#i cherish your secret clown past | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hpalways · 3 years ago

Note

Hiii! I saw that your requests were open and I was wondering if you could do a Genshin highschool au (modern au??? Idk what to call it-) and how Childe, Venti, Albedo and diluc would confess to their crush. Idk I just think it's a cute idea :)

Anyways feel free to ignore! Thanks and have a nice day! Don't forget to eat and drink water! <3

Note: sorry for how late this is but ofc!! thanks for the request and take care as well!

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Characters: Childe, Venti, Albedo, Diluc

Childe

Lost in your own world, you do not notice the red ginger waltzing his way up to the front of the class. Only when you hear audible gasps from the other students do you glance up, surprise coloring your face.

His azure blue eyes are glued to you, mischief lining the corners of his mouth. Today his red locks are slightly gelled nicely, keeping out of his face and accentuating his features all the more. He dons his school uniform well, looking tall and confident up there, despite having everyone’s attention on him. But of course, that is just who he is as a person -- popular with the student population for being the class clown and a great track athlete with those long legs of his.

Which is why you nearly fall out of your chair at his declaration. “[Y/N],” he called out. Pairs of eyes follow to you, making you still as a statue. “I... I really like you. You are funny and strong and brave and better of a person than I ever will be. Will you go out with me?”

The class ‘awwed’, lapping the entire scene in with excitement. You want to facepalm, thinking how stupid he is for confessing in front of everyone. What if you reject him? Goodness. He truly is such an idiot. “No,” you say. You watch his face pale for a moment and the students growing silent. Unable to hold in the laugh spilling from your lips, you prevent the awkwardness from seeping in. “I’m kidding. I like you too, Childe.”

Everyone burst into applause, as Childe hurries to you, wrapping his arms around you. Unlike before, his confidence has faded away, left with a vulnerable boy who is so relieved to not get rejected by the one he loves.

Venti

Sunlight filter through the windows of the music room, casting a sheen past the wispy dust dancing in the air. A young boy with braided ombre locks peacefully sits on the window sill, his legs kicking forth in steady rhythm. Humming under his breath, his teal eyes dart to the door that opened up, instantly brightening up in excitement.

You peek into the room to find the musical genius, Venti. His childlike charisma is found in the corner, his figure soft and beautiful. After having music class with him, you grew quite close to him -- he never fails to make you smile. He is different from others, a free spirit unable to tied down to anything. Never afraid to seek the thing he wants, he has pushed you to do the same.

“You’re here,” he breathed out, soaring down from the high ledge. “Can I play you a song I’ve been working on?”

Beaming, you sit down on a chair and nod. Touched that he chooses you to hear something so vulnerable first, you are more than willing to do anything for him. He is a cherished friend -- one you never hope to let go. “Please do.”

He starts to strum the golden harp he’s holding onto, the melodic sound of it wavering into the room. He starts to sing words of no meaning, clear and pretty to match with the instrument. It mesmerize you from the bat, your eyes gluing the stunning male in front of you. His eyes are closed, but his actions were soulful, as if every note wants to say something to you.

When he finishes, he stops you before you could clap. “Wait,” he whispers, coming closer to you, his eyes rimmed with tears. “I want to tell you a little secret. I like you, [Y/N]. A lot.”

You drop your jaw, blinking in shock at this newfound confession. For a minute, all is silent, the remnant of the song still stuck playing in your head like a broken record. Your cheeks warm and your heart race, and you realize you already know your answer to his confession. “I like you too, Venti.”

Albedo

In the quiet of the library where you can hear a pin drop, you listen to the soft ‘sha’ of the rain pouring outside of the school. It is the perfect day to study with the renown Einstein of the school, Albedo. You lift your gaze up to see him sitting across from you, crystal blue eyes peering down through his lenses.

He has been very helpful lately, always offering to walk you through problems you are stuck on. It makes your insides flutter, taken off guard by his generosity. Stupid you are, you used to assume him to be a prick, just because he is smart. But now you know better... and the more you get to learn about him, the more you want to see him, not just for tutor sessions.

He looks up from his textbook and you flinch back, ashamed for getting caught staring. How embarrassing. Quickly looking back down, you pretend to study, frantically scanning the unreadable letters painting on the page. You stiffen when you hear his voice. “Do you need help on anything?” he asks you. Even making his way around the table, you grow flustered when he bends down, platinum blond hair falling from his sides.

Not only is he smart, but he is beautiful.

He turns to look at you, inquiry coloring his features.

“Oh!” you force out, chuckling a little. “No... I’m okay for now-- thank you though.”

He nods, yet does not leave your side, with brows furrowing in deep thought. “Well, I need help on something. Do you mind?”

Albedo? Needing help? How strange. Did the world just flip upside down. You nod in response anyway, unsure whether or not you can actually help him.

“I can’t figure this out, but why do I feel so nervous around you?”

You pause, heart pounding so loudly against your chest you can hear nothing else. Did this mean...? He couldn’t possibly? But maybe you are too desperate not to voice out the suggestion. “Do you... like me?” you croak out. “Like... like like me?”

He does not respond for a moment, pondering long and hard about it. Eventually, he sits down on the chair next to you, nodding slightly. “I think I do. I like you [Y/N].”

Diluc

He is your bestfriend, your pillar, the one that has kept you true to yourself this entire school experience. No matter what, he is there for you, the one reliable person that hasn’t failed you once. And because he is that, you have grown to love him -- more than just a friend.

Your arm is hooked around the redhead’s broad shoulder, his soft locks tickling you. In that usual ponytail of his, you always admired his looks, for he could pull off long hair unlike most people. Scarlet hues are trained on you, listening intently to the story you are telling him.

Reaching your locker, you release your hold on him and begin to spin the locker combination. It clicks and unlocks and as you try to find a notebook, something else caught your eye. There, laying in the middle, is a delicately wrapped letter, accompanied by a lone rose. When did this get here? Blinking at it in confusion, you hesitantly take it, pulling at the silk that binded the thick paper together.

Dear [Y/N],

you are my best friend, but to tell you the truth, I’ve always longed more from you. Because I have feelings for you, and you only. No matter how many years has gone and come, it has never changed.

-Diluc

You turn to look at your best friend, disbelief coloring your expression. His head is downturn, his ears growing red in embarrassment. Holding tightly to the rose, you stand on your tippy toe to place a kiss on his cheek. “I have feelings for you too,” you breath out.

“You do?” he echoes, his face lighting up like a puppy, yet too awkward to make a move.

“I do.”

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schnitzelbutterfingers · 4 years ago

Text

The Forgotten One (Ethan Ramsey x F!MC)- CHAPTER 3

a/n: first, i wanna wish everyone a happy thanksgiving from my family to yours! please take the time to thank everyone you are so grateful to have in your life, especially god, for letting us live and for all the blessings he gives us. do not take anyone for granted.

next, so sorry for the holdup!! finally, chapter 3 is here! we’ll see what abby feels about the attack, her and ethan conversing, and a surprise ending. read, like, and let me know your reviews! forgive me if there are any spelling mistakes or grammar errors. let me know if you wanna be added to my taglist and as always, enjoy (ɔ◔‿◔)ɔ ♥

summary: Louise Ramsey, the mother of the famous, brilliant diagnostician Ethan Ramsey, is back into his life. However, Louise holds many secrets, dangerous secrets, that could harm him, Dr. Abigail ‘Abby’ Chacko (my MC), and the very few lives he actually cares about. It is up to Ethan, Abby, and their friends to save each other from what is about to come.

pairing(s): dr. ethan ramsey x f!mc (dr. abigail ‘abby’ chacko) || dr. sebastian chacko x dolores hudson (YES YOU READ THAT RIGHT)

warning(s): angst, and then it’s pure fluff, and then a surprise ending (you’re gonna die die dieeee :)))

word count: 4289

catch up here :)

______________________________________________________________

Abby’s POV

When she wakes up it is with a headache, a throat ache and side pain. When she looks more closely at her nose, she sees an oxygen tube through them. When she looks more closely at her surroundings, she realizes she is in a hospital bed.

Lying down. Wearing a sky blue hospital gown. With an IV through her accessory cephalic vein.

Jumping Jehoshaphat, what happened this time?

Abby spent many times in the hospital during her childhood. Most of them were due to the number of cuts and bruises she got from her father, in which some of them were very serious injuries. One time she was admitted to the hospital because...

No, Abby. Don’t relive through that phase. It’ll wound you more.

There are many types of pain. Many of her pains were physical, but some of her pains were emotional. By far, she can tell the emotional pain is the hardest to get over with.

Sure, she has been cut with a knife, raped by many of her father’s friends, and whipped with a belt. To her it was normal, and she had gotten used to it. To others, the pain is insufferable.

Heartbreak hurts. Too much. It can rip people from the inside out, and change them. For better or worse.

Her father caused her many heartbreaks. In return, she studies, skipped five grades, graduated from high school when she was 13, and graduated from Hopkins when she was 21. Some might say she took it too far, but she knows it was just what she needed.

What she needed to prove to her father that pain doesn’t break her.

What she needed to prove to her horrid patients that she is not dumb.

What she needed to prove to the whole world that she is not as young and innocent as everyone thinks she is.

Death, betrayal, and pain were her three companions, with some delectation in between. She cherished those jocund moments.

And she thanked God. Seb. Jazmin. Ethan. Herself. For all the hard work.

But what happened right now? Why is she in this bed?

It feels as if she has fallen into a cactus, her heart being punctured by tiny pins and needles. It’s starting at the bottom of her stomach, and it’s slowly growing.

The anxiety.

The depression.

It feels like some kind of vaccination, where the shot doesn’t really hurt but the aftermath feels disastrous, cataclysmic. It’s leaving her breathless, as if she is running away from a ghost from her past. It is leaving a certain kind of exhaustion on her.

It’s heartbreak. But why? Why does she feel heartbreak? What could have possibly gone wrong-

Everything. Everything is going wrong. Bingo. She knows what is happening. But she can’t even speak the name out loud. It’s petrifying her. Really well.

Louise Ramsey.

Ethan’s mother who claimed to come for him and Alan.

Louise Ramsey.

The one who tricked them, including her.

Louise Ramsey.

The one who stabbed her. The one who she trusted.

The one who she believed had a change of heart didn’t have a change of heart at all.

She fooled everyone. She’s a liar. She is manipulative. She is every dark sin written across this universe. She is the next generation of Sat-

Wait. Wait a long moment.

Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

How is Abby supposed to tell this to Ethan of all people? How is she supposed to let him know his own mother tried to harm her?

But she had to.

Moisture is falling from the tip of her index finger, even if the bed sheets feel cool. Sweat is dripping from her forehead, even if the hospital room is air conditioned. An imaginary shock travels through her body. The sharpness of the pain is unequivocal and indisputable that it sends shockwaves through her bloodstream. If it wasn’t for the bed, she would have crumpled to the floor.

She is currently holding the bed frame with a white-knuckled grip.

The young doctor scratched her arm nervously, mindful of the IV, as she let that horrifying memory fly through her.

Louise stabs her in the side, blood spilling to Abby’s legs and on the floor. She couldn’t say anything, words failing to come our of her mouth, every second making it harder to breather. She starts to lose consciousness, hearing the sounds of the patients in the room screaming for security.

Louise whispers into her ear, “The game has begun.”

The last thing she sees is Louise running towards the exit and nurses coming towards Abby, before her world evades into darkness.

That’s what happened. That’s why she’s in the hospital bed, feeling like crap.

That’s why she feels heartbreak, of all the emotions she can feel. She has heard of brother cheating on brother and father cheating on his wife. But a mother disowning her own husband and son, but then comes back only for her to clown them?

That goes all the way back to Rebekah and Jacob in the Old Testament of the Bible, if you ask me.

She is back to the question on how she is supposed to tell Ethan.

Does he know? If he knows, how does he feel? Does he feel depressed?

She sure hopes not.

When something happens to Abby, he always blamed on himself. Whether it was his fault or not. She reminisces on when Ethan apologized and was filled guilt when he found out about the trial.

Or when he came back from the Amazon. He didn’t really apologize for that, but the regret and remorse lurking beneath his eyes was the only thing she needed to know. To know that he was feeling guilt. Dismay. Lamentation.

Or when he opened up his bottled-up feelings concerning his mother. He said that he wasn’t planning on ‘dragging’ her into his mess.

Or when she was in that decontamination room. She remembers his words clearly, words that were etched into her heart.

I wished I hadn’t asked you to stay away.

Or now.

If he knows.

She knows what will happen if Ethan blames himself for this. He will be a different person. He will start becoming cold-hearted to people he cares about. He will push her away. Again.

Because he tends to believe that it is all his fault that accidents happen to the people he cherishes the most. He thinks that he is a curse. A malediction. An imprecation. She remembers the night when they connected for the first time. What he said.

This is The Ethan Ramsey. The man who can save anyone except the people he gives a damn about. Not Dolores. Not Naveen. And not you.

She was torn by what he said. Not because he said he couldn’t save her, but because he couldn’t love himself.

The young doctor hopes he already knows what happened. Who stabbed her. She couldn’t even bear the thought of seeing his face crumble. The man who was stoic. The man who every one recognized as an imbecile. The man who every single doctor is head-over-heels in love with.

Ethan told her to tell him everything. Everything that makes her angry. Everything that makes her sad. Everything that makes her happy.

If he doesn’t know what happened, she will tell him. She promised him that.

*Flashback*

It's normal for Abby to have a panic attack. Keeping her inhaler with her was vital for her to go through the day. Especially this week.

It’s been one week after the incident. That incident. That incident that took two innocent lives. Danny and Bobby. It’s all her fault.

If Danny was alive, him and Sienna would’ve been a couple, loving each other. Now, she sees a Sienna whose eyes are haunted. Grave. Not filled with any giddy or joy. She doesn’t see her smile anymore, the once blushed cheeks with her beautiful grin that shows off her dimples, gone. Lost. Thrown away.

If Bobby was alive, he could’ve bought his daughter the new car. It was what he always wanted to do. Instead of enjoying his time with his daughter in her brand new car, he’s under the cold earth.

Rafael is now going under therapy, but he also feels less confident from Rafael the paramedic. She misses the way he smiles. He does smile now, but there is no joy beneath his eyes.

And for Abby, she is not okay. She wishes she died. But she knows she couldn’t. There are people rooting for her. Her brother. Her mother. Her friends. Ethan. Ethan.

When she was informed that the gas in her body was maitotoxin and there was no cure, she accepted her fate and was ready to die. She glanced at Ethan, and his expression wasn’t betraying anything. But the eyes held more feelings than ever. They were pleading. They said, “Please don’t give up.”

She then realized that if they can find a cure within one day, she’ll try and survive. If not for me, then for Ethan and all the people I love, she thought.

Abby starts passing through that hallway. That one hallway. That one hallway that changed her life. No, that one room. And then, she passes through that room.

It’s clean, all the seals, the beds inside with new blankets and pillows. But she can’t see any of that. She can only see her, Rafael, Danny, and Bobby in that room. She sees Bobby dying. She sees Danny being taken away. She sees Rafael and herself being unable to breathe.

Suddenly she runs away. She can’t take it anymore. You stupid, why would you even come back to the hospital when you’re not ready yet? she scolds herself. Because of Farley. Damn it.

Abby is flooded by her own thoughts when she accidentally runs into someone.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I-”

Only to know that someone is the one.

She hears his baritone voice calling out to her, finding comfort and solace in it.

“Abby? What’s wrong? Are you alright?” Ethan wipes something off her cheeks, and she realized that she was crying the whole time. She was so lost in her emotions that she didn’t a single drop falling down to her right cheek.

“I-” The young doctor tries to speak but couldn’t. She can’t breathe.

“Rookie!” Ethan quickly drags her to the nearest supply closet. He asks her where her inhaler is.

“Left... pocket...”

He hastily grabs and places it into her mouth.

“Deep breaths, rookie. Deep breaths.”

She does as she is asked and takes deep breaths. After a few long moments, her breathing level starts to go normal.

“Rookie, you weren’t ready for your first day back, were you?”

Abby starts to argue. “Of course I am! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you panic attack right now seems to prove otherwise.”

She sighs. He’s right. She wasn’t even ready to set foot into the hospital. The only reason she did was because of Farley’s rash, and she thought it was life threatening.

Ethan sighs, breaking her from her thoughts.

“Go home, Abby, you’ve had a long day.”

Abby is about to snipe back when he stops her by raising his hand.

“On second thought, I’ll take you to my house. We’re gonna take a day off.”

“But Ethan, we both have patients-”

“Who will be taken care of by the other doctors in this hospital. If you think I’ll be leaving you anytime soon, you’re wrong.”

Hearing his words makes Abby feel lighthearted. She is stubborn just like him, but he’ll always be there for her.

After getting a confirmation and a wink from Naveen, they are in the car. It’s 1:00 P.M., and Abby sees couples sitting on the chairs in the outside booths of a restaurant, smiling, one couple holding hands. She dreams of these moments with Ethan, but their relationship is still uncertain.

The car stops at a red light, and she turns around to look at Ethan, who is lost in thought.

“Ethan, are you alright?” she asks him, concerned.

The mature doctor cracks a dry smile towards her. “I should be asking you that.”

“Ethan...”

“Abby... are you having suicidal thoughts?”

Abby was astounded by his question.

“Ethan! Why would you think that?”

“I’m just asking. If you ever feel that, come talk to me immediately. I can’t...”

It hit her on what Ethan was thinking about. He doesn’t want her to leave. As much as the question made her a little frustrated, she couldn’t help but think about what he was feeling throughout the whole ordeal n the decontamination room.

Abby takes a deep breath. “Ethan, I’m not suicidal. I never have been. I was just uncomfortable, that’s all.”

Ethan looks at her deeply into her eyes. She can literally feel him searching for any lies at her statement, his body relaxing when he didn’t find any.

When he stops the car, she realizes that they’re here. Before Abby can take off her seatbelt, Ethan’s hand on hers stops her from doing anything. She looks up with a questioning expression.

Ethan speaks in a very stern but concerned way. “If you ever have anything irritating or frustrating you-” he kisses her on the forehead.

“Anything that brings you pain-” He kisses her on the nose, making her scrunch it.

“Anything at all, that makes you want to cry out-” He kisses her on both cheeks.

“You come and tell me. Promise me” He finally kisses her on the lips.

As the final words come out from Ethan’s lips, she wonders about how she is so lucky to have him. Tears were burning in the back of her eyes, but this time, they were tears of gratefulness. To Ethan. For being her best friend. She cracks a smile.

“I promise.”

*Back to present*

“Hello? Ma’am? Doctor?” she is interrupted from her thoughts by a male nurse. When she checks his tag, his name is Caspian Chapman, and he has a light British accent. She hasn’t seen him before. Abby suddenly feels embarrassed. Who knows how many times, he called her like that.

“Hi, I am so sorry,” she says shyly. “I was lost in thought. Were you speaking to me this whole time?”

Caspian gives her a wide smile. “Nope! I just came in! My name is Caspian, and I will be your nurse! I am new here so...” he trails off.

The young resident laughs, despite the pain on her left side. “Haha, don’t worry! I’m not one of those Karens! Now tell me, how long will I be staying here?”

“From the stab wound you received, you will probably be admitted here for a week.”

Abby inwardly groans, wanting to just go home. Of course this would happen. Even if she’s disappointed by the news, she knows that it is vital for her to recover.

“So, did the stab wound affect my liver or...” she winces at her left side.

Caspian sighs. “You are correct. They brought you to surgery quickly, or who knows what would have happened.”

“Wait, how did you know I’m a doctor?”

Caspian smiles again. “Are you kidding me? You are Dr. Ethan Ramsey’s protege and in the diagnostics team! Not only that, you helped him save Dr. Naveen Banerji! You are also popular on Instagram. Anyone would kill to be in a spot and reputation like you.”

Her cheeks grow red.

“I suppose so...” she trails off.

The new male nurse speaks. “Anyways, I should let Dr. Ramsey, Dr. Banerji, and your family know that you are awake! They will be at relief.”

Wait, what? Ethan is here? Naveen is here? My family is here? They must’ve found out the harsh truth.

As Caspian turns to leave, Abby stops him. The nurse turns around.

“Yes? Is something the matter?”

“I just wanted to know if they knew who stabbed me.”

Caspian grimaces. “Yes, they are well aware. Do you not wish to speak to them?”

Oh no. Ethan knows. What will she do? Should she call in her family first? No Abby, he'll think that I’m mad at him! She inwardly slaps herself.

Okay, Abby, deep breaths. She took a deep breath, held it for three seconds, and exhaled.

“Can you do me a favor and call in Eth- Dr. Ramsey first?”

