#i am so convinced that my whole world will crumble apart and everyone will hate me if i communicate even the slightest issue

[undistortedworld]

why does trying to communicate my feelings to people make me feel SO genuinely unwell. literally have sweaty palms and a very high heartbeat and jelly limbs and nausea just trying to express a worry of mine

[richincolor]

New Releases for the Week of May 3, 2021

It's great to see so many new books hitting the shelves this week. I know I've been waiting for several of these and am happy to be able to finally read them. 

The Ones We’re Meant to Find by Joan He Roaring Brook

Cee has been trapped on an abandoned island for three years without any recollection of how she arrived, or memories from her life prior. All she knows is that somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, she has a sister named Kay. Determined to find her, Cee devotes her days to building a boat from junk parts scavenged inland, doing everything in her power to survive until the day she gets off the island and reunites with her sister.

In a world apart, 16-year-old STEM prodigy Kasey Mizuhara is also living a life of isolation. The eco-city she calls home is one of eight levitating around the world, built for people who protected the planet―and now need protecting from it. With natural disasters on the rise due to climate change, eco-cities provide clean air, water, and shelter. Their residents, in exchange, must spend at least a third of their time in stasis pods, conducting business virtually whenever possible to reduce their environmental footprint. While Kasey, an introvert and loner, doesn’t mind the lifestyle, her sister Celia hated it. Popular and lovable, Celia much preferred the outside world. But no one could have predicted that Celia would take a boat out to sea, never to return.

Now it’s been three months since Celia’s disappearance, and Kasey has given up hope. Logic says that her sister must be dead. But as the public decries her stance, she starts to second guess herself and decides to retrace Celia’s last steps. Where they’ll lead her, she does not know. Her sister was full of secrets. But Kasey has a secret of her own. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Meet Cute Diary by Emery Lee Quill Tree Books

Noah Ramirez thinks he’s an expert on romance. He has to be for his popular blog, the Meet Cute Diary, a collection of trans happily ever afters. There’s just one problem—all the stories are fake. What started as the fantasies of a trans boy afraid to step out of the closet has grown into a beacon of hope for trans readers across the globe.

When a troll exposes the blog as fiction, Noah’s world unravels. The only way to save the Diary is to convince everyone that the stories are true, but he doesn’t have any proof. Then Drew walks into Noah’s life, and the pieces fall into place: Drew is willing to fake-date Noah to save the Diary. But when Noah’s feelings grow beyond their staged romance, he realizes that dating in real life isn’t quite the same as finding love on the page.

In this charming novel by Emery Lee, Noah will have to choose between following his own rules for love or discovering that the most romantic endings are the ones that go off script. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

They Better Call Me Sugar: My Journey from the Hood to the Hardwood by Sugar Rodgers Black Sheep

Growing up in dire poverty in Suffolk, Virginia, Sugar (born Ta’Shauna) Rodgers never imagined that she would become an all-star player in the WNBA (Women’s National Basketball Association). Both of her siblings were in and out of prison throughout much of her childhood and shootings in her neighborhood were commonplace. For Sugar this was just a fact of life.

While academics wasn’t a high priority for Sugar and many of her friends, athletics always played a prominent role. She mastered her three-point shot on a net her brother put up just outside their home, eventually becoming so good that she could hustle local drug dealers out of money in one-on-one contests.

With the love and support of her family and friends, Sugar’s performance on her high school basketball team led to her recruitment by the Georgetown Hoyas, and her eventual draft into the WNBA in 2013 by the Minnesota Lynx (who won the WNBA Finals in Sugar’s first year). The first of her family to attend college, Sugar speaks of her struggles both academically and as an athlete with raw honesty.

Sugar’s road to a successful career as a professional basketball player is fraught with sadness and death–including her mother’s death when she’s fourteen, which leaves Sugar essentially homeless. Throughout it all, Sugar clings to basketball as a way to keep herself focused and sane.

And now Sugar shares her story as a message of hope and inspiration for young girls and boys everywhere, but especially those growing up in economically challenging conditions. Never sugarcoating her life experiences, she delivers a powerful message of discipline, perseverance, and always believing in oneself. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Excuse Me While I Ugly Cry by Joya Goffney HarperTeen

Quinn keeps lists of everything—from the days she’s ugly cried, to “Things That I Would Never Admit Out Loud,” to all the boys she’d like to kiss. Her lists keep her sane. By writing her fears on paper, she never has to face them in real life. That is, until her journal goes missing…

An anonymous account posts one of her lists on Instagram for the whole school to see and blackmails her into facing seven of her greatest fears, or else her entire journal will go public. Quinn doesn’t know who to trust. Desperate, she teams up with Carter Bennett—the last known person to have her journal—in a race against time to track down the blackmailer.

Together, they journey through everything Quinn’s been too afraid to face, and along the way, Quinn finds the courage to be honest, to live in the moment, and to fall in love. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Hurricane Summer by Asha Bromfield Wednesday Books

Tilla has spent her entire life trying to make her father love her. But every six months, he leaves their family and returns to his true home: the island of Jamaica.

When Tilla’s mother tells her she’ll be spending the summer on the island, Tilla dreads the idea of seeing him again, but longs to discover what life in Jamaica has always held for him.

In an unexpected turn of events, Tilla is forced to face the storm that unravels in her own life as she learns about the dark secrets that lie beyond the veil of paradise—all in the midst of an impending hurricane.

Hurricane Summer is a powerful coming of age story that deals with colorism, classism, young love, the father-daughter dynamic—and what it means to discover your own voice in the center of complete destruction. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Indivisible by Daniel Aleman Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

There is a word Mateo Garcia and his younger sister Sophie have been taught to fear for as long as they can remember: deportation. Over the past few years, however, the fear that their undocumented immigrant parents could be sent back to Mexico has started to fade to the back of their minds. And why wouldn’t it, when their Ma and Pa have been in the United States for so long, they have American-born children, and they’re hard workers and good neighbors?

When two ICE agents come asking for Pa, the Garcia family realizes that the lives they’ve built are about to come crumbling down. And when Mateo returns from school one day to find that his parents have been taken, he’ll have to come to terms with the fact that his family’s worst nightmare has become a reality.

With his Ma and Pa being held in separate detention centers, Mateo must learn how to look after his sister and himself. The choices Mateo makes, and the people he turns to for help, might reunite his family… or tear them apart for good. With his parents’ fate and his own future hanging in the balance, Mateo must figure out who he is and what he is capable of, even as he’s forced to question what it means to be an American teenager in a country that rejects his own mom and dad. — Cover art and summary via Goodreads

Counting Down with You by Tashie Bhuiyan Inkyard Press

Karina Ahmed has a plan. Keep her head down, get through high school without a fuss, and follow her parents’ rules—even if it means sacrificing her dreams. When her parents go abroad to Bangladesh for four weeks, Karina expects some peace and quiet. Instead, one simple lie unravels everything.

Karina is my girlfriend.

Tutoring the school’s resident bad boy was already crossing a line. Pretending to date him? Out of the question. But Ace Clyde does everything right—he brings her coffee in the mornings, impresses her friends without trying, and even promises to buy her a dozen books (a week) if she goes along with his fake-dating facade. Though Karina agrees, she can’t help but start counting down the days until her parents come back.

T-minus twenty-eight days until everything returns to normal—but what if Karina no longer wants it to? — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

All Kinds of Other by James Sie Quill Tree Books

In this tender, nuanced coming-of-age love story, two boys—one who is cis and one who is trans—have been guarding their hearts to protect themselves, until their feelings for each other give them a reason to stand up to their fears.

Two boys are starting at a new school.

Jules is just figuring out what it means to be gay and hasn’t totally decided whether he wants to be out at his new school. His parents and friends have all kinds of opinions, but for his part, Jules just wants to make the basketball team and keep his head down.

Jack is trying to start over after a best friend break-up. He followed his actor father clear across the country to LA, but he’s also totally ready to leave his past behind. Maybe this new school where no one knows him is exactly what he needs.

When the two boys meet, the sparks are undeniable. But then a video surfaces linking Jack to a pair of popular transgender vloggers, and the revelations about Jack’s past thrust both Jack and Jules into the spotlight they’ve been trying to avoid. Suddenly both boys have a choice to make—between lying low where it’s easier or following their hearts. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Luck of the Titanic by Stacey Lee G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers

Southampton, 1912: Seventeen-year-old British-Chinese Valora Luck has quit her job and smuggled herself aboard the Titanic with two goals in mind: to reunite with her twin brother Jamie--her only family now that both their parents are dead--and to convince a part-owner of the Ringling Brothers Circus to take the twins on as acrobats. Quick-thinking Val talks her way into opulent firstclass accommodations and finds Jamie with a group of fellow Chinese laborers in third class. But in the rigidly stratified world of the luxury liner, Val's ruse can only last so long, and after two long years apart, it's unclear if Jamie even wants the life Val proposes. Then, one moonless night in the North Atlantic, the unthinkable happens--the supposedly unsinkable ship is dealt a fatal blow--and Val and her companions suddenly find themselves in a race to survive.

Stacey Lee, master of historical fiction, brings a fresh perspective to an infamous tragedy, loosely inspired by the recently uncovered account of six Titanic survivors of Chinese descent.

[roxxelll]

Good day all. Since today is my 26th birthday, I’ve been doing a bit of reflecting & I thought it’d be fitting to share a part of myself I seldom talk about. A little over a week ago, it was the ninth anniversary of my admittance to rehab. I haven’t thought about my time there for a long while but for some reason this year I’ve been a little overwhelmed with emotion. I thought I’d write it all down and share a bit of it in hopes that it might help someone, whether it’s to shift their thinking or give them a little hope. 

I wrote the piece below almost 6 years ago but after reading over it I still find it one of the most eloquent things I might’ve tried to express. The reason I chose to share it is to say to anyone- if you are struggling and this time is testing your mental health and your strength, you are stronger than you think. A bad day doesn’t mean you are losing, it means you are coping and working hard at beating your own demons. 

I don’t talk about this side of my life a whole lot but it would be nice if you could share it if you resonate with it in some way or if you feel like you know someone who might. 

>>It gets a little long and there are TRIGGERS for eating disorders so please proceed with caution !!! << 

I do this thing where I often brush over my anorexia in conversation, and as expected, this might be the first time many of you are hearing of it. I just never felt the need to tell my story to the people in my life, I never wanted it to be the thing that everyone rolls their eyes about. 

However, I think it is time for me to tell my story. In full. What prompted me was that I have seen how my story became an inspiration for someone else; a reason for them to feel that they are not alone in the world. I was in awe that something so terrible in my life could be used for something so good.

This is the story of my eating disorder and I.

19 January, 2015

My mind was my body’s worst enemy. It was a weapon of mass destruction, ticking away in my head. Misconceptions invaded my mind and multiplied into thoughts and soon after their images were all I saw in the mirror.

I can’t give my mind all the credit; I didn’t create all the misconceptions in my own mind, even if they were all allowed to grow there. My mind only mimicked what it was being fed at just about every turn. One of the things I remember so vividly is seeing an underwear model. She was sexy and beautiful and I could think of nothing I wanted more in the world than her body. So started the worst train of thought I have ever had: the aspiration for perfection.

The media can be a scary thing. As a teenager, it was pretty much most of what everyone was talking about and consuming on a day to day basis. By the time I was in grade 10 in high school, all my time had been consumed by trying to getting the best grades and only producing my best work in my visual arts class. My time in the sports field ceased all together and in my mind the only way for me to achieve my standards of perfection was to go down the dark, sinister route that I had not even realised I'd taken.

On 26 October 2011, I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa. There is no easy way to explain the feeling of your own head telling you that you are not good enough, that you are disgusting, that you are too fat, that you may not eat.

2011 was not a good year for me, I remember so well that a bad day would grow into a bad week and eventually evolve into bad months. My family seemed as dysfunctional as ever, I picked up the nasty habit of smoking and the stress of school had only weakened my state of mind. I hated what I was and I had somehow convinced myself that everyone else around me felt the same way, when in fact I was the one pushing them away. Sometime in mid October, armed robbers had broken into my house. No one in my family was hurt, but I had gotten away with a broken arm and a few bruises.

It was then in hospital that doctors had noticed there was something off about me. It must have been brain shattering for my parents to see what had been eating away at me for months only at that moment. How could they when all I did was hide from the world?

I was admitted into rehab after that and I did not sit for my November exams. In six months I had lost 14kgs. I have been in remission since.

My life was consumed by loss. First it was the weight, then my strength, and eventually demons began to nibble away at my personality. I watched my life crumble away as fast as my body did. My hair started to fall out and my nails stopped growing. I lost my period all together. My bones stuck out of my body like they were unwanted intruders, I became as frail, dead and dull as an old building.

Misconceptions are the hardest scars to heal. They forced my body apart from my mind. I have learned that it's called body disconnection, the feeling of being absolutely cut off from your body. No experience was good enough in my body because my mind wanted to be as far from this body as possible. I don't know how you can even explain it... Imagine wanting to be so far out of a room you would give anything to leave it. Now imagine that was your own body and you can start to understand body disconnection. You can leave an uncomfortable room. You can’t evacuate your own body. Excruciating, isn’t it? Looking in the mirror, I never saw a body that was perfect, only the disgusting images of what my mind had made me believe I looked like: the image of imperfection. It was shattering, painful and exhausting..

It's been three years now.

I'm quite proud to admit that my annoying need to overachieve at everything has been my biggest weakness and my greatest strength. I never wanted to do something halfway, and this was no different: I got an eating disorder as bad as they go. But I sure as hell got a recovery as good as they go. I have not relapsed or regressed. I have just grown in confidence and in strength. I haven’t done that on my own: the support I have had from just about every corner of my life has been my lifeline. Even on Tumblr where people are so confident just to share selfies and feel good about how great they look. Nothing makes me happier to see people love who they are. The people in my life have fought with me in my corner with so much strength they could collectively save the world. I am not sure I could ever find the words to describe the impact they have made.

People tell me every day how far I have come in three years. They see me eat and think it is all over. There is little truth in an assumption so bold. Here’s the thing no one told me about when I first thought an eating disorder is a good idea: it never leaves you. It just becomes less overwhelming. I still have the scars to face every day. I say remission because I never really heal. Then again I am only human and people often forget that when I have a bad day. The truth is I face my worst fear every time I sit down to eat no matter how much it seems like I love food.

I'm not perfect, no one is. And in time I've learned this fact and to love myself. I don't burst at the seams with confidence, but I definitely have more now than what I did three years ago. There are days where a relapse sits on the horizon but you just have to hold your head high and fight it. I don't write this in hopes of becoming a role model but I do hope it inspires people, not just those who face what I did, but with any curve ball life decides to throw at them. There's always a way out if you're willing to look for it.

_______________

I wrote this five years ago. This passed year has probably been the biggest test of my recovery in a long time. Staying at home with constant worries about access to the gym, my safe foods and social distancing are prime triggers for a relapse for me. It’s true that you never fully recover, but you do get better with time. Every day is a constant fight against my ED, depression and anxiety, and there are many days where it seems like climbing this never-ending mountain is impossible. But I’ve come to realise that any step we take in pushing against it (even just acknowledging our emotions and thoughts) is one in the right direction. 

In the past week I have thought quite a lot about my anorexia and impact it has had on my life, my family and my body. And the truth is, I still choose to wake up and fight the “mad bitch” everyday. Some days are definitely harder than others, sometimes it’s easy. But I win everytime because I choose to fight it. So I really hope that anyone fighting their demons (whatever they may be) will reflect on how strong they are and the journey they have walked.   ♡ 

[realityhelixcreates]

Beta, Theta, and Me Chapter 7: The Invisible Cage

Chapters: 7/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG

Warnings: Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now),

Characters: Loki(Marvel) Additional Tags:  A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses, Loki Has A Throne Now, But It’s Not What He Wanted

Summary:  Loki and his servant discuss the nature of freedom.

You found yourself hiding in your apartment for several hours that day. Loki had gotten a call-the first you could remember-and had instantly bid you leave his presence. In fact, he said he would have preferred you leave the building altogether, but it was suddenly pouring outside, so you'd opted to hide out in your room instead.

You didn't know what would cause him to act that way, but you'd tried to use the time to take a nice relaxing nap. But the sound of rushing wind had rattled the tower, and someone had entered Loki's apartment without bothering to be quiet about it.

Shortly after that, the shouting had begun.

So much for napping.

You opened your door just a crack, and peered out into the round living space down the hall.

Thor was there.

THE Thor, the God of Thunder himself, the only man you'd ever thought might make a good case for monarchy.

He was pacing back and forth in front of Loki, gesticulating broadly, both of them speaking in raised voices. You didn't understand the language at all, it was round and bouncy, with long rolled R's, and rock hard consonants. They didn't seem to be fighting; this was not a shouting match with each other. This looked like shared anger, a common indignance over some other subject.

They discussed loudly with one another, Thor standing across from Loki, around the little table where you shared meals. He was drawing something in a note book, tapping the paper for emphasis, while Loki took up the pen and drew something else. Eventually, the loudness died down, both men becoming absorbed in whatever plan or problem they were going over, and you hid back away in your rooms, satisfied that there wasn't going to be a fight.

They were more than a little frightening when they shouted. There was power in those ancient voices, and it jellied your insides. What must it have been like for people, hundreds of years ago, to hear these beings speak? It wasn't surprising that bygone societies had been built around them.

Thor left eventually, with grim laughter, but seemingly on good terms. When you slunk back out into the hallway, Loki remained at the table, writing in his notebook. He seemed tense, but not angry.

“So...” You started. Loki blew out a long breath.

“I desire some kind of sweet confection.” He said. “If you do not already know how, please learn to make some kind of cake or cookie, and then do so.”

“And then...”

“And then eat some with me.”

Dismissal then. So be it. He'd tell you, or he wouldn't, what business was it of yours?

It was time to level up. It was time to learn how to make cookies.

                                                                         ******

You knew that if this were a movie, or TV show, smoke would billow out once you opened that oven, and your cookies would all be burnt. But that's not what this was, and your cookies were actually fine. A little flat and crispy around the edges, but perfectly tasty. Loki seemed to take extra pleasure in their crunchiness, a detail you filed away for later. He was still agitated, but it was like a swift current at the bottom of a calm stream. You found yourself a bit afraid to step in.

“What do you think freedom is?” He asked abruptly. He'd been back into his extra-long-titled philosophy books again. You'd been trying to convince him to move on from Keirkegaard, but the existentialism spoke to him.

He'd had you sit with him next to his huge fireplace, and sing a few times now, and he even translated excerpts from his books for you in order to discuss them with you. He liked your somewhat cynical, layman's view on these lofty subjects, even seemed to find validity in your sometimes frustrated “I don't know, why should it matter?” answers. This time you thought about it for a while.

“I think it doesn't actually exist. It's an unobtainable idea.” You said.

“Care to expand?”

“Well, okay. So what is freedom? That's a really tough question, right? Like, for some people, its 'not being discriminated against because of skin color' or something like that. For others, it as simple as financial stability. But both of those have something in common with what I think is the average definition, which is 'not being beholden to capricious authority figures'. But is that even possible? I mean, say you're a king.

Not literally!” You exclaimed, as Loki opened his mouth. “But as a king, there's supposedly no higher power than you in all the land, right? But...you also have responsibilities. Burdens. You have to rule, and you have to do it well, or you won't be king for long. You still, in some part, owe your time and effort to the people you rule. You aren't free. You can't just do whatever you want, whenever you want. The people won't put up with it. Eventually, they'll rise up an overthrow you, maybe even kill you. It happened a lot.

But if you go with the Divine Right idea, even though you're telling the peasants that they have to do whatever you say because it's God's will, it's still admitting that you answer to a higher power. Therefore, you are not free, because you are under the authority of a deity and supposedly have to abide by their rules and doctrines. If you don't, your Divine right to rule may be revoked and again, if you have ruled poorly, you'll be overthrown and killed.

You can't even reach freedom by removing yourself from the chains of society. Take yourself off to some deserted place with no other people around, and you can do whatever you want, right? Except you still have to eat. You still need shelter. You still have to spend a lot of time dealing with those things. You are still trapped by the laws of nature. Try to defy them, and you will be killed.

