zuko stood slowly. To Hakoda, it looked flawless.

 “How’d I do Sifu!” Aang chirped.

“Your fire is steady and strong. But I really do think you need to stop puffing out your chest like that and actually breathe normally. You don’t have to puff out like an aggressive pig-chicken. Just… breathe normally! You don’t need to complete the kata strictly chest first.”

“But you said the power should come from my chest!” Aang whined.

“Yes and ever since saying that you only moved chest first! You look stupid! Like a pig-chicken!” Zuko burst out.

“But my firebending is good enough! So it doesn’t even matter!”

“Yeah Zuko, you never know, maybe his stance will throw off the Firelord,” Sokka laughed despite Aang withering glare. Zuko only sighed and approached the middle of the courtyard and quickly snapped to another stance.

“Careful Aang, you’re starting to sound like the son in Hakoda’s story. Zuko knows best. You can’t talk over him!” The Duke yelled over with a point.

 Now it felt like the atmosphere was ruined. Aang snapped to face the boy. Zuko stumbled but stepped back into position hesitatingly.

  “Uh, the Duke, h-how’d you even overhear any of that?”

“Because Haru couldn’t be more obvious if he tried!” The Duke gasped, “It wasn’t even that bad. Like what was the scary part? The scar? He didn’t even explain what it looked like!”

“The story wasn’t even accurate. Let’s move on,” Zuko snapped.

“What? He didn’t tell it properly? Well, what is it actually?” The Duke asked.

“It doesn’t matter!” Zuko shouted, his voice echoed along the walls. Hakoda finally walked forward, approaching Sokka.

“Everything okay here guys?” Hakoda put on his best dad voice and walked forward confidently. Only Sokka looked at him though.

“Why? It’s just some stupid Fire Nation story! What? You offended, Ashmaker!” The Duke screamed.

“Woah, okay now!” Hakoda raised his voice louder.

“Because it’s not some folk story. It was a real thing! You can’t just say shit like that casually!” Zuko didn’t bare Hakoda and his obvious dad attempt at taking control any attention.

“Oh boo hoo! One of your precious Fire Lords once beat up his own son to prove some stupid point! Oh no, your family is filled with abusive dicks!” Haru was now even trying to pull The Duke aside as Hakoda walked to Zuko. He placed his hands firmly on his shoulders and steered him away.

 He didn’t shout anything else but he did unleash a roar of fire before stomping just ahead of him. Sokka and Aang took one moment to swap looks before both running after Zuko. Not that he was paying any attention. Hakoda awkwardly paused, unsure which room to led Zuko to so he could obviously let out some steam, but thankfully Sokka caught up to them and led the way down the hall to the right, into the first room they found.

 It was barren and already had blackened scorches across the walls and ceilings. Hakoda didn’t at all focus on that though. Maybe they were old or maybe it was from some previous Zuko tantrums.

Zuko punched the wall with all the might of his firebending. Sokka and Aang only winced at how obviously painful that was going to be but didn’t seem at all afraid of him. So Hakoda tried to follow their lead despite his racing heart.

 “Everything okay, Sifu Hotman?” Aang joked but he toned himself down. He was only slightly a ball of blinding sunshine of happiness. Zuko tried to match his smile but it was too wobbly and fragile.

“Sorry. That story hit close to home.”

“We figured. If you want to talk about it, do you know what upset you about it?” Sokka knelt down and crossed his legs. They all followed, including Hakoda. One tiny whisper frowned at how much he was following his son’s lead. He remembered trying to convince a baby Sokka not to charge out of the tent completely naked and failing miserably as his son gave an impassioned speech about how it’ll be fun. It was that same boy that he was now following. Zuko fell to the floor deliberately harshly.

“I… I guess I hate- I don’t like what you all took from the story…” He stumbled through. Hakoda went to talk but Sokka placed a hand on his knee. A moment passed and Zuko finally found some more words, “You all took that the Fire Lord was cruel to do that. And you don’t even know the full story. Like, just the Fire Lord fighting his son was enough to mark him cruel. Even if the son was ‘a pain in the ass’?”

“Yeah,” Aang spoke unsurely but he continued saying each word carefully, “I mean, we don’t know a lot of the details about the son but I personally can’t think of any reason where I’d then fight my own son. Especially if he was a child or something!”

“Yeah, like if your son’s dismissive or rude or whatever, then you make more effort to talk to him! What would fighting him even do? It’s just more cruel than what’s needed.” Zuko looked up at Sokka as he spoke.

“It is cruel, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question but Hakoda tilted his head and answered, “Of course it’s cruel. I can’t imagine people hearing that and thinking the Fire Lord was in the right. As a certified dad, I don’t think there’s anything that could push me to fight Sokka. I can’t speak for the guards but… I think the reason the folk story didn’t go into any detail about the fight was so it’s easier to agree with the Fire Lord. I’m sure if the injuries were described then the guards would speak differently.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m honestly surprised the story didn’t go into any detail about the fight. That’s the most infamous part…”

“So what’s the actual story?” Sokka asked.

 Zuko looked around nervously and bit harshly on his thumb.

 “There… The son of the Fire Lord wanted to prove himself and attend a war meeting. The Fire Lord’s brother let him in but warned him that he shouldn’t talk. The generals were easy to anger. In the meeting, a general proposed the most… it was an awful plan. I uh… The son got too angry and shouted at the meeting. It was really disrespectful. It was an awful plan but, like, maybe things wouldn’t have been so bad if he just spoke normally. Or maybe his uncle would’ve spoken out anyway. A-anyway, an Agni Kai was ordered. T-that’s like a duel between two firebenders, usually it ends with either one of the people surrendering or getting injured to the point of being unable to fight. The son thought he was to fight the old general who proposed the plan. And really the plan was horrible. It was awful. So he went to fight him as I could so take him in a fight!”

 Sokka and Aang shared an uncertain look. That all seemed to align… But it was clear that this was hitting too close to Zuko. He was refusing to look at them as he spoke. His anger flared again and each word was practically growled out.

 “So the day of the fight came and the boy turned to face his opponent and instead saw father down the court. I… uh… I then fell to my knees and begged. I knew there was no use fighting. I’m not a very talented firebender, even less so at thirteen! So I thought the best thing would be to just… surrender. The Firelord usually prefers if you just surrender and admit your wrong than to fight. He liked when you made him feel… anyway I… well I fell to the floor and begged while crying. I-I can’t imagine what that must’ve looked like to the audience-“

“Wait, there were people watching!” Sokka exclaimed. Hakoda only then remembered the rest of the room. The story was too cold for him to notice anything else. Aang looked just as horrified, shifting on the spot clearly dying to launch himself at Zuko as a comfort. Zuko looked just as caught off.

“Um yeah? Like nobles and the other royal family members.”

“So Uncle was there?” Aang’s timid small voice ripped through the angry shocked words.

“Well yes. Also, he’s not your uncle!”

“He didn’t do anything?”

“No. I don’t think he could’ve.” Zuko fiddled with his hands.

 There was a beat of silence.

 “So your dad beat you up in front of everyone and then banished you? You were upset because we all saw that as cruel while you blamed yourself for that,” Sokka started strong before then realising just how insensitive he was being. Way to rub it in his face.

“He didn’t beat me up. He just burnt me,” Zuko casually motioned his to warped face and perpetually squinting eye to which everyone else in the room stopped breathing, “but yeah he then banished me. I-I… It’s… Three years is a long time to pass. I don’t really remember pretty much anything from that day really. Uncle never talked about it so I don’t know exactly what happened. I thought I got over it by now. I know it was cruel. It was wrong. But… I guess I just thought that was me making excuses… It’s weird to think other people actually think it’s wrong and cruel.”

 The dead air of the temple never felt more gross. Like a panting stranger leaning over your shoulder leering over you. A presence in the room listening in. The room looked empty even with them all sitting there. The story somehow filled the room and now it was finished. Hakoda gulped.

 “I’m so sorry Zuko,” Aang breathed out before gradually reaching over. Zuko blocked his hands from hugging him but did grip his hands instead.

“No dad should ever do that Zuko. And a journey into recovery will never have a nice easy end. But if you already know it was wrong then you’ve already made it so far. You should be proud of yourself,” Hakoda smiled warmly. Zuko still didn’t meet his eyes.

 It would probably be a while before Zuko would truly believe that it was cruel and wrong, and clearly the entire family here was willing to wait and teach that. Hakoda kept his mind from thinking how long it took for Zuko to even convince himself that maybe it was cruel and wrong. Right now, he focused on the warm, forgiving, loving family formed in the ruins of a cold temple.

[heavyarethecrowns]

Forget Wills and Kate - it's Harry who's found love - May 2007

Gazing into the flames of a campfire on the banks of Botswana's Okavango River, a scruffily dressed young man took a sip of his beer and let out a prolonged sigh.

Minutes later, he was pouring his heart out to the three strangers sitting beside him.

"Apparently, he had fallen in love with some girl in Cape Town who was the daughter of a rich businessman in Zimbabwe.

"He seemed really serious about her, saying he couldn't understand how he had fallen head-over-heels only four days after meeting her," one of those fellow travellers later recalled.

The love-sick youth was, of course, Prince Harry, then on holiday in Africa during his gap year. And the girl who made such an impact was Chelsy Davy.

Three years on, almost to the day, Harry is preparing to wave goodbye to his girlfriend and march off to war.

Much has happened to the young prince in the intervening period: officer training at Sandhurst; periodic brawls with the paparazzi; and his father's marriage to the woman Harry once blamed for causing his late mother so much anguish.

But, to the surprise of many observers, one of the few constants in Harry's life has turned out to be the coltish, snub-nosed girl he met in Cape Town.