“I will,” he replies back.

______________________________________________________________

Ethan’s POV

He is terrified. Terrified to go and see her. Terrified to talk to her. But he has to. He has to let her know he loves her. He has to let her know that he can’t live without her. He feels a hand on his shoulder. Seb.

“Ethan, buddy, remember what I said. Tell her you love her. Make yourself happy. Make her happy. And she will never blame you for anything that happened. She’s a very reasonable girl.”

He looks into Seb’s eyes, and sees that there is something he didn’t tell him. Some kind of sadness, but there is happiness mixed in. He will find out later.

The older doctor turns around and sees the support written in their faces. Seb. Jazmin. Naveen. They are smiling broadly.

Naveen claps him on his back. “Now go get your woman, Ethan.”

Ethan smiles back. “Thank you, guys.”

He took a deep breath and opened the doors.

There she is. Abby. At once, she turned her head around, and at once, dusky brown met ocean blue. She looks tired, her body a little weak, but she still gives him a wide smile that sends his heart swooping forward. Oh, he has it bad.

“Ethan. Hey.” Abby welcomes him and pats at a seat on her bed. He, however, was hesitant to do so.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you...”

She rolls her eyes. “Ethan, I was stabbed, not hit by a truck. Now, be a good boy and sit on the bed.”

He does as he is asked, sitting on the edge, eyes never leaving hers. “How do you feel?”

“My side’s kinda sore, but I’ll survive... How are you?” she asks hesitantly.

“W-What do you mean?” he stutters. Ethan Ramsey never stutters.

“...I know who the perpetrator is, Ethan.” So she does know.

Before Ethan can say anything, Abby replies. “I know you are blaming yourself for what your mother did. But I will say it again and again until it gets through that smart head of yours. It’s not your fault, do you hear me?”

His eyes are shining with tears, his heart all the way up to his throat.

“Abby... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He blinks, and a droplet fails to stay in his eyes, escaping from the confinement.

The young resident suddenly sits up, wincing a little at the abrupt movement. Her eyes are full of alarm. “Ethan, c'mere.”

And he does. He hugs her tight, mindful of her side, his nose nuzzling his neck. Abby wraps her arms around him and strokes his hair. The motion gives him a sense of peace. His eyes drop a few more tears. I will tell her.

“Abby, I love you.” She tenses. Before she says anything, he cuts her off.

“No, Abby, please listen to me. I’ve loved you since the first day you’ve stepped foot into this hospital. I love how you’re always a colossal pain in my ass. I love how your eyes sparkle every time you hear good news. I love how your dimples pop up when you smile. I love how you bite your lip when you think about something. I love everything about you. Your courage. Your admiration. Your passion. I love you body. I love you face. And i now know, that I never want to let you go again.”

When Ethan pulls back and cups her face, he can see the tears glistening, failing to hold still and dropping down onto her cheeks. She half-sobs and half-laughs.

“Ethan, I love you, too.” And that is all he needs to hear.

He kisses her cold lips gently and pulls back, finding his sense of relief. She, in return, kisses his forehead. He promises to himself one thing: he’ll never let her go again.

______________________________________________________________

Seb’s POV

Seeing them crying of happiness makes him smile, his heart feeling elevated with joy. They deserve this joy. They both’ve been through a lot lately, and confessing their love for each other was their first step towards recovery.

“Psst! Seb!” Amma. Behind her is Naveen.

“How is it going there?”

The surgeon smiles triumphantly. “Our plan worked.”

Quiet cheers came out of their mouths.

“Finally!” Naveen sighs. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for months. Ethan’s too damn stubborn for his own good.”

Seb laughs quietly. “That he is.”

Amma scratches his wool sweater. He just realized the feeling of itch on his skin because of the wool. And he can’t wait to take it off. But they won’t be leaving Abby’s room for the next two days. Not him, at least.

“Will it be alright if we go in and interrupt them?” Amma asks hesitantly. “I have an urge to hug my daughter after the incident.’

“I am sure that will be alright.”

Amma knocks the door. After hearing an acknowledgment, all three of them walked in.

“Hi Ethan, is it alright if I hug my daughter? I do not mean to waste any of your-”

Ethan looks at her incredulously. “Why would you ask me if you want to hug your own daughter? I don’t mind at all.”

The famous doctor looks at Seb with a questioning look, who shrugs.

Mother rushes forward and hugs Abby carefully, sobbing as she kisses al of her face. The resident sighs.

“Amma, look at me.” Abby forces Jazmin’s face to her. “I. Am. Fine.”

“Sorry, Ladoo, your mother was just very worried when we got the call. I won’t try to cry, alright?”

The Chacko smiles easily. “now that’s what I wanted to hear from you. My Amma is strong.”

Abby sighs and looks at Seb and Naveen, smiling cheerily. “Who’s next in line for cuddles?”

Seb comes forward, finally at ease when he kisses her forehead gently. He hugs her as tight as he can, the injury preventing him for hugging her more.

“Please, for the love of Pete, please never scare us like that again.”

She laughs lightly and cuddles closer to him. “I’ll try not to.”

Seb looks up and sees Ethan with a light smile on his face. He finally feels light, free.

He then hears Jazmin’s stomach grumble lightly. Abby laughs hearing this. “Why did you guys not eat? All of you need to get food. Now.”

“I’m not gonna leave you this time around,” he replies.

Seb’s sister groans. “I knew you would say that.”

The surgeon has an idea. “How about I get all of us some burgers from a nearby restaurant? Since I doubt Ethan’s gonna like what he gets from the cafeteria.”

The famous attending shrugs and then grins easily. “You know me so well.”

“Only for you.”

Abby is on a strict water diet for two days, so he considers buying a cup of chocolate pudding for her. As he leaves the room, he sees Naveen hugging Abby, which brought some emotions to the Chacko. Naveen is like the father he never had before.

Seb is really joyous and filled with triumph at the love confessions between Abby and Ethan. He only wishes it could happen to him.

But it can’t. Because he lost the love of his life last year. Due to a seizure. While she was giving birth. All of their promises. All of their hopes and dreams. Gone. Forever

I miss her... I miss her a lot.

Suddenly, he hears a whistle. A familiar whistle. It sounds like her.

When she was alive, they used to whistle a lot. it was a form of their communication. The whistle that heard now was a way of saying, “Turn around.”

No, Seb, he thinks. You’re just letting yourself get too emotional. Stop hallucinating.

But then he hears it again. And it’s behind him. A little far away from him.

He’s afraid to turn around. He can’t move.

He forces himself to turn around, like the whistle had told him to.

And then he sees her. He sees her. He actually sees her.

No way, it can’t be... Suddenly, Seb speaks.

“...Dolores? Is that really you?”

She smiles. That smile. He missed that damn smile. Her face and hands are covered with small bruises.

And she talks. “Yeah, Seb. It’s me. Dolores Hudson. I’m alive. I really am.”

______________________________________________________________

Mystery Man’s POV

I give Louise some cash that she was looking forward to.

“Great, thanks!” she says with a smile.

“Anything for my wife,” I reply, with an emphasis on the word ‘wife’.

She rolls her eyes. “Ugh, don’t call me that. I married you to destroy them, not to love you. Now where’s that manicure you promised?”

Louise is annoying as hell. Sometimes I wonder how her former husband Alan dealt with her. What a man, I think.

She gives me a mischievous grin. “Now give me a kiss.”

I groan, and I quickly give her a kiss, not wanting it to last for long.

Then, I feel a vibration in my pocket. It’s my phone. I pick it up.

It’s one of my guards. And I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I bark him an order. Blood rushes through my veins, and for the first time in a long time, I feel fear.

I hang up the phone and look at Louise, whose eyes held confusion. I decide to answer her questioning glance.

“Missing captive alert. Dolores Hudson has escaped.”

______________________________________________________________

a/n 2: hope you liked that ending!

a/n 3: i know dolores died of a seizure while under an emergency c-section, but in this au, i refuse to believe so :)

tags:@missmiimiie @aylamwrites @starrystarrytrouble @udishaman @caseyvalentineramsey @queencarb @choicesstan1 @newcolonies @arcticrivers @angela8756 @takemyopenheart @rookie-ramsey @ohchoices @ohvamsey @ohramsey @natureblooms24 @drariellevalentine @maurine07 @lucy-268 @thanialis

@openheartfanfics

@choicesficwriterscreations

#pixelberry choices #choices stories you play #open heart #open heart choices #pixelberry #pixelberry open heart #ethan ramsey #playchoices #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan ramsey fanfiction

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thedeviltohisangel · 4 years ago

Text

In The Air Tonight//1

She cherished her new last name. Cherished the memory of Bruce offering it to her. The memory of receiving it. Physically shedding the past and embracing her future. One filled with love and warmth and all of the things she had been raised to never want or need. But Bruce didn’t mind that she kept certain pieces of her old self intact. The pieces of her that enjoyed thrills and excitement and was addicted to adrenaline and walking the line between life and death.

masterlist is my url/writing

send me your thoughts on these two and what you want to see next

She was seething and he could tell. Felt it rolling off of her in waves every time he walked passed. It wasn’t that it was hard to keep her happy. It was just hard to keep her still.

“Would you mind at least trying to smile?” he asked gently as he completed another lap of socializing.

“No. It would look worse than my scowl.” He hummed and took another sip of his champagne.

“How can I make it better?” Over the years, Bruce had come to pride himself in his ability to discern what was bothering her. To figure it out and make it better in a way that left others amazed. It always made Alfred smile to watch the familiar intimacy that the two had built over time.

“Unfortunately, you can’t. It’s just one of those days.” They were few and far between ever since she had met him but they never disappeared. He reached down and gave her hand a light squeeze. Sometimes his affection was too much for her on these days. But she still needed to know he was there and understood and ready whenever she was. “Maybe...maybe even a solo kind of night.” She said it with no hint of her previous angst around the edges.

“Is that why it’s one of those days?” The date wasn’t lost on him. To Bruce there were happy dates he kept locked in his head. The day he met her. The day she married him. Her birthday. Alfred’s birthday. And then there were those that were melancholy. The date of his parent’s death. When he first donned the suit. When Wayne Manor burned down. But in the dark recesses of his mind were two dates he wished he could erase. Today was one year since Emilia had dove off the side of a building thinking she was following Catwoman. But it had been an illusion. He didn’t like thinking about it. About the way her body was mangled when he found her. The way his hands shook as he tried to assist Alfred. The way his tears stained her bandages as he cried and prayed and screamed for the days following.