Even in death...either there's no afterlife, and you just stop existing at all, and therefore can't engage in concepts such as freedom, or there is an afterlife, but it follows the rules of the god who created it, and you have to follow those rules while you're there. There's no such thing as true freedom. It can't be achieved.”

“How does that make you feel?” Loki asked softly.

You shrugged. “Not as frustrated as I should, I guess. I don't feel strongly about it. What am I supposed to do about it, rebel?”

“Isn't that what your parents did?”

“Yeah, and they're both dead!” You exclaimed. Loki fell quiet.

“I'm sorry.” You said. “It's just that everyone who finds out about them expects me to be like them, but I'm just not. I'm not their opposite, but I'm not...them.”

“What happened to them?” He inquired. “I don't actually know about them, save for what you have alluded to.”

“You have a phone, right? Look up the 'Joyful Liberation Compound'. I'll clean up these cookies.”

You washed the dishes and cleaned up all the flour and crumbs. When you joined him at the table again, he was staring at his phone, expression grim.

“Yeah.” You said.

“You are the only survivor.” He stated.

“Yeah, because I ran away when I turned seventeen. Had to smuggle myself out in the back of a supply truck. They didn't let us back outside once we came in. Only very carefully vetted individuals, high in the pecking order were allowed back into the outside world, and then only to recruit or bring back supplies that we couldn't create at the compound. 'Liberation' was right in the name, but we were very Not Free.”

“Brave little thing.” Loki said. “It must have been very difficult to make that choice.”

“We joined when I was fifteen.” You said. “I was only there for two years. Not like the other kids, who were raised there, or spent most of their lives there. They didn't know anything else. Now they never will.”

“Your government baffles me sometimes.” Loki said. “Billionaire slavers are elevated rather than criminalized, yet they're perfectly prepared to raze an entire compound to the ground? With everyone inside? Even the children?”

“They were an accelerationist cult.” You pointed out. “They thought the end of American civilization was coming, and that they were supposed to help bring it about.”

“And your government is full of dominionists and fascists.” Loki pointed back. “This seems nothing more than one civil deconstructionist cult destroying the competition while it is still small.”

“Yeah, it sucks all around.” You agreed heatedly. “That's what happens when you have one set of laws for a favored class of people, and another for everyone else. The scum rises to the top and then chokes out everyone else...Sorry.”

Loki regarded you sourly. “You speak very freely, brave thing.”

“Is it different where you come from?” You asked.

“Yes, actually. We have an unbroken line of succession that oversees a thriving and prosperous culture, kept that way by firm, yet judicious leaders.”

“You tried to take over a whole planet by force!”

“I intended to fix your crumbling infrastructure and even out your unbelievable inequality issues.” Loki insisted.

“By enslaving us all? Making us all equally subservient to you?”

“There is a difference between bravery and foolishness.” He warned. “I meant to rule as a benevolent god. You do not wish to see me vengeful!”

You snapped your mouth shut. His Alpha scent intensified when he exerted his personality, but it was the power in his voice that shivered through you.

You hated that. You hated it. The scent made you so uncomfortable, dredged up so many tainted memories. And the vocal power of an Old God squelched your spirit. You sat, still and quiet, practically radiating resentment.

After a few moments of extremely uncomfortable silence, Loki sighed.

“It would not have worked.” He admitted. “My intentions were not pure. I would certainly have tried, yes, I would have given my best effort, but there were...other...factors.”

“What other factors?” You asked. Hadn't your real boss, the one that paid you, the Tony Stark one, asked you to find out things about this exact subject?

Also, you were curious. What was the secret? What had brought the great god Loki low?

His mouth opened and then closed. No sound came out. As you watched in growing confusion, his face began to twitch, twisting into a grimace, his eyes filling with frustration. Breath hissed through bared teeth, his fists clenching over the armrests of his wheelchair. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Loki? Loki! Stop!” You exclaimed. “Stop, you don't have to! Stop!”

Loki let out a groan of pain, then shoved you away when you grabbed his hand. You fell right on your rear.

“Get out of here!” Loki roared. “Get out of my sight, and do not show your face again today!”

You scrambled to your feet and rushed to your apartment, slamming the door behind you. Your organs felt like water, as you slid down the back of your door, flinching at the sounds of destruction coming from outside.

What was that? What had just happened? Did it hurt him to try to speak of what happened to him? It had seemed like some painful, physical battle. You fumbled for your phone and called your real boss.

[oursubjectisntcool]

If I ever open my own PR firm, I'm going to name it "8 Mile Strategic Communications".

Hear me out:

So I used to work in church communications, right? Believe me, it's harder than it looks: trying to navigate a presidency during which the world's perception of the church condensed into a racist, gun-toting, anti-immigration hypocritical hierarchy, when in reality it's a spiritual hospital filled with and run by well-meaning but screwed up people who are trying with varying degrees of commitment to make the world a better place through life-giving salvation. And I would stand by these people sooner than I would be convinced to stand against them. But let's hone in on the screwed-up part for a second: as one of the few "mega-churches" (hate that term) in America, there are bound to be administrative failures, spiritual hypocrisies, and hastily-executed plans that put the church leadership in hot water. There are biblical concepts that they teach from the pulpit that I 100% agree and almost always come off as controversial. Sticking to your biblical guns is going to get you in hot water with the world sometimes, so long as your consistent, I'm good with you. But when the aforementioned oopsies start being used to accuse leadership of among other things: liberalism, trying to establish a new world order, selling church property to the mosque down the street, wanting to kill white people (seriously??) or any of the other crazy accusations I heard leveled at the leadership in recent months, we should be able to respond and say these things aren't true and you're being ridiculous by even considering them.

You wanna know what's holding them back from doing exactly that (in the humble opinion of this communications professional)? There's apparently a certain decorum in communications that needs to be maintained in a church setting: deleting negative comments on social media posts, trying to save face, backroom meetings where major arguments erupt, lack of transparency. There are all these things that people accuse the church of but because we are broken, screwed-up people, there is a perception in leadership that we don't have a leg to stand on to fight back. And we may not crumble because we're kingdom-minded and not earth-centered, but our reputation crumbles and it's just added to the list of reasons why people stop coming to church. Why would people in need of a Savior go to a building where all this supposed church family is doing is tearing each other down?

Let me get to my point:

You remember that scene from 8 Mile at the end where B Rabbit defeats his opponent? Do you remember how he did that?

The whole point of the battle rap format is you win by picking apart your opponents weaknesses, hypocrisies, physical flaws, etc. and cleverly forming on-the-spot rhymes out of those chinks in the armor. Then your opponent is so embarrassed that he/she is unable to think straight that they can't come up with equally or more clever retorts or are straight-up stumped.

B Rabbit didn't just destroy his opponent Papa Doc by revealing he wasn't as gangster as he proported himself to be ("his real name's Clarence!"), he started by pointing out his own flaws and OWNING THEM.

"This guy ain't no motherf***ing MC I know everything he's 'bout to say against me I AM white, I AM a f***ing bum I do live in a trailer with my mom My boy Future is an Uncle Tom I do got a dumb friend named Cheddar Bob Who shoots himself in his leg with his own gun I did get jumped by all six of you chumps And Wink did f*** my girl I'm still standing here screaming, "F*** the Free World!" Don't ever try to judge me, dude You don't know what the fuck I've been through"

TLDR he basically lays out all the means by which Papa Doc could possibly lyrically attack him and shows that he is unbothered by these things because his life is screwed up but it's his life!

He ends the battle to thunderous applause with this phrase:

"I'm a piece of white trash, I say it proudly And f*** this battle, I don't wanna win, I'm outtie Here, tell these people something they don't know about me"

I won't ever advocate using a secular - let alone an extremely vulgar - example like this to try to teach the church because the Word of God is "quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart. (Heb. 4:12)" and way more life-changing than an Eminem movie.

HOWEVER,

Why can't we at least partially apply this to how we conduct the church and our reputation in the world? Just lay it all out - that way at the very least, no one can come after us for hiding anything. "Yes we preach and believe XYZ, yes we've messed up, yes a lot of people have left our church, yes we've lost a ton of money in tithes.

But regardless of all of that, we live out the fact that:

1. God is a loving and powerful Father who created us to have a relationship with Him

2. Our screw-up-ness from birth prevents us from having a relationship with this God

3. We can't do enough good things to earn us a seat at the table with God, let alone a relationship with him.

4. Jesus subjected himself to all the same pressures we face and yet didn't cave to any of them and lived a life completely 1000% on point. Yet, he paid the mass punishment that we earned by our screwed-up-ness.

5. Everyone who recognizes that Jesus is God in human skin and understands/accepts that his perfect life is enough to bridge the gap between us and God lives forever, even when he dies.

[skye-maxwell]

Worth-most

Persona 4 | Souyo | Young adult, established relationship | Rated T

Happy birthday, @romeo-and-antoinette! 🎈🎀🎉 Hope you like it, friend! 

For prompt #103 “You’re worth every second of my time” from this nifty prompt list. This does start off a bit angsty, but IS ROMANCE, PROMISE!

---

There was nothing like a long day at work to make Yosuke feel completely worthless. His boss, his coworkers, his clients—everyone had gotten on his nerves today, and every single one of them took him for granted. Maybe he wasn’t the smartest person in the office, or the most willing to kiss ass, but he was a good, loyal, consistent worker, which was more than could be said for just about everyone else there. 

He was drained physically and emotionally, plus he was starving. As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, he wondered if he would make it up to the fourth floor, or if he would just collapse before he got there. Or better yet, his stomach would growl so hard that he would crack the foundation of the building, and the whole structure would crumble down on top of him. 

That would be a fitting end to today, Yosuke thought morosely, halfway aware that his thoughts only got this dramatic when he was really spent. 

Even if literally everything had sucked all day, he at least had one thing to look forward to���Souji had promised him a homemade dinner tonight. Even though they lived together and saw each other every day, it had been a while since they’d eaten dinner together, let alone one of Souji’s famous made-from-scratch meals. Yosuke felt like it was a waste—a waste of Souji’s talents in the kitchen and (selfishly) a waste of Yosuke basically having his own personal chef in his home. 

But tonight, Souji had promised to cook for him. Yosuke’s mouth started to water just imagining some inevitably delicious scent hitting him in the face once he opened their front door, and the thought just barely gave him the strength to climb the final flight of stairs. 

However, when he unlocked the door and threw it open, there was no delicious scent there to greet him. 

Yosuke wondered if Souji was cooking something that didn’t have a particularly strong aroma, but if there was one thing Souji wasn’t shy about, it was his use of seasonings. Maybe he had finished cooking early and put everything away to heat back up when Yosuke got home? Or maybe he made something cold? It was a pretty crisp evening outside though, so Yosuke was sure Souji would want to prepare something warm… 

Yosuke dropped his bag and went to the kitchen to investigate. Souji wasn’t there, the lights were off, and it almost looked like nothing in the room had even been touched since Yosuke had left that morning, which was strange since Souji worked from home and should have made himself lunch at some point. 

Staving off his disappointment, Yosuke checked the fridge, but nothing had changed in there either. He even checked the stove, the oven, and even the microwave for residual heat, but once again he came up with nothing. 

Yosuke hadn’t heard from Souji all day, but that was par for the course lately. They didn’t mean to call and text each other less during the workday than they used to, but again, busy. 

Then Yosuke started to get a sneaking suspicion, so he made his way down the hall to the spare room they had made into Souji’s office. 

The door was cracked open, and Yosuke pressed his ear near the gap, only to hear Souji quietly muttering to himself the way he only ever did when he was both very stressed and very focused. Yosuke felt a rush of both relief and annoyance—Souji was alive at least, but there he was just sitting at his desk and not keeping his dinner promise that had been his idea and he had made such a big deal about, saying he wanted to spend time with Yosuke and do something special for him. 

Choosing to tread lightly just in case, Yosuke peeked his head in the door and said, “Souji? You got a sec?” 

Souji’s head shot up from where it was buried in a stack of papers, his eyes going unfocused behind his reading glasses as he looked at Yosuke. 

“Oh. You’re home,” Souji said flatly, and for some reason, that made Yosuke’s blood boil. 

Souji then looked from Yosuke to the clock that was hung high up on the wall, lowering his glasses so he could actually read the time. 

“Guess you don’t have a sec, then,” Yosuke said bitterly, looking away from Souji. “I’m not very hungry. I’m gonna go straight to bed.” 

He was still hungry (even if this exchange had somewhat soured his appetite), but throwing that in would be a reminder to Souji of his broken promise while also letting him know that he didn’t need to bother tending to Yosuke for the rest of the night if he really didn’t want to. 

As soon as Yosuke reached their bedroom, he fell face-first into bed, not caring about changing out of his work clothes or washing up or making himself anything to eat. He just lay there, stubbornly putting up with how difficult it was to breathe with his face pressed into the mattress because he was just so done. 

“This is so stupid,” he groaned into the bedding. “After all this time, I’m still just a disappointment, first at work, and now at home too? I really am worthless, huh?” 

“No,” Souji’s voice said softly from the doorway. 

Yosuke groaned again. 

Souji had heard him say that? Of course he had. 

Yosuke felt the mattress dip as Souji sat beside him, and Yosuke turned his face away, really not wanting to talk right now. 

Souji asked, “What makes you say that?” 

“Say what? The worthless thing? Don’t worry about it. Aren’t you busy? You should go back to your work.”

Yosuke was being petty, and he knew it. He was pushing away the only person who could comfort him, and he knew that too. Still, it felt like he couldn’t help it. At least he had enough self-control to not let out all the negativity at once—he wasn’t yelling or throwing anything or spontaneously combusting. That had to count for something.

“You’re more important than my work,” Souji said, and Yosuke almost scoffed at what appeared to be just a platitude at this point. 

Souji gently placed a hand on the middle of Yosuke’s back, and Yosuke froze. As much as he wanted to squirm away in a show of not accepting comfort from his Partner who he was mad at, that would be way too much effort in his current position. 

Souji continued, “And that’s why I feel terrible about letting time get away from me. I was so focused on my work, I had no idea how much time had passed. That’s no reason to break a promise, though.”

“So you remember, huh?” Yosuke said, immediately hating how he must have sounded like a whiny baby who was crying about missing his afternoon snack or something. “It’s whatever, man. Look, I’m in a bad mood, so just go back to what you were doing. Don’t waste your time on me; I know it’s valuable.” 

Souji’s hand lightly grasped the back of Yosuke’s sweater, probably involuntarily, and his voice broke as he said: “You’re worth every second of my time.” 

Shit, Yosuke thought, feeling like a huge asshole. In his bitter state, he had wanted to upset Souji to get back at him, but as soon as he could actually hear that Souji was upset, he wanted to take it all back. 

Yosuke slowly turned to look up at Souji, who looked guilty, and scared, and devastated, and whatever darkness spell was cast over Yosuke’s heart started to dissipate.

“I’m so sorry, Yosuke,” Souji said, his pretty silver eyes pleading for a forgiveness that only Yosuke could grant; he was never good at forgiving himself. 

As Yosuke peered up at him—his beautiful and imperfect Partner, the only person who truly thought Yosuke was worth everything and made that clear as often as he could (except this particular instance where he just happened to make a mistake on the wrong day at the wrong time)… 

Yosuke sat up and crawled into Souji’s lap, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. 

“I’m sorry too.” 

Souji quickly hugged Yosuke back as if his life depended on it, and then he placed a kiss on Yosuke’s cheek before breathing a warm sigh into Yosuke’s hair—and just like that, it felt like Yosuke’s world had fallen back into alignment. 

“I love you, Partner.” 

“I love you too.” 

They sat like that for a while, not saying anything, until the silence was finally broken by both of their stomachs growling. 

Souji said sadly, “You’re starving, aren’t you...”  

In the exact same tone, Yosuke asked, “You skipped lunch, didn’t you…” 

They both answered, “Yeah.” 

Still holding onto Yosuke with one arm, Souji reached into his pocket for his phone. 

“I’ll order our usual for tonight, and I swear I will make you dinner tomorrow night. I’ll set a hundred reminders on my phone, and I’ll prep some of the ingredients in the morning before I even start working, and—”

“Okay, I believe you. Extra dumplings, please,” Yosuke requested as he watched Souji text their order to the owner of the local takeout place with whom they were way too familiar with at this point. 

After Souji hit send, he tossed the phone on the bed, and his arm resumed its place around Yosuke. He looked reverently up into Yosuke’s eyes, as if he was gazing up at the stars. “I swear this time, Yosuke. I swear… on your life.” 

“On my life?! Aren’t you supposed to swear on like, your mother’s life or something?” 

“Your life is the most important to me,” Souji stated, and Yosuke knew that it wasn’t just a platitude. 

“Partner, if that’s your weird-ass way of trying to convince me I’m not worthless—”

“You’re the opposite of worthless. You’re… worth-more. You’re worth-most!” Souji said, eyes bright with his own assertion. 

“That’s not a word.”

“It wasn’t until now because no one has ever been worth-most until you.” 

“You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”

“Probably, but not because I think you’re worth-most. That just can’t be helped.” 

“Okay, you love me, I get it,” Yosuke said tiredly, slumping against Souji. 

“Nope, I don’t think you do,” Souji said, planting a quick kiss into the side of Yosuke’s neck. “It’ll take about fifteen, twenty minutes for the food to come, so in the meantime, I’ll just have to remind you of how much you mean to me.” 

Yosuke pulled back to shoot Souji an incredulous look. 

“Are you seriously trying to fit in a quickie before the food comes?” 

Caught off guard, Souji looked up at him with wide eyes, his mouth parting a bit as he struggled to come up with a response.

“That’s not what I… I was thinking more like, I could massage some of this tension out of your back while I listen to you talk about what happened at work today…”

 “Oh.”

“…but if you want…” 

“No! Forget it.”

Souji chuckled as Yosuke climbed out of his lap and promptly turned his back to him for that back rub. 

After a thorough massage, a therapeutic venting session, a few more apologies, more than a few kisses, and a hastily scarfed-down dinner, the two of them cuddled up on the couch, as per Yosuke’s request.

“Thanks, Partner,” Yosuke sighed, feeling better than he had in days, maybe weeks. “Sorry again.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“Are you sure you don’t need to get back to work though?” 

“I’m all yours, for the rest of the night,” Souji promised, and Yosuke nodded appreciatively. “So did you want that quickie now or later?” 

Souji was obviously joking, but Yosuke angled his body toward him and started pressing kisses along his jaw, feeling the heat from Souji’s blush as it started to form on his cheeks. 

In all seriousness, Yosuke asked softly against Souji’s skin, “It doesn’t have to be quick, does it?” 

Already losing himself under Yosuke’s touch, Souji murmured, “Ngh… n-not at all.”

[cakesunflower]

Reach For You [Dad!Calum AU] Ch. 18

A/N: so sorry for the......6 month wait omg. hope y’all missed Aspen, Calum, and Luna as much as i did. yeeeee happy reading!

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

Chapter 18

“IT’S LIKE PULLING teeth, trying to get them to talk,” Mali whispered, leaning towards Aspen as she spoke, eyes on the scene in front of her rather than on the wine glass she was cleaning with a dish towel. “It’s painful to watch.”

Aspen’s throat worked. She could only see Calum’s profile from where she was standing, his dark eyes set on the television as it played Home Alone. He sat on the single lounge chair, while his mom sat on the smaller couch opposite of him and his dad and Luna occupied the other couch opposite of the TV. The two of them seemed to be in their own world, Luna having gotten along with her grandpa exceedingly well, talking amongst themselves about the movie. Calum was pretending to pay attention to the movie, while Joy was pretending not to be staring over at him occasionally.

That’s how dinner had gone. It was awkward and seemed to drag on forever, but at least Aspen had Mali on her side, the two of them making up for Calum’s silence at the table. It wasn’t like he didn’t speak at all, dropped a sentence or two here and there, but he didn’t directly speak to his parents. Well, at least not to his mom, anyway. He was still upset with his dad by association, but the true object of his anger was Joy, and he wasn’t too subtle about it either.

Not even the pretty Christmas lights they’d decorated the apartment with could bring a sense of tranquility and joy. Not to this group, anyway.