Indeed, some of his friends believe that an engagement is almost certainly on the cards, though probably not for a few years yet.

Of course, feelings can change. A tour of duty in Iraq, fighting for his country, may accelerate the progression from pampered prince to more mature man of the world: he may want to close the book on his youth, open a new chapter, find a different kind of soulmate.

But maybe not. Even 12 months ago, few could have predicted that Harry's long- distance relationship with the coquettish daughter of a Zimbabwean wheeler-dealer and former Coca-Cola model would outlast William's romance with the eminently proper Kate Middleton.

The truth of the matter, however, is that Harry has always seen himself and Chelsy as better suited and more capable of going the distance.

"And now," said a well-placed source this week, "he's been proved right."

The 22-year- old prince has become increasingly irritated by what he saw as the "hype" surrounding William and Kate's relationship.

A friend of Harry's says: "Harry doesn't want to be subjected to the level of interest people have been taking in William and Kate.

"It's his idea of hell. But he also feels very frustrated at the way people are so dismissive of him and Chelsy.

"They are always portrayed as a pair of poor little rich kids who will burn themselves out sooner rather than later.

"In Harry's mind, there is nothing ridiculous whatsoever in the idea that one day, in the not-too-distant future, Princess Chelsy could be standing on the balcony at Buckingham Palace - even though she would probably be hiding a cigarette and a bottle of Malibu behind her back."

Despite the stream of paparazzi photographs that reveal a fondness for partying and a distinctly beach-chick style, the 21-year-old Zimbabwean has been an "A" student at school and university.

Harry would not want to change anything about her.

While others - including his own father, according to Harry - find themselves transfixed by Chelsy's more obvious charms - the prince has always believed that his girlfriend has some sterling qualities that Kate probably lacked.

"Harry has always been quietly very proud of the fact that Chelsy - or Chedda, as he affectionately calls her - loves him for who he is.

"In fact, she sees the fact that he's royal as more of a hindrance than a help," says a confidante.

"As the hugely popular daughter of a multi-millionaire businessman with homes in at least three different countries, she doesn't really need to take advantage of Harry's birthright."

One source close to the prince suggests that he actually sided with members of William's circle who felt that Kate Middleton had started to take advantage of the relationship.

"Harry had sympathy with those of William's friends who felt Kate had begun to rather enjoy her fame by association a little too much - unlike his own girlfriend, who he thinks is a 'real class act'," the source explains.

'When she first met William, Kate had few friends of her own - but over the years, she carefully assimilated herself into his circle.

"There was a feeling among some of William's friends that Kate had become a little too self-aware - she even had the cheek to bag herself a cut-price Audi, thanks to her royal links - while publicly insisting that she wanted to be treated as an ordinary girl."

Although Chelsy and Kate were photographed together on several occasions, most notably at the Beaufort Polo Club last summer, Harry's girlfriend apparently didn't particularly take to Kate.

"It wasn't that she disliked her - it's just that they had nothing in common. One only has to look at them to see it," says the source.

"Chelsy is a lot sweeter than she looks, but she is still a very outgoing girl who likes a beer and a fag.

Thanks to her rather indulged upbringing, she is incredibly sociable and self-confident - qualities that don't come naturally to Kate."

Others more sympathetic to Miss Middleton's cause, suggest the reality is that Chelsy has been just as keen to turn a royal relationship to her advantage.

She may protest about the attention, but she has not raised objections about her new status as international cover girl.

Last year, the society magazine, Tatler, even bracketed her with the Duchess of Cornwall as one of the most powerful blondes in Britain.

Her brother Shaun, meanwhile, has taken to styling himself as one of Harry's official bodyguards, and has been known to chase after photographers when they try to take the prince's picture.

Yet, in Harry's besotted eyes, Chelsy and her family can do no wrong.

Courtiers who have expressed concern about the Davys' controversial business links to Zimbabwean despot Robert Mugabe, have been told that she is a "non-negotiable" part of his life.

And he is undoubtedly entranced by the relative normality of his girlfriend's close-knit family.

Which is perhaps hardly surprising. By the age of 13, Harry had weathered not only his parents' separation but had also been forced to cope with the tragic - and endlessly raked-over -death of his mother.

Since then, his upbringing has been marked by a lack of parental discipline, thanks to his loving but laissez-faire father.

Even those with reservations about Chelsy concede that she has had a positive effect on the headstrong, devil-may-care young prince.

"It's far from a coincidence that when Harry does slip up - the times when he falls out of nightclubs drunk and brawls with photographers in the streets - Chelsy isn't around," says one who knows them both well.

"Believe it or not, he has matured in recent years - in large part thanks to Chelsy, whom he is incredibly protective of - and really does try to keep his head down.

"They are so besotted with each other - like a couple of lovebirds, really - that when they are together, nothing else really matters.

"Their body language is so different from that of Kate and William, who always used to look more like brother and sister.

"The trouble is that when Chelsy isn't around, Harry is easily led astray."

On their recent jaunt to the Caribbean, the couple barely left their luxury condo in the exclusive Glitter Bay resort in Barbados, preferring to lie, holding hands, by the pool.

And at last Friday's raucous Blues and Royals party to celebrate Harry's deployment to Iraq, it was William who stayed out clubbing until 4am with a bevy of beautiful girls.

Harry and Chelsy quietly sipped cocktails in a private booth before slipping off discreetly at 1am.

Lately, friends have noticed that the relationship seems to be deepening - although that is not to say there haven't been some pretty intense spats.

Unlike William, who was accused of leaving Kate to flounder under the weight of expectation while he forged on with his own life, Harry has been actively encouraging Chelsy to make solid plans for their future.

Bristol University has flatly denied rumours she plans to do a postgraduate degree there in the autumn, but friends say she is definitely planning to spend more time in England, where she has many friends from her days as a boarder at Stowe, a co-educational public school in Buckinghamshire.

She has even cancelled her plans to return to Africa over the summer and will instead wait for Harry to return from Iraq on leave.

"Chelsy hates the weather here, but is desperate to be nearer to her darling Haz. She is willing to make sacrifices if it takes their relationship a step forward," says a friend.

And Harry has already asked Chelsy to attend the memorial concert in July that he and William are organising to mark the tenth anniversary of their mother's death, though they are still discussing whether she should attend the formal church service later that month.

A Clarence House source says: "The problem is that every senior member of the Royal Family will be there, and Harry knows that taking her is tantamount to making a public statement on the future of their relationship.

"He doesn't think that it's fair on her to open the floodgates just yet."

In the immediate future, he knows that he needs to concentrate on leading his men in Iraq.

The highly charged public debate over his deployment to the Gulf has radically increased the pressure on him to make a success of his career - and he wants to show that the Army's confidence in him has not been misplaced.

"After what happened to my mother, I'm not afraid to die - but I am frightened for those around me," he recently confided to one close friend.

Although he did once petulantly threaten to quit if he were not sent to Iraq with his troops, his attitude has changed in the last few months.

"He knows that the situation is bigger than him now, and he'll take whatever he is told to do on the chin," says a royal aide.

Indeed, those who know him well say he is haunted by the fear that one of his men could be captured or even killed because of him.

"That's something he just couldn't bear, and he knows he would be held to account for the rest of his life.

"The men in his troop have tried to reassure him - joking that they will all wear ginger wigs to confuse the enemy, which is typical of Army gallows humour - but he is wracked with guilt," says another friend.

Iraq, however, is also Harry's big opportunity to strike out from under his elder brother's shadow.

For the first time in his life, the spare to William's heir will be taking centre stage.

"Harry loves his brother very much, but he is acutely aware of the way in which he is overshadowed by William.

"He is determined to go to war and make his family proud," says a friend.

But unlike William, he will have a long-term sweetheart to sweep into his arms when he returns.

[thecrownrp]

THE KINGDOM OF SPADES PRESENTS . . .

one of the SECOND TIER PRINCE candidates, RYU HYUNWOO: a 26 YEAR OLD born on JUNE 2ND, 1995. some may know them as THE SURROGATE but with a face like that, it’s hard not to admit they look a little like PARK JUNHEE ( JUN ). curious to know more? apparently, these are words they live by: “it is not the years in your life that count, it’s the life in your years.” intriguing, aren’t they? only time will tell if they’re suited for the crown or not.