“Yes,” she choked out as she blinked away the tears as she worked through the same memories that he had.

“Then you go solo tonight.” His eyes were molten as they landed on her. Bruce had worked hard to shove away the overbearing nature that he wanted to inhabit. He had sworn at her bedside that she would never leave the Manor again. That she could work with Alfred from the cave every night. Had fooled himself into thinking he could force her into becoming a housewife. He should have known the woman who gritted her teeth at the envelopes addressed to Mr. & Mrs. Bruce Wayne would never allow herself to be sheltered away.

“I love you, Bruce,” she whispered as she allowed herself to indulge with a kiss.

“I love you even more,” he whispered back, his hand coming to the back of her head so she couldn’t drift far and could kiss him again.

“Mr. Wayne, it’s unfair to keep such a beauty hidden away from the rest of us.” They were pulled from their cocoon by a party goer. Someone who did contract work with Wayne Enterprise she thinks.

“Sometimes we need a moment of solace from all the...revelers,” she said with the fake smile Bruce had asked her to put on earlier. There were some other words she would have preferred to label the party guests at but that wouldn’t have been very polite.

“May I steal you for a dance, Mrs.Wayne?”

“Actually, I-” Bruce started, stepping in to save her from her least favorite activity on a good day.

“This is one of my favorite songs, Mr. Irwin. You picked the perfect time to ask.” She returned the favor, squeezing Bruce’s hand before taking the other man’s arm and letting him lead her to the center of the dance floor. It wasn’t the first time, and certainly not the last time, that Bruce thought about how little he deserved someone like her in his life. Let alone as his wife. He watched her sway and spin and laugh while the entire room watched her. No one except him knew the true pain that was underneath her smile. Hidden in the polite conversation she was making. Needing to be mended over before she broke.

“Mrs. Wayne-”

“Emilia. Please.” She cherished her new last name. Cherished the memory of Bruce offering it to her. The memory of receiving it. Physically shedding the past and embracing her future. One filled with love and warmth and all of the things she had been raised to never want or need. But Bruce didn’t mind that she kept certain pieces of her old self intact. The pieces of her that enjoyed thrills and excitement and was addicted to adrenaline and walking the line between life and death.

“My apologies. Emilia, how does a man like Bruce Wayne snag himself such a fierce companion?” She smirked. It was a question they were asked often. The billionaire could have picked any beautiful girl he wanted. One who would devote herself to being a housewife. Drape herself in jewels and over his lap at every event. Have her legs spread for him once he got home. And understand that once her beauty faded, he would turn her in for a newer model.

“He earns her.” But instead of all of that, Bruce had found her. Found her in the mountains. He thought the League kept her around for her beauty. Assumed she was some sort of concubine for al Ghul. Brutally, he learned otherwise.

“Is that the secret?”

“It is no secret. Shouldn’t we all prove ourselves worthy of the companion we seek? Whether it be through physical gestures or emotional connection?” She supposes he got his wife through material gifts. How dreadful.

“Excuse me, but I believe this is our song.”

“Is mind reading another skill you’ve happened to pick up lately?” Emilia smiled genuinely as her husband spun her in a grand circle and pulled her so close she thought they might become one.

“Can only read yours.”

“Well, you have my gratitude.”

“Yeah?” She recognized the glint to his eyes instantly, his hand sliding further down her back.

“Even though coming with you on your plane that day means speaking to strangers and laughing at things that are not funny, I would not take back a single moment.”

“Even the bloody ones?” His tone was softer as his words got more serious. Bruce couldn’t deny that her being with him brought her danger even if she was more than capable of defending herself in the face of it. You never wanted to be the reason your loved ones had sadness behind their eyes. Normally, she was a rock. With and without the mask. You’d never know she was human under all her stoicism. He never wanted to, or felt he needed to, treat her like she was made of glass. He was honest and blunt and didn’t pull his punches when they sparred on the weekends. Maybe he should stop assuming her strength.

“If I was not bloody with you then I would be bloody alone. I much prefer the company.” She smiled up at him and it felt like only the two of them were in the room. Her life was always complicated and always would be. Being with Bruce Wayne wasn’t the reason for her tumultuous inner thoughts or nightmares. They were a part of her. Having him brought more light. Chased some of the dark corners away.

“Look in the sky!”

“I wonder what’s going on!”

“Someone get Jim Gordon on the phone!” They both looked in the direction of the pointed fingers and saw The Bat Signal in the sky. Emilia turned back to say goodbye to her husband and assume her position as host, Mrs. Wayne.

“Go.” Her face transformed into shock as the word came out of Bruce’s mouth.

“But-”

“We agreed you’d go solo tonight. Nothing changes that.”

“Bruce, that signal means you and all these people-”

“Will be politely asked to leave as soon as possible.” She kissed him with a newfound exhilaration. “Now go. Alfred will be your eyes and ears until I can get down there.” After indulging with one more kiss, Emilia walked out of the gala before picking up her pace towards the library. Her fingers found the three keys with ease and she slipped behind the bookshelf as quiet as a mouse.

“Evening, Mrs. Wayne.”

“Evening, Alfred. What am I running into?” She started shedding her dress and jewelry as the butler pressed a button and a clear wardrobe rose from the water.

“Bank robbery with hostages.”

“Normal robbers or are they in clown masks? Exploding penguins? Riddles?” Nothing was ever simple in Gotham. She had learned quickly that everyone had a gimmick.

“Not yet,” he replied. “Is Master Wayne joining you tonight?”

“No, Alfred, we have guests.”

“How’s it going? She complete recon yet?” Alfred looked to his left as Bruce came jogging into the cave. He was undoing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves, out of breath from his hustle to dismiss the attendees and workers so he could make it down to the southeast corner.

“Yes. I’m not that slow,” she teased over the speakers.

“How many? What kind of weapons? The hostages-”

“Bruce. I’ll cut off comms if you don’t breathe and keep quiet.” He dropped his head and stayed quiet so she knew he had heard and would obey. But Alfred noticed the slight tremor to his hands, the way he was tapping the ground with his foot.

“Why did you agree if you were going to kill yourself with worries, Master Wayne?” he asked as he pressed the button to mute their microphone.

“The way she was looking at me, Alfred...I…”

“Love leaves us powerless sometimes. Particularly when faced by the person we give it to.”

“4 hostiles, 20 hostages. 2 of them children.”

“Weapons?”

“Fully automatic. Be home in time for a sudsy shower, don’t worry.” Bruce didn’t even have time to apologize to Alfred before she was throwing a stun grenade and gracefully falling from the window of the bank. She appeared to the goons in flashes. Gone before they had a chance to get their bearings on her appearance. She took down two before the effects of surprise wore off, the third leveling his gun at her and the fourth at a hostage.

“Alright, Mrs. Batshit, you pick your life or the boy’s.”

“Shoot me.” Bruce had been silent, doing his best to relax, but her words startled him slightly. He had seen her get out of the most dire of situations but she was standing perfectly relaxed, the gun leveled at point blank range. “Pull the trigger.” And he did. And nothing happened.

“She counts her bullets well, doesn’t she?” Alfred mentioned with a jovial smile.

“Need her to start counting my lives,” Bruce replied as he exhaled. Emilia used their moment of confusion to toss a dagger behind her, piercing the the hand of the final hostile and letting the child break free as he howled in agony. Her leg kicked high and knocked the gun from the one who was planning to shoot her, her fist following him to the ground and succeeding in knocking him out. She turned to finish the fourth but saw he was on his knees as if he was waiting for her. As if he was bowing to her. “What’s this?” Bruce muttered as he pressed to turn up the volume.

“I am honored to be in your presence, my Lady.”

“Remove your mask.” It wasn’t a thug as she had been expecting. But rather a woman. One she knew well. One even she feared. “Shiva.”

“I’ve come to bring you home.” Bruce had many questions as he watched the moment unfold in front of him and had to bite his tongue to prevent them all from tumbling out.

“And if this is my home?” Emilia asked, her hand moving to grip the bo staff that was strapped to her back. Shiva wasn’t who they sent to negotiate. Not with her words anyways.

“Then you know what I must do.” It was at that moment the police breached the bank and their guns were pointed at the two of them.

“Emilia, get out of there!” Bruce called out as her and Shiva seemed in no rush to move from their current positions.

“I look forward to our next encounter, my Lady. Being responsible for your only defeat has taken me far.” It was meant to anger her and would have succeeded in initiating their next death match if it wasn’t for Bruce calling out in her ear. Emilia grappled up through the skylight and out of sight before anyone knew any better.

“Get me everything you can possibly find on that woman, Alfred.”

“Yes, sir. What do you think this means?”

“The past has come for her. And they aren’t taking her.”

#bruce wayne #batman #bruce wayne fanfiction #batman fanfiction #christian bale #ben affleck #robert pattinson #batman begins #the dark knight #the dark knight rises

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hljkr · 5 years ago

Text

♤Red Lips | Ledger!Joker

red lips | ledger!joker

suspect(s): joker x reader

the crime committed: enamoured and charmed, moonlit late-night endeavours that were passionate with entwined bodies and intense orgasms. but there was just one thing missing from it all...

evidence: a lil’ swearing, titty grabbing, mentions of genitalia, suggested smut, intense kithes, joker’s kinda needy so ;))))), daddy kink, low key glove kink because I HAD to, y/n has a thing for scars and joker’s face (who doesn’t??), a like... pinch of angst??

- i had to do it to ‘em

(ok i really tried with this and by that i mean i spent a few hours on it with lousy editing buT this is my first time writing anything even slightly suggestive and with j so i hope this isn’t too bad??? just enjoy it ig djdshds)

Bunching the soft material of the blanket closer to your face, you let out a muffled whine as the insistent ringing of your annoying alarm clock rattled your eardrums and pulled you back down into reality and into a saddening state of consciousness. A shitty way to start the day after a blissful night only a few hours before. Last night had taken its toll on you physically, the bruises decorating your skin and scratch marks adorning your body were evidence enough but you loved and cherished every single one of them. Sighing contentedly, you thought over how amazing it was to be fucked into submission by the love and joy of your life, although he’d never explicitly ever put such a label on you. Even then, the sex was proof enough that he harboured some kind of feelings for you and that was enough to satiate your rapidly growing obsession with the killer clown all of Gotham feared.