Aspen would be exasperated by his lack of trying if all of this wasn’t her doing to begin with. She called his parents behind his back. She’s the one who invited them for Christmas dinner and ambushed Calum with it. Shit, what had she been thinking?

The sound of Luna’s giggles broke through Aspen’s thoughts, and she felt herself relax a little bit. At least she could count on her daughter to lighten the mood.

“I don’t know what to do,” Aspen responded to Mali quietly, gripping the bottle of wine. She was ready to down the whole thing by herself. With a disgruntled hand running through her hair, Aspen added, “This was a terrible idea.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Mali disagreed, wiping the last glass. “You’re just trying to save Cal’s relationship with our parents, like any caring partner would want to do. It’s not your fault they’re being stubborn about this.”

Aspen wasn’t convinced. “Yeah, but—” She sighed, eyebrows drawing together in distress, looking towards the living room before her gaze met Mali’s again. In a quiet voice, she added, “I knew he wasn’t ready to move forward and I pushed him anyway. I didn’t—” Aspen paused, frowning as her gaze dropped to the counter, twisting her lips as the guilt started creeping through her veins. “I didn’t give him enough time to be angry—”

“He needs to let that anger out before it becomes too much,” Mali told her. “He needs to say his piece and try to move on. What’s done is done and no one can change the past, no matter how much we all want to, and the sooner Calum accepts it, the sooner he’ll feel that burden lift from his shoulders.”

Aspen took a breath, processing Mali’s words. She was still afraid of pushing Calum, not wanting to push him too far and have him be upset with her again—truthfully, she wasn’t even sure if they were okay from the last time they argued about the very situation. Ever since the arrival of his parents, he’s been in an off mood, which Aspen had expected, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t disappointed with his lack of trying after he said he would try. She knew she was at fault for springing all of this on him, knew that if he didn’t hold up his end of the promise then she couldn’t entirely blame him. Still, the dismay was present when all throughout dinner Calum didn’t really make conversation, didn’t engage if it wasn’t with her or his sister or Luna.

Before Aspen could say anything to Mali, Joy’s voice sounded from the living room. “I think it’s time we get going; it’s getting late.”

“No.” Aspen didn’t realize it was she who had protested Joy’s statement until all eyes were on her. Though, all Aspen could feel were Joy’s surprised ones and Calum’s irritated ones as he looked at her over his shoulder. Taking a breath, Aspen offered an encouraging smile. “We haven’t had dessert yet and I was just about to open the wine. Please stay, at least for a little bit.”

She figured, in that moment, she didn’t really want Calum’s parents to leave until at least there was some kind of step forward made. Was she pushing it? Maybe.

“We can’t force ’em if they wanna go, Aspen.” Her eyes met Calum’s dark ones, noted the silent way he told her to just let it go. To let them leave. There was a hint of edge present in the undertones of his casual voice, and Aspen fought from rolling her eyes because she knew he could’ve pretended harder if he wanted to.

“Noooo, I want Grandma and Grandpa to stay!” Luna whined, sitting up on the couch with a frown and pout on her face. Looking at Joy with a puppy dog look the five year old had terrifyingly mastered already, Luna begged, “Please stay! There’s cake and cookies.” Looking at David, she added, “Home Alone isn’t done yet.”

“Lunes,” Calum started, tone genuinely becoming soft as he addressed his daughter. “It might start snowing soon and they can’t be on the road when it does.”

Mali and Aspen both exchanged flat expressions at the lie. It wasn’t going to snow, Aspen knew for a fact, and Calum lying to Luna about it just so she’d possibly drop the subject was ridiculous. So with a lick of her lips and trying to keep her tone even, Aspen said, “Hey, Cal, can I talk to you for a second?”

His gaze met hers once again, the tension in the room returning as she nodded towards the hallway. She noted the way his throat worked in annoyance before pushing himself to his feet, and Aspen shot everyone else a quick reassuring grin as she walked out of the kitchen. They went to Calum’s bedroom and Aspen felt his presence behind her looming as they reached the room, and she shut the door behind her before turning to face him.

Together, both of them demanded simultaneously, “What the hell are you doing?”

Calum exhaled forcefully as Aspen’s eyebrows shot up. “Me? I’m trying to salvage your relationship with your parents.”

He shook his head, jaw tight before retorting, “That’s not your concern, Aspen.”

“We’re partners, Calum, so yeah, it is.”

She saw the anger flash across his face, accompanied by a sense of hurt she hadn’t expected as Calum returned, the edge back in his voice, “If we’re partners then you should be on my fuckin’ side!”

Aspen blinked on an expression of incredulity, lips parting as she inhaled a surprised breath at Calum’s accusation. There was a brief numb silence in the space of the room before Aspen’s brain caught up with her. “I am on your side, Calum,” she exclaimed, fighting to keep her voice low enough so it didn’t travel to the living room where everyone else was. But it was hard to keep her voice from raising with the surprise Calum’s accusation brought. For him to think she wasn’t with him was upsetting and insulting. “I just—I want you to say what you need to say to them and try to move past this.”

Calum gave a shake of his head, slow and defeated. “There’s nothing left to say, Aspen,” he said, voice lower yet still carrying that same level of intensity. He licked his lips as his dark eyes flickered past her and towards the door, thinking of who was currently in his living room, and he expelled a breath. Looking back at Aspen, he continued, “I’ve already said how pissed and upset I am. I’ve told her how she’s fucked up and she’s apologized and I don’t know where we go from here.”

Her heart bled for Calum and the pain he still so obviously was in, attempting to hide it behind anger and stubbornness. But she knew Calum, and as much as it hurt to see him hurt, to see how difficult it was for him to have his parents here, Aspen knew for a fact that he wouldn’t truly feel better until all of this was done with. Calum had always been so close with his parents, was a family oriented man that could be seen in his relationship with Luna, and to see his relationship with his parents crumbled into dust was heartbreaking.

Forgiving Joy wasn’t something Aspen ever thought she was capable of. For the longest time, she hated the woman for everything that happened. But holding onto those kind of strong, negative emotions wasn’t doing her any good. It was only weighing Aspen down, sometimes suffocating her, and it wasn’t until things with Calum had been mended and she finally decided to forgive his mom that Aspen could feel completely okay again. And it was no secret her accident played a big part in Aspen wanting things for Calum to be alright, too. Life was too short to remain under a dark cloud of anger.

“You move forward, bub,” Aspen told him, her own tone growing soft as she took a step towards him, green eyes never leaving his brown. “We can’t change what happened, but we can change how we go from here. I know how much it hurts you to not have your parents, your mom, in your life like you used to. I—”

“I have you and Luna,” Calum cut in, eyebrows drawing together in a subtle frown.

Aspen pressed her lips together into a kind, genuine smile. “You do,” she agreed with a nod. Calum’s throat worked as Aspen looked at him, and she felt herself take a breath. Her shoulders sank in acceptance, her hand finding his. A warmth spread through Aspen as he looked down at their joined hands, maneuvering his fingers to interlock with hers, the sensation of his cool rings one she never tired of. “And if you genuinely feel. . . Complete. . . with us—which is totally and utterly fine—then I will go back into the living room and tell your parents goodnight.”

Calum blinked a couple of times at her words, taking a breath as he lifted his chin, eyes never leaving Aspen’s. She didn’t look away, either, wanting him to know that she genuinely meant it. Sure, Aspen wanted Calum to make amends with his parents, and maybe it was a little too late to realize, but she shouldn’t have pushed him on the matter. She understood why he’d been so pissed off when she told him she’d invited his parents, understood that she’d crossed a line. If Calum genuinely did not want to engage with his parents, if he was content with not restoring a relationship, then Aspen would support him. She couldn’t force him more than she already had, not if she wanted to fuck up their relationship.

Supporting Calum was all that mattered.

“You would?”

Aspen’s smile softened, squeezing his hand, taking yet another step towards him. Her heart thudded within her chest at the look he gave her, uncharacteristically shy and looking so small, and it only reminded Aspen of how difficult this was for him. She nodded. “If that’s what you want, then yeah.”

He was silent as he considered her words, pulling his lower lip into his mouth as he chewed at it thoughtfully. She let him have his time, let him carefully think about what he wanted their next move to be. It concerned all of them, but this was Calum’s decision to ultimately make. Aspen felt badly about taking the choice away from him in the first place, and the least she could do was be by his side and support whatever he chose.

She watched the muscles in his jaw tighten, her eyebrows drawing together worriedly as he squeezed his eyes shut, head lowered as he shook it. Through gritted teeth, Calum confessed, “I want to move on but I just. . . I don’t know how.”

Aspen’s free hand lifted to cup his cheek, lifting his head to connect their gazes once again after he opened his eyes. She offered him a sweet smile. “We can figure it out together.”

They entered the living room, the credits for the movie on TV now rolling, everyone’s eyes on Calum and Aspen as they walked back in. Expectant expressions were painted across all of their faces, and Aspen took a breath before smiling at her daughter. “Hey, Lunes, why don’t you go show Aunt Mali all the presents you got, huh?”

The five year old grinned, jumping off from the couch with Duke hot on her heels as she ran over to where Mali stood, grabbing her aunt’s hand as she tugged. “Come on, Aunt Mali!”

The blonde grinned happily, letting her niece pull her along as her dark eyes met Calum and Aspen’s briefly. She understood the need to get Luna out of the room, happy to comply as she silently agreed to keep the little girl occupied.

An anticipating silence fell upon the room as Luna’s giggles soon silenced behind the closed door of her bedroom. Joy and David watched them patiently, and Aspen glanced at Calum in time to watch him take a breath before gesturing to the couches. “We should, uh, sit down, I guess.”

His parents shuffled around the coffee table, settling on the smaller couch against the wall as Aspen followed Calum to the one diagonal of them. It was silent in the room save for the ever so subtle thick clinking of the chains Calum wore, disappearing under the neckline of his full sleeved dark red sweater. He ran his fingers through his curls, ruffling the shaggy dark locks before he interlaced his fingers together. Calum bowed his head, lips parting as he ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, running the words through his head before he finally spoke.

“I’ve told you how I feel. . . And I know how sorry you are.” His words were slow, careful, not meeting anyone’s eyes as he uttered them. Aspen watched him, knowing he was thinking while he spoke, making sure whatever was running through his mind, whatever he was feeling in his heart, was properly articulated. “I just don’t know where we go from here—how we find. . . A sense of normalcy in all this.”

“We find it slowly, son,” David spoke up, his voice a wave of smooth calmness as he looked at Calum. He glanced at Joy before looking back at his son, adding, “This won’t be an overnight thing, we understand that. Still, we would. . .” David let out a soft sigh, his hand finding Joy’s before nodding at Calum. “We would like to try and earn back your trust.” His eyes met Aspen’s. “Both of yours.”

“That’s—” Calum breathed out with a shake of his head, wringing his fingers together as he let out a forced chuckle. Aspen pressed her teeth together as she watched him, wanting to jump in with something. Anything. But Calum needed to do this. So she resorted to resting a hand on his knee, a comforting act of encouragement. “That’s not goin’ to be easy.” Calum looked up, looked at his parents, expression a mixture of the conflict he was fighting and tiredness from it all. “You gave me everything I could’ve asked for, but took away the family I never knew I had.” Twisting his lips, Calum added, “Trust and forgiveness, that’s gonna take some time.”

Joy nodded, looking desperate for some kind of relief, some kind of step forward they all were in search for. “There’s no rush,” she assured with a somewhat nervous smile. She looked between both Calum and Aspen, and even though this was about her boyfriend getting back on the right path with his parents, Aspen was appreciative of Joy and David making her feel included in this. Her and Calum were partners; she was glad his parents saw it, too. “Take all of the time you need. Whatever you think is best for your family, it’s how we’ll deal with this, okay?”

Aspen watched as Calum rolled his lips into his mouth, considering their words. She knew that Calum, just like her, was taking note of how Joy and David were giving them the power, a vast difference from the part they’d played in when it came to the situation that led to all of this in the first place. They were in total control over what was to happen, how they were going to move from here, and the importance of that wasn’t lost on Aspen or Calum. They had basically been kids when they’d unknowingly gotten into this mess with his parents; now they were adults, with a daughter to think about and a family they had no intention of ever losing. They were finally in control, just like they should’ve been since the beginning.

Calum nodded, biting the inside of his lower lip as he sat up, shoulders straight. He sniffed, rubbing under his nose with a finger as he looked at his parents once more. Then his gaze shifted over to Aspen, his expression softening once his brown eyes met her encouraging green. A small smile tilted at his lips, hand coming to rest on top of hers that was on his knee. He took a breath, decided and sure. “Baby steps.”

She nodded along, mirroring his smile, turning her hand under his to properly hold his hand. “Yeah,” she agreed, returning the meaningful look he cast her way before shifting her gaze to his parents. “I’m sure we’ll figure this out.”

For the next hour or so, they brought Luna and Mali back out before they divulged into the wine and desserts Aspen had promised. The shift in the air was noticeable, the tension from before having dissipated significantly. Aspen sipped her wine, watching Calum finally be at ease for the first time since his parents’ arrival, Luna sitting on his lap as he held a plate with a slice of chocolate cake, feeding both himself and her. Mali had decided on playing some music, finding a Christmas playlist on Spotify, to keep the light mood in the air. Aspen figured she was maybe worried that lack of it would bring back the tension from before. Aspen found the gesture cute—and probably needed.

Joy and David didn’t leave until everything was cleared out, both Joy and Mali insisting on helping out in the kitchen to put away the dirty dishes and put the leftovers in the fridge. When it was time for Calum’s parents and sister to head out to their hotel, they all gathered by the door, Luna insisting on hugging her grandparents and aunt goodbye. As Mali pulled Aspen in for a hug, she rubbed her back before whispering, “Good job.”

Aspen let out a quiet, breathless chuckle at that, Mali grinning as they pulled away, the two of them sharing a pointed look. And then Joy stepped up in front of Aspen, bringing her a step away from everyone else, and Aspen still felt a prickle of surprise when Joy took her hand in hers and squeezed. “Thank you,” the older woman whispered, the sincerity crystal clear in her eyes. “It means a lot that you invited us. And it shows just how much you care about Calum.” A sadness swept over Joy’s face as she gave a regretful shake of her head. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see it before.”

Throat working, Aspen felt her heart stop for a brief moment at Joy’s apology, taking a breath. The sense of relief was only growing at this point. “I know you are,” Aspen nodded, offering a kind smile. “Thank you for coming.”

Luna ended up in her arms after hugging her grandfather goodbye, and Aspen rubbed at the little girl’s back as Luna rested her head in the crook of her neck, tired after the day’s festivities. She gently swayed her, the movement subtle yet still soothing Luna, as she watched Calum bid his mom goodnight.

“Our flight isn’t until seven tomorrow night,” Joy was saying to Calum. Aspen watched them, trying and failing not to do so, noting how small Calum’s mother looked in front of him. Not just because of their physical height difference; she took in the way Joy, a woman she’d always known to be assertive and bold in her own right, seemed to fold into herself. She hugged herself, as if she was protecting herself from any oncoming rejection, totally uncharacteristic and Aspen understood why as Joy added, “Would it be alright to see you before we go?”

She spoke with trepidation, not wanting to push her luck after only just beginning the process of making amends. Aspen watched on as Calum looked at his mother for what seemed like minutes that stretched on forever, until he finally answered with a single nod, “Yeah.”

Joy smiled in return, shoulders sinking in relief, as the goodbyes and goodnights came to a close, Calum’s parents and sister leaving with smiles and waves as they closed the door behind them. Calum let out a sigh as he locked it, the night coming to an end, turning around just in time for Aspen to whisper, “Hey, you wanna put her to bed? I’m gonna clean up the living room.”

Calum nodded, gaze shifting to a near slumbering Luna, as he stepped forward and reached for his daughter. Luna easily shifted from her mother to her father, arms lazily going around Calum’s neck as she rested her cheek on his shoulder. He felt and heard her take a breath before snuggling closer to him, and it easily brought a gentle smile to his face as he walked down the apartment and towards her bedroom.

He settled her down on the bed, switching on the bedside lamp that provided for a dull glow as opposed to the harsh brightness of the ceiling light. Calum brushed some dark curls out of Luna’s face as she sleepily smacked her lips together, and he suppressed a fond chuckle as he made his way over to the dresser to get her pajamas out. He sat down on the edge of the bed, murmuring quiet encouragements to the little girl who was seconds away from completely falling asleep as he changed her into her pajamas.

But just as Calum laid her upper half back down after putting on her shirt, thinking she was already mostly asleep, Luna spoke up. “I had fun today.” She spoke in a slow, tired drawl, a bit of a wistful hum in her voice as Calum settled her blankets over her.

He sat right next to her on the edge of the bed, hands on either side of her as he looked down to see her dark eyes blinking open. Calum smiled at the sight of her; for her to be this tired, he knew she did have fun. Despite his own issues, Calum had seen, much at the expense of his tightening jaw, that Luna had been enjoying her time with Mali and their parents. Calum hadn’t made for a much pleasant host to his parents, but Luna made up for it with a newfound excitement towards them. A childlike thrill that had, for the most part, put everyone at ease. “Yeah?” Calum mused, smiling down at her teasingly. “You liked all your presents?” They may or may not have spoiled her—Calum more so than anyone else; his first Christmas with his daughter had proven to be his favorite despite the initially unwanted presence of his parents.

“Mhm,” Luna responded, pulling the blanket up to her chin as her brown eyes met Calum’s. “I like Grandma and Grandpa, too.”

Something tightened in Calum’s chest at that, not entirely sure if it was a good or bad feeling as he heard Luna’s words. He’d been struggling with his emotions ever since his parents had arrived, knowing he hadn’t done a good job in keeping his promise to Aspen in trying to be civil. To actually try. But it hadn’t been too bad towards the end. They had made some progress, as much as they could tonight, and Calum had even agreed to see them again tomorrow before they left. That was more than he’d expected to do. And even though he’d been upset with Aspen over inviting his parents without even telling him, Calum knew his anger had dissipated at this point. Not entirely gone, of course, but slowly crumbling away. Slowly.

Calum took a breath before smiling, finger brushing away a stray curl from her face, brushing along her cute, soft little cheek. “They like you, too,” he told her truthfully. Because they did. He could tell. He wouldn’t agree to seeing them tomorrow if they didn’t. “Come on, bug, get some sleep.”

Luna hummed, giggling ever so softly as Calum leaned down and gave her a sweet kiss. He bid her goodnight after switching off the lamp and turning on her nightlight, leaving the door just slightly aja before stepping out into the hallway. He glanced in the direction of the living room, realizing all of the lights were off and that Aspen was probably back in the bedroom.

He walked in, shutting the door behind him just as Aspen emerged from the bathroom. Her makeup was already off, changed into her pajamas, which only consisted of sleep shorts and one of his shirts, and she offered a small smile as he took in the sight of her. “Hey,” she greeted softly. She nodded towards the door. “She’s down?”

Calum nodded, pushing himself off the door. “Out like a light,” he confirmed.

Aspen smiled, running her fingers through her hair. “Good, that’s good.” Licking her lips, her smile turned a bit shy, and she added, “I, uh, have something for you. One more gift.”

Calum blinked, fighting the urge to laugh because of how similar they were. He watched as she walked towards her bedside before his gaze shifted towards his own bedside, more specifically, under the bed where he’d hidden his last gift for Aspen. They’d exchanged presents in the morning, of course. Gifts they’d bought one another by knowing the other’s likes, gifts they’d both loved. He was gonna give her the last gift before bed, but looked like she had beat him to the punch.

Calum approached the bed as Aspen climbed onto it on her knees, him doing the same on his side, eyes going to the very familiar book he’d seen in her apartment. It was Luna’s baby book, and Calum’s eyebrows furrowed together as she held it out to him, slowly taking it from her but not before shooting her a confused look.

Aspen let out a breathless chuckle, rubbing her hands down her sides as she said, “Just look inside. I, uh, added some more pages.”

His eyebrows raised at that, settling back on his legs as he opened the book. He’d seen the familiar pages, all of Luna’s firsts and the pictures that went along with those moments, until he got to the pages that were definitely new. Calum could feel Aspen watching along in anticipation, in nervousness, except all he could focus on was the pages he was looking at and the tightness of his throat.