LOOK A LITTLE CLOSER . . .

tw: parental death

he doesn’t remember much from before.

they didn’t have much, he knows, but they were happy and he was healthy. he remembers his mother saying that that was all that mattered. he remembers running around with some of the other children in their area, playing games in the dirt and helping his mother with her job, little hands carefully threading needles for her.

good job hyunwoo, he can recall her voice if he really tries, you really have an eye for that.

then, a while after, there was a man who started to come around. a nice man in nice clothes who gave him little presents and fancy things that he would go and share with the other kids even when he was told to keep it to himself. he never understood that, even as a child. when you had something good, shouldn’t you share it with others who didn’t have it? the man would appear more and more often, and his mother would smile more when he was around.

then suddenly, they left their little shop, their little home on the outskirts of the kingdom of spades and moved closer to the palace.

this, he remembers clearly. the feeling of awe when he first stepped into the palace that still sits within him to this day. he’s been in and out of the palace for almost two decades now, from when he was maybe six or seven years old to now. the man, his stepfather, was a royal adviser who had married his mother and allowed him to grow up and become a royal of his own volition. he had studied the same way that the noble children had, with the same books and same subjects, under the careful eye of his stepfather, not wanting to disappoint the man that made his mother happy. he might not have been born into this life, one vying for the crown, but his mother had approved of it and he had grown to enjoy it.

she had passed soon after he had gained the title of a royal though, due to a sickness that had no cure and he had been there with her until her last moments, spending it with his stepfather. trust in yourself hyunwoo, she had said before she passed, weak but still smiling, her eyes so warm. i believe you can do what you’ve always done best.

he’s followed what his mother taught him from the very beginning of his formal training to be a noble. he had thought, when he was young and naive, that he would take over the tailor shop. that one day he would be helping mend clothes for others like how he had watched her do for the first few years of his life.

but this new life? he’s grown into it, being a quick learner and being fast at adapting to new situations in general.

while the palace had been new and daunting when he first stepped into it as a newly appointed royal, it’s home now, with its winding passages and vaulted ceilings. all the new memories he had made once he had passed the selection process and became a royal, and then a prince, still sitting at the forefront of his mind. he would admit that it wasn’t something that he had thought he was capable of before, but he’s taken it in stride and felt that it was something that he could do. and hopefully do well.

of course the support from his stepfather, or father really at this point, has been unending and constant but the support from the queen of spades? that had surprised him at first but helped him grow in confidence as well, and while he’s not too sure what he had done to gain her favour, it isn’t something he’s going to take lightly. after all, the way to the crown definitely isn’t an easy one and he was going to do what was necessary to ascend to the throne. she supports him the way he likes to think his own mother would, and it more than he could ever ask for.

he wants to make the kingdom one that his mother would be proud of being part of.

he’s been a prince for a long time now, and despite not knowing how much closer to being king he is, he knows that he’s as close as he could possibly be in this moment and he’s only going to get closer.

every step is one step closer to your destination hyunwoo, his mother’s words ring out clearly in his mind, her voice faint and unfamiliar, you just have to be brave enough to keep moving forward.

and so he does.

it’s all he can do.

[sansbun]

INTRO | PART 1 | NEXT

Word count: 1.1k

Warning: mentions of bullying, slight mention of death, racism, depressing themes.

They say the less you know, the better. Clearly I didn’t understand what everyone meant by that. It’s not that I was against finding out, but I definitely didn’t expect I’d figure out in such a agonizing way..

Let me take you back in time where my life slowly started changing before I could even register it, shaping it into the bittersweet chaos that it’s now.

I was born here in South Korea, in a somewhat small town near Seoul. Personally I don’t recall many memories apart from being bullied as soon as I entered school. I don’t have the typical looks you see, I was a little more.. “sun kissed” then the kids here and my facial features also made me stand out from the crowd, not in a good way of course. I was always picked on and made fun of, but that didn’t really bother me at such a age. I was too clueless and young to understand any of their actions and remarks towards the color of my skin.

However things began to get worse once it wasn’t only my classmates picking on me. When the teachers joined in on the name calling and mistreating, my parents did all they could and even made me transfer schools, thinking the situation would get better. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. Not the first time, not even the second time and definitely not the third time around.

It only got worse as name calling turned into taking away privileges, that the other kids had. For example, not letting me use the restroom, resulting me in peeing myself in front of the whole class. Not only did that further fuel the bullying and I became a laughing stock, but it also caused me a series of health problems when it occurred in winter, for obvious reasons.

My parents couldn’t do anything anymore as no matter how many times I switches schools, they somehow always had a problem with accepting me and respecting me, weather it be the classmates or the actual teachers.

The final straw was my beloved grandfather passing away due to an accident. I was only 9 years old when my whole family flew to America to start a brand new life. Since then I only remember happy memories as school wasn’t a constant nightmare anymore. I felt more at home and welcomed in a country I’ve never been in, then in my own country.

I couldn’t even speak english properly, yet nobody judged me for that. Nobody mocked me for being different. There were many kids like me who went through a similar process and soon enough, I started making friends and stepped out of my shell.

I was always a shy kid, but at this point I bloomed into a social butterfly. Always excited and running around somewhere. I was a really good student actually. My grades were high and I had good manners so I was never in uncomfortable situations in school. I even got my classmates to hang out with me after class! Soon enough I found out I have a huge passion for dancing, as I spent most of my days making up choreographies with my best friend. Sometimes we’d even stay up past midnight, practicing over and over and enjoying every second of it.

She was a little older than me, taller than me, and obviously more skilled compared to me. And that’s exactly why I adored her so much. I looked up to her. She was like a older sister that I never had. We would dance for hours and hours. I felt truly happy at that point in my life, my family was happy and safe, I had friends and i finally wasn’t scared to be myself.

But one day it all changed, I woke up confused with no answers. It was so sudden.. I went from getting ready for school, to packing up my bags and saying goodbye to my best friend. What exactly happened? Ah I still don’t have answers till this day, but at that time the only thing I knew was that it was my dad’s fault.. and I still can’t bring myself to forgive him from taking the freedom he once gave me.

Everything happened so quickly. I remember crying so much that I couldn’t see.. so much that I most likely knocked myself out, as I remember waking up in the middle of a very long airplane flight. It was like my whole life was shattering. The fear of being unsafe once again really got to me. I felt so helpless.

My friends.. they’re taken away from me again. Why is it that everytime im close to someone, they dissapear? Why must fate always tear me apart from the people I care about? That’s probably not what a kid should be feeling or thinking about but here we are. I had no idea what was coming, I was scared but I truly didn’t imagine it would be this bad..

It went from being happy around everyone to being afraid of people, even being in a room with a few people made me anxious. As if adjusting to a new place wasn’t already hard for a kid in their early teens, the bullying had to start once again. This time with my peers acting as if I was invisible, as if I didn’t exist. I guess it started out as a joke, making fun of my accent, to me not being able to spell in my own language due to not speaking it while I grew up in the states.

But soon it turned into pretending like they don’t see me, hear me or awknowlege my presence. Little by little it got worse, from trash talking about me while I was in the room, to denying to talk to me and partner up with me in class, all the way to throwing out my belongings in the trash.. including my school work, contents of my backpacks and even my shoes..

We weren’t exactly well off and those shoes meant a lot for me, they were from my dad who managed to find me the same pair of shoes as my favorite group at that time, BTS. I danced in those shoes, I went to school with them, actually now that I come to think of it.. they were my only shoes that looked presentable.

We worse slippers in school, and on that particular day I came home very late, humiliated and with my head full of thoughts and questions on why others dislike people like me so much. I spent a few hours looking for my shoes, even the teacher didn’t understand, but when she found them in the school trashcan she didn’t even stand up for me.

She thought I did it on purpose to make the other kids look bad.. however when the principal found out she had a talk with those girls which resulted in them being even harsher with me. Thank god elementary is over and I’m finally in high school.

A/N: After a very long wait it’s finally here! Sorry it took so long I had a writers block and couldn’t get myself to finish it, I wasn’t proud of the way it turned out at first but I hope you somewhat enjoyed reading this and that it didn’t make ur mood drop 🥺

[dessarious]

Broken Harmony Pt4

Master List 1   Master List 2    Prologue   Beginning   Previous   Next

The most recent text just said, “I’m coming to the hospital. Stay where you are.” Crap. He’s been so focused on the bond and Marinette that it hadn’t even occurred to him how his father would react to his leaving to hotel without a word. He hit the call button a waited.

“What happened?” His voice was curt, tense. Anyone else would think he was mad rather than worried.

“Nothing happened to me.” Damian paused trying to decide how to continue. He wasn’t sure how much he should share without talking with Marinette. He may have a direct link to her emotions but he had no clue how private she was with strangers.

“Then why are you at the hospital?”

“My soulmate was injured, I’m here to take care of her.” There was dead silence on the other end of the line. 

“Since when do you have a soulmate?” Damian blinked at the question, but when he stopped to think about it he couldn’t recall mentioning it to his family.

“Since always.”

“And this is the first I’m hearing of it why?”

Damian looked at the door to the room and the obviously thin walls debating the likelihood of being overheard. “Mother and Grandfather didn’t consider it an important subject. I got into the habit of not mentioning it.” He swore he could hear Bruce’s exasperated expression.

“Wait, is that why you’ve been so moody and developed a sudden interest in the business?”

“I have not been moody.” 

“But it is the reason for the sudden interest in our international business?” 

“Yes.” 

“I wish you would have just told me what was going on. If you wanted to find your soulmate I could’ve just sent Dick or Jason with you and you could have gone a more direct route in looking for her.”

Damian scoffed. The last thing he wanted was any of his brothers traveling with him constantly making comments about what kind of person his soulmate was and otherwise making fun of him. No thanks. But… he would have found her sooner. If that had happened today wouldn’t have. Marinette’s song turned softer and reassuring. She was still more worried about him than herself.

“What happened? Is she alright?” Damian realized he hadn’t responded and was still not certain how much he should share.

‘“She will be. I need to ask her what she is comfortable with me sharing with you before I give you any details.” 

“Understandable. Can you tell me what made it so urgent that you find her?” 

Damian hesitated. “Her song changed. Drastically.” If he was being honest with himself he’d always figured she’d be better off without him.  What use would someone who radiated joy and life have for his death and chaos? Judging from this morning though it seemed that might be exactly what she needed.

“I see. Well I’m here so I’ll see you both in the waiting room.” He hung up before Damian could reply. Would Marinette even want to meet his father in her current condition? He would figure something out if she didn’t and would just hope it wouldn’t require separating from her. He checked the time. Twenty minutes since she’d gone for x-rays. 

It was another five before the overly cheery nurse wheeled her back in. He was up immediately when he noticed a tightness to her expression. The nurse left quickly just saying that the doctor would be back when they had gone over the x-rays.

“What’s wrong?” Seeing her he realized how much she was able to hide, even from him. The pain coming through the bond was much less than it had been even though nothing had been done. She was trying to flood it with positive emotions and it muted the minor chords.