Maybe falling in love with the mad man was a mistake, maybe he wasn’t good for you as all the city loved to preach. But who were they to ever have a say? They would never know him like you did, but admittedly even your knowledge of him was limited to what time he woke up and what time he returned. He’d never told you his name, would refuse to remove his protective layer of greasepaint no matter how much you begged and even his age was unanswered for. But what you did know was that he was your J and you’d do anything for him.

Nearly everything for him.

J was a complex and interesting person- his mannerisms and body language always screamed one thing only in the public eye but with you, he was (slightly) more careful, more passionate and while in front of everyone else he’d never be caught dead acting this way but with you, he was generous in multiple ways many could never even imagine him being. You considered yourself privileged to know the criminal mastermind of the city had a soft spot for you. And although you barely knew him, you weren’t afraid to be vulnerable with him. You’d gladly let him into your life and indulged him in your past and your secrets and gifted him your heart as well. But there was one thing that you could never deal with, and it was his lips.

The scars were gorgeous in your eyes, they only added to his already attractive appearance and made your heart leap from even looking at them. You loved to gently trace your fingertips over the smooth faded lines gracing his cheeks while he was resting, admiring them and have pride seep into your chest knowing how strong and resilient he was going through something so obviously traumatic and not allowing it to stop him from doing anything he wanted. But you didn’t lie to yourself, the things he wanted were questionable but you didn’t let it get the best of you. Being intimate with the green-haired clown, the sight of his scars made your arousal and lust for him reach heights you’d never experienced with any ordinary guy. His entire physique had you on your knees for him every day of the week without a fail.

But his lips, covered in the hauntingly familiar red paint that made you shiver at the thought of even touching with your lips. The amount he licked his lips in a day smudged and moistened the paint to a slimy consistency and it made shivers travel down your back. It made you weak in the knees in the worst way possible. For this reason, you absolutely refused to kiss him. And because of this rule, J was not a happy camper.

♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎

“Come on doll, why don’t you give your-a, J a little kiss?” The Joker cocked his eyebrow, staring down at you from the doorway as you absentmindedly flipped through the TV channels trying to figure out what to watch.

“Because it’s nasty, all your shitty paint is sweaty and wet and your lips are probably slimy from how much you lick them,” you scrunched your nose at the thought of it, shaking your head as you turned to face in his direction. He was visibly unamused and rolled his eyes.

“You're being drama-tic,” he groaned, adjusting his infamous purple coat and stalking towards you, “It’s just a little peck, princess, would it kill ya to show me a little loving?”

“Yes.”

Glaring into his empty eyes, you rose from your spot on the bed and stood in front of him. Your arms were crossed to try attempt to stand your ground, hoping that your stance would make him back down slightly. But this was J you were talking about and your sanguine theory was quickly disproven. Rolling his eyes, his hands immediately circled your waist and pulled you flush against his body. His sturdy chest was pressed against yours, allowing you to feel his steady heartbeat while yours was embarrassingly pounding out of your chest.

“Mmm, come on, doll,” his face was drawing closer to yours, sweat beginning to build up from the nerves. You’d probably fucked a million times and sucked his dick twice that, but kissing felt like a whole other... unpleasant territory.

“J,” you whispered, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth as you carefully considered your options. From close up, the red greasepaint seemed even more gooey and sticky and you visibly winced. There was no way you were going to kiss him, not with that mess all over his mouth.

Pressing a hand against his chest, you gently pushed him back. It was far enough for him to be an inch or two away from you. Unwinding his muscular arms from around your weaker body, you turned towards the door before looking back at him and giving him a sultry stare, “if your scars are anything to go by, you’re sexier without the greasepaint... just saying.”

♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎

A few days later, you were leaning against your kitchen counter and in desperate need of caffeine. Dumping the heaped spoon of coffee grounds into your mug, you idly stirred the drink as you peered around your home. It had been a while since you stayed the night at your house, mainly deciding to spend your days and nights with Joker wherever he decided to spend his time. This time, he’d insisted you stayed at your own place due to some stupid bank heist he was planning with his thugs and explained that ‘he wouldn’t tolerate any distractions.’

Sighing in boredom, you picked up the mug by the handle and carefully waddled over to your couch. Placing the cup onto your coffee table, you plopped down onto the couch and kicked your feet up onto the armrest. The first thing you did was turn the TV on, instantly turning to the news channel to see if J had been true to his word the previous night.

“We have just received reports of another one of The Joker’s-”

Scoffing in disbelief, you pulled yourself up on the couch before turning to another channel- not wanting to listen to how J had lied to you about his escapades only a few hours earlier. Whenever you saw him next you were determined to give him a piece of your mind, you decided. Bringing the boiling hot beverage up to your lips, you gulped down the caffeine that scorched your tongue and burned your throat as it trickled down into your stomach.

It wasn’t any secret, you despised J’s criminal ways and his cunning schemes and all the bad things he loved. You would never force him to stop, your main concern his safety and the thought of him teasing you with his gun and the thought of the sensation of his cool knife brushing against your skin made you hot and bothered. He was quick to calm your doubts and worries, reassuring you that the evil genius could never be killed or caught for long because he always had you to come back to.

Unfortunately, due to him knowing your qualms he tended to lie about his whereabouts to purge you of sleepless nights and restless days spent brooding over him.

“Asshole,” you whispered under your breath, going to take another big mouthful of the drink when it was promptly slapped out of your gasp and tumbled onto the carpet. It narrowly avoided your couch and was a hairs width of coming in contact with your skin.

“You-a, know you love me, Doll,” J’s rough dark voice came from behind you, every hair on your body standing on end as the reality of the situation dawned on you as your back straightened up in fear, “maybe a kiss will-a, make me feel better after you were so rude to Daddy.”

Breath hitching at his creative choice of wording, your core tingled from the excitement his words brought you. Nervously biting your bottom lip between your teeth, you froze as you felt J’s gloved hand sneak around to your front and rest just above your tits. The promise of his hands hidden behind purple leather touching you made you squirm in your seat. The delicious mix of fear and elation you felt began to cloud your better judgement, knowing deep down you should confront him about what he said but wanting to allow yourself to get carried away with him.

“A kiss? Nothing else?” you softly spoke, turning to face him with half-lidded eyes and an intense fire burning in your gut. Your eyes went to his at first, slowly analysing the rest of his features. The change didn’t register with you at first, your desire fogging your mind and didn’t allow you to see past the image of the regular J you were accustomed to.

“Is my-a, face as sexy as you imaged, Doll?”

Confusion coated your face, eyes frantically wandering around before they widened in awe at the tantalizing sight presented in front of you. His usual white and red paint had been wiped away, small traces of his black eye rimming paint remaining. He was understandably in a rush on his way to your place, but you looked past that as you took in the face of the person you loved.

Crashing his lips against yours, his chapped lips moved with vigour as he swallowed your needy whines and moans that sent heat to his hardening cock. His hand dropped and squeezed your breast painfully hard, but it made a gush of wetness leak from your deprived pussy. Twisting your erect nipple between his fingers, he pressed harder against your plump lips and easily coaxed out more sweet noises from your swollen lips.

“Fuck,” you gasped, hands lifting to grasp his green strands of hair and tugging hard on them, relishing in the grunt he lets out from the sapid stimulation. You felt like putty in his hands, ready to do anything he wanted just to please him. You wanted to ride his cock and see stars, satisfy him in ways that would have him cumming in seconds. And now without that muck coating his lips, your swollen pussy and kissable pink lips were more than willing to give him everything.

“On-a, all fours with your ass in the air, Princess. Daddy wants to have a little fun with his little girl before he-a, has to get back to work.”

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the-end-of-art · 4 years ago

Text

No wonder our communities seem organized to keep suffering at a distance

“The Interruptions are my work” by Henri Nouwen

(Henri Nouwen—Turn My Mourning into Dancing, p. 5-11)

When I came to Daybreak, the community of ministry to disable people where I have been pastor, I was experiencing a great deal of personal pain. My many years in the world of academics, my travels among the poor in Central America, and later, my speaking around the world about what I had seen, left me deflated. My schedule kept me running hard and fast. Rather than providing an escape from my own inner conflicts, my scurrying from speaking engagement to speaking engagement only intensified my inner turmoil. And because of my schedule, I could not fully face my pain. I carried on with the illusion that I was in control, that I could avoid what I did not want to face within myself and in the world around me.

But when I arrived, I witnessed the enormous suffering of the mentally and physically handicapped persons living here. I came gradually to see my painful problems in a new light. I realised they formed part of a much larger suffering. And I found through that insight new energy to live amid my own hardship and pain.

I realised that healing begins with our taking our pain out of its diabolic isolation and seeing that whatever we suffer, we suffer it in communion with all of humanity, and yes, all of creation. In so doing, we become participants in the great battle against the powers of darkness. Our little lives participate in something larger.

I also found something else here: people asking not so much “How can I get rid of my suffering?” but “How can I make it an occasion for growth and insight?” Among these people, most of whom cannot read, many of whom cannot care for themselves, among men and women rejected by a world that values only the whole and bright and healthy, I saw people learning how to make the connection between human suffering and God’s suffering. They helped me to see how the way through suffering is not to deny it, but to live fully in the midst of it. They were asking how they could turn pain from a long interruption into an opportunity.

How do we make such connection ourselves? How do we make this shift from evading our pain to asking God to redeem and make good use of it?

An early step in the dance sounds very simple, though often will not come easily: We are called to grieve our losses. It seems paradoxical, but healing and dancing begin with looking squarely at what causes us pain. We face the secret losses that have paralysed us and kept us imprisoned in denial or shame or guilt. We do not nurse the illusion that we can hopscotch our way through difficulties. For by trying to hide parts of our story from God’s eye and our own consciousness, we become judges of our own past. We limit divine mercy to our human fears. Our efforts to disconnect ourselves from our own suffering, end up disconnecting our suffering from God’s suffering for us. The way out of our loss and hurt is in and through. When Jesus said, “For I have come to call not the righteous but sinners” (Matthew 9:13), He affirmed that only those who can face their wounded condition can be available for healing and enter a new way of living.

Sometimes we need to ask ourselves just what our losses are. Doing so reminds us how real the experience of loss is. Perhaps you know what it is to have a parent die. How well I remember the grief I felt after my mother’s illness and death. We may experience the death of a child or of friends. And we lose people, sometimes just as painfully, through misunderstanding, conflict, or anger. I may expect a friend to visit, but he does not come. I speak to a group and expect a warm reception but no one really seems to respond. Someone may take from us a job, a career, a good name.