There were pictures added in there that Calum knew about, and some he didn’t know anyone—Aspen—had taken. Pictures with the labels of “First Spaghetti Sunday w/ Dad”, or “Dad’s First Gift”, or “First Birthday w/ Dad”. Aspen had added all of these pictures of Calum with Luna, or of the three of them together, of moments that had become some of his favorites. A warmth spread through Calum as he took in every picture, every word, heart picking up its pace. He could hear his own breathing, heavy with the emotion that suddenly washed over him, fingers brushing against the photographs of him with his two favorite girls. Aspen had made sure to make him as much a part of the baby book as he was in their lives, and while Calum was not much of a crier, she did a good job in springing the tears in his eyes with this thoughtful gift.

“Aspen,” he breathed out, voice thick and throaty with appreciation and adoration. “This—” Calum let out a short, disbelieving chuckle as he looked at her. He saw the hopeful expression on her face, eyes wide and small smile, and Calum shook his head. “Thank you so much, sweetheart. I don’t—I love this.” He put the book down on the mattress before reaching for her, pulling her into a hug and keeping her close as he said, “I love you.”

He heard her let out a relieved laugh, returning his hug, and Calum shut his eyes as she squeezed him, the smile on his face hurting his cheeks as she returned, “I love you, too. We’re in this together, right? You and me.”

He pressed a kiss to the skin of her shoulder where his shirt fell off. “You and me.” Calum sniffed as they pulled away, and Aspen let out a soft, adoring laugh at the flush in his cheeks, cupping his face as she shot him a grin. “I’ve got somethin’ for you, too,” he told her, prompting Aspen to blink in surprise.

He shifted backwards, one foot touching the ground so he could bend down and pull out the gift bag from under the bed. Aspen raised her eyebrows as he handed it to her. She took it with an anticipating smile of her own, and right as she reached into it, Calum said with a nervous chuckle, “It’s really cheesy, okay? So don’t laugh.”

Aspen rolled her eyes at him, dismissing his thought. “I’m not gonna laugh,” she said, hand reaching past the decorative red tissue paper to grab onto the gift.

Calum pressed his lips together, watching as Aspen pulled out the medium sized decorative jar with a gold lid on top. He watched as Aspen observed it, took in the custom made label on it that read a simple and cheesy message of My Love For You. He felt the heat spread across his cheeks at that, mentally chastising himself for writing something so utterly cliche on the label. Then again, the entire idea of the gift was utterly sentimental and cheesy.

“It’s, uh,” he began explaining, chuckling shortly. “There’s a message on every slip of paper inside for you. Like, uh, reasons why I love you and stuff. There’s, um, one thousand six hundred and forty three little slips in there. . .  One for each day we, uh, weren’t in each other’s lives.”

He watched the way her lips parted at his words, eyes widening as she returned her gaze to the jar she held in her hands. He wasn’t sure why he felt so shy about giving her the gift, the vulnerability not something he was entirely fond of, though when it came to Aspen, Calum was quick to realize facing these types of things was a lot better than running away from them. His throat worked, waiting for her to say something, heart jumping when her glassy green eyes met his dark brown ones.

“Calum, it’s—this is so sweet,” she breathed out, her voice thick with awe as she let out a gentle laugh. Her voice took a teasing tilt, wanting to lighten the emotional mood as she playfully asked, “You have over a thousand reasons why you love me?”

Calum cracked a small smirk, quirking an eyebrow despite his racing heart. “It’s funny that you think I can run out of reasons.”

Her expression softened, a soft chuckle escaping at his words as she gave a shake of her head. Before she let the tears escape, Aspen put the jar down before one had found his cheek, pulling him in for a kiss. Calum returned it eagerly, softly, arms winding around her waist as he kissed her, settling back on his legs once more before using his hands on her thighs to lock her legs around his hips. She tasted like mint toothpaste and he reveled in the familiar softness of her lips, in the touch of her hands on his face as they kept each other close.

“Merry Christmas, love,” he found himself whispering against her lips, wanting nothing more than to melt into her.

Aspen sighed against him, utterly content. “Merry Christmas, Cal.”

--

tags: @irwinkitten​ @sweetcherrymike​ @meetashthere​ @valentinelrh​ @softforcal​ @astroashtonio​ @hereforlukescruff​ @novacanecalum​ @captain-what-is-going-on​ @angelbbycal​ @singt0mecalum​ @hopelessxcynic​ @lfwallscouldtalk​ @bodhi-black​ @findingliam-o​ @softlrh​ @calntynes​ @calumsmermaid​ @erikamarie41​ @quintodosuniversos​ @longlastingdaydream​ @babylon-corgis​ @lukehemmingsunflower​ @imfuckin10plybud​ @pastelpapermoons​ @conquerwhatliesahead92​ @rotten-kandy​ @metangi​ @neigcthood​ @ohhmuke​ @old-zeppelin-shirt​ @5sos-and-hessa​ @trustmeimawhalebiologist​ @vxlentinecal​ @pettybassists​ @vaporshawn​ @lu-my-golden-boi​ @visualm3nte​ @isabella-mae13​ @dontjinx-it​ @lifeakaharry​ @neonweeknds​ @antisocialbandmate​ @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave​ @calpalbby​ @grreatgooglymoogly​ @sunnysidesblog​ @gorgeouslygrace​ @cocktail-calum​ @miahelizaaabeth​ @madelynerin​ @dramallamawithsparkles​ @theagenderwhocriedwolf​ @kaytiebug14​ @hoodskillerqueen​ @bitchinbabylon​ @empathycth​ @xhaileyreneex​ @inlovehoodx​ @aestheticrelated​ @bloodlinecal​ @sublimehood​ @madbomb​ @raabiac​ @britnicole11​ @outofmylimitcal​ @fluffsshawn​ @bloodmoonashton​ @vxidhood​ @tea4sykes @lukeinblue​ @mysteriouslycali​ @hoodcentral​ @rosecoloredash​ @hearts-to-the-sky​ 

[aphrodites-law]

The Clarke Show

(A take on The Truman Show)

Nia Reign is as imposing as Lexa imagined. Her suit is a dark green with silver cuffs, nothing that Lexa could ever hope to afford. 

"Why Clarke?"

She isn’t the only live show, but she's certainly the most popular in the nation. Arkadia's darling. Arkadia's golden child. Lexa has never had the time or luxury for escapism, but everyone knows that even the nation's prince, Lincoln, trails Clarke in views by millions.

"Because Clarke is getting restless. It's a phase I'm sure you're familiar with––the yearning for the world you've never been a part of. She wants spontaneity. Adventure. We've scripted something that’ll show her the grass isn’t always greener. It'll make for a thrilling story arc."

Lexa looks at the hundreds of screens, each one a frame of the town built for Clarke and the twelve other Selected. The grocery store she shops at; the movie theater she goes to; the streets she walks on; the beach; the offices; the coffee shops; the parks; the neighborhood––every single place ready to spring to life should the Selected decide to take the trams there. It's an exceptionally well-oiled machine.

"What role would I play?"

"You'll be the dark horse. The wild card Clarke never thought she'd hold. You'll take her places she's never been­––new sets we've built. You'll win over her heart and then you'll break it, right in time for us to introduce Finn."

"Finn?" Lexa asks, still gazing at a screen where a bird briefly flits in front of the camera. She wonders if its species is native to the area or if it's even real at all.

"Clarke's future husband if all goes according to plan. Finn is a perfect match for her in every way. Your opposite."

Lexa turns to the control room below the glass panels. There are hundreds of employees in headsets pressing hundreds of buttons, rushing from right to left, biting into sandwiches and yawning while they craft the details of Arkapolis. There are workers in shirts designing objects on large screens; workers in lab coats testing liquids in vials; workers with grease smears tweaking the settings of androids. There is so much energy and talent being poured into a fake world. Lexa wonders why these people couldn't better their real world instead. Lexa’s neighborhood in Arkadia is crumbling apart, the infrastructure rusting and rotting, and yet here she is watching engineers design sets with swimming pools and amusement parks.

"No offense meant," Nia says behind her.

Lexa shakes her head. "I'm no princess."

"But you can be charming.”

Lexa turns to her. "I'm not a good actress."

Nia sits in her leather chair, utterly in control of the room and the conversation.  "I've seen the women you seduce. They don't hold a candle to our Clarke. Surely it won’t be difficult for you to muster some passion."

What Nia means is that prostituting herself for entertainment should come easily. Lexa knows that's exactly why she was picked for the role.

"Clarke made a whole nation fall in love with her the moment she opened those blue eyes onscreen for the first time," Nia reminds her. "Right now there are millions of souls watching her and yearning to spend time with her. Time you'll be afforded. You don't need to be a good actress, Ms. Woods, you need to be exactly who you are: a lowlife drifter who seduces lonely women to get something out of them. In this instance, more money than you've seen in your entire life."

Anger boils inside Lexa, but the words aren't all lies. "You think you know everything about me based on police records?"

Nia chuckles at Lexa's naïveté. "I don't care to know everything about you. I know what's necessary. You need the money and you’ll do anything for it. Am I wrong?”

Lexa thinks of her sister Anya and the medical bills sticking out of drawers; the leaks in her apartment; the skittering of roaches on their floor. She thinks of her nephew and niece––Aden's gaunt face and Marla playing with dolls made out of cans and wires. She thinks of the floor she sleeps on in the corner of Anya’s room, cold and damp.

"When do I start?"

Nia smiles victoriously. "You’ll go through scrubbing and fitting first. An implant will be placed in your ear canal; it’ll be used sparsely but I will be communicating with you when needed. It’ll also track your location. Training will take three weeks––you’ll need to know Arkapolis like the back of your hand, not to mention your new profession. You’ll spend time with your new best friends, Raven and Costia, for familiarity purposes. We’ll have Clarke meet Lexa in a month’s time.”

Lexa’s eyes flash at her own name being used so strangely, as if she isn’t the one being referred to. As if she will exist separately from the character they have made up for Clarke, the Lexa who’ll take pleasure in seducing and using and discarding the nation’s sweetheart. She wonders how hated she will be coming out of it. 

"I want the money, a weekly stipend, sent to my sister," Lexa tells Nia, looking at her with a set jaw. "You control so much of the media––I want a guarantee my family will be kept out of it. No one bothers them. No one even mentions them.”

"We can do that." Nia looks up and smiles, the once cruel curve of her lips turning tender. "Look."

Lexa glances back at the screens, watching as Clarke walks out of her small house with her dog. She waves at her neighbor and grins. Her life is so simple that Lexa feels some anger toward her. Why couldn't Anya have been one of the Selected? Why did Aden and Marla know more about suffering than Clarke did? All she will know of pain is an orchestrated heartbreak before true love swoops in.

Lexa doesn't pity her. If it keeps her family safe and fed, she'll lift Clarke Griffin to unimaginable heights before dropping her. She'll be the villain her story needs; take her heart and crush it with a smile.

"Do you stream everything live?" She asks Nia.

Nia seems bored now, the formality of convincing Lexa over and done with. "Clarke's channel is family friendly, with a slight delay in the feed. We expect you to alert us at the beginning and the end of explicit footage. The public knows Clarke is only broadcast live for eighteen hours a day. It'll make our lives easier if you'd ensure physical intimacy happened within the closed window, but if not the delay gives us time to cut to our planned programming. Obviously you won’t start conversations that further the storyline within those six hours either. There is nothing more frustrating to the public than missing out on milestones.”

Lexa rolls her eyes as she watches the ants hard at work in the control room. "How romantic," she drawls. "Bet those guys enjoy the show when it goes offline."

Nia hardly contains her disdain at Lexa's crassness. "We have a number of protocols in place for private scenes."

Lexa vaguely recalls that bathrooms have no cameras, but ‘private’ has an entirely different meaning for the Selected. Surely it was private when Clarke’s father passed away onscreen, followed by a close up of Clarke’s sobs. Surely it was private when she kissed a girl for the first time and embarrassed herself with a sneeze, not knowing the entire nation was laughing at her clumsiness. 

But if it bothers Lexa that Nia talks about someone's reality as footage and scenes, she reasons she should get used to it fast. Soon she'll be a part of the show too, and her life will be nothing more than snapshots stitched together for the purpose of entertainment. Nia suddenly stands by her, surveying the control room like a Queen would survey her land from her castle's highest tower.  

"Believe me, the novelty of working behind-the-scenes wears off quickly. These people aren’t different from you. All they want is to get the job done so that they may go home to their families. Surely you understand that."

Lexa looks at Clarke again, her body in a medium shot as she walks her pet with no worry in the world. In a month things will change for her. For both of them. Lexa takes a deep breath and nods, knowing exactly what she would sacrifice for her family’s sake.

[docholligay]

What hobbies or activities would your OW crew each try and pick up during corona quarantine?

Tracer

Lena is going to try and learn a second language. She took French in school, didn’t she? And didn’t she graduate school? Right! So this should be an absolute walk in the park. French it is. Her first choice was Arabic, as it was, in fact, the prospect of Amari drama that made her embrace the wisdom of being a polyglot in the first place, but Mercy’s gentle suggestion that she start with something a bit closer to home base made her try for French. Arabic could be her third language. 

And it isn’t that Tracer is stupid, so much as she has the full confidence that she can try hard and find success. This has been true so many times in her life, that she was simply the one most dedicated to the outcome, and so she managed to wrench it from the hands of fate. She is quick, and clever, and capable! What’s FRENCH got that she can’t handle. 

Lena, five minutes in: Oh, right, I hated school. 

She tries, god love her, but it just doesn’t hold her attention. She’s trying so hard to write verb forms and study and study, but she doesn’t honestly care much to KNOW French. It reminds her of Amelie, for starters, and that always gives her a little bit of a pit in her stomach, and without Amelie, there seems very little reason to know it. Only one in the house who speaks it is Mercy, really. 

So she takes account of the languages her team knows. 

Hana...Korean, of course, and at least some Japanese, mostly for promotional reasons. Lena takes one look at the Japanese rules of politeness and deference and gently sets the language to the side. She thinks about Korean--Korea’s been so much help since the omnic crisis, and it’s a good thing to converse with your allies--but the daunting aspect of having to ask Hana, who seems not even to know herself whether she likes everyone in the house or not, overcomes her. 

Fareeha, well, that’d be Arabic, and that’s it, so far as Lena knows, and Ang’s already warned her off of that one. Fareeha’s feeling a it pricky about the whole Arabic situation since her mother’s come back, anyhow, and all her workout music has turned to English, and Lena’s not certain why she seems to be blaming the entire Arab world for Ana, but then again, Lena doesn’t understand Fareeha in the best of times. 

Winston, he’d of course help her, but a lot of his knowledge is tied up in Latin and Scholarly Greek, and she’s not sure why anyone would take all the effort when you couldn’t even properly go on holiday. He does know a fair amount of German, she figures, but if she’s going to do that, she may as well go to Ang, and besides all that, Winston dos so much for her. No need to throw in another thing. 

Ana: No. 

Jack: No, but a bit softer. 

Angela seems the natural choice, as she knows so many languages, comparatively. Her father was a linguist of sorts, to hear Ang talk around the edge of it, and so German, French, Italian, Latin, Hebrew, at the least, all come to her quickly and easily. It’s English she likes the least, and she’s better at it than she gives herself credit for, near perfect but for a few stange tenses. It really only Ang who notices. But Angela is, well, Ang, and with all the troubles of the world, she’s lost her mind, a bit. 

So there’s no real help to be had, and Lena buys a few Muzzy tapes in French and learns how to say “I am a young girl” and “I like apples” before deciding that her quarantine time is better spent ensuring that she can actually climb the drain to the roof, jump from the roof into the pool, and other extremely valuable information. No one was hiring her for the language department anyhow. 

Winston

WInston is more used to solitude than the rest of them, and as far as he’s concerned, it’s not really loneliness if Tracer is with him. THough he feels bad for her, and how stir crazy she’s getting. It makes him sad to see her so bored and glum, though she is trying to make cheer of it. 

And so Winston has a genius idea. Tracer LOVES gymnastics, and Winston loves a project. So the idea for the super bounce trampoline is born. 

You cannot tell Winston this is a bad idea. You cannot tell Winston this is a bad idea, because, on some level, he already knows. He knows, but he sees Tracer doing her little cartwheels in the yard, running laps, trying to create little games for herself where she creates time trials around the house, trying to improve on each activity lap. At the time where she breaks three plates trying to see if she can beat her time for table service, it even starts to sound like a GOOD idea. 

He’s fine making little picnic lunches together and watching TV and having her ‘help’ in the lab, but she is becoming despondent with the boredom of it all. It has been ten days. 

And so, he looks at the metals he’s engineered for use in his prosthetic limbs. Couldn’t they also be used to create a spring that would double your strength and energy return of a normal spring? Than Lena could do all kinds of maneuvers on the trampoline, and besides, it’s always important to know the limits of engineering. 

Angela tries to remind him hospitals  are full. 

Dva

The first day of quarantine, Hana Song pops a soda in her pj shorts and says, “It’s a pandemic! Why do we have to improve ourselves? God, isn’t it enough to be alive?” She takes a deep sip. “I’ll do some charity streams, okay?” 

As she’s walking away Tracer asks her if she’ll help paint the upstairs den. Tracer is making little physical projects for herself in varying levels of horror, sometimes while watching the Muzzy tapes to convince herself she hasn’t given up on the bilingual dream. Painting seems tame. Hana stops for a moment, then agrees. 

She is the only reasonable person in this house. 

Mercy

Angela is in a panic. The entire world seems to be crumbling at her feet, and though she is no epidemiologist, she knows that none of this is good. She wants to go. Pharah begs her to stay. She is afraid for Angela. To put her in some ICU where she could get the illness, where it could be, as such, that Fareeha would not be able to come to her. She understands Angela’s need to help, but also, she says, what if something happened to you? You are the only doctor with any real knowledge of Tracer. What would be come of her. 

Angela only looks at her for a moment before her face darkens, and Fareeha shakes her head, ashamed. “I was using Tracer to excuse my own fears. I am selfish. You should go.” 

And in that moment, Angela does not leave not because she is the only physician who can properly work with Tracer’s condition, but for the great love of Fareeha Amari, who for the first time since Angela has known her, is truly afraid. 

The days pass with difficulty. She is writing guidelines and ideas to anyone she can, coordinating donations and writing out thank yous and pleas, sitting in the bay window of their bedroom as the sleeting snow and rain fall against the window one bleak afternoon. The sun and storm come in patches, she’s noticed, but the grey seems to speak to her most all. 

Fareeha comes to her one day. She has a mug filled with hot chocolate and whipped cream and brandy and love. She gently places her hand on Angela’s knee. 

“I hear you crying in the night,” she says, though she cannot look to Angela’s face, “You should go. You must go.” 

She loves Fareeha so very much. 

She goes. 

Pharah

Which immediately drives the sort of disconnected and floating morass of ennui that is the Overwatch household into Von Trapp style whistle blowing order. 

Pharah’s project, you see, is everyone else. 

Fareeha is a lovely person in most respects, all of them would say in one way or another, but she has certain control issues, and these never become more pronounced than when her life seems, well, out of control. 

No more laying about. There is a kitchen to be reorganized, there are drills to be done, when was the last time you lifted? There is a color coded schedule posted in the kitchen and we should all take note of the way Fareeha has scheduled our time. Tracer balks, of course, that she’s the leader as well, and Fareeha has a terrible habit of assuming that it’s her who’s the leader entire and complete, and you know what else--

Winston pulls them apart. Neither of them, he tries to say, are actually angry with each other. He shakes when he says it. 

And so Pharah tries. God love her, she tries SO HARD. She improves herself, and tries to let others be. She reorganizes the entire kitchen. She labels every bulk container, She scrubs every floor in the house to a gleaming shine. Her clothes, and Angela’s all washed and organized by sshade and season. 

One night Lena comes downstairs and sees her looking out the window, drinking a Labatt, rubbing at her wedding ring. Lena wouldn’t embarrass her by asking, but her eyes seem to beglistening, jsut a bit. 

The next morning, all three of the rest of the OVerwatch team are lined up, at the bottom of the stairs, at 6 am sharp. 