“It’s okay. Just some of the positions I needed to be in to get proper x-rays didn’t feel great. Are you okay? You seemed… tense.” 

‘Fine.” He let out a sigh. “My father has been trying to get ahold of me all morning and apparently decided to track my phone so he’s in the waiting room.” At her shocked look he barreled forward. “I didn’t give him any details because I wasn’t sure what you would want him to know and if you don’t want to meet him right now I can find some way to get you out without seeing him.” He was all ready to go into various plans to leave undetected when her voice stopped him.

“No, it’s okay. I don’t want you to get into more trouble for helping me than you already are.” And there was the guilt. That he definitely recognized. Even before her song had changed so much guilt was a constant. After spending even this little bit of time with her he could tell she blamed herself for a lot of things. Most of which she probably shouldn’t.

“I’m not in any trouble.” Well, he didn’t think so anyway. “Besides I don’t want you to feel you have to meet him now. A lot of people find him… intimidating.” Which was true, but he didn't really want his father to embarrass him in front of her this soon.

“And how do you expect to talk to my parents and your father about pulling me out of school if I don’t meet him?” Oh god he had said that hadn’t he. Her song had a wariness to it now. 

“I’m sorry if I seemed overbearing. I realize that you have the right to make any and all decisions about your life and this situation I just… when I saw what they did to you I just reacted. I’ve spent the last six months worrying about what happened to you and it all just came out.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’m used to being able to fix things so I just defaulted to damage control. I’ll abide by whatever you decide, but if you stay I’m going to become your shadow. I won’t let them hurt you again one way or another.”

He stood stiffly as she studied him after his speech. The song was suspiciously devoid of a reaction and it worried him. He should be getting something, anything. But instead she just stared at him before a small smile formed.

“Your father’s just going to be okay with you moving to Paris to keep an eye on me then?” He felt his face heat at her teasing.

“Honestly? Yes. If that’s what is necessary for you to be safe he’d likely encourage it.” She seemed surprised by his frank answer. Whether is was because his awkward social skills wouldn’t let him tease her back or because his father would actually let him move to another country he didn’t know.

“So what is an Akuma?” Definitely time to change the subject and she did say she would explain. 

“Have you heard of Paris’ villains or heroes?” She seemed hesitant and there was guilt in her song again. Then his brain caught up to her words. Wait, what?

“I haven’t. Are they new?” Had to be. There’s no way the League wouldn’t have heard about it otherwise.

“No. They’ve been around for about two years now.” He tried to hide his surprise but obviously wasn’t successful as her curiosity picked up. He’d have to ask her how she managed to mask some of her feelings. 

“Okay, and they have something to do with these Akumas?” As much as he wanted to freak out or find his father and figure out how they’d missed this for two years, he needed to stay on point. 

“The main villain, Hawkmoth, he sends out these Akumas, black butterflies, to possess people who are feeling strong negative emotions. He offers to help them in exchange for them getting what he wants and then turns them into supervillains.” She was concentrating hard on her words. He had a feeling she was trying to use terms he would understand and was having an internal debate over whether he should be grateful or annoyed.

“The villain uses butterflies? That seems a little… strange.” That was not the word he wanted to use but he didn’t want to offend her. His Angel just shrugs. 

“I guess it probably is but that’s just how his powers work. Everyone in Paris is constantly trying to regulate their emotions so they don’t end up being a terrorist’s pawn. Well mostly everyone.” The last sentence had a bitterness to it but before he could question her the doctor came back.

“Well the good news is that your ribs are just bruised.They’re going to be tender for awhile but otherwise they’re in good shape. Your arms on the other hand… that’s what took me so long. It looks like you’ve got hairline fractures on both your forearms. I’m not going to recommend casts at this time, but if you can’t refrain from lifting or pulling too much weight, it may become necessary.” She looked at them before giving out a sigh. “Also any impacts could worsen the fractures. I saw the video and if you feel that situation is likely to happen again, I would suggest casts.”

“What video?” Damian immediately pulled out his phone. “What’s the name of the school you go to?” He hadn’t been paying attention to anything but Marinette and the bond. She gave him the name and he used that and her name to do a search. The video the doctor had to be referring to came up immediately. One of them had videoed the encounter and was actually stupid enough to post it online.

“Damian you need to calm down.” Her song was calming, soothing in his head but when he looked up her face was painted with worry. “Deep breaths. I’m okay now so there’s no reason dwelling on it.” He tried to do as she asked and let her melody wash over him. The doctor was looking at him warily as he let his Angel guide him through breathing exercises.

“How did you end up seeing that video?” The doctor didn’t look old enough to have a child their age. She let out an annoyed sigh.

“A couple of the nurses were watching it thinking it was fake or something. I suppose that would have been my immediate reaction too if I didn’t know you were here. It does seem far fetched that anyone involved would actually post something like that. With your permission, I’d like to send the video and your medical information from this visit to the police.”

“What, why? It wasn’t… they were just…” She was trying and failing to come up with something to mitigate what they had done. They treated her horribly and she was still trying to protect them. 

“Angel.” She stopped to look at him, her eyes wide and frightened. He took her good hand in his and rubbed soothing circles on the back of it. “I don’t know why you feel any loyalty to those people but think about it for a minute. One good shot to the head and you could have died.” She opened her mouth to argue but he just kept going. “Not to mention, if they felt it was okay to do this to you what’s to stop them from doing it to someone else. Do you really want someone to get hurt when you could have stopped it? They need to know there are consequences to their actions. They need to know this isn’t okay.”

He watched as she mulled over what he said. The song didn’t reveal much more than intense concentration.

“But if the police end up looking into it they’ll want to question you. I don’t want to make you have to do that. What if you get in trouble with your father over it? I don’t want to cause problems for you.” He just… stared at her. 

“Do you ever actually worry about yourself?” She just blinked at him in confusion which was answer enough. “I absolutely won’t get in trouble for doing the right thing. Honestly if anything my father will be happy I’m letting this go through proper channels instead of handling it myself.” She looked at him quizzically but didn’t comment.

“I guess it’s okay to send. Maybe if they get a wake up call now they’ll have time to change.” If he wasn’t connected to her he would have a hard time believing anyone would be that concerned about a group of people they should want to burn. Fate must have been drunk when it paired the two of them.

“Good. I’ll do that now and send a nurse in to splint and wrap your hand. I know you said you didn’t want any pain meds but I’m giving you a prescription just in case. Generally the pain gets worse the next day.” And with that she was gone again. After that things went far more quickly. Marinette’s hand was situated and she was given care instructions then they were on their way.

Damian scans the waiting room as they enter noticing his father close to the exit. He had his tablet out, probably doing work, but he knew they’d been noticed. Even though he knew that he still turned to Marinette.

“Are you sure you want to do this now? He won’t hold it against you if you’re not up for it.”

“I’m sure. I have a feeling you’re going to be sticking to me no matter what and I’m sure it would make him feel better about it if he met me and my parents.” Damian wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It was true, but he was trying to make her comfortable and all she kept thinking about was other people. How was he supposed to take care of her when she didn’t give him any clues on how to do it?

Master List 1   Master List 2    Prologue   Beginning   Previous   Next

[glorious-blackout]

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Six

@rock-n-roll-fantasy I should probably warn you that I am definitely back on my angst-junkie bullshit with this one, but I promise there’s more to come after this! 😅 Not sure when I’ll be able to post the next parts but hopefully you enjoy these two in the meantime 😊

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

********************************

There’s something wrong with the Earth.

This isn’t necessarily a surprise. In the week since the quake that never was, the entire world has felt off; tilted on its axis to such a degree that Alex can’t even begin to fix it. The details of the hotel feel muted, the life slowly draining from his surroundings as empty husks are left in the wake of an unseen angel of death. Once pristine white walls look faded and beige beneath flickering lights. The usual buzz of activity emanating throughout scattered hotel rooms has quietened, as though a volume dial has been turned all the way down. Portraits which once hung proudly along the reception walls have tilted, and if Alex studies them closely enough, he can see the colours smudging as the paint melts, removing all nuance in the process. At this point it wouldn’t surprise him to find cracks creeping along the marble columns or dying lilies curling over themselves in neglected pots, although he supposes it’ll only be a matter of time before that sight greets him as well.  

It’s not just the hotel itself which has fallen prey to this lack of vitality. The guests have never been particularly fascinating company, but now they appear virtually soulless. Their numbers dwindle with each passing day despite no clear evidence of rockets carrying them towards home, and when scattered patrons do reveal themselves, Alex ends up eavesdropping on the same mundane conversations over and over again. Staff members offer the same monotonous greetings to him regardless of any attempts to lure them into conversation. Even Andrew, who can be quite amenable to a casual conversation over a pint, has little more to offer besides, “How are you enjoying your drink, sir?” when Alex forcibly drags himself to the bar.  

On the one occasion where he agrees to play a show, he finds himself gazing at a placid, unmoving crowd who deign to make as little noise as possible. There are no cheers, no attempts to sing along, no murmurs of approval. Alex doesn’t even have the energy to be startled when he notes that several faces in the crowd have been replaced with expressionless masks, as though an artist has erased their features entirely, leaving only a discoloured smudge in their wake.

The world appears to be winding down, crumbling at the seams with no end in sight. And to top it all off, he’s the only person alive who seems to have noticed.  

Even his weekly meetings with Murphy have halted without explanation. He’ll sit by the computer for hours on end, waiting for the dreaded ringing to invade his eardrums, but it never does. For the first time in his life, Alex would give anything to face that man and give him a piece of his mind, but God doesn’t appear to be answering his calls right now.  

And then there’s Jamie.

“Are you coming down to rehearsals then?”