We may watch hopes flicker through growing infirmity, or dreams vanish through the betrayal of someone we trusted for along time. A family member may walk out in anger and we wonder if we have failed. Sometimes our sense of loss feels large indeed: I read the newspaper and find things only worse than the day before. Our souls grow sad because of poverty or the destruction of so much natural beauty in our world. And we may lose meaning in our lives, not only because our hearts become tired, but also because someone ridicules long-cherished ways of thinking and praying. Our convictions suddenly seem old-fashioned, unnecessary. Even our faith seems shaky. Such are the potential disappointments of any life.

Typically we see such hardship as an obstacle to what we think we should be—healthy, good-looking, free of discomfort. We consider suffering as annoying at best, meaningless at worst. We strive to get rid of our pains in whatever way we can. A part of us prefers the illusion that our losses are not real, that they come only as temporary interruptions. We thereby expend much energy in denial. “They should not prevent us from holding on to the real thing,” we say to ourselves.

Several temptations feed this denial. Our incessant busyness, for example, becomes a way to escape what must some days be confronted. The world in which we live lies in the power of the Evil One, and the Evil One would prefer to distract us and fill every little space with things to do, people to meet, business to accomplish, products to be made. He does not allow any space for genuine grief and mourning. Our busyness becomes a curse, even while we think it provides us with relief from the pain inside. Our over packed lives serve only to keep us from facing the inevitable difficulty that we all, at some time or another, must face.

The voice of evil also tries to tempt us to put on an invincible front. Words such as vulnerability, letting go, surrendering, crying, mourning, and grief are not to be found in the devil’s dictionary. Someone once said to me, “Never show your weakness, for you will be used; never be vulnerable, for you will get hurt; never depend on others, for you will lose your freedom.” This might sound very wise, but it does not echo the voice of wisdom. It mimics a world that wants us to respect without question the social boundaries and compulsions that our society has defined for us.

Facing our losses also means avoiding a temptation to see life as an exercise in having needs met. We are needy people, of course: We want attention, affection, influence, power. And our needs seem never to be satisfied. Even altruistic actions can get tangled with these needs. Then, when people or circumstances do not fulfil all of our needs, we withdraw or lash out. We nurse our wounded spirits. And we become even needier. We crave easy assurances, ignoring anything that would suggest another way.

We also like easy victories: growth without crisis, healing without pains, the resurrection without the cross. No wonder we enjoy watching parades and shouting out to returning heroes, miracle workers, and record breakers. No wonder our communities seem organised to keep suffering at a distance: People are buried in ways that shroud death with euphemism and ornate furnishings. Institutions hide away the mentally ill and criminal offenders in a continuing denial that they belong to the human family. Even our daily customs lead us to cloak our feelings and speak politely through clenched teeth and prevent honest, healing confrontation. Friendships become superficial and temporary.

The way of Jesus looks very different. While Jesus brought great comfort and came with kind words and a healing touch, He did not come to take all our pains away. Jesus entered into Jerusalem in His last days on a donkey, like a clown at a parade. This was His way of reminding us that we fool ourselves when we insist on easy victories. When we think we can succeed in cloaking what ails us and our times in pleasantness. Much that is worthwhile comes only through confrontation.

The way from Palm Sunday to is the patient way, the suffering way. Indeed, our word patience comes from the ancient root patior, “to suffer.” To learn patience is not to rebel against every hardship. For if we insist on continuing to cover our pains with easy “Hosannas,” we run the risk of losing our patience. We are likely to become bitter and cynical or violent and aggressive when the shallowness of the easy way wears through.

Instead, Christ invites us to remain in touch with the many suffering of every day and to taste the beginning of hope and new life right there, where we live amid our hurts and pains and brokenness. By observing His life, His followers discover that when all of the crowd’s “Hosannas” had fallen silent, when disciples and friends had left Him, and after Jesus cried out, “My God, my God why have you forsaken Me?” then it was the Son of Man rose from death. Then He broke through the chains of death and became Saviour. That is the patient way, slowly leading me from easy triumph to the hard victory.

I am less likely to deny my suffering when I learn how God uses it to mould me and draw me closer to Him. I will be less likely to see my pains as interruptions to my plans and more able to see them as the means for God to make me ready to receive Him. I let Christ live near my hurts and distractions.

I remember an old priest who one day said to me, “I have always been complaining that my work was constantly interrupted; then I realised that the interruptions were my work.” The unpleasant things, the hard moments, the unexpected setbacks carry more potential than we usually realise. For the movement from Palm Sunday to Easter takes us from the easy victory built on small dreams and illusions to the hard victory offered by God who wants to purify us by His patient, caring hand.

As I learned from my friends at Daybreak, at the center of our Christian faith we perceive a God who took on Himself the burden of the entire world. Suffering invites us to place our hurts in larger hands. In Christ we see God suffering—for us. And calling us to share in God’s suffering love for a hurting world. The small and even overpowering pains of our lives are intimately connected with the greater pains of Christ. Our daily sorrows are anchored in a greater sorrow and therefore a larger hope. Absolutely nothing in our lives lies outside the realm of God’s judgement and mercy.

#henri nouwen #mourning #grief #pain #loss #covid #coronavirus #covid-19 #pandemic #Christ #God #Jesus #love #suffering

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bevpegs · 5 years ago

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31: New Year’s Kiss

sorry i haven’t posted any more of the ficmas stuff lol. i’ve been so busy sometimes i forgot to write it all together. anyway this is Sad and i’m sorry but i’ve been dwelling on this particular angst topic for ages aldasldghasdh.

read it on ao3

word count: 1998 | posted DEC 31 2019

New Year’s in Derry wasn’t different from anywhere else. The kids all piled into the Hanlon’s barn, the empty old one full of rusting, dying farm equipment. They’d go treasure hunting in there sometimes, pulling up relics from the farm’s past, from the town’s history.

Those kids had reputations. They were soft with one another, all caresses and forehead kisses, because their parents… well, their parents weren’t. Even the Kaspbrak boy, who hated being called small or delicate, was soft with those kids. His gaze turned to them and became all soft edges and little smiles, big eyes and freckles. It was easy to see why Sonia kept him hidden away, tried to keep him under her thumb. He was like one of those puppies you get for Christmas, the ones that quickly outgrow your twelve-year-old’s patience. Eddie couldn’t be brought back to the pound, though, so he got drunk at the old Hanlon barn in the middle of nowhere, where he could scream and run and nobody would stop him.

The Marsh girl supplied them with alcohol. She was a charmer, but the only boys she ever fell for in return were those boys. The only ones who didn’t treat her like anything but something to be cherished. The only ones who didn’t suffocate her. The ones who lifted her up, higher and higher and higher, away from the clutches of Al Marsh, away from the stares and the sneers that awaited girls in that town. Bev loved them, unendingly, with the fire that nobody else could see in her. They all knew that she was their core, the thing they twisted around and bent to. She was the moon, and they all were the tide, and the crops, and the people that worshipped her.

The Denbrough boy soaked up all the attention he could get. Never got any at home, not since his brother, well. You know. He got the most drunk, the quickest, and threw up in the bushes, then drank some more to get the taste out of his mouth. He never was the same, after that summer. It’s a shame, seeing bright children go to waste like that. He could write, though. Where the others could see things effortlessly, like the way the branches of a tree could weave together to make a roof, he saw words. He saw stories, or he had them in his chest. They brought him up to the stars, too, because they were the only ones who would pick them for him like apples from a tree. It’d be easy, for them, if they did it at his request. They would do anything for him. Well, they’d do anything for each other. But they followed Bill wherever he went, wherever he wandered, no matter how dangerous or doomed or ill-conceived.

Hanscom, that kid with the single mother, he was never outspoken. He was always quiet, always last place, but he worked hard. He was earnest, he was kind, and gentle, and everything none of the others ever expected a man to be. They all knew men as filthy, snarling beasts with slurs on the tips of their tongue, but Ben held their hands and rubbed their shoulders and wrote them poems, got them flowers. Never raised his voice at them, or hit them, always asked before he kissed and kept secrets as faithfully as a dog. He ran with Eddie, both of them trying to outrun something they never could. He rarely got as excited, as hyper as Eddie, but they were both dancing in circles around the other Losers in the frigid December air, howling to the wind. Successfully outrunning whatever they were trying to, at least for the night.

Tozier howled too, something wild overcoming him as the cycle worked closer to the ending and then, the beginning. He didn’t run, too long-limbed to be any good at it. His glasses had been long-lost, he was too drunk to really know the difference anyway. They--the kids--mellowed him out, ran his energy thin. Mike’s hand on his arm, a sideways glance from Bev, a kiss from Eddie were the only things that ever got him to stop talking. He danced, though, with the Marsh girl, breathless and pressed together. He was all straight lines, physically, but everything else about him was crooked and looped and broken. He’d crash and spend the night in the center of the circle, the way those kids slept together, pressed against one another, holding someone in the middle. Richie would be the one tonight, after he started gasping from cold and everyone realized he was crying.

Uris was curled up against Hanlon, on top of a pile of filthy hay with a blanket laid over top. They were mellow, watching with half-open eyes as the others danced and sang and screamed. Stan wasn’t usually calm, but there was something about the others that made him think it would all be okay. He was all nerves, afraid of his own shadow. Who knows--maybe he did have something real to fear. His father never seemed to think so, but Stan knew better. There were plenty of things to be afraid of when he wasn’t pressed up against Mike, when he wasn’t watching Eddie and Ben chase each other with sparklers. He had so much to fear. Eddie’s mom, and Bev’s future, when she’d be pulled from the town like a healthy tooth from a mouth. Richie’s instability, Ben’s insecurity. Bill’s neglect. When they were worried, they came to Stan, because Stan would tell them everything would be okay in the most certain of terms, even when Stan didn’t believe it himself.

Mike was the thing that kept them all together. If Bev was the core, Mike was the gravity holding everything to the core, keeping them packed so tightly together that nobody could pry them apart. He was the warmest, so when they were cold, they would reach out and ask for his hands against their fingers, their nose, their ears. Mike would oblige, in return for a kiss. They wouldn’t hesitate to deliver. Mike hated to see things in pain. He hated the screaming of the newborn calf, the one with the birth defect where it looked so sickly they had to kill it. He hated the sound of the sobbing. Richie’s crying, saying they’d all have to leave eventually, that they’d forget. Mike knew they would--that’s the thing about Derry. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how you wrote it down or catalogued it, you’d forget. Derry wasn’t on any maps or travel guides. Nobody who left Derry ever came back, unless they came for a funeral. There were no hospitals in Derry, no wedding venues. The only reason to come back, the only reason to remember, was at a wake, as they lowered the body into the ground.