It’s true that Fareeha takes herself on three hour runs across the prairie in all weathers to give everyone some down time where they don’t have to be doing anything, but they broker a sort of peace wherein they spend a certain amount of time doing Fareeha Amari’s Twelve Point Improvement Plan every day, and time doing their own thing, and Fareeha seems genuinely cheered to be plotting out their workout and meal plans, their online seminars to listen to. She and Lena even watch a few Muzzy tapes together. 

She even forgives Tracer when the first test of Winston’s trampoline finds Lena sailing through Pharah’s (Thankfully open) bedroom window. 

Ana and Jack:

 They spend all of quarantine watching 90 Day Fiancee and eating TV dinners.

[universe-n-3276]

Moments

t/w: depressive thoughts. 

#3: Low

Sometimes when Charlotte entered a low, she felt like nothing had a purpose, time,  or space anymore. She was floating in a bubble, stuck somewhere between reality, and a sort of limbo state. It was even worse when, a depressive episode lasted much longer than a week: sometimes it had lasted almost a month, or even a little more. She felt like, she was living underwater, where breathing was impossible, but she unconsciously forgot the way things normally were. Getting out of that state was always like, a very needed, cold shower, in the morning, when you just can't wake up.

Sometimes, she didn't have the strength to get out of bed, to face the light of day, or the sight of other people. Sometimes, even answering the simplest questions, became as tiring as carrying a heavy boulder on her shoulders. Sometimes, getting out of bed, and opening the window wasn’t so hard, but her thoughts became more intense, nearly impossible to treat simply as thoughts because they were like sharp facts, whose mere presence hurt her, in a way she couldn’t even describe. Sometimes, seeing people gravitate around her was unbearable, sometimes, their presence ached, as much as their absence. Sometimes, she just wanted to cry for the rest of her life, and never cry a tear again.

While she was lying on her bed, with her feet up against the wall, after changing her position for the hundredth time, she could barely remember what her life used to be before. A life in which every action didn’t seem useless and meaningless, where every song didn't sound sad, and every movie wasn't too fake to be worth watching. Charlotte listened to the sound of the wind, coming in from the half-open window, and imagined herself floating in the air, without weight, without thoughts, without concerns.

Yet, that was exactly the whole point. She suffered because her existence seemed empty and meaningless, but at the same time, all the things she wanted to fill her life with, seemed too far from her grip, too busy, too careless. In moments like that, it seemed like everyone had turned their back on her. Everyone was keeping on living, but she was always there, stuck in that stupid bed. She was pinned under the weight of nothing and everything, at the same time.

Life was slipping through her fingers, and she hadn’t even the strength to clench her fist to grab it, to claim it.

Sometimes, during very long low phases, she wondered if she would come out of it eventually, or if she simply had to surrender to the fact, that her life would always look like that. She wondered, if she would have had the strength to survive, or if it would have been worth it after all.

Sometimes, she imagined herself out of that bed, out of that room, out of that house. Dressed well, nail polish on, freshly washed hair that smelled like vanilla, bold red lips, tanned skin. Under the starry sky, while dancing and laughing in a carefree way, clasped in the arms of someone who was her whole life. And she felt herself being filled by that sensation, that daydream was so inebriating, as much as its absence, was consuming her limbs from within. That night under that stars was the beginning of everything, for the Charlotte who lived inside her own delusional mind. That Charlotte was looking at the shooting stars, but she didn’t need to wish for anything, while the real Charlotte was crying silent tears, for the umpteenth time, during that day in July, looking at one specific dark little stain on the ceiling.

Sander sighed, looking up from his sketchbook. He watched his sister's cheeks getting wet for the hundredth time. The boy thought that Charlotte would run out of tears, sooner or later, but instead, they kept rolling down without warning. That empty and exhausted look stuck on her face.

Sander was not allowed to say or do anything. He knew he could consider himself lucky to have been allowed to that room, but he wondered if Charlotte was still registering his presence. She hadn't looked at him once or spoke a single word in hours now. She was there, wrapped in her oversized red sweatshirt, absently looking around, one spot at the time. Sometimes, she closed her eyes. Sometimes, she sighed heavily as in an attempt to push away the weight, she was feeling inside. Sander would have given anything to get into her mind, to understand, to know how to relieve even the slightest bit of her pain. But he knew, that, unfortunately, the only thing he could do was wait. And, at least, he could stay there, watching over her. It somehow reassured him.

Robbe wasn’t allowed to Charlotte's bedroom, as well as Jens, and even Lucas. But everyone was there, in the same apartment. They showed up when, Charlotte had stopped answering her phone, or leaving her house. At that point, they all knew what was going on. They had all paused their lives to wait for her. Every morning, they woke up hoping to see the girl come out of her bedroom, with her usual contagious smile, and chaotic energy. Every day the door remained closed.

*

Lucas couldn't deal with the whole situation. It had happened many times before, but even after years, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t hug her, talk to her, or be in the same room with her. The first few days, he had grumpily sat in front of Charlotte's door, after Sander had managed to get in. Then, Jens had convinced him to sit on the couch, where he could still keep an eye on that door. It was hard for him to focus on another matter, to concentrate on the university, or Jens. Not to be pissed with the rest of the world was always challenging. He knew that being close to him in those moments was complicated. He behaved like a caged lion, and his pride was very much wounded. Rationally, he knew, he couldn't be mad at Charlotte, because she wasn't purposely pushing him away. Though, he couldn't help but feel himself a little hurt, every time he saw that Sander was, instead, allowed to be physically close to her, even in those moments. It seemed like the foundation of their relationship crumble a little, and Lucas hated himself for thinking such a thing, because, unlike Charlotte, he had total control of his rational thoughts, and he was able to discern his best friend, from her illness. Sometimes, it was simply difficult. Sometimes, he just wanted to be completely irrational and scream at her, be mad with Charlotte, but he couldn't. He had to stay silent, swallow the knot in his throat, and wait for Charlotte to come back.

*

Jens hadn’t classes to attend that day, so he decided to stay at Charlotte’s, to organize his notes, and study a bit. That house was quieter than a library when Charlotte was sick. Nobody spoke out loud, and if someone dared to do it, Lucas was always ready to glare at them, like a maybe too diligent old librarian. He knew that, his boyfriend wasn’t facing the situation in the best way, and during the day, he always had the tendency to isolate himself, and push everything and everyone away, but during the night, he changed completely, as if he needed to recharge. He craved Jens’s presence, becoming particularly needy and quiet. There is no need to mention, that his boyfriend was happy to satisfy every single one of Lucas’ whims. As Jens tried to understand his handwriting, something that, sometimes, was more challenging than he’d ever admitted, he heard a door being opened, and Charlotte’s lean figure emerging from her room, like a fawn, that wanders in the woods thinking of being alone. When she met Jens’ eyes, the girl raised her hand to greet him, and went to the kitchen without adding anything else.

Jens heard her open the cupboard, and the sound of pouring water, then she reappeared with a glass in her hands. Charlotte slowly approached him, and sat down on the floor next to the boy, placing her glass on the coffee table, where notes and books were scattered all over the place.

"You didn't have to babysit me, you guys have been here for days, and it wasn't necessary."

Jens wanted to hug her, but he didn't know, if Charlotte would be comfortable with that gesture, so he just covered her hand with his own and squeezed it, giving her a warm smile.

“Actually, I am very happy to be here. Your home is five minutes away from my university, and in the morning, I can sleep in for half an hour."

The boy shrugged, and slowly withdrew his hand, proud of the fact that Charlotte hadn’t retracted hers first. He was slowly learning. At first, Jens couldn’t help but stay silent, watching, as the others dealt with everything, but now, even if he was still a bit insecure, he knew what to do.

"Thank you."

And with that whisper, Charlotte got to her feet, took her glass, and went back to her room.

*

Robbe was making dinner, or at least he was trying. Ever since he and Sander had been living together, he had tried hard to keep up with Sander's cooking skills, thus, he had learned a lot since the very beginning. At that moment, he was making soup. It was the dish, that had always made him feel better. It tasted like cuddles and love, and, in that house, everyone needed it. He had never prepared one all by himself, but Robbe was confident, that by following the recipe meticulously, everything would go perfectly smooth. He was slicing potatoes, trying not to cut his fingers, while softly humming the music playing in his headphones, not to disturb the religious silence, that had reigned for days in the apartment. Suddenly, he felt two arms wrapped him into a hug. It wasn't Sander, and he knew it. He put down the knife and took off his headphones, turning to hold Charlotte, as tight as he could. Her first gesture of affection, in days, had been addressed to him, and Robbe couldn’t be happier. He kissed her forehead, seeing a small smile on her lips afterward, then, as she arrived, Charlotte moved away, and slipped back into her room, closing the door. From that moment, Robbe kept cooking with the most joyful heart. Charlotte was almost ready to come back.

Then, on an ordinary Wednesday morning, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee spread throughout the house, accompanied by the unmistakable notes of Bowie's Rebel Rebel. Charlotte was back.

[youarejesting]

BTS365 Prompts

[Masterlist] Please tag me in your work if you use my prompts. I want to see your work. Ever your Jester.

Tell me your birthday and I will tag you on your special day!

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          April 16th - 22nd

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Kim Seokjin: Simile 

Dressed in his best suit Seokjin entered the classroom. It was a parent-teacher interview and he was seeing you, Jungkook’s English teacher. He heard from Jungkook that you were weird-looking, all lumpy sweaters, long skirts, messy buns and big bottle-shaped glasses. Squeezing his tall frame into the desk he looked to the front of the class where you told all the children about what and how you teach their children. He thought Jungkook must have been so totally wrong to think you looked like that. You were stunning. Seokjin was almost glad for your baggy sweaters and long skirts, every now and then he saw the ghost of your figure hiding underneath. After that, you went around and discussed quietly with all the parents how each student was individually in class.

You got to him last after some major side-eyeing, I mean he was seriously handsome and you were dreading getting any closer. But everyone else had gone. “Mister Kim was it?” You asked and he held out the name tag each parent wore. “Your son is brilliant and very good at most things but he is a little bit of a prankster. And I don’t think he is applying himself seriously. I mean I asked them to write about their weekend and to include a simile and a metaphor and he only wrote one sentence. This weekend I saw a girl named Simile, but I don’t know what I metaphor (met her for*)” Seokjin started laughing. The sound was so high pitched and you felt yourself blushing.

Jin was proud.

Min Yoongi: Lookalike @anoesjkaax

Walking through the music store he saw you, dressed super cute at one of two registers. He liked that your short dark hair was in a half-up style and atop your cute little nose were a pair of black circular sunglasses. You looked cute sitting next to another young girl who was talking animatedly about her weekend. He was strolling through the aisles and was a little weirded out for a music store. It was so quiet.

“Hey, can I help you?” You asked he shook his head 

“No, I am just looking?” Your coworker was quick to jump right back into her storytelling. He came back every day for a week trying to find something that piqued his interest. He learnt that every day you weren’t there the music was unbearably loud. But when it was silent you were sitting at the counter. Talking animatedly with your coworkers and customers. He had spoken a few words to you every time he came in asking where he could find certain genres and you would smile and gesture to certain parts of the store. He finally found something he thought he might like.

“Hi, just this one?” He smiled nervously hoping he didn’t seem weird for being in there all the time. He had made sure to style his hair and was wearing his nicest pair of jeans and hoodie. 

“Hey have I seen you somewhere before, or do you have a lookalike” You smiled up at him causing his cheeks to grow pink if you noticed you didn’t point it out. Your coworker laughed saying that it was a terrible pickup line. He seemed to freak out some more when your coworker left you two alone going to fetch the cd. Paying with a card as you were at an EFTPOS only register. “Tell me what is that cologne you are wearing?”

“Uh can’t remember the name I got it as a gift” 

“It smells like patchouli and really woodsy while still being fresh” an old man sighed

“I just want to buy this cd why aren’t you serving me? There are two registers, maybe if you weren’t sunglasses inside you would know I was waiting”

“My apologies sir, I only work the EFTPOS register as I can’t count money quick and accurately enough without a few minutes. And I promise you even if I weren’t wearing these sunglasses I still wouldn’t be able to see you as I am blind” pulling off your glasses to reveal your cloudy eyes. Yoongi laughed in relief this whole time he tried to look cool but you didn’t even care. 

Jung Hoseok: Fun

“Come on, it will be fun”

“Hobi I don’t want to go on a group date it’s not my scene” he was trying to convince you to come out tonight to meet some guys because you apparently needed to get out more. But after arguing on the phone you gave in. Getting dressed, styling your hair and getting out of your casual clothes and searching in the back of your wardrobe finding a beautiful red dress and black heels. You put on makeup, something you only did for weddings. Arriving at the restaurant everyone was ordering chicken and beer. 

Hoseok was late; he probably wanted to force you to talk with some of the guys before he got there, knowing you would only talk to him if he showed up early. Getting to know the guys you were drinking pretty well. They began a drinking game and you lost, they handed you a tall glass of beer but as you went to grab it a hand snatched it away you looked up to see Hoseok standing above you drinking the whole cup. He placed the glass down, grabbed you by the wrist and led you away.

“Hey what’s going on, why are we leaving you said I had to get out more” You whined getting annoyed from being dragged around you ripped your arm from his grip and stopped “I don’t understand”

“I didn’t mean like this, do you know how freaking amazing you look right now” He turned to face you he was towering over you even though you were in heels.

“What is your problem this was your suggestion”

“My problem is this” He kissed you full on the mouth pressing you against the wall, his hands in your hair.

Kim Namjoon: Good

With a hand over your heart, you took a few steps into the warehouse. His nickname was the monster and from the stories you had heard, it was a fitting title. He had a nasty habit of killing people, but that was literally his job so what did you expect? You were hiring a hitman, you had the money in a bag and you had no remorse. Walking into the warehouse you were led to an office upstairs by some of his henchmen, they patted you down looking for weapons and opened your bag to see the money before sending you up.

Namjoon leaned forward in his seat, he knew he was meeting with a woman who was asking him to do a job but he didn’t expect someone so… Colourful. You had a sky blue dress and you looked absolutely stunning. Like the daughter of some rich suburban father. You didn’t look like you had seen any struggles. 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I would like you to kill someone for me” You gestured to the bag his henchmen took it and began counting out stacks. Before nodding to him to say it appeared all there.

“Tell me why would a nice young lady like you, come to a guy like me?”

“Look I just want the job done?” You hissed, “Can you do it?”

“Of course there ain’t no one better?” He smiled “Who is the unlucky fellow?”

You handed him an image and he sat up straighter confused. “Do you have a twin?”

“No.” You said “I am paying you to kill me, it’s your job to get it over with. I paid”

He pulled out a firearm from the top draw of his desk and cocked it aiming directly at you, he walked over to you watching you watch him. You were tense, eyes glassy, lip trembling. He frowned you looked so helpless and he hated seeing you scared. Pressing the gun under your chin, pushing your head up and kissing you slowly. “Sweetheart why would I kill someone who tastes so good”

Park Jimin: Chance 

What are the odds that two babies were born in two adjacent rooms in a hospital? Those two children went to the same daycare. That they were friends in primary school and enemies in High school. That their desks were right beside one another. That they both applied for the same university. She wanted to study music and he wanted to study dance. That they both got approved to live in the same apartment. What is the possibility that during their time in university they never once addressed their growing love and desire for one another? The day they went their separate ways felt like the whole world was crumbling down around them. With their careers taking off they never thought they would meet again. 

You were the music producer for an upcoming performance. It was going to be huge. And after a year of making show-stopping numbers, you were coming to see how it was going. Working beside the conductor explaining how each piece should feel. “This one should be like your running out of time; it's about not wanting to lose the one you love and being desperate to hold on. So the violins will run fast, getting faster and faster until they falter it falls silent and then it picks up on the cello, deep and rising bringing all the instruments back.”

“Hey, that was perfect, do you think you can do it again but this time with the ribbon in your hand. You are supposed to be clinging on to love here and that’s the symbol”

You watched the dancer and smiled, they weren’t facing the audience so you couldn’t tell much about them but they moved so elegantly and familiarly. Leaning back you headed over to the choreographer Hoseok who smiled.

“Everyone meet the music producer for the show, we have to make her proud because it is such a beautiful score.” Your eyes met and you couldn’t help his name slipping past your lips and he couldn’t stop his feet from striding forwards until you were in his arms. You went in for a hug but were surprised by his lips on yours. He held your face sweetly in his hands and moaned ever so softly into your mouth. “Jimin what are you doing, I am sorry about him he is a little flirtatious, he is sorry” 

Hoseok had tried to pull Jimin away and you grinned at Jimin’s love-struck face, rushing forward to pull him into a kiss of your own. What are the chances the two of you fell madly in love? That you got married. That you had children and grandchildren and lived happy long lives. 

Kim Taehyung: Pyjamas

Your roommate was holding a house party, you weren’t particularly fussed with the festivities preferring to lock yourself in your room. There had been multiple attempts at your door by drunk couples but you called them through the door to leave. The problem was, you were getting hungry. Sliding out of your room making sure to lock the door behind you, you didn’t want to return to horny young adults going at it on your clean sheets. Walking through the party you dodged people until you arrived at the kitchen. 

Everything had been raided from the fridge. About to complain you saw a young man looking bored. He was super handsome, you ordered pizza-making specific requirements to deliver it to your bedroom window. Sending through an exact map of how to get to it from the driveway. The handsome man was cornered by a girl who brought him a drink, he looked super uncomfortable and after she had turned away he tipped it down the sink. He politely tried to refuse her and you laughed walking over. She eventually left him alone when her favourite song came on. 

“Hey you look miserable” you laughed “You look really comfortable for a party”

“Thanks, these are my pyjamas, I am not at this party, I am just the roommate, I have been hiding in my room, I came out to get something to eat but everything is gone so I ordered pizza,” You said still trying to search for any of your hidden snacks. “You look like you're pretty popular with the girls, is that why you come to parties?”

“No, My friends they drag me here” he sighed

“You want to eat pizza with me, it will be quieter and I got a small tv we could probably watch a movie until the party is over” He nodded following you and as you stepped into the room together he hummed.

“You wouldn’t have a spare set of pyjamas, someone spilt beer on my pants earlier and it smells really bad?”

Jeon Jungkook: Astronaut

“Jungkook, I got to take your daily observations, come on” he sighed, following you to the tiny infirmary he sat on the seat and you took his blood pressure, his heart rate, respiration rate, the oxygen levels temp and more. He removed his shirt and you paused staring at his chest raising the stethoscope. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Good”

“Is Everything going well with sleeping, eating, toileting and emotionally and mentally?”

“Yes, yes, yes, no and no”

“What’s up?” You listened to his breathing up and down his back and then his chest. 

“It’s lonely up here but I am just really frustrated and there is nowhere to vent you know?”

“You can vent to me,” you said and he choked and you heard his heart skip a beat. Noticing his bright red ears it clicked “oh you mean to vent, vent gotcha, okay well I mean do you need help?”

“Y/n!’

“I meant we could request a facetime call with like a stripper or something maybe in their next supplies they can send up a toy or something, why does it feel like I have walked in on you masturbating but I am like your mother”

“Oh god don’t say that, you're making it weird, now I really can’t vent”

“I’m sorry how can I help, I know it’s a little unorthodox but I did part of my internship at a sperm bank, I can help you if you need, it would be one hundred percent a medical procedure it would mean nothing and it would release some happy endorphins”

“What if I want it to mean something” you paused for a second before kissing him without a care.

[ladylynse]

@gabriel-agreste-has-no-rights​ my internet is working again this morning, so here’s your fic! As requested, I’ve expanded this three sentence fic. (Thanks again for your ko-fi donation!) Note that this is set after Miracle Queen.

Guidance [FF | AO3]: André wants the best for his daughter, wants to give her the world, but when he can't fix everything and make it right for her, the best he can do is try to nudge her along the right path.

-|-

“Your mom has to go away again,” André told his sniffing daughter as he sat down beside her on her bed, “but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you. We both love you, and I’ll always be here for you, I promise.”

Chloé turned her tear-stained face towards him, lower lip trembling, and sobbed, “I’m never going to be enough for her, am I?”

“Don’t say that, princess.” He reached an arm around her and was relieved when she leaned into him instead of shrugging away. “Your mother has never liked to be pinned down in one place. She wants to travel, to see all the fashions of the world and make them her own.”