Alex doesn’t pay him any heed, choosing instead to keep his gaze fixed on the alluring form of Earth above him. He cannot bear to look at Jamie right now; not when doing so will only unveil a lifeless expression marring his friend’s once kind face. He only wishes the man would say something – anything – else. It appears to be lost on Jamie that he’s uttered the same sentence three times in the last fifteen minutes, having said little else since drawing up beside Alex on the balcony. The fact that he never receives an answer doesn’t register with him either. He simply keeps asking, like a children’s toy with only one voice-clip, not realising that every time he asks, he only succeeds in adding a further crack to Alex’s thoroughly abused heart.  

Nick and Matt have fared little better. Playing a show with them the other night had been akin to playing with three ghosts who have yet to leave their bodies. All traces of humour and nuance and love have been stripped from them, leaving empty shells where his best friends once stood.  

Or rather, where convincing replicas of his friends once stood. Alex can’t pretend to understand how this version of reality works, and he’s still struggling to separate the splintered fragments of Mark’s false memories from his own recollections. The Jamie, Matt and Nick he has been living with are certainly modelled after the people he’s known and loved all his life, but there are enough subtle differences to make him question if they were ever real in the first place. The most glaring marker of all being the fact that when he’d insisted they call him Alex, the only response had been a lack of recognition which had almost broken him.

The only person who has ever referred to him as Alex in all the time he’s been here is Matthew, but even as his mad theories have become more and more plausible, the man himself has remained infuriatingly elusive.  

At least Alex knows why he seemed so familiar now. They’d only crossed paths occasionally in the past, exchanging pleasantries and compliments at various awards shows and festivals, but given their similar positions it would be impossible for him not to be familiar with a certain Matthew Bellamy. The man has always been more of a friend-of-a-friend to Alex than a proper acquaintance, but he likes him well enough to believe that Matt’s apparent fondness for him was also genuine. Granted, he doubts he’d ever have pictured the man as a planet-hopping outlaw, but then again, he imagines Matt must have been equally surprised to find him acting as the owner of a four-star establishment on the moon.

A disbelieving giggle erupts from him before he can stop it. He’s been doing that a lot lately. No doubt it’s an unconscious coping mechanism his brain has concocted while processing the impossible situation he’s stumbled into; he supposes his only options at this point are to laugh or sob like a child.

Pointedly ignoring Jamie’s lingering presence, Alex lets the Earth consume his attention once more. She’s as beautiful now as she always has been – her deep shades of greens and blues vibrant against a dense black sky – but that only adds to the sense of wrongness tugging at his heart. He shouldn’t even be capable of standing here, gazing towards home from this angle. Surely without proper protection and oxygen tanks, the air should have been sucked from his lungs and he should be gliding across the ground rather than standing still. Is there a force-field surrounding them, providing them with breathable air and simulated Earth-like gravity? If he concentrates hard enough, will he be able to spot the tell-tale shimmer of a shield embracing his tiny civilisation?

How odd that he’s never questioned such technicalities before.

As for the Earth itself, the more he studies it, the more it looks like someone has merely devised a painting of her against an endless black canvas, basing their work on ancient photographs from age-old Apollo missions. The image is too perfect. Too still and unaffected; a close approximation of how Earth must have appeared millions of years ago, before her surface was warped by humanity’s influence. The more he remembers of his final days on Earth, the less the image before him aligns with the truth. The clouds hovering beneath the atmosphere shouldn’t be a perfect white, they should be blackened by thick smoke. Those vibrant greens should have been burnt away to smouldering brown, as ash falls thick and heavy over once beautiful landscapes. No doubt even the oceans must have turned a grim, murky grey by now, rather than the striking blues he gazes upon now.

Alex gasps as a memory emerges unbidden, hands desperately grasping the balcony railing. These episodes have been coming thick and fast of late, and it takes all of his willpower not to collapse as faint echoes of screams pierce his ears and the foul taste of ash smothers his tastebuds.

He lets the memory carry him away, however, for he knows that stewing in his own ignorance is no longer an option he can indulge in.

The air is thick with acrid smoke as ash gathers on his tongue with every breath. His eyes draw upwards towards a tangerine sky; the sun obscured by thick smog which he can feel clogging his lungs, leaving him lightheaded and weak. Only hours ago the advice had been to stay inside, but the sirens now piercing his eardrums signal a change, and he knows with unexplainable certainty that if he’d stayed behind, he would have been consumed by the flames which lick their way across the landscape without mercy.

He doesn’t recall the events leading up to this moment, try as he might. Can’t recall if he’d been at home, or in the studio, or trapped within the confines of a hotel halfway around the world. The only instinctual memory he retains is that the catastrophe had crept up on them without warning, announcing itself with all the subtlety of an air-raid siren shooting panic into the veins of every human being on Earth. Only it hadn’t been sudden, had it? Not really. Humanity at large had known for years that the world was destined to burn unless something was done to stop it, but the warnings had been largely ignored, right up until the moment the fire was breathing down everyone’s necks.  

The crowd surrounding him is desperate and he whimpers as countless bodies shove against him. No doubt he could remain perfectly rigid and yet still find himself pushed forwards by the sheer force of the human wave. The claustrophobia is suffocating, and breathing provides little relief when the air is as poisoned as it is. He can feel his chest heaving and the constant shouts and screams are momentarily drowned out by his pulse pounding a steady rhythm in his ears, and he clings tightly to the hand wrapped securely around his own as he’s guided along the wide street by a steady anchor. He doesn’t need to look to know instinctively whose hand it belongs to. The calming influence as his guide squeezes back and pulls him in closer is unmistakable. He presses himself against the other man’s body as the cacophony is quickly drowned out by gentle reassurances of, “We’re okay Al, just stay close yeah? We’re nearly there, just a little bit further, you’re doing great...”

He must look a state to warrant such a commentary, but he cannot bring himself to care. As he allows himself to narrow his focus entirely onto that soft voice, he can feel his heartrate slowing and his rapid breathing starting to ease. He feels - rather than sees - a worried face turning in his direction, ensuring that he’s still locked in the present rather than lost in the grasp of his panicked mind, and he gives a shaky nod to indicate that he’s okay. The world is burning and there’s no guarantee that safety is as close as his friend insists it is, but he’s not alone and the flames are still far behind him, so for now he’s okay. His hand is caught in another gentle squeeze - it occurs to him that the action might be for the other’s benefit as much as it is his - and they push onwards as best they can through the hulking mass of bodies surrounding them.

There’s a scuffle behind him as someone utters a sharp cry. Perhaps the constant shoving of bodies has finally erupted into a full-blown fight; either that or someone has merely lost their balance and fallen to the ground. Either way it spells the end for him. A desperate hand clings to Alex’s forearm for support and he feels himself being jerked backwards, struggling to maintain his grip on the precious fingers clutching his hand as faceless bodies try to pull him away. Panic seizes his throat, tightening his airway to the point where he cannot so much as scream. As the force of the disorganised crowd pulls him backwards, the people in front keep advancing, still trying to escape the flames and the thick, cloying smog. Concerned brown eyes turn to look at him, having sensed his distress in the crushing grip of his hand, and Alex can only watch those eyes widen with naked fear as their owner is pulled in the opposite direction.  

Those pivotal seconds seem endless when replayed in Alex’s mind. The image repeats itself like a broken VHS tape - an unending loop of terror - but it must have taken no time at all for their connection to be severed with surgical precision. He remembers panicked, animalistic screams escaping his throat as he fought and clawed at the terrified masses surrounding him, his hand suddenly grasping nothing but air. He remembers the crowd in front pushing onwards, with one man among their ranks fighting tirelessly to stay behind, screaming Alex’s name over and over to the point where it must surely have torn his throat.  

Neither of their efforts work. Their hands never meet again, and Alex can only watch as his salvation is carried off like a life-raft on the ocean, leaving him behind to drown on his sinking ship. And even above the distant sirens and the roar of nearby flames, the frantic, hopeless scream of “Alex!” continues to ring in his ears long after his would-be savior has vanished from sight.    

“-ark?”

The crowded street blanketed in a thick, ashen haze vanishes from his mind’s eye and he blinks as Jamie’s voice pulls him back to the present. It takes a moment to fully reorientate himself, even as his eyes settle upon the pleasant mirage of Earth hanging above them. The air still feels unclean and the thick, cloying taste of ash still resides on his tongue. His throat still screams from the frantic cries that had been torn from it and his chest aches with the effort of breathing in filthy smog. His hand feels cold and empty, still grasping nothing but air in the place of warm flesh, and an overpowering sense of loss washes over him like a painful echo. If Jamie notices his distress, he makes no mention of it. His face is as blank and expressionless as it has been since his world became muted, and Alex thinks he would give his right hand in exchange for five minutes of his friend’s smothering concern.  

“Where’s Miles?” he croaks out eventually, turning to face Jamie with a damning sense of dread. Part of him suspects that he already knows what the reaction will be and he longs to tear his eyes away in order to spare himself the pain, but he has to look. He needs this final grain of proof.

Jamie barely reacts to the words despite the fact that they’ve come out of nowhere. The only reason Alex even registers the minute furrow of his brow and downwards tug of his lips is because he knows that face better than he knows his own, and even then, the impassive blankness is back within mere seconds.

“Who’s Miles?”  

Alex can’t look at him anymore. If he forces himself to look at that emotionless face then he knows his heart will crumble to dust and he’ll never be able to piece it back together. His eyes are drawn skyward and he keeps them there, unblinking, even when the growing sting becomes unbearable. His vision blurs with unshed tears and his chest shudders fitfully with the effort it takes not to break into animalistic sobs, but he forces himself to swallow down his grief before it can consume him. The pain is unbearable. It creeps over his mind like a specter, dragging its scythe wherever it goes without a care for the damage it leaves in its wake. The temptation to laugh as he realises that this has been the reason for his pervading sense of loneliness all along almost overwhelms him. Perhaps that would get a reaction out of the hollow shell that has taken Jamie’s place.  