Richie didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to be alone again, he didn’t want to have to start fresh, even if he was still sporting a black eye from the last time Bowers’ cronies played Smear the Queer. He wanted to curl up in the hay, with Bev spooning him and petting his hair, he wanted to die like that. Wanted to feel Mike’s calloused hands on his face forever.

“I can’t forget,” Richie begged, “There has to be some way to remember.”

The radio was on in the background, announcing the start of the New Year. The last year the Losers would be in high school, the last year they’d have together before the Forgetting. Mike dreaded it, more than anything in the world. He’d never felt his chest seize up like the thought of the Losers leaving. They’d forget him, they’d move on. The clown had promised them happy lives if they left. Mike wouldn’t. There was no future for him outside of Derry. He could feel the others revving up to leave, almost as if they were enticed by the Forgetting.

Three minutes to midnight, and they were still around Richie, placating him with empty promises. They knew they wouldn’t keep them. They’d made a promise, and for the promise to work someone had to stay, and Stan had been accepted to Georgia State and Bev had gotten into some fancy fashion design school in Upstate New York, and Mike had nothing. Mike had an ailing grandfather and a failing farm and no more cattle.

Richie was inconsolable. He went to the one person who didn’t know how to lie. “Ben, will you stay? Please? With me, we don’t have to stay here, we can go anywhere, we can--”

“Richie,” Ben said, with sad eyes, with the gentle hands and kind words. That’s all he said. He couldn’t lie, so he didn’t. He didn’t say anything, just tried to keep the lump in his throat from turning into something more. He didn’t know whether sobs or words would be more mortifying.

Sixty seconds.

They moved closer, a few blankets covering them, encasing them in the warmth of an embrace.

Richie begged and begged, like he was hurting. Mike imagined this is what the sheep sounded like before he put a bullet through their brain. He pleaded, hands twisting in the front of Mike’s shirt. Bev was crying, too, her face pressed to the back of Richie’s head.

When the buzzer went off, Mike surged forward to kiss him. Richie tasted like tears, like alcohol, and Mike let out a sob into Richie’s mouth. The future was so rocky, so uncertain, so unstable it felt like crumbling earth. Like they were on a cliff face, about to tumble into the sea.

“Rich,” Stan said, rubbing Richie’s calf, “You know we can’t--we can’t stay together. We’d forget, we’d drift. It’d hurt less to just leave. We have right now, though. I love you so much, Rich, it hurts to think about it too much.”

Richie shuddered, burying his face in the crook of Mike’s neck. The knowledge felt too heavy, it weighed down their shoulders. Mike could feel Eddie sit down next to him, finally run all the way down to his bones.

“Mikey,” Eddie said, a tremble in his voice, “I don’t want to leave.”

Eddie was brave. He’d resisted, he’d all but run away in his attempt to get his mother to stay in the town. He’d faltered, though. He wasn’t a coward any more than the rest of them, but he’d caved, he’d let his mother drag him out to NYC. Ben was moving away, too, and Bev and Stan and…

Mike let out a sound that could have been a sob, but was closer to a wail. He hated it, feeling so vulnerable, so open.

“I love you,” Ben said, in lieu of Mike, “More than anything, Eddie, I love all of you.”

Eddie’s back was pressed up against Mike’s, solid and not delicate at all. He’d filled out, after the first few weeks of letting his lungs expand all the way, of letting himself breathe and run and scream.

“Happy New Year,” Bill muttered, bitter and quiet and angry. He was, more than anyone, angry. At his parents, his teachers, himself. At that stupid fucking clown. But he could never be angry at them, and he let out a sigh, Stan caressing his shoulders. He relaxed into Stan’s touch. They cried together, they all cried, they all mourned, grieved for what that clown had done to them, even if he hadn’t killed them. He’d stapled them together by the palms of their hands and then he ripped them apart, tearing them from one another like an arm from a shoulder.

They loved so hard that it would kill them to leave, for the days, for the hours they remembered. They knew, they knew it was coming and there was no way out because they were all just scared kids, still trying to survive, still trying to put one foot in front of the other.

#poly losers #it chapter 2 #fic

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apprenticemcthot · 5 years ago

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Apprentice April

no one asked for this but I wanted to write more about my boy so I answered all 20 questions for #ApprenticeApril

1. The Basics. What is your character’s name? How old are they? How tall are they? Skin color? Eye color? Hair color? Gender identification?

Patleayegan, from the Nahuatl patlea (medicine) and yegan (guide). Though he goes mostly by PJ because he had a hard time remembering his own name when Asra had to teach him to speak again after coming back to life. The “y” is actually pronounced as a “j”, so PJ stems from the syllables (Patlea-Jegan).Asra began calling him that instead, and the nickname stuck.

late 20′s, around Asra’s age

5′2″ (158 cm), he comes from a long lineage of shorties

brown skin, brown eyes, brown hair ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

he/him pronouns, but as someone who was taught by Asra, he has no regard for gender

2. Love Interest. Who does your character love? What attracted them to that particular LI?

Julian. He actually had a slight crush on him when he apprenticed for him during the plague. that crush carried over 3 years after when the two met again. At first, his looks were certainly a factor. but once they got to know each other, Julian’s incredible irony of being both a flirt and easily flustered amused PJ

For all the other Love Interests, I use an MC named Naz (they/them)

3. Familiar. Does your character have a familiar? How did they meet?

his dear Tlahtoani. Toani for short. he’s a white Cairn Terrier. They met when PJ was about 6, wandering around the streets. He found Toani looking for food scraps and took him home, fed him, and fell in love with the little ball of mayhem

4. Hobbies. What kinds of things does your character like to do for fun?

Literature. He loves to read. when he came back to life, Asra taught him how to speak again by reading to him. eventually, PJ fell in love with literature. prose and poetry alike. he loves to write love letters to Julian.

5. Hidden talents. Is there something neat that your character can do? Tie a cherry stem into a knot with their tongue? Say any word backwards perfectly?

Lingustics. He’s very good with languages. once he re-learned the Vesuvian language post-plague, he didn’t stop there. he’s fluent in 3 languages and can hold a simple conversation in 5. can read 3 different types of alphabets. has a talent for pronunciation. oh, he’s also pretty acrobatic.

6. Magical talents. Is there a specific type of magic that your character excels at? Any magic they aren’t so great at? Or do they actually shy away from magic altogether?

Fire Magic. He’s best at magic that involves the elements, but as someone who tends to have strong emotions, he’s the best at using fire. Almost burned down the shop the first time he tried it with Asra post-plague

His family specialised in healing magic (hence his name) but he was never able to live up to his parent’s expectations. He prefers to use potions and herbs rather than his energy to heal. Asra taught him almost everything he knows about being a healer.

7. Interaction. How does your character typically interact with people?

polite boi in the streets, shady bitch in the sheets. He’s tends to carry an air of confidence and professionalism when talking to people he’s just met, especially those of higher social status. Likes to be kind to strangers. But once you get past that layer of chill, he is an absolute savage when it comes to come back. Will call his friends “foolish whores” as a term of endearment.

8. Romance. What is something that your character and their LI love to do together? How do they show affection?

Sleep together! not only in the sexy kind of way but also in the literal sense. Can and will cuddle with Julian for hours on end on any furniture in the shop.

Love letters. because of their work schedules, if PJ can’t spend his morning with Julian, he’ll write him little love notes and have Malak deliver them to him.

9. Travel. Does your character like to travel outside of Vesuvia? How often? For how long? What kinds of things do they do away from home?

Would love to travel the world but hasn’t found the time. It was his parents who did most of the traveling while he stayed behind in Vesuvia to watch the shop. Though after meeting Julian, the two have gone on their fair share of trips that were nothing short of honeymoon-like wink wink

10. WTF. Has anything just…weird ever happened to your character? Something that made them stop and go “What just happened?!”

well, apart from being brought back from the dead

lose things. he tends to misplace things quite often only for them to reappear months later. At first he thought it was Faust or maybe even the stove salamander hoarding his trinkets but turns out the shop itself has magic and it tends to be pretty mischievous

11. Crime. Has your character ever been arrested? If so, what did they do? Have they ever helped stop a crime?

other than buying illegal ingredients from the Red Market, he has no desire to break the law, especially if it means Nadia will be disappointed in him

12. Secrets. What is a secret that your character has? Are they in line for the throne in a far off land? Was there this one time at band camp…? Are they secretly involved in an assassin’s guild?

He’s actually AFAB but was able to change his body into something more affirming at an early age with the help of his parents who were Vesuvia’s best healer magicians at the time. (Though there was nothing they could do about his meager height)

He’s not exactly hiding this part of his past but he has spent the vast majority of his life in a body that is true to his identity that he often forgets about the body he was born in. In fact, it was Asra that had to explain this part of his past to him post-plague

13. Overcompensation. Is there something that your character just HAS to do better than anyone else? Or are they just that dang good without trying? If they see someone else showing off, what is their kneejerk reaction?

Has a tragic case of the Napoleon Complex in that he compensates for his lack of height with a pretty big attitude. Has the confidence of a dragon and the body of a lizard. Would rather climb over counters than have someone taller hand him something he can’t reach

also thinks he’s a good drinker but is a complete lightweight because of his small body

14. Fight Club. Is your character a good fighter? What kind of skills do they have?

Rutheless. He’s never killed anyone but had he been a gladiator, he would’ve absolutely destroyed his opponents. Again, his emotions heavily influence his fire magic, so he’s able to burn someone pretty badly if he finds himself angry/determined enough

Can and will cut a bitch during a bar fight. Not afraid to fight dirty. Skilled at hand-to-hand combat but prefers to use weapons.

15. The Arts. Is your character a creative type? What kinds of things can they create? Can they act? Street perform?

Really good visual artist (loves to paint and do sculptures), even better writer. Mediocre actor compared to Julian, so he prefers to write scenes and have Julian act them out

16. Goofy. Is your character a clown? Do they like to make people laugh?

More of a jokester than a clown really, though he’s really good at throwing shade (he learned from the best)

17. Language. Is your character multilingual? How many languages do they speak? Do they have an accent? Is it sexy? Is it silly? Do they have a multilingual lisp?