“But I could go with her,” came Chloé’s small, broken voice. “We could…we could both go, couldn’t we? As a family. So we can be together. Like…like families are supposed to be.”

“We will still be a family even if we have to be apart.” He knew it was hard. Nom de Dieu, but it was hard on him, too. He never wanted Audrey to leave, not really. Certainly not for as long as she did when he knew she had to go, but she wouldn’t stay, and she refused to cut her trips short. Not even for Chloé’s sake.

However much he might try to be there for Chloé, she needed her mother. He wasn’t enough for her. He couldn’t give her what she needed most. What she wanted.

Money couldn’t buy her happiness when all she truly wanted was to be acknowledged and openly loved by her mother.

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“I know. It’s hard. Sometimes, we have to let people go because we love them. With your mother, it’s not forever. We can count the days together till she’ll be back.”

“She’ll delay. She always does.”

He couldn’t very well argue that point. The only time Audrey hadn’t put off a return trip was the last time Gabriel Agreste had extended her a personal invitation to his fashion show.

“And I know why she’s leaving this time, anyway.” There was a catch in Chloé’s voice that she couldn’t hide. “It’s…it’s because of me. Because of what I did. Because I messed up. She would have started planning her trip the moment she found out what happened.” That wasn’t entirely untrue—Audrey had changed her mind about staying more quickly than he’d anticipated—but the truth was, she was always planning her next trip. “It’s why she won’t take me with her, too. Everyone in the city hates me, especially Ladybug and Chat Noir, and she doesn’t…she doesn’t want me to ruin her reputation!”

“Shh, shh, that’s not true, you know that’s not true,” André said, but Chloé was sobbing again. He handed her another tissue—he’d carefully folded half a dozen or so into his pocket before coming in here, knowing where this conversation would lead—and she blew her nose before tossing the sodden tissue to the floor with the others. He’d have to get the cleaning staff in here once he could convince her to leave her room, but she hadn’t left in days.

She would have been mortified to learn what had happened, to hear of everything she’d done. He knew his little girl; she could have been coaxed into agreement easily if Hawk Moth had promised her a means to get what she wanted, and he must have done just that. It was her soft spot, the chink in her armour. She tried to build a wall between herself and everyone else, but it wasn’t enough to protect herself.

André himself didn’t know everything that had happened. Chloé refused to talk about the situation, and the few clips shown on the news or posted to the Ladyblog had been taken primarily from security camera footage. That hardly told the whole story, but it was enough convince Chloé that everyone was against her. She had a better idea of how everything had transpired than the rest of them did, of course; he was lucky to even know she’d had a conversation with Ladybug afterwards. There were certainly no reports of that anywhere, and Chloé hadn’t told him more than the fact that she was no longer one of Ladybug’s fans and that it wasn’t necessary to have the bee signal repaired.

However, he knew how easy it was to fall prey to one’s most vulnerable thoughts, to listen to the voice that whispered and promised. He didn’t need to remember what he’d done after agreeing to Hawk Moth’s terms; it was enough that he was left with the impression, that sour taste in his mouth, that he’d wanted it, whatever it was. He knew he’d agreed to something. He knew, given what had happened, that he was more than likely to agree again. He loved this city, but he also knew he could be turned against it.

He didn’t know if anyone could refuse Hawk Moth, but Chloé would hardly believe that. She was blaming herself. Of course she believed that Audrey’s decision to leave again was her fault. It didn’t matter that she knew Audrey’s reasons, that this news had only been a matter of time in coming, even if it had come sooner than they had anticipated. Audrey’s mind was highly changeable, but the truth of that wouldn’t matter to Chloé. She simply looked at herself, saw failure, and had that impression reinforced by her mother’s leaving.

“Her work takes her away,” André said, “just as mine keeps me here. It’s better for you to have a stable—”

“I don’t want a stable environment!” Chloé shrieked, pulling away from him. “I’m tired of hearing you say that this is better for me. Look at what I did! What I tried to do! How can you see that and say that this must be better for me?”

“You weren’t yourself—”

“That’s not the point!” She jumped to her feet, stalking furious circles at the foot of her bed while he watched. “I…. Daddy, I wanted this. Wanted all of it. A…a part of me still does. And I know I don’t deserve it. I failed you and Mom, I failed Ladybug, I failed everyone, and I…. I ruined everything. I wanted to be better, to show Ladybug that I could be a real hero, and I just kept messing up.” She stopped pacing, her expression crumbling again. “Ladybug was right. I don’t deserve to be a hero.”

“Chloé, sweetheart, I’m sure she didn’t mean it like that.” He wasn’t even sure if Ladybug had said that, but that didn’t matter. The point was that Chloé believed she’d said it. “Everyone has the potential to be a hero.”

“Not me. I’ve proven that much.”

“You do.” He patted the bed beside him again, and she hesitated before sitting back down. “You might just need to learn to coax that part of you out more often. You are a marvellous Queen Bee, and Ladybug knows that.”

“I’m not. I…I did things I shouldn’t have done. I endangered people. I…. That’s not what heroes do. Ladybug will never let me be Queen Bee again. She’ll never…. She’ll never even let me near her, let alone trust me with anything.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I…. It was different this time. I remember everything. And even if I didn’t, I’ve seen the footage on the Ladyblog. The entire city has. Maybe the entire world. Everyone that matters, anyway. Everyone hates me, and I deserve it!”

“Just take a moment to breathe,” André said, knowing that outright telling his daughter to calm down would have the opposite effect. He should have known that Chloé didn’t really mean it about Ladybug. Once her anger had drained away, all that remained was guilt and regret. Whatever Ladybug had said, whatever Chloé had done…. “Despite our best efforts, we all make mistakes, and we can all be tricked. You’re no different. I’m no different. Ladybug herself is no different. If you work hard at it, you’ll be able to earn Ladybug’s trust again.”

Chloé shook her head. “No, I won’t. I’ve messed up too many times. I’ve…. I don’t deserve her trust, anyway. Just like…just like I don’t deserve for Mom to be around.”

“Oh, my little princess, it’s not like that at all.” André hugged Chloé to him again, rubbing her arm in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “Your mother would love to have you—”

“She doesn’t even remember my name.”

“That’s not true.”

“She doesn’t. She calls me everything but Chloé. She always has to catch and correct herself.”

André let out a slow breath. He should have known Chloé would notice that. “You remind her too much of your namesake, I think. Your aunt was smart as a whip, too, with a razor-sharp tongue and a stubborn streak unmatched by the rest of the family.”

Chloé picked at the sliver of bedspread between them. “I don’t really remember Auntie Chlo.”

André pressed a kiss into her hair. “You’re just like her. I think it’s hard for your mom sometimes. She’s just trying to give you room to grow out of your aunt’s shadow—and her own. I know it’s hard, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but she does know your name, Chloé, and she does love you.” He had talked to Audrey about this so many times, as much as they had ever talked in recent years. She never heard him out, always ignoring him or talking over him or changing the subject. He was certain she saw Chloé as a painful reminder of her sister, though if she spent any amount of time getting to know her own daughter, she’d realize Chloé was her own person. “We just want the best for you, to grow up into whoever you were meant to be. That road is rough sometimes. It’s rough for everyone. You just need to keep going and trust that things will get better.”

“But they won’t.”

“Yes, they will. Just take it one day at a time. And if you don’t think that’s working, fight for it one day at a time. I’m not saying it’ll be easy to earn Ladybug’s trust again, but I think it can be done. We haven’t seen the last of Queen Bee. She’s a hero of Paris; she’ll be back. I’ll help you find her again, princess. I’ll help you fight for her.”

Chloé sniffed. “Do you think Ladybug has a favourite charity?”

“You won’t buy her trust with money.” That was, unfortunately, another thing he couldn’t give his daughter.

“I know. I just….” Chloé shrugged. “Wouldn’t it be a start?”

“You could volunteer with a few different organizations across the city,” he suggested slowly, even as Chloé stiffened beneath him, clearly unimpressed. “Serve a meal at a soup kitchen, perhaps. Actions speak louder than words. And certainly louder than money, though of course we can make some donations as well. I simply think doing something to help the people of Paris will mean more to Ladybug.”

“But then all those people who are beneath me would—” Chloé broke off and pushed away from him. “That’s ridiculous, Daddy! Utterly ridiculous! I’m a Bourgeois. I don’t lower myself to that.”

“It will be a hard task for Chloé Bourgeois,” he agreed, meeting her eye, “but, in helping Paris, is it not something Queen Bee would do?” Should do, he silently corrected, but one never got anywhere by simply telling Chloé to do something.

Showing her the right path—or what he believed was the right path—was the only thing he could do to help her learn to recognize it for herself. He gave her as much as he could; he was quite sure, from the mutterings he overheard from the staff, that he gave her far more than he should. But this wasn’t a problem that could be solved with money or political pull, and Chloé knew that.

Just like he couldn’t make her mother stay, he couldn’t make Ladybug forgive her, let alone trust her.

Chloé opened her mouth and shut it without saying anything.

“We can write your mother every week and tell her what you’ve done. Every day, if you like. She’ll be so proud of you.”

Chloé crossed her arms and stared at her lap. “She won’t care. Neither will Ladybug. That would never be enough.”

“It doesn’t need to be enough. It only needs to be a start.”

Silence. But silence was better than shrill denials and demands that a better plan be proposed. Silence meant she was listening to him. Considering it, unpleasant though it may be to her. She knew he was no stranger to volunteer work. She knew, if she asked, that he could make a big deal of this, the mayor and his daughter volunteering to help the less fortunate of Paris. She could have the eyes of the city on her if she wished. She could have her name on people’s tongues for something other than a snide remark or derisive comment, holding her accountable for the actions she had taken under Hawk Moth’s influence—though he doubted anyone in the city didn’t know of someone who had been akumatized, even if they hadn’t had the misfortune themselves. Still, if Chloé asked, they could try to turn the public in her favour, feed her praise instead of harsh criticism, and make it far more likely that Ladybug would hear of her work.

But she didn’t ask.

And that, perhaps more than anything else, told him he might be getting through to her.

“I miss Mom already,” Chloé whispered. Her voice broke on the last word, and she began to cry again. André handed her a tissue (promptly fisted in one hand but otherwise ignored) and wrapped her in another hug.

Audrey wasn’t supposed to leave until tonight, but Chloé was right. Audrey didn’t like goodbyes, and she absolutely detested waiting. While he’d been talking to Chloé, she’d have called for a helicopter.

He didn’t know when she was supposed to come back. Not that knowing would help, really, because Chloé was right about that as well; any date she gave them now was highly unlikely to remain the date of her return.

He wasn’t sure how long he held his daughter before there was a quiet knock on the door. Not one of their servants—he knew their knocks as well as he knew their footsteps; he should really see about getting his office carpeted—but a familiar knock nonetheless. It seemed like so long since André had heard it.

Chloé had sent Sabrina away so many times that she’d set a standing order with the staff that Sabrina was not to be allowed in until she said so, but she had never made any such ban against her oldest friend.

Likely as not, she’d assumed he’d abandoned her, too.

“Chloé? May I come in?”

André said nothing, waiting for Chloé to answer, but all she did was hold her breath to try to silence her sobs.

“I know this is hard,” he murmured into her hair. “It’ll be good for you to be around your friends.”

“I don’t want him to see me like this,” she whispered back. “I’m not perfect right now.”

“He’s your friend, my little princess. You don’t need to be afraid to let him see you when you don’t feel at your best.”

“Chlo? I…I heard.”

He could be referring to Audrey’s leaving as much as he could be to what Chloé considered her disgrace; Audrey may well have informed his father about her plans before she’d told any of them. It hurt, thinking that she put business relations ahead of her family, even though he knew the reasons for it.

Or thought he did, anyway.

Sometimes, he wasn’t so sure.

Not that he’d ever let Chloé know that. She had enough on her plate.

“Please, I just…. Can we talk?”

André hugged his daughter tighter, feeling her relax into his arms and waiting for her nod. When she gave it, letting him know she was ready, he released her and got to his feet. It was easy enough to don a mask and pretend the wet patch on his shoulder didn’t exist; he’d had to do much the same too many times before. “Just a moment more, Adrien. You’ll have to forgive my old bones.”

There was laughter in Adrien’s eyes when André opened Chloé’s bedroom door. “You aren’t old, M. Bourgeois.”

“Perhaps not,” he agreed as he stepped into the hallway, “but I’m not feeling as young as I did when you were only up to my hip.” He clasped a hand onto Adrien’s shoulder, quieted his voice, and added, “You’ve grown into a fine young man, Adrien. Thank you for still being Chloé’s friend. I know she can be difficult at times, but she needs someone like you more than she realizes.”

Adrien’s smile held too much sorrow in it, and André’s heart ached for these kids. “I…I how she feels.” Adrien’s confession was hesitant, barely more voice than breath. “I know what it’s like to make mistakes and to love someone who isn’t there. I…. She’s my friend. I won’t abandon her.” He stepped back, out of André’s reach. “Please excuse me, M. Bourgeois.”

He ducked around André and into Chloé’s room, easing the door closed behind him.

André stood there a moment longer, even though he couldn’t hear the conversation within. Paris was changing so quickly these days, and its youth were growing up and changing with it. It made him wonder whether he should even run for re-election in the coming year or if he should step aside as mayor and let someone else step up. He was trying to be a good example for his daughter, but she seemed to have better role models than him.

Truly, if he and Audrey were Chloé’s role models, they had done her a poor service.

He could see about practicing what he preached, though. Perhaps a fundraiser for the homeless would be a good start. There were any number of issues he could call attention to, of course, but it would be a good reminder for Chloé. She always had a roof over her head and food in her belly; she could afford to remember that some had more pressing concerns than whether their drinks were chilled to precisely the right temperature.

“Sir?”

The tentative call came from one of the staff.

“Sir, I, ah, am sorry to inform you that your wife has decided she must leave immediately. Her bags are being packed as we speak, but perhaps, if you are inclined to hurry—?”

André blinked, surprised that Audrey wasn’t already gone. It was so rare that he had a chance to catch her before she left—and to try to talk her into staying for a few more days. For Chloé’s sake, of course. “Yes. Yes, please. Lead the way. Thank you.”

Thank you. It was something he hadn’t said enough. Hadn’t taught Chloé to say enough. But perhaps they could all learn from each other’s mistakes and try to do better.

Sometimes, the little things led to the biggest changes of all.

And he was sure that, despite all the changes he had seen so far, the greatest were yet to come.

(see more fics)

[team-free-will-oneshots]

The Other Shoe

Title: The Other Shoe (part four in the ‘Buried Secrets’ series) Summary: After your altercation with Dean, you flee from the bunker with no sure idea of where you’re headed. Sam drops everything to be there for you. Pairing: Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader (love triangle yeet) Warnings: swearing, angst, hurt/comfort, flufffff Word Count: 3,400

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

“Get out.”

You blinked, ears unwilling to process the cold words that had fled Dean’s mouth. Even more difficult to accept was the fact they, along with his hateful glare, were directed at you.

“W-what?” you choked out, quiet and unsure, tone ringing with hurt. Dean threw the hex bag to the floor, and you watched as it fell apart, the dried herbs fluttering through the air at the sudden motion before settling over the ground, strewn messily across the wooden surface. The light in Dean’s eyes promptly faded, and the migraine hit you like a knife to your skull. You flinched, hand flying to your temple as you bit back a cry at the sudden pain. Dean’s fury-fuelled shout distracted you from the throbbing of your head.

“Get out! You’ve been lying to me, to Sam, to everyone this whole time and you think I’m gonna let you stay here? How the fuck am I supposed to believe that this was about helping me, Y/N? I didn’t ask for your help, I don’t want your help, I want you to get the fuck out!” he yelled, every syllable hitting you like a blow to the chest. Your mouth opened and closed lamely, eyes burning with tears that you struggled to blink back. You swallowed thickly.

“Dean, I…” you murmured, but you had no idea how to finish your sentence. I’m sorry? It didn’t feel like enough. I regret it? That wasn’t quite true. You regretted that you’d made him upset, of course, but you’d never regret seeing the spark of life return to his eyes, seeing the grin on his face as for once, that dark cloud over his head was lifted. You let your sentence hang unfinished, pushing yourself to your feet on unsteady legs; you weren’t entirely certain you wouldn’t crumble the second you tried to hold your own weight, but somehow, you stayed upright.

Dean shook his head, lip curled in distaste as his eyes avoided yours. “I don’t wanna fucking hear it! Get out. I can’t- god, I can’t even look at you!” he spat, tone dripping with disgust, and you felt your whole world shatter at the gravity of your best friend’s words.

You could only nod timidly, stumbling over to his bedroom door and shoving it open with your shoulder before fleeing from the room before he could see your tears spill over - you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. You brushed past Sam on your way, ignoring his perplexed glance as you instead made for the bunker’s exit. Once you hit the fresh night air, you started running.

Tears dried on your cheeks as you sprinted, and you didn’t stop until the bunker was completely out of sight. But no matter how far you fled, there was no outrunning Dean’s hostile shouts, nor the loathing stare that was etched into the back of your eyelids. When you reached the forest, you finally collapsed, a mess of sweat and panting sobs that tore at your throat and ripped from your tight chest. You pressed your hands to the sides of your head as it ached, though the pain slowly subsided as you moved to bury your hands in the soft earth, the dirt slipping through your fingers as you dug your nails into ground.

You vaguely noticed the raindrops hitting your back, slowly seeping through your shirt and soaking your hair as the tears from your eyes became indistinguishable from the tears of the sky herself. So this is what you got for being yourself. You almost laughed at the absurdity of it, at the fact you’d felt so assured this morning that Dean and Sam, your best friends, would accept you no matter what. Even their acceptance had its limits, it seemed, a consequence you’d foreseen only in your darkest nightmares.

“Y/N?”

You didn’t even register Sam’s voice until his warm hand was on your back and he was kneeling next to you, guiding you gently against his chest as you cried. His body was warm and hard and you curled into him instinctively, gripping his shirt as you sobbed on his shoulder. He was whispering to you, and although you couldn’t quite make out his words between your heaving breaths and the pattering of the rain, the sound of his voice did wonders as your breathing began to slow and your tears eased. As your cheeks dried the rain slowly faded away, and though it pained you to do it, you drew back from Sam’s embrace.

The youngest Winchester offered a sympathetic glance, and despite the damp hair clinging his neck and the cold water trickling down his forehead, his eyes were warmth with sympathy.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, and you dragged your knees up to your chest as you shrugged.

“Not really,” you mumbled sullenly.

“Dean was out of line.” Sam’s voice, though barely louder than the breeze, was tainted with anger. You scoffed.

“I don’t know what else I expected,” you muttered. “Everything was just - it was all just way too good, y’know? Dean was happy for once. I started accepting myself, then he asked me out… it all felt too good to be true. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. I guess... now it has.” Your sentence died into a whimper, and Sam rubbed your back soothingly as you relaxed against his shoulder.

“He’ll come around,” he said. “He loves you. We both do. It was just a shock, and you know how Dean is with surprises. He’ll realise he was a dick once he’s cooled down, and he’ll apologise.”

You shot him a sceptic look. “Right. Why are you so chill about this? Why aren’t you shouting at me like he was?” you found yourself asking, though you weren’t sure you wanted to hear his answer. Sam chuckled humourlessly.

“I think Dean freaked out enough for both of us. Besides, I knew something was up when we talked last night. I never expected you to be a witch, but… I still stand by what I said. You’re Y/N - it might take some getting used to, but you’re still my best friend.”

You allowed a small smile. “Thanks, Sammy.”

He shook his head, pressing a chaste kiss to your hair. “C’mon, let’s get back to the bunker, it’s freezing out here,” he said, and the tiny spark of joy that had arose in your heart was quickly extinguished.

“No. No, thanks. I don’t think Dean wants to see me right now,” you were quick to protest. “And I don’t want to see him, either.” Sam frowned.

“Y/N, you can’t sleep out here,” he said sternly, and you shrugged.

“I’ll find a motel. But I am not going back to the bunker,” you replied firmly.