In the end, however, he doesn’t have the energy to make the slightest sound.

Because it’s not just Miles he’s grieving. The Jamie he knows and loves would never have let those two words leave his mouth. He would never stand idly by while Alex falls apart, visibly struggling to piece himself back together despite knowing that his efforts are completely worthless. The Jamie he knows would have pulled him in for a hug and let him sob his heart out without judgement, before gently telling him to tidy himself up so they can go out to thoroughly drown their sorrows. No doubt the Jamie standing beside him now has always been nothing more than a façade; expertly written code and little else. The same applies to Nick and Matt and every other human being he’s interacted with since stepping foot on this godforsaken rock, perhaps with the exception of Matthew. They’d been rather convincing replicas, he’s loath to admit, but that’s all they’ve ever been.  

“Doesn’t matter,” he forces out in a choked whisper, in the full knowledge that that couldn’t be further from the truth.

He wonders if his real friends are still out there somewhere. Did they make it to safety while Alex was left behind and imprisoned within this lie? Have they been searching for him all this time, while he allowed his mind to be manipulated to the point where he forgot they existed? Are they mourning for him with the same all-consuming grief he finds himself overwhelmed by now?  

Or are they simply ghosts, lost long ago to a world that has become uninhabitable? Perhaps they’re even trapped in the same boat he is; so wrapped up in the blissful ignorance of a beautiful lie that they cannot remember their own names.

“Is it better to exist within a terrible reality or a beautiful lie?”

He recalls Matthew’s burning question with a new sense of clarity. Because it hadn’t been hypothetical had it? Matthew had uncovered their circumstances long before Alex had. In his own infuriating way, Matt had been trying to prepare Alex for the conundrum he would be forced to contend with once the curtain rose. Their entire conversation had been a warning, planting seeds in his head that would eventually result in his world collapsing at the seams.  

Had Matt also been crippled by an overwhelming sense of loss prior to stumbling into Alex’s makeshift life? Alex searches his mind for any random details he knows about Matthew Bellamy, but he cannot recall anything with great certainty. Miles had known him much better than Alex had; he vaguely remembers throw-away mentions of a wedding and a new baby, but nothing more concrete than that. For all he knows, Matthew is currently battling his way through an endless, synthetic maze to crawl back to the arms of the people he loves, or at the very least to be reunited with versions of his bandmates who haven’t been programmed to hunt him down and kill him.

“Are you coming down to rehearsals then?” Jamie asks once again, uncaring and toneless, as though trapped in an unending loop.

A huff of laughter escapes Alex’s mouth before he can stop it, and he bows his head as a tear finally slips from the corner of his eye. Rehearsals and playing live was once his only solace amongst the mundane goings-on of his daily life, but now the thought of facing the replicas of his friends and seeing them stripped of all personality is unbearable. Normality is nothing but a distant dream. There is no returning to the life that had been carefully carved out for him here regardless of what Jamie seems to think, and as the details of the hotel slowly fade around him, he doubts there’ll even be a crowd to play for by the time evening rolls around.  

Jamie seems utterly unaffected when Alex finally turns to him, a thousand-yard-stare emanating from deep blue eyes as though Alex is a mere phantom standing in his way. A sense of finality takes hold as Alex stares at his friend, memorising the details of his face with a pang of grief, and he offers a small smile which he knows provides little benefit to either of them.

“You go,” he says, in a flat voice he no longer recognises as his own. “I’ll join you in a bit.”

The lie rolls surprisingly easily off his tongue, and despite giving no indication that he intends to follow-through on his promise, Jamie doesn’t question him for an instant. Instead, he simply shrugs before shoving himself away from the barrier and moving in the direction of the hotel. Alex watches his retreating back as he strolls along the cobbled balcony, and it takes all of his willpower not to yell at him to stop. To request a proper farewell, or a hug, or even to run up alongside him and enjoy one last hurrah with the band before everything fades to black.  

However, as he watches Jamie vanish behind a set of automatic doors, he knows that running after him would be a mistake. There is no point in embracing the lie anymore. The avatars wearing his friends’ faces like intricate masks no longer have the power to replace the real thing in his heart, and having to reward them with false affection would surely destroy him.

Instead, he bids one final farewell to the Earth above him. For the first time he can remember, the clouds have cleared above the British Isles and he can see the tiny, shrunken form of England resting just above a narrow watery channel. Deep forest greens interspersed with tiny golden pinpricks amongst the well-lit cities are the only details he can make out, but yearning tugs at his heart regardless. He wonders what would happen if he took the initiative and made the trek to the space station now, requesting a ticket for the first flight back to Earth? Would the falsehood adapt around him and expand to include a detailed simulation of his home, from a time when everything was perfect and alive? Or would he simply hit a dead-end and be forever trapped within a tiny radius which encompasses the hotel and casino and little else? He has nothing left to lose by trying, but a nagging suspicion tugging at the back of his mind is enough to inform him what the outcome will be. Whoever designed his current reality didn’t deem Miles of all people to be a necessary addition - no doubt out of intentional cruelty - so the prospect of arriving home and throwing himself into the arms of his mum and dad is surely unthinkable.  

It’s impossible to tell how long he spends gazing at the planet above, committing every single detail to memory with a bittersweet smile, but when he finally pulls his eyes away he’s momentarily overcome by a wave of contentment. The yearning for home vanishes and a renewed sense of finality tugs at his heart, only this time he lets himself bask in it. It’s over. The sky above is as much an illusion as everything else within reach, and while he knows he could lose himself staring longingly at the stars like a hopeful child, he finds that he no longer has any desire to do so.

After all, what’s the point in yearning for something that isn’t real?  

******************************

Lilting piano notes resound through deserted, crumbling corridors; the echo bouncing off the ballroom walls, causing the delicate glass shards of the chandelier to tremble. All trace of life has vanished, with the exception of the lone musician on his humble stage, playing to a crowd of ghosts.  

Alex doesn’t mind. He’d expected to find the hotel empty upon his return – no doubt his mental embrace of that finality had banished all remnants of humanity from its walls – and the uninterrupted stroll to the stage had been an oddly calming one. For the first time in years, a song had popped into his head with little fanfare. There’d been no need to agonise over chords or second-guess lyrics; instead the music had come to him fully formed as though obtained through a dream, and the need to perform it had become his sole objective.

A guitar would have been preferable. He has never felt entirely comfortable on the piano, but the choice seems to have been snatched away from him as all of his stringed instruments have vanished in his absence. Similarly, the lone drumkit and various brass instruments which once rested upon the stage are now missing. Only the piano remains. Each note sounds dissonant beneath his fingers, reverberating through the hall in all directions, and he gets the distinct impression that the instrument hasn’t been turned in years despite it sounding perfect only one week prior. His voice also sounds raw to his ears, but that doesn’t stop him from baring his heart anyway.  

It’s a bittersweet song with an emphasis on the sweet, and he latches onto the topics of lost loves and friendships tied up with nostalgia for a golden age that no longer exists. No doubt he would have been proud of this one had he gotten the chance to write and record it on Earth, but at this rate he doubts anyone will hear it besides the ghosts haunting the fractured walls.

That’s okay though. This understated piece of music feels like the only genuine creation he’s produced in all the time he’s lived here, and for that reason alone he’d rather not be singing anything else.

While he refuses to give his surroundings much in the way of scrutiny, it isn’t lost on him that the ballroom is fading away with each passing second. Pristine white walls appear to be melting and cracks trail along the granite columns like lightning bolts stretching to the ceiling. The light from the chandelier is muted, emitting only the faintest golden glow through shards of glass which no longer shimmer, and the deserted dancefloor below has been swallowed whole by drab red carpet. The circular dining tables and bar are cloaked in shadow, their surfaces smothered by a thick layer of dust, and adorning the walls are empty frames where elegant portraits once gazed proudly upon the room.

Only one image remains. A small wooden frame sits on the wall directly within Alex’s eyeline, and though the photograph it displays sends an ache lancing through his heart, he finds it to be a pleasant ache. Captured for eternity is a shot of four young boys, barely out of primary school, with hair cropped short and arms wrapped lazily around each other. One curly-haired lad is looking away from the camera, eyes closed in a mistimed blink, while two others gape at the lens with deliberately widened eyes, baring all of their teeth in exaggerated grins. Only the smallest of the group is smiling in a fashion which can be considered normal, though the crinkling of his large brown eyes implies that he too is mere seconds away from bursting into uncontrollable giggles at his friends’ antics.  

Alex can’t remember the photo being taken. The unremarkable brick wall behind them suggests it was taken at his childhood home, but it would not surprise him if the photo itself is yet another falsehood on top of the myriad of illusions he has spent years of his life sleepwalking through. And yet, he cannot bring himself to mind. The photograph may not be real, but the memories of a happy childhood surrounded by friends certainly are, and the sweet nostalgia that warms has heart can never be taken away from him. His real friends may have been lost to him long ago and even the replicas have deserted him now, but so long as he focuses on that image and dedicates this song to them, they can never truly be gone.

A shiver creeps up the back of his neck and he has the distinct impression that a pair of eyes have landed upon him, but he banishes that suspicion before it can take hold. This song is not intended for anyone’s ears but his own. The melody is quickly approaching its coda as he recites the final verse. The piano has grown so soft he barely registers the sound of it, but he carries on with a sense of obligation he doesn’t entirely understand. Perhaps it’s the sense of approaching finality which has made him so determined. His world is fragmenting piece by piece and he cannot comprehend what will happen to him once it fades completely, but he imagines there will be no coming back from it. He should be terrified and desperate, battling with every breath in his lungs to remain solid and whole, but he no longer has the energy to fight. Besides, he has always found contentment in music and performing, even in this godforsaken place. Why fight the inevitable when he can embrace it in peace instead?