“You’re sure?” he checked. “I can’t convince you?” You shook your head stubbornly, and he sighed. “Okay… don’t go too far, alright?” he said as he got to his feet. You nodded, and as he jogged away, your heart sank. As the sounds of his footsteps faded, the loneliness crashed over you so heavily you could’ve sworn the air was pulled from your lungs. You waited a few minutes, half tempted to curl up between the roots of a tree and slumber there, but the cold air and the damp ground eventually forced you upright.

You weren’t sure where you were going, but eventually decided to walk along the road, concealed by the treeline as your bare feet squelched in the fresh mud. Arms wrapped around yourself in a vain effort to spare some body heat, you set your jaw and set your sights pointedly ahead.

That was when the car rolled past. It was hard to distinguish in the darkness, especially from your point behind the trees, but it was driving slowly enough that you managed to make it out - a blue ‘69 Mercury Cougar, still in tip-top shape. You couldn’t see the driver, but knew instinctively who it was - you’d seen the car enough in the bunker’s garage to recognise it by now, and Dean would never go out in a car that wasn’t Baby. That left one person.

When you stepped out from the treeline and continued to walk alongside the road, Sam immediately pulled over, leaving the headlights on and the engine running as he leaned over to reach the passenger door. It swung open eagerly, and when you glanced inside you could see the concern clear on Sam’s face.

“Hey, you almost gave me a heart attack! I thought I said not to go too far!” he exclaimed. His words drew a laugh of relieved disbelief from your mouth.

“Wha- where did you go? What are you doing?”

“I was grabbing the car so I can take us to a motel!” Sam almost had to shout over the roaring of the engine. “Get in!” Though you had half a mind to protest, to tell him this wasn’t his responsibility and that you didn’t need any help, you still found yourself slipping gratefully into the passenger seat.

The heater was on, and you didn’t realise you were shivering until you thrust your hands in front of the fans, the billowing hot air warming your numb fingers. Sam pulled back onto the road and you relaxed into the passenger seat, forehead resting against the cool glass as the outside world shifted into a blur of navy and green. Sam made an attempt at conversation, but you replied only in quiet, one word answers - your head was aching dully, and your mind echoed with jolts of Dean’s angry voice, flashes of his hateful glares. After seeing Dean’s reaction, his brother was acting far calmer than you ever could have anticipated - you found yourself just waiting for him to snap, to cuss you out like Dean had. With such worries clouding your mind, you could hardly bring yourself to talk about the weather.

Eventually, Sam pulled into a motel. You hummed inquisitively as he withdrew two duffel bags from the trunk of the car. He tossed one to you - you caught it easily, slinging the light luggage over your shoulder.

“I packed some stuff for us - I didn’t know what you’d need, so I just grabbed some clothes and that bag of toiletries you keep in the bathroom. If you need anything else I think there’s a convenience store just down the ro-”

“No, this should be fine,” you said quietly. “Thanks.”

Sam gave a small smile at your words - the first full response you’d given him since you’d gotten in his car.

“No problem,” he said casually, and you fell a few paces behind him as he checked in at the front desk before following him to your room.

“Okay, the clerk said this room is free for the next two weeks, but that we’ll be able to grab another room after that if we’re still here,” Sam announced as he dropped his bag at the doorway. You raised an eyebrow.

“You-you’d be willing to stay with me here? For that long?” you asked in bewilderment. Sam shrugged, ducking his head sheepishly.

“Sure. I mean, I can always leave if you want space, but… I thought it might be nice for you to have some company. Besides, I’m sure Dean will come to his senses soon, anyway,” he replied. The small smile that was tugging at your lips fell away at the mention of Dean’s name.

“Right,” you murmured. “I’m not counting on it, though. He’s never been so mad at me before.”

Sam chuckled dryly. “Well, he’s been that mad at me before. And Cas. And he always came around eventually. It’s basically a rite of passage at this point,” he said, cracking a smile that you found yourself returning.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right,” you sighed, running your fingers through your hair. Sam gestured towards the beds.

“Take your pick - I’m having a shower,” he said, and you nodded, waiting until the bathroom door was closed before you dropped your duffel bag on the bed closest to the wall, furthest from the door. You unpacked a few things before collapsing on your back in exhaustion, eyes glued to the ceiling as you blinked your sore eyelids. The scent of rain clung to your skin, but the taste of Dean still lingered on your lips, a startling reminder that your altercation had only occurred barely two hours prior. The range of emotions it had spurred in you was enough to last a normal person at least two years. Though some part of you wanted to be angry, your exhausted body only seemed to be capable of producing a tired sadness that weighed on your bones like bricks and threatened to crush your chest beneath its burden. You trudged to the shower as Sam left the bathroom, letting the soft water wash away the last traces of your intimacy with Dean, spiralling down the drain along with the dirt and grass that had stuck to your skin.

You left the bathroom with damp hair and a fresh face, though your eyes were still somewhat puffy and red. Sam politely declined to notice, setting down the lore book he’d been reading and shooting you a kind smile that you halfheartedly returned. You fell into bed, fighting against the tightly-made sheets before squirming your way beneath them and burying your face in the pillow. You vaguely noticed that it smelt like lavender.

Sam shut off the light without another word, and you heard his bed creak as he slipped beneath the covers. The room was silent but for the sound of your breathing, soft and slow, and the occasionally straining of the mattress springs as you shifted to get comfortable. The minutes ticked by, blending into hours as you stared at the wall. Your eyes adjusted to the darkness, finding cracks in the plaster and tiny licks of peeling paint where the wall met the roof. Every now and then Sam would snore quietly, and you’d hear him mumble in his sleep followed by the rustling of sheets as he adjusted.

Sighing, you glanced over at the digital clock between the two beds, where the glowing red numbers declared that it was 2:07am. You hmph’d in frustration, eyes wandering to your duffel bag sat at the foot of your bed. You knew it probably wouldn’t have what you needed, but you didn’t have anything better to do than check.

You shimmied to the edge of your bed, reaching over and hauling up the duffel bag. You unzipped it slowly, sparing glances at Sam, not wanting to wake him. Although it had certainly been a big night for you, it had been eventful for him, too, and he deserved every wink of sleep he could scrounge up. God knows you all did, with the threat of Amara still ominously looming. You purposefully put that thought aside - there was nothing you could do about her right now.

As you rummaged through your bag, your mind strayed to Dean, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was having as much trouble sleeping tonight as you. Sometimes the two of you would find each other in the library in the early hours of the morning, both of you unable to sleep, and spend the time with a drink in hand and talking about nothing and everything. The memories brought a smile to your face that quickly fell when you realised that wasn’t in your future anymore.

You huffed in frustration when the objects you sought were nowhere to be found - it wasn’t like you’d expected them to be, but a small part of you couldn’t help but hope.

“Y/N? You okay?”

Sam’s voice was groggy and slurred with sleep, and though you felt a pang of guilt for waking him, a wave of warmth buzzed through you at the realisation that his first instinct upon waking was to check if you were alright.

“Hey, Sammy. Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry for waking you - go back to sleep,” you urged. He cleared his throat, pushing himself into a sitting position.

“You didn’t wake me,” he lied pathetically. “Uh… whatcha doin?”

You sighed. “I… well, I was actually looking for some ingredients to make a hex bag,” you admitted, and Sam’s eyebrows shot up, and you could see him tense.

“O-oh? What for?” he asked in surprise.

“To help me sleep,” you told him. “I know you and Dean don’t really have a great view on them, but… but they’re not always bad. You can use them to be really helpful, as well.” You stumbled over your words in an effort to explain yourself, but Sam shook his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I know - you don’t have to defend yourself to me, Y/N. It’s cool - remember?” he prompted, and you gave a small smile.

“Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

Sam paused a moment. “So… a hex bag. That’s why Dean got so mad, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I made one that would lift his mood… it was killing me to see him so upset, and I thought that if I could do something, then I should. But then he got so mad, and...”

Sam smiled sympathetically. “You were just trying to help,” he reminded you. “You know how Dean is about accepting help.”

You nodded again. “Yeah,” you sighed. “Well, whether or not they’re helpful doesn’t matter right now, anyways - I don’t have any ingredients.”

“We can get some tomorrow,” Sam replied, as casually as if he were discussing groceries or flu medicine. Your heart leapt in surprise.

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said sleepily. “Do you want me to stay up with you?”

“You don’t have to do that…”

“No, it’s fine. C’mere,” he said, patting the space next to him. You smiled, not objecting as you sidled in close to the Winchester. The sheets were warm when he pulled them over you, and he slung an arm around your shoulder as you leaned into his chest. It wasn’t anything particularly new for the two of you - you were both so close, physical affection wasn’t a huge deal. But something felt different this time - maybe it was the fact that you were alone in a dark motel room, or that your emotions were still running high. But whatever it was, this moment felt far more intimate than any you had shared prior.

“You’re warm,” you observed. That drew a laugh from him, and you cuddled closer to him, your legs tangling together and your face finding the crook of his neck. He smelt nice and familiar, of spice and soap, and you were vaguely aware that he was pressing a kiss to the top of your head. His fingers ran idly up and down your spine, the motion making your heart stutter and goosebumps raise on your skin. If Sam noticed, he didn’t mention it.

After a few moments, though, you relaxed against him. Instead of making your heart race, his gentle caresses began to lull you into sleep. Your eyelids drooped, growing heavier with every blink, until finally, they fell shut.

---

Sam felt you loosen against his chest, and when he glanced down at you he saw your jaw was slack and your eyes closed. He smiled at the sight, gently brushing your hair away from your face and running his fingers through it soothingly. Your mouth was slightly open as you leaned against him, and his back was killing him from the uncomfortable position he was half-sitting in, but he didn’t dare move.

He watched as you relaxed into slumber - the gentle fluttering of your eyelids, your face free from distress as you found comfort in his embrace. Sam’s heart sank as he was reminded of the pain you must have been feeling, and forced a reminder upon himself; he wasn’t here to make a move on you, no matter how beautiful and kind and perfect he thought you were. He was here to be whatever you needed, and right now, that was a friend. He wouldn’t let his feelings for you get in the way of offering you the support you needed - he couldn’t do that to you.

You mumbled something intelligible in your sleep, pressing closer to him and nuzzling into his chest. He smiled, pressing a light kiss to your temple, and hoped - for your sake - that things would seem brighter in the morning.

__________

Read Part Five here!

Buried Secrets tags: @clarinette07​ @demonsofhunting​ @carryon-doctor-lock​ @coupleofgoons​ @colie87​ @non-exclusive-trash​ @txnii-hxrdyy​ @spaghettiwoes​

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Sam tags: @sammys-dimpless​

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[eversincenashville-blog]

Rough Day

Harry was not one to cry over things. He was very good at keeping his composure when things got sticky. Whether it be crazy stories written about him in the media or something rude a fan might have said to him while he was out, Harry never broke down.

During the year and a bit you had been dating Harry, you’d only seen him cry once. When Gemma had fallen pregnant with her first baby with Michal, everyone was so happy, but when the news had come out that his sister had miscarried, all the happiness was sucked out of everyone in the family. Harry had never cried so hard in his life and you felt horrible.

If anything ever happened to the two of you, Harry always tried to keep it together for the both of you.

Harry was always good a being strong when things went downhill, but somehow that day he crumbled.

“Come on, Harry! For god sake get in the pool!” you laughed as you waded around and splashed in the water of the pool in the backyard of the apartment.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming.” Harry groaned as he got up from the chair, setting his sunglasses down by his drink.

Harry walked over to the edge of the pool and dipped his toe into the water before turning around and walking away.

“Hey! Where are you- Harry!” you squealed as Harry suddenly turn around and jumped cannonball style into the pool, soaking you completely.

Harry resurfaced taking a gulp of air and shaking his head, flinging water everywhere. As he pushed it out of his face and wiped his eyes, he caught you standing there staring at him with your mouth gaped wide open.

Harry let out a high pitched laugh at the sight of you.

“You soaked me!” you laughed.

“You’re in a pool love, you’re supposed to get wet.” he smirked.

Harry swam over toward you and grabbed you by the waist, your legs instantly wrapping around his as he carried you around the pool.

“It’s a nice day, innit?” he smiled looking around.

“It is, yeah. Good day for relaxing in the pool.” you smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Maybe later, we can have a quickie upstairs? ‘Ve been wanting a little action today.” he smirked as you two drifted around the pool.

“We’ll see, mister. Last night should’ve done you for a little bit though.”

“Yeah, but I woke up with a little bit of morning wood and it wasn’t fun takin’ care of it on my own.” he groaned.

Suddenly, Harry’s phone began to ring.

“I’d better go get that. Probably niall wanting to know if we’re coming to his party tomorrow night.

Harry sat you down in the pool and swam to the side and hoisting himself up and out of the pool. He grabbed his phone and a towel and stepped just inside the house.

“Hello?”

All Harry could hear on the other side was sniffling and a sob every now and then.

“Hello?” Harry pressed.

“H-Harry?”

“Mrs. Y/L/N?”

“Are you busy?” your mother cried.

“N-no ma’am. What’s wrong?”

“I need you to do me a favor.” she sniffled.

“Oh, well, yes ma’am. What can I do?”

“Y/F/N… he’s passed away… his cancer was just too much.” she sobbed.

Harry could have sworn his heart stopped for a second. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn't swallow, nothing. Harry was in utter disbelief. He knew your father had been struggling with his cancer but somehow he had never thought about preparing himself for such news like this.

As your mother continued to sob on the other end of the phone, a speechless Harry looked out the window watching you float and swim around in the pool. So content and happy. And all of that was about to be ruined. By him.

“Harry, I need for you to tell her. Please. I can’t stand to do it myself.”

“Yes,” Harry rasped, “yes ma’am… I’ll tell her.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“You’re welcome, and I am terribly, terribly sorry for your loss.” he whispered.

Without a word, Harry ended the call. He felt numb. He felt like everything around him had gone blank. He didn’t even know how he was going to tell you. He had no idea what he was even supposed to say. How was he supposed to tell his girlfriend that her father had just succumbed to cancer. The strongest man she knew was no longer in her life, and Harry knew he would never be able to fill such giant shoes. He would never be able to take the place of a father.

He could remember the day he had met your parents like it was yesterday. He was nervous.

“Bug, I don’t think I can do this.”

“Now you know how I felt that day i met your family.”

“What if he hates me?”

“Who?”

“Your dad,”

“Harry he won’t hate you. He might seem a bit scary at first but I promise you he’s a very kind, tender hearted man. You’ll get along just fine.”

“Harry?” your voice snapped Harry out of his thoughts. “Are you okay? You look a bit pale, Handsome.”

“I- I’m fine, Bug.” he rasped, trying to seem as convincing as possible.

“You look like your going to be sick, Harry. Let me get you some wa-”

“Can we talk?” he interrupted.

“Yes?” you breathed, a bit of confusion in your tone.

Doing what was about to be done was not easy. No one ever deserved to have their heart shattered into a million pieces like what was about to happen.

You felt your heart pound against your chest as Harry sat you down on the pool chair across from him. A tense silence fell between the two of you before Harry spoke.

“I got a call from your mum, that was her earlier.” he said directing his gaze anywhere but to yours as he breathed deeply.

“How is she? How’s Dad?” you asked.

Harry began to feel a knot swell in his throat. Hearing you ask about your father made him want crawl under a rock and never come out.

“She… um..” he began with a shaky voice, stopping and starting again to try to contain himself.

“She-”

“She what, Harry. Spit it out,” you giggled.

“Y-your dad… he-” Harry looked up trying to keep his tears at bay.

“He passed away, baby.” he whispered, keeping his head down.

Your heart stopped. You felt as if you might pass out. This couldn't be true. There’s no way.

You rose from your seat, holding onto your towel you had wrapped around your body. You didn’t know what to say or how to feel. You just felt numb.

Harry stood up with you, reaching out to grab you.

“Baby, I’m so sor-”

“No!” you screamed, “Don’t you touch me! Don’t you dare touch me!”

“Baby, please lis-”

“Get away from me!”

Giant, hot, tears began to fall down your cheeks. You were angry. But why? Were you mad at Harry? Were you mad at your father for leaving you without a goodbye? Were you mad at yourself?

Harry attempted to step toward you, but you pressed your hands to his bare chest pushing him hard repeatedly. With an angry grunt you punched him in the chest as you screamed through your tears.

You took off running into the house as Harry just stood there staring blankly into nothing. He couldn’t process the news himself. He knew you would react this way.

After a few minutes of crying to himself, he gather his emotions and walked into the house and up the stairs to the bedroom where he knew you were.

He could hear you sobbing uncontrollably through the door.

“Bug… please open the door.” He rasped.

“Go away! I hate you!” You shouted.

He knew you didn’t mean it, but still the words pricked his heart just a little.

“C’mon, petal. Open the door. I’ll hold you and everything will be okay.” He mumbled, knowing the last part was a lie. But he could at least try to make it okay.

You gave in and unlocked the door. You had changed into your pajamas and one of Harry’s old jumpers that had now been covered in endless tears.

Harry stepped inside and shut the door, placing a kiss to your forehead. He pulled you into his chest and rocked back and forth on his heels, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“He’s g-gone.” You sobbed into his chest.

“No he’s not, baby.” Harry cooed.

“He didn’t even say goodbye. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Harry felt the tears well back up in his eyes. He couldn’t stand seeing you this way. This broken. It was unbearable.

Harry picked you up and carried you to the bed, gently laying you down and climbing up next to you as he continued to hold you.

“He’s still with you baby. In your heart. He knows you loved him deeply,” Harry whispered.

“He won’t get to see me get married or… or have kids Harry. He won’t be here to walk me down the aisle one day!”

Harry’s heart stung. Every girl grows up dreaming about the day she gets married to the man of her dreams. She dreams about walking down that aisle with her father to give her away. She dreams about having babies and watching her father dote over them more that he ever doted over her and she wouldn’t even care.

“I know things are going to be different baby, but he’s in a better place now, and I promise you he is looking down at you smiling because he is so, so proud of the young woman you’ve become, and the example that you are to so many young women and girls all over the place.” Harry smiled through his tears, looking down at you.

“I love you, and I’m sorry for shoving you and punching you, and telling you I hated you.” you mumbled. Harry chuckled softly.

“It’s alright baby. I promise I am never leaving your side. You’re my whole world. I love you so, so much. It’s just a rough day baby. Time will heal us all soon. We will all miss him deeply, but I know for a fact he is so so proud of his little girl. I know I am.”

“I’m so lucky to have you,” you whispered.

“I’m lucky to have you too, my love.”

[smallnico]

Idk man. On a moral and ethical level heart of darkness is for sure a really gross book but I think it’s also undeniably impressive on a technical level. While it should and will always inform our absorption of media, I don’t think we can examine pieces of art from the past /only/ through our modern experiences and views. Books like hod display racist viewpoints which can’t be excused but racism wasn’t even a concept at that time. It doesn’t mean that they aren’t subjectively well written

...yeah! i mostly agree!

i actually had complaints with the conflicts of the two books, HoD and things fall apart, being likened in such a way. TFA is about how colonialism affected the nigerian people and their culture – it’s a tragic and compelling story about being forced to watch as the life you’ve known and made for yourself systematically crumbles to pieces around you, because there’s nothing you can do about it. HoD is way more about individualism and how delusional the idea of english theoretical inherent superiority really is, and the fact that it takes place in colonial africa has basically nothing to do with the actual story: this is even more evident when you consider that apocalypse now, the de facto film adaptation of HoD, takes place during the vietnam war, and virtually nothing about the core story changes.

i assure you, all this you’ve said is stuff i know. i’m not one to judge books exclusively from my modern perspective. just being totally honest with you, it kind of annoys me to have that assumption of ignorance made of me, given that i’ve spent many, many years of school having it hammered into me that some books are just a product of their time, and that I Get That. but i do, and always will, maintain that just because something is a product of its time, doesn’t mean i have to like it, nor does it mean that my modern opinion of it is invalid, or made without consideration for its historical significance. i promise that i know it’s historically significant, and therefore technically qualifies as classic literature. but all the same, that doesn’t make my personal issues with it irrelevant, since i’m allowed to have non-academic opinions about stuff.

i have a couple of things to point out before i begin the requested HoD rant, since i take issue with a couple of the things you’ve said, and i want to respond to them:

1) racism, as we know it today, has always existed conceptually. the fact that the term “racism” referred to something else back in the days of colonialism, before people were generally accepting that black people were human and that treating them like less than such was horrifying and disgusting, doesn’t mean people weren’t still racist. exhibit a, that previous sentence. the fact that western society had a different level of understanding of what was fundamentally Wrong with the way they saw africans, doesn’t excuse what they did in response to that understanding. it explains it, yes, but it hardly excuses it. just because critical race theory didn’t exist, doesn’t mean people weren’t still incredibly racist. and for the record, the fact that anyone has to excuse how disgusting the racism in HoD is in order to enjoy it… kind of emphasizes that part of why i hated reading it. like, it can theoretically be a groundbreaking piece of classical literature, but that doesn’t mean i have to enjoy having to slog through colonialist-era racism that makes me want to vom uncontrollably. this is about why i personally can’t stand the book, not why it’s not a classic.

2) i think you meant to say “objectively” when you said “subjectively”, because if you did mean subjectively, then you and i are on the exact same page. some people think HoD is undeniably technically impressive and well-written and enjoyable. i humbly disagree! and that’s totally fine. my goal here isn’t to convince you or anyone to hate HoD, my goal is to help people like my college professors and some classmates understand why i hated having to read it. also, if you meant objectively, then i have some fun news for you about how poorly and confusingly HoD is written. spoilers: it’s poorly and confusingly written. how it was written from a technical perspective is one of the things i feel is objectively Terrible about it, even disregarding my own experience. 

all i mean to say is that i hated it for legitimate writing choices, what joseph conrad decided to include in his story and how he handled those inclusions, on top of my modern intolerance for racism, and said modern intolerance for racism isn’t an invalid reason to hate the book. 

i promise i’m not attacking you as a person, and if that’s how this comes off, i’m truly sorry. i’m sure you’re fine, and i hope you know that i’m not trying to invalidate your opinions – you’re entitled to them, as am i to mine – i’m just using this as a springboard to leap dramatically into ranting about HoD and how i feel about it.

here we go! :D

heart of darkness, for those not in the know, is a short novel written by joseph conrad in 1899. it’s widely considered to be a classic meditation on the nature of humanity and how twisted and awful we all are deep inside, with themes of racial prejudice and the individual internal struggle between savagery and civilization. the plot can be summarized as such: an unnamed narrator is preparing for a seafaring voyage of some kind, but is trapped in the river thames with his shipmates by the low tide. they are forced to wait a few hours before they can get underway, so a strange and serene man, the main character charles marlow, begins telling everyone a story to pass the time, about the time he set out on an expedition to explore deepest africa along the congo river, an experience which fundamentally changed him.

in marlow’s story, he weaves a wild tale rife with symbolism about his journey, starting with his planning and arriving in the congo, the delays his expedition suffered due to a lack of rivets for his steamboat, and finally, the process of his expedition, all the “horrible savages” he encounters, and the thrilling conclusion. along the way, marlow describes his growing obsession with an ivory-trading legend named kurtz, who supposedly spends all of his time at the end of the river in the heart of the congo, and hasn’t been seen in a while. marlow keeps hearing great things about this guy, like how good he is at getting ivory, and communicating with the natives, and determines himself to find kurtz; however, he finds himself disappointed, as when he finds kurtz, the man’s hardly the paragon of european virtue described by the ivory traders – he’s very physically ill, and has long since been “made savage” by his experiences in the deepest congo, decorating his house with severed heads and demanding human sacrifices from the natives, who venerate him like a cruel god. marlow ends up taking kurtz back to the trade post at the mouth of the river congo, but kurtz dies along the way, and marlow ends the story on the boat in the thames by concluding that no person, english or otherwise, is above the base savagery innate to the human condition. hilariously, when he finishes his story, it turns out that everyone was so utterly enthralled by him that they missed high tide again, and now have to wait even longer for their next chance to leave.

reading a summary of the book and actually reading the book are two very, very different things. it is… bad. i don’t even know where to start.

from a technical standpoint, the writing is somehow both incredibly dense and all over the place. the beginning and end of the story, on the ship in the thames, are a poorly-thought-out framing device that could’ve been foregone altogether with no change to the story aside from an in-world audience to tell us how awesome and amazing marlow is and how deeply disturbed we should feel by his story. not only that, marlow’s whole story is told as dialogue in the framing device. meaning it’s written in such a way that mimics the character marlow’s oral tics, and it’s laid out in truly monolithic paragraphs, some of which take up several pages, with no breaks. as i read it, i also came to the conclusion that joseph conrad must be afraid of ending a sentence, because the innumerable run-on sentences are… a crime against readers. that’s not even touching on all the tangents he goes off on. and like, haha, i know there’s a certain amount of hypocrisy in me calling out others for going off on tangents, but at least i know not to leave lengthy and pace-breaking word vomit in my stories when i have a point to make. i tend to edit them out, because they’re distracting.

speaking of distracting, i have adhd. this isn’t a commentary on conrad’s writing (though i know many people without adhd who also suffered this problem with HoD), but it’s worth mentioning that HoD is so densely packed with irrelevant nonsense, formatted in giant walls of text, written like regular human speech, that there’s physically no way for me to decipher it without my brain making an audible sound like an overheating, lagging laptop with a very stressed fan, before breaking down entirely. now again, this is probably more of a personal problem, but like i said, it’s a problem a lot of other people had, and it directly crippled my own personal ability to enjoy any part of reading the book. besides – and this is a problem i have with a lot of philosophical texts as well – i’m a firm believer that writing is a form of communication. therefore, writing that is deliberately and aggressively incomprehensible to readers is bad writing. objectively. reading HoD felt like getting up at 8:00 and sitting in a lecture hall, listening to your old, old, incredibly racist professor speak in monotone and go off on endless tangents, because he didn’t bring notecards, and he didn’t prepare a powerpoint or any visual aid because he doesn’t believe in computers or whatever. and you can’t leave because you’re physically shackled to your desk. and after the lecture is finally, finally over (because it lasted longer than the appointed time), you have to listen to people compliment the professor’s lecture, calling it fascinating, and referring to his teaching style as brilliant and masterful like it wasn’t the most miserable, frustrating, and altogether screaming-rage inducing experience you’ve ever been forced to endure in a classroom setting.

but like, if you’re okay with that, then more power to you, i guess.

moving on to the racism, because there is a lot of it, and not just from a modern viewpoint. i stand by that something being subjectively good or bad to individual people is just as valid as something being objectively good or bad according to its placement in history. i would never write an academic essay about the former, but the latter isn’t strictly enough to change any individual’s personal experience with the book. i know, for instance, that the epic of gilgamesh is the oldest recorded written story that we know of, and that in and of itself is incredible, and speaks to its significance. but that’s not quite enough to affect my experience of having to read the repetitive writing style, or my opinion of the story itself (which is actually positive – it’s an interesting story, and it represents a change in the ancient sumerian perception of the place of humans in a world of powerful gods. i love that shit). the writing style is representative of how the unknown writer would have communicated using their language, to others who also speak their language; ergo, it’s not hard to read, just quirky and occasionally distracting, though the story itself is enough to make up for that.

(cw for Bad Racism)

the importance of something as a product of its time often isn’t enough to make up for a shitty reading experience. and with HoD, that experience is made all the more shitty (for me personally) by conrad’s compulsive inclusion of the mutilation of africans, cannibalism, graphic depictions of gore and severed heads, describing native africans as primitive and savage versions of english people (naturally made violent and savage by living in the congo, as he describes their skin as, to paraphrase, “indicative of how long they must’ve spent roasting in hell”, like the rainforest carbonized them or something), somehow still exotifying african women as demonic temptresses, and describing an african person on his own crew as “like a dog standing on its hind legs, dressed in its master’s clothes and performing a trick” (the “trick” in question being steering his damn ship). he doesn’t use the setting to comment on colonialism at all, really, aside from the conclusion that colonialism is bad because aren’t they just like us, if we were at our most savage state? don’t you just, somewhere deep inside, want to join in their Weird Horrifying Chanting And Drumming?

like, conrad doesn’t want to raise africans and black people to the same level of personhood as europeans and white people. he would rather insist that we, the readers, see the lives and culture of africans as a lesson – this could be you, if you’re not careful, because deep down we’re All Violent Savages.

(cw over)

i don’t particularly care that this is all historically accurate to how conrad, as a white european, would’ve perceived african folks. i don’t care that it might be groundbreaking in one sense or another because it describes white and black people as being inherently the same – i don’t like reading it. i find blatant disregard for the impact of taking a human life and committing horrifying violence unreadable. that’s just a personal taste of mine. i don’t like shock humour, i don’t like shock tragedy, i don’t like slasher movies, i don’t like visceral gory imagery, and, surprise, i don’t like racism. i don’t like when shock is used to make a point, and i dislike even more when that point is “ooh look how little people care about this terrible violence because it involves ______”.

to a lesser degree than the previous point, i don’t like that particular thesis on humanity, either – that deep down we’re all monsters. i like to think that most people, if not all people, are defined by their experiences and how they respond to them, not how they Just Innately Are. this isn’t a matter of me not wanting to admit that there’s a darker side of me that i don’t want to see, because there is one of those, but it’s not who i truly am. i’m more than just my flaws, and my flaws aren’t a monstrous core, around which all the rest of my personality is built to Hide it. negativity isn’t inherently more true than positivity, and there is no innate human condition. kurtz could have just as easily befriended the natives and attempted to understand them, rather than subjugating them and committing horrible violence against them. that’s just the story of colonialism on the whole, honestly – the violence and subjugation was unnecessary. the horrors were unnecessary. people could’ve kept their own land to themselves and developed trade, people could’ve done cultural exchanges, it didn’t have to be the way it was, and the way it was did not happen because All Humans Are Inherently Awful. colonialism, and all the smaller decisions made by european colonizers, were decisions made by people with power they unquestionably abused, and much as i dislike the notion that all humans are inherently Savage and Evil, i dislike the false equivalence between colonizers and the colonized even more. most of all, i loathe the abdication of responsibility. i loathe the attitude that every awful, violent decision made by colonizers can easily be attributed to Africa Just Done Got To Them that HoD feels determined to push. 

so to recap, it’s a product of its time, yes, but it’s also bad, and i hate it. i hated reading it, i hated talking about it in class, i hated its message, i hated its shock value, i hated its disgusting racist overtones, i hated its writing style, i hated its walls and walls of texts, i hated its stupid framing device telling me how to feel, i hated marlow and thought he was a smug piece of shit, i hated the stupid plot device with the rivets (seriously i don’t know if it just wasn’t explained or if i couldn’t parse the explanation from the rest of the irrelevant tangents our oh-so-great narrator constantly went off on), i hated how long marlow spent in that fucking trade post because it made the story go on for longer than it had to just to stroke kurtz’s shaft a little more and depict that many more Nameless Irrelevant Africans be brutally abused, and i hated that kurtz, despite everything awful he did, somehow deserved a quiet and dignified offscreen death, while everyone else who died got to have their brutalization lovingly described. i hated the experience of trying to read it and having to give up after two hours of trying and trying to understand a single 3-page-long paragraph. i hated the word choices. i hated the sentence structure. i hated having to read it even though essentially the same message had been conveyed better in lord of the flies, which we’d read the previous year (LotF was published in the 50s, so that’s not conrad’s fault at all, but HoD truly felt like a way shittier repetition of something we’d already talked about). i hated how mockingly small the book was compared to the gargantuan steaming pile of torturous language that lay inside, waiting.

tl;dr: heart of darkness is the worst, and the terrible experience anyone had while reading it is not and never will be invalidated by its historic significance.

[everydaychurch]

Beauty from Ashes (Part 1) by Warren

When I was a very young boy I was raised  in a dysfunctional home devoid of any resemblance of a consistent, safe, nurturing environment. I longed for what I believed to be a normal, secure life. This was all I recall desiring. I needed to feel wanted. I yearned for happiness. In comparison I was envious of the life my friends seemed to be experiencing. I Questioned why feelings of love were absent. Why wouldn't I be convinced that  I was a nuisance, a mistake, a catalyst that caused the battles my parents, myself, and siblings where dealing with? My parents were both over forty when I came into the world. Unplanned of course. I was told over the years my mom never loved my dad and their marriage was one of survival for my mother. She had no idea at the time he was a monster.

To keep a very long story short my life up to this point was a chaotic fight inside a landscape of insanity. I had no choice but to be tough  24/7. Always on guard and seldom without fear; I was ready to fight. 

I witnessed violent, dangerous, and threatening life moments no child, let alone adult should ever see. I was let down by most adults around me.I trusted no one; but I wanted to.

People in my realm of influence were far too concerned with their own traumas, especially my depressed, manipulative father. He died when I was 7.  My biological dad was physically, mentally, and sexually abusive not only towards his children but to other children as well. I never would ever know if there was a good side. He taught me to read at an early age I guess, and ride a bike, but heaven forbid if I did something he didn't like beyond his ever changing standards and emotional states. The challenge being  you would never know what that might be.

 I ended up being the peacemaker in the middle of the violence. I still find myself doing that as an adult. Always trying to appease everyone. You try to appease everyone you end up pleasing know one. Its not you job anyways. It’s something I am still working on.

I grew up in shame. I attended 11 different schools and moved far too often. Many fistfights, suspensions, and one sided counseling sessions with school principles. People were scared of me.  One school even brought in then U-dub Quarterback Sonny Sixkiller to talk with me. He had no clue what to do. I can still remember the look on his face as he walked back to his car. The look of defeat.   I punched a nun once who slapped me and wore it like a badge. I was in 4th grade.

Single parenting was looked down upon in the 1960′s. My hardworking, strong willed, New York native mom worked multiple jobs so I was often left on my own to fend for myself; even as young as 5 years old. It’s no wonder I later lived through my teenage years willingly participating in the old 1970′s adage “Sex,Drugs,and Rock and Roll”.  One week a rebel  and next week Young Life meeting guitar player. I wore my many masks well. I fooled many a parent, pastor, friend, and teacher - but I was a mess.

You see, even though life settled down somewhat when my mom remarried, I remained rough around the edges. I had a good man in my step-father. No telling how bad life would have gone without him in it, but I was still carrying a darkness and sadness inside my soul without support or skills to change my situation. Yet know one knew or wanted to know. It was enigma because on one hand I wanted someone, anyone, to notice but on the other hand making every effort to hide it.

As an above average athlete, with a strong mind, and a budding musical gift  I had no lack for popularity. A good fastball, straight A’s, and an electric guitar are great smokescreens This fueled my ability to cover up the deep rooted pain I carried. 

These young years were where my view of the world was shaped. Experience being the teacher that shaped my view of God. I think it can be said life events often do. Good or bad.

Strangely I think I always believed in God, even as a young 3 year old. I once viewed an old family 8MM movie my father filmed, since long lost, where at that age I stood on a box pretending to deliver a fire and brimstone sermon to the neighborhood kids. This was double interesting since my family certainly never regularly attended church and if they did it was Lutheran. 

So not a huge surprise, even though my beliefs were so messed up in regards to the nature of God I made a formal “Altar Call” commitment to follow Jesus at 13 years old. 

In the years that followed, as far as I was concerned, I failed with that commitment over and over again. It was a yo-yo faith at best. I truly in my heart loved Jesus, yet at one point I screamed at God with my hands stretched to the sky, “ You obviously don’t love me”. For me I was the dirty, ugly kid void of any understanding of security, hope, love, and joy. I certainly had no grasp of the true heart of God. Yet I still sought His approval and acceptance based on who I believed I was, not on how God actually sees me. I didn’t understand how the creator of the universe viewed me until much, much later in life.

I left home at 18 and joined the Air Force. Yo-Yo faith in full action. I had my periods of going to church and living by all appearances a Christian Life. I also had spans of numbing drunkenness and partying.

Marriage to Kathy was the next big life event at 20, then my daughters came into the world. I loved them at the time the best I was capable of. My wife was a trooper as our foundation was rocky from the start due to all the baggage listed above. She had her own issues to deal with as well. By the age of 25 I had 3 daughters, spent 3 years living overseas, bought and lost a home, had a car repo’d, and gone bankrupt. By the time I hit 28 life was better but far from whole. I knew as a family and as a person God was needed to intervene and I recognized I had to make changes, which I did. I recommitted my life to Christ. It was good. For a while anyways.

By 30 I was already studying and preparing for the ministry. I remember fondly the happy day when I knew I was called. Kathy was excited too, but the deep rooted issues in my heart were still hanging around. Our first step of entering church ministry was a huge failure, taking a horrible toil on my wife and daughters. Our marriage never fully recovered after that. We were living with an open wound. It was already on a cracked foundation even before ministry life began. There was always a limp. 

When stress comes into the game of life  whatever foundation your life has been built on will test how well your home will respond. Will it stand? Will it have devastating damage? Will it crumble to the ground?

For me, every time stress arose I entertained the old thoughts; God is punishing me. He hates me. He really didn’t call me. Its all in my head. In times like these its easy to start passing blame on someone or anything. Hear me when I say this; “that attitude only magnifies your problems”. However, Ministry could at times look incredibly successful in the middle of a mess and there were times when it was. But the truth is there was always a mask. There was always a skewed understanding of the nature and character of Jesus. I could preach the truth of Jesus to others, but not understand those same truths for myself. I knew things in my head that my heart could not grasp.

in 2010, after continued ministry struggle, I quit the pastorate. My marriage was hanging on a thread now. My adult children didn’t like or want to be around me. I was barely surviving as a person. Kathy was beyond her boundaries of reasonable relationship with me, I don’t know how she felt about God at this point, but I know she was disappointed. My own confidence in church life was broken.I think she felt the same.

I didn’t think my struggles could grow any larger than they were at this time. I hate to say this but oh how wrong I was. 

After leaving ministry I went back to college. Kathy had a good job. My kids were on their own. I had grandchildren. I certainly loved my family,  but...I was horribly shell shocked. Ministry had become my identity. I had no other developed work skills outside of church, music or military, I had to bring in some money while in school, but my honest attitude was any job outside of ministry was below me. Then it got worse; much, much, worse.

My heart was broke - literally. It was revealed that I had, unbeknownst to me, long term diabetes. Diabetes had destroyed my heart. After 3 heart attacks I was rushed into open heart surgery or die. This mess brought out the absolute worst in me. Anger, fear, accusations toward God. My boiling point had been reached. In my mind these latest events were nothing more than continued failure, more punishment. I was mad at God. My wife Kathy had had enough. On Valentines Day, only a few weeks after surgery she asked me to leave our home. I was homeless or living with relatives for the next 6 months.

I began working on myself. I didn’t walk away from God, even in my anger. It got better. I worked hard. Kathy and I reconciled. We moved east to Detroit where Kathy grew up. Life was getting better again- for a while anyways.

Unfortunately the damage ended up being too deep for her.Two people who I will always believe loved one another could not get past it. I didn’t want to give up, but after 3 more off and on reconciliations she no longer wanted to be married. I was served the divorce papers on my birthday while in the empty apartment I had just removed all my possessions out of into storage. I was soon to be homeless again. A few weeks later I lost my job, then shortly later lost my mother to a brain infection.

The worst time of my life ever.

But something was different. I didn’t go through the mental up and downs with God. My church provided some money for a Motel 6 where I could  stay and eventually I got an apartment. I was still working, as my termination date had not yet approached .I still secretly tried to win Kathy back. I just couldn’t fathom what had happened and my marriage ending in divorce. After realizing nothing was going to change I let go and came home to Seattle.

I also went to counseling during this time and that helped tremendously. I began the journey of dealing with the childhood abuse and divorce. Through counseling during this horrible period of time my perspective on God’s nature in the midst of pain initiated the early stages of change. Wasn’t perfect of course. I had some follies and made some serious mistakes, but God proved faithful and likely had a plan of fixing me long before I did,  He was determined to renew and restore my life. My expectations were far short of His. His ways were certainly not my ways.

After moving back home I was pursued by a couple of ladies and I entertained the thought of dating. Bad move. One of those follies I mentioned earlier. I soon swore off the thought of dating and women. I needed to focus on myself. I was still obviously wounded. I still had difficulty with church and anger to some degree. It didn’t help that I lived across the street from a church I was once was on staff at (it was the only apt complex I could afford) I had to look at that church every single day.

STAY TUNED FOR PART 2