The final note sounds abruptly as the last word escapes his lips, but before he can figure out a proper ending, the piano dissolves into atoms beneath his fingertips and the world explodes in a flash of brilliant white, carrying him along with it as his mind goes blank.

[horrorkingdom]

Promises

I was one of those frail, sickly children for the vast majority of my early years. I was constantly being shuffled from physician to physician with one ailment or another; asthma, perpetual tonsillitis, severe allergies to everything. You name it I dealt with it at one point or another growing up. This meant that I spent a great deal of my formative years at home, in bed, miserably sick and more than a bit morose. There was an upside to this however, my father would often take time out of work to sit in my bedroom and read to me.

Some of my fondest memories as a child involved my father sitting in a chair next to my bed with one science fiction novel or another spread across his lap. I can’t count how many days were spent in such a fashion. I look back on it now and can’t help but smile when I picture that large man with his bushy beard, reading those thick novels to take my mind away from whatever was ailing me at the time. I was fortunate to come from a very loving home. My mother and father were extremely doting and focused all of their collective time and energy on raising their only son. I was particularly close to my father. We’ve all heard the old adage about Daddy’s girls and Momma’s boys, but that simply wasn’t the case in my experience.

Of course, every boy views his father as some larger than life, lantern jawed superhero, and I was no exception. My father was an enormous man, maybe six foot two and well over 250 pounds. He was an intimidating figure, and my childhood friends would often remark on just how large he was. He had very intense grayish blue eyes, brown hair that was slowly receding, and a thick red beard. But as intimidating as he may have appeared his demeanor, especially towards me, was always so calm and relaxed. He never once raised his voice within earshot, nor did I ever witness him use that great bulk of his to bully or intimidate. He was a kind soul, and spent all of his time letting his only son know just how much he was loved. He’d spend hours of his evenings after work in my room, sitting on the floor playing with my toys. I can’t help but chuckle when I picture that large man sitting cross legged on the floor with whatever superhero or mutant turtle I was interested in at that point. He even kept a small journal of all the funny little things I’d say and do, with some of his own musings remarking on just how quickly I was growing. I recall years later, when I was a man myself, reading that journal and being moved to tears by how deeply this man loved me.

Now my father was not a particularly religious man, in fact, if I had to peg his beliefs I’d say he was atheistic now that I have a grasp of such things. This was in direct conflict with how he was raised. He’d grown up in a very small town in North Carolina and was brought up in a very strict southern Baptist family. He remarked in the journal, just days after my birth, about how he found the Bible to be even more preposterous now that he had a child of his own. In particular the story of Isaac and Abraham did not sit well with my father. He couldn’t imagine any scenario in which he’d be willing to sacrifice his only son to some voice in his head. He was a very straightforward “logic and reason” type of guy. In addition to religion he absolutely abhorred superstitions and myths he made several comments about being leery of anyone that claimed to believe in aliens or ghost stories. Now he never made these statements to me directly he wanted me to come to my own conclusions regarding religion, superstition and the paranormal. But he did jot down all of these thoughts in that journal of his with the intention of giving me this book when I became a man myself. Unfortunately he never did get that opportunity.

As you can imagine, his death had a devastating impact on the course of my life. I remember vividly my mother coming into my room with tears and makeup streaming down her face. She cradled me in her arms and for the longest time simply rocked back and forth while sobbing silently to herself. Eventually she pulled herself together enough to tell me that my father’s small pickup truck had been struck on his drive home from work. The other vehicle involved was a semi, being driven by a man with too little sleep and too much alcohol in his system. He didn’t even know that he’d been involved in an accident until the officer responding to the crash pulled him from the wreckage of his own vehicle.

I was in shock, I was beyond consoling and honestly, I was furious. I was only five or six when my father passed, and in my mind all I could focus on was the fact that my dad had broken his promise. He would say to me, as he tucked me in at night, that I was his favorite thing in the world and he would always be there to make certain I was safe. It was repeated so often, night after night, that it almost became a mantra of his. But he made that promise and now he wouldn’t be around to keep it.

After my father’s death my mother was unable to afford the small three bedroom home nestled in the foothills of the mountains that I’d grown up in. We were forced to move to an older, run down part of town and needless to say it was just another factor contributing to the overwhelming sense of loss I was dealing with at the time. I hated the town, I hated the new school that I was required to attend when my health permitted, but most of all I hated our new home and the empty feeling it seemed to exude without my father’s presence. He’d never lived in that house, those walls had never heard that big guttural laugh of his, or sat idly by as he read to me during one of my many tilts with sickness. The house was a source of anxiety for me in those days. It was old, built sometime in the 1920’s my mother had told me. It was ancient, it was cold and everything about it seemed to be in a constant state of disrepair. The white paint was chipping in numerous spots on the exterior; the hardwood floors were warped and pockmarked throughout, even the grass outside remained a dismal brown year round.

The house only had two small bedrooms, a bathroom, a tiny dated kitchen and a musty little living room that seemed to be an afterthought in the builder’s original designs. I loathed that house; the floors creaked as everything settled at night, the windows were so old and grimy that they permitted very little light. My room was situated in the very back of the home and was so small that I had just enough room for my twin bed and a little dresser.

We’d been in the house for about six weeks when I started noticing some odd things happening, especially at night. I would come home from school to find that my bed, which had been made that morning, was in complete disarray. The clothes in my closet would sometimes be strewn across my room, much to my mother’s disapproval, and other small things like doors and windows seemingly opening and closing of their own volition. But the first truly unnerving occurrence that I can recall was just after my mom had tucked me in one night. I was staring at the ceiling, trying to decide if the water stain above my bed resembled a dog or something a bit more equestrian. I was beginning to nod off, catching myself closing my eye lids for a bit longer than was required to blink. My thoughts were slowly spiraling towards something that were closer to dreams when I heard a small scratching sound coming from the foot of my bed. At that time my bed was nestled in the corner of the room parallel to the doorway on one side and opposite my small closet that was a few feet from the foot board of the bed. I dismissed the sound as one of the many unexplained noises the house emitted at night and began drifting once more when I heard the noise again. This time it was louder and unmistakable as scratching, it was with a bit more purpose it seemed. I held my breath, closed my eyes, and focused all of my attention on deciphering that sound.

This time when it happened it was definitely louder and seemed to have a rhythm to it that just couldn’t be naturally occurring. It was almost like Morse code, like the scratching was meant to convey some kind of message. I got the feeling that it wasn’t trying to say “Ship in distress” or anything as mundane or typical as that. I can’t explain why, but the sound began to make me very uneasy as though it were malevolent in nature. The hair on the back of my neck began to rise without prompting and I found myself pulling the cover closer and closer to my chin. It would stop sporadically and then begin again with more fervor each time and always that same rhythm, scratch, scratch, scratch followed by a short pause and then scratch, scratch. I was frozen, completely fixated on this noise, but unable to call out to my mother whose bedroom was on the other side of the wall.

My mouth was dry and I was constantly moving my tongue around, swallowing to force something resembling moisture back into my mouth. Suddenly the scratching stopped, mid-sequence this time, and was replaced by the rattling of the closet doors. The closet was that old accordion style sliding type, with the wooden slats. I was amazed that the sound hadn’t prompted my mother to come in and see why I was out of bed. The rattling became more insistent, violent even, and that’s when I rediscovered the ability to scream. I yelled at the capacity my little lungs would permit until my room was flooded with light and I could make out my mother’s silhouette in the doorway.

“What’s wrong honey, what is it?” concern evident in my mother’s sleepy voice. I sat up in bed never taking my eyes off of the closet doors. “There’s someone in there mommy, in…in the closet”. She blinked a few times to clear the remaining fuzziness that sleep offers from her eyes and walked over to the closet. She flung the doors apart with a horrid screeching sound, and when it was clear that no boogeyman was immediately apparent, began shuffling the clothes hanging from the rod to show me there was no occupant. “See sweetheart, there’s no one in here it was just a bad dream”.

She closed the doors again crossed the hardwood floor and arranged herself at the foot of my bed. “It’s no surprise that you’re having nightmares son, considering…considering all that’s happened recently.” She patted my leg, and then reached up to smooth my disheveled hair. “I promise you, there’s no one in there”, she said. I was finally able to peel my attention away from the closet and meet her eyes, “I know there was” I said “there were some weird scratching noises and then the doors started to shake.” She stifled a yawn behind her fist and then patted my cheek as she rose from the edge of my bed. “Just a dream son, there’s no one in there, and there’s no one in the house but us.” “Now please, try to get some sleep, you have to go to school tomorrow and you don’t want to be nodding off in class.” She crossed the room and told me she loved me before she turned my bedroom light back off. I heard her mattress springs sigh as she got back into her bed and I laid down again myself.

I maneuvered myself as close to the wall and headboard as I could manage, pulled the cover up to my nose, and shut my eyes with such force that they squeezed tears down my cheeks. I tried to control my breathing and focus everything my sense of hearing had to offer for that sound. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears that I barely heard the first scratch when the noise came again. I stopped breathing all together and waited for the next series of scratches to begin again. The minutes dragged by but the sound did not come again and at some point I fell into a rather fitful stage of sleep that was accompanied by nightmares.

Over the coming weeks the sound would come and go. There didn’t seem to be any pattern to it at all. There would be several nights in a row with absolutely nothing unusual occurring and then there would come a night when the scratching would start up as soon as I began to drift off and last until I screamed for my mother. This became something of a pattern, I wouldn’t say I became accustomed to it, but I knew that on those nights when the scratching started that all I had to do was yell for my mom and after she came in to take a look around I’d finally be able to sleep.

It had been three or four nights since the last time I’d heard the rhythmic scratching. I’d managed to fall asleep that night without event, maybe I’d been lulled into some false sense of security as it’d been several nights since the last “closet incident”. It was about 1 or so in the morning when I awoke with a start. I had fallen asleep on top of my covers and as soon as I became aware of being conscious I wrestled with trying to crawl underneath them. After much effort, I was finally able to get underneath the comfort and security of my sheets when I began to wonder what exactly had stirred me from the throngs of sleep. It was a cloudy night, so the limited amount of light permitted through my bedroom window was at an absolute minimum that night. I controlled my breathing, listening for that ominous sound and forced my eyes to scan the bedroom. And that’s when I saw it. Standing at the foot of my bed, in front of my slowly deteriorating closet doors was a very large form. It was so dark that I couldn’t make out whether this thing, this being, was facing my direction or not.

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t scream, I could barely even draw breath. All of my attention was on that form at the foot of my bed, I couldn’t look away, it’s as if my eye lids were taped open and I was forced that look in that direction. The form never moved, never even shifted from foot to foot. It simply stood there, massive and dark and seeming to fill the whole room. There was no scratching sound, no rattling of the closet doors, just this form standing stoically in the middle of my room. Amazingly I fell asleep. I can’t begin to imagine how that came to be. I just know that one minute I’m fixated with every fiber of my being on this figure in my room, and the next minute I’m opening my eyes to sunlight trickling in through my window and birds chirping outside as they went about their daily activities. What’s even more amazing is that I didn’t awake with that sense of terror that I’d grown accustomed to after a run in with the scratching sound, I even felt rested for the first time in months. This same thing happened again several times over the next couple of nights. I found myself waking in the middle of the night only to be confronted by the image of that large silent form at the foot of my bed. Again there was no scratching sound or rattling closet doors, just this figure standing there a few feet away. I never worked up the courage to yell for my mother or try to get a closer look at this shadow like form. I still wasn’t even certain if it was facing in my direction on the nights this occurred. I even began to wonder if perhaps this thing standing in my room at night had simply tired of causing a ruckus in my closet and accepted my presence in the house.

The next few weeks went by without anything of note occurring. I ate breakfast, went to school, came home and then went to bed. My health had hit a relative high point during that period of time and I was attending school on a regular basis for the first time in memory. At some point I even befriended one of the boys a few houses down and spent my evenings playing video games and the like at his house. I went to bed absolutely exhausted each night and woke the next morning well rested and looking forward to what the day might hold. I began to discount those terrifying events that had occurred in my room in the weeks prior as nothing more than my imagination.

My mother had taken on more hours at the furniture factory where she worked to help pay off some of the debt that accrued after my father’s death. On the nights she worked late I was to spend my evenings over at my new friend Ryan’s house until she returned home. I didn’t like to see my mother so tired from all of the extra work she was putting in, but I did enjoy getting to hang out with my friend and his rather expansive collection of video games (a luxury my mother simply couldn’t provide for me at the time). This routine of staying with Ryan’s family until my mother got off of work lasted for several weeks until my mother had an accident at work. She broke several bones in her right hand and wrist and was unable to work at all for the next few months, let alone pick up extra hours. She was obviously dismayed because just as it seemed our lives had begun to take on the normalcy that everyone expects, some unforeseen event once again caused that pattern to veer off course. She received some pretty heavy duty pain medication along with the cast on her arm and retired to bed early the night of her accident. I was permitted to watch television after I’d completed my homework, and then I went to bed myself after my favorite cartoons went off,

I’d been in bed for about half an hour, listening to the unusual sounds of my mother’s snoring from the next room when I thought I heard that all too familiar scratching sound from my closet. Initially I tried to ignore it, going so far as to covering my head with my pillow and forcing myself to sleep. After a few minutes I realized that this wasn’t working, the scratching sound never abated and only seemed to increase in tempo as the minutes passed. I was more angry than frightened at this point. It had been many weeks since the last time I’d had to deal with this and I’d begun to hope that it had stopped altogether.

After a few more minutes I finally came to the decision that I would open the closet door myself and finally put my mind at ease. It had to be a rat or something, there had to be some explanation and I was determined to find out. I pushed the cover towards the foot of my bed and began moving my feet towards the floor. As soon as my bare feet made contact with the cold hardwood the scratching sound ceased all together and was replaced with the violent shaking of the closet door. I let out an involuntary yelp as it had been a long time since I’d heard that sound, and I’d never seen it be so violent. The closet doors were rattling around with such force that I was afraid they would tear loose from their hinges. I lifted my feet back into bed and worked up the courage to begin yelling for my mother. “Mom…Mom please come here” I yelled with as much volume as I could muster. No response, not even the slightest break in her snoring, she was out cold. I yelled again and again, but to no avail. The moment I began yelling the shaking of the closet doors had ceased, as they usually do in this situation.

But my yelling wasn’t followed by the sound of my mother’s footsteps this time, and the doors began shaking once again. I didn’t know what to do, I was far too scared to get up and make a mad dash for my mother’s room, but my fearful screams seemed to have no effect. I began to sob, I’d reached a breaking point and I couldn’t help but pull my knees up to my chest and whimper. Suddenly the doors quit their frantic dance, they just stopped shaking altogether. I managed to lift my face from the protection of my knees and to my horror I saw the closet doors begin to slide apart. No more scratching, no more rattling, I was finally going to come face to face with my tormentor.

The doors finally opened all the way and I could see now that my clothes and the darkness within were shifting. I could just make out a hand part the clothes on the rack and felt bile rise in my stomach as I realized the skin on that hand was absolutely putrid. Gray and mottled and I now became aware of the most horrific stench I’d ever encountered. I wanted to spring from my bed and through my window, or pull the cover over my head and will this nightmare away. But I was completely transfixed, rooted in place, I couldn’t budge a muscle. I could now make out a torso in the space that my clothes once occupied it was covered in that same rotting flesh as the hand of course. Next, and most terrifying, I could make out two pools of absolute darkness that constituted the eyes on this nightmare. They were sunk down deep into the sockets of its face and were completely void of any emotion that I could discern. Just two black pits of emptiness. The creature had finally emerged from behind my shirts and jackets hanging from my closet rack.

It paused for a moment at the entrance to the closet, and seemed to size up the room. It was tall and impossibly skinny, almost to the point of being emaciated. The fingers and toes ended in long black ragged nails, nails that were almost talon like. Bits and pieces of flesh were missing over various parts of the creature’s body. I could clearly make out what appeared to be ribs in its torso, and the yellowing bone of one elbow. It had a few tufts of jet black hair protruding from its grotesque and bulbous head. Its mouth was wide and filled with small rows of teeth that came to points so sharp they looked like they’d been filed. Its nose was two little slits with absolutely no protrusion that I could discern.

It just stood in the doorway of my closet, smiling at me with those little sharp teeth and that unnaturally wide mouth. It stared at me as if it was trying to convey that it had all the time in the world and intended to drag out whatever horror was about to visit me. Suddenly the creature jerked its head to the side and seemed to sniff the air with that horrible little nose. The sniffing became more frantic and the creature kept jerking its head from side to side as if it’d caught a scent it wasn’t fond of and was trying to ascertain exactly where this odor was originating. That’s when I noticed movement from my peripheral, I was able to tear my eyes away from this monstrosity long enough to look to the corner of my room where I’d seen the sudden movement. And there, standing just feet away from me was that large dark ominous form.

It seemed even more massive than it had in previous encounters, and it also seemed to be radiating an intense anger. To my amazement this anger did not seem to be directed towards me, but at the creature now standing in front of my closet. The creature let out a hiss and then a sound akin to a whimper and took a step back when it noticed the large form standing in the corner of the room. I looked back at this dark figure standing so very close now, and for the first time I could make out distinguishing features. I realized that before this form had stood with its back to me on those nights it had appeared in my room, because now I could clearly make out a face, a face that was covered in course red hair. I could now see that this figure was a very large man with pale white skin and a receding hair line. But the most noticeable feature were the intense grayish blue eyes that I could make out even in the darkness of my room. Those eyes left the monster in my closet for just a moment and made contact with my own. This great big man standing in the center of my room, this great big man that I thought I would never see again, he smiled and then winked at me.

And with a burst of movement that my eyes could barely track he dove into the beast, driving it back into the depths of my closet, while the doors closed on them both. I sat on the edge of my bed, with tears in my eyes, and my mind racing to process what it had just witnessed. I finally broke my stupor long enough to race to my mother’s room and wake her. After a few moments of frantic shaking on my part, she finally swam to the surface of consciousness. When my face came into focus she immediately sat up out of bed and took me in her arms. “What is it sweetheart, what’s going on?” At this point I had begun to sob uncontrollably as she rocked me back and forth in her arms. I pulled myself together long enough to say “He kept his promise…he said he would always be there for me and he meant it”. My mother tried to get me to explain, but I just continued to cry into her shoulder as she rocked me back and forth. At some point I managed to fall asleep with my mother whispering words of comfort until I drifted off.

I never did hear another odd sound from my closet after that night, or any other part of the house for that matter. From that point forward things returned to normal and I felt as though a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders, I’d received some form of closure from the events that took place that night. I also knew that no matter what obstacles I might face in the years ahead, I would always have someone looking over my shoulder, ever ready to fulfill a promise made to a small sickly child.

Credit – lastofthefreecompanies@yahoo.