Bilingual, though he can read and understand a number of other languages. When speaking Vesuvian, dear darling boy has an accent that is the result of a bastardisation of all the languages he has encountered and picked up throughout the years. He has an accent most commonly see in people from the Western lands as that’s where his mother tongue originated.

In modern terms, his accent sounds like a grotesque combination of accents from Manchester, Brooklyn and Mexico

18. Embarrassment. What is something really embarrassing that your character has done/said?

Drunken stories. Doesn’t remember this himself, but before the plague PJ would so some pretty reckless and hilarious things whenever him and Asra would drink.

Julian has come to find that PJ still is a daredevil drunk

he did a backflip on top of a table at the Rowdy Raven and broke the table in half

19. Memory. Has your character gotten any of their memory back? If so, what? Did it change them?

Kind of. Most of what he knows about his past come from Asra telling him stories. barely remembers his family but is fine with it as he considers the other characters his family.

He sometimes gets small flashback of his childhood when he was about 6 or 7, but it’s mostly just images of him practicing magic

the most cherished memory he gained was that of his familiar Toani when they first met.

20. Family. Talk about your character’s family. Who were they?

In modern terms, his has Aztec heritage

His family comes from the West, though his parents moved to Vesuvia to start up what is now the magic shop

a long lineage of healer magicians

Had two siblings but both died alongside his parents during the plague.

Doesn’t know if he has any extended family, though Asra thinks that he might have some uncles and aunts left back West

#apprentice april #apprenticeapril #the arcana #the arcana game #the arcana mc #the arcana apprentice #fan apprentice

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complicated-innocence · 5 years ago

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Joker’s Appreciation

The Joker was not one to read. He rarely had the attention span for it, first of all, and even when he could focus long enough... Well, the clown prince had never found an interesting book, and he doubted he ever would. They were always too slow or too boring, and the villain never won, which was just unfair. Honestly! As a villain himself, he was always so sick of the hero coming up on top, or, even if the villain did win... It was always people like Lex Luther, and, frankly, Lex Luther had no flair. That made him bad if you asked Joker. He wanted to see a chaotic villain win, one like him, but... Normies didn’t want those sorts of villains to come out on top, of course. And so he had yet to find a book he liked, even in the ones he had somehow read all the way through.

There was one specific genre he particularly despised, though; romance novels, like the ones Harley would obsess over from time to time. It had taken him a single page to realize that, considering he had grabbed the book from her one night and started reading from exactly where she left off. It was the sappiest, most melodramatic and cliqued thing he had ever read, and it disgusted him beyond comprehension. Or so he thought, but that couldn’t be entirely true...

After all, there was one exception to his distaste for reading; Harley’s poetry, which she wrote oh-so-rarely but Joker had collected almost religiously for the past few years. The influence of those terrible books could be glaringly obvious at times, but, nonetheless... He adored them. He adored the poetic ways she described everything, especially when she described him. He loved her attention to detail, the way she seemed to pay attention to his every move and cherish it all, even when they fought or argued... And he couldn’t help but read the parts about his eyes with a special fondness, too, as they often came up and were mentioned in detail. It was precious, really, and it fed his ego even more. What wasn’t to love about that?

While she did write about other people and other things, he only really paid attention if it was about him. He read all of the others, sure, but... The ones about him were held to different esteem, and those were the only ones that made their way into his collection, even if it took some time, as he waited until she had all but forgotten about them to act. Sometimes, that meant a few hours of it sitting there, untouched... Other times, it meant a few days. As soon as he could, though, he claimed the forgotten poems and added them to the box beneath the photo of him and Harley, all neatly folded and packed away until he could reread them later. He dated them all, and would often go through and read them when she was away, but never once did he tell her about it. He never planned to, either; it was his secret admiration of her, something too soft for her to know.

Or it was, until the day came that Harley barged in on Joker’s reading time. It was at night, hours after the two had fought in the morning... And, honestly, by then, Joker couldn’t remember what their argument had been about at all, nor did he exactly care to. Obviously, she wasn’t overly miffed either, or else she wouldn’t have been back already, but... He didn’t have time to linger on that thought or to even really registered the fact she was home earlier than usual.

He hadn’t even realized she was back until she announced herself. And that announcement was, admittedly, sudden; she barged into his office out of nowhere, and, before he could do a damn thing to hide the poem, she was upon him.

“I’m back, Puddin’!” She chimed cheerily, giggling as she slung her arms around his shoulders, shimmying as she gave him a hug. Her eyes were shut, and Joker knew it.

“Oh, so you are,” he chuckled as lightly as he could, looking around at his desk for what he could do to hide it while he had the chance. “Back so soon? Too dull at the plant’s?”

“Aw, don’ be like thaaaat...” She huffed, still hugging him. “It was jus’ a lil disagreement.”

Its box was too far out of reach for him to avoid disturbing her moment, and, even if it wasn’t... Well, he’d have to fold the paper first, which simply wouldn’t work, and then if she released sooner than he expected, she’d see the other poems, too. One would be bad enough. His eyes skipped away again. He knew he was running out of time to decide. He felt the clock ticking down in his head, based on how long she usually hugged him... Ten seconds left.

“I suppose...” Joker sighed, as if he had any idea what the argument had been about. Panic was setting in, though; he was running so low on time. At the last second, though, he realized the obvious option; hide it under the other papers on his desk! He instantly tried that, but...

He was too slow. Her eyes snapped open just as he had moved the other paper, and so the poem was still up on top. Shit.

“Yeah-- But nevermind that! Whatcha workin’ on~?” She moved to rest her head on his shoulder, peeking down at the desk. He knew it was too late by then. “Written pla--? Wait.” She already read it. “Izzat--?”

“NO! This is absolutely not your concern or what you think it is!” He panicked immediately, throwing a paper down on top of it.

Harley stepped back from him in an instant, an eyebrow cocking up instead of her usual head tilts. Her whole demeanor shifted into something more serious. His heart dropped... That meant he had two options; surrender and let her see, or let her be mad and run off with her other partner again, probably for a month. He internally groaned at the thought. He didn’t particularly want to deal with her being gone so long, not when he had finished bigger plans where he would need her help, and so... He didn’t move to hide it, as much as his pride was screaming at him.

“... Any chance you won’t look at it.” Joker asked, glaring slightly. He knew the answer, but it was worth a try.

Harley simply moved to the side of the desk and, while making direct eye contact, grabbed the paper. She then looked down at it, still side-eyeing him.

His heart sped up as she read, as he observed her... He watched her as she blinked slowly, her eyes skipping back up to reread the first line, her eyes going over the same word again and again. She straightened up, and his heart skipped a beat. She kept reading from there, and then she reread the poem again. Once, twice, and her cheeks slowly colored as she verified more and more that, yes, that paper was her’s. And it wasn’t a newer one, either, although he had those as well. He groaned as her whole demeanor slowly softened, especially when her eyes settled on the date in the corner. He knew damn well that she knew his writing, and that was confirmed when he noticed the fact her eyes practically became hearts after a second.

Harley hugged it to her chest, giggling happily... And then she looked up at him, all love and affection and all the things he despised.

“... Not a word, Harley.” Joker sighed bluntly, leaning back in his chair with a pout. His cheeks were starting to go pink.

“But--!”

“Not. One.” He repeated, his voice getting firmer. He added in a glare.

“It’s sweet, Puddin’! I didn’ know y’kept this one,” She giggled, hugging him. “Didja keep my others~? Least, the ones ‘bout yooooou...”

Joker didn’t respond, and, instead, he tried to shove her away, his cheeks reddening and his pout deepening. He tried to avoid looking at her, too, but... Well, Harley didn’t feel like playing that game, not with this new discovery. She sat in his lap, releasing half the hug for long enough to grab his face and pull it towards her, albeit gently. When she saw his expression, a grin spread across her face.

“Y’did! Really?!”

“... Fine. I did,” he huffed, trying to shove her off his lap... But she was prepared for that, apparently. She caught his shoulders, keeping herself in place. “What of it?!”

“It’s adorableeee~”

“It’s not adorable!” He snapped, trying to push her to the floor again. It still didn’t work, as Harley giggled and nuzzled her face into his chest happily. He groaned again, but... It was useless to fight her, and he knew it. He didn’t try again.

She kissed him, before cuddling back. “Don’ worry~ It’ll be another a’ our lil secrets.”

“... It better be,” Joker grumbled. Harley’s smile grew, but... Well, she didn’t push him any further, and he relaxed some.

They stayed like that for awhile longer, all cuddled up in his chair; he didn’t quite want to move yet, despite his pride being wounded. No. Instead, he hugged her closer to him, one hand lightly petting her hair as he rested his chin on top of her head. He closed his eyes, settling down... And not a word was said, not for a few minutes, until Joker broke the silence again.

“... They are good, Baby. You should write more.”

#mad love #ficlet #harley quinn x joker

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averil-of-fairlea · 6 years ago

Text

More than words

For my friend @oakenshieldgisborneandbuchanan. Bucky x Wife!reader

Inspired by the following imagines from @thefandomimagine:

Imagine Bucky taking care of you after you twist your ankle

Bucky. Just imagine Bucky;

Imagine having a training session with Bucky that turns into a make out session

Imagine being pregnant with Bucky’s baby

Category: super fluff with elements of angst, spice

NOTE: this fic was written BEFORE the release of ‘Endgame’ and contains no spoilers (unless I’m suddenly clairvoyant).

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

You’re tempted to ask “which ‘that’ are you talking about?” but as Bucky stands by the exam table you’re resting on, he is dead serious. There are literally hundreds of things you should not have done in the name of loving him. Most of them have involved getting him out of harm’s way and putting yourself in his place. That’s how you ended up in a tiny, hole-in-the-wall clinic with a sprained ankle. A hateful zealot pretending to seek an autograph got a little too grabby, culminating in weapons drawn and shots fired. He called Bucky a traitor, a murderer, and a half a dozen other things before you took him down with a poorly executed - but effective - body slam, twisting your ankle during the struggle.

It could have been worse, and it has been. And you’d do it all over again.

“I couldn’t just let that guy take you out,” you reply, grateful that the near-assassin is in custody.

“It’s not your job to save me.”

Easier said than done. And you definitely don’t say it. The sappiest things you’ve ever said to each other were uttered at your ceremony - a quiet affair done in secret, save for Steve’s mandatory presence, at your apartment that became your passionate wedding suite later that night. There was no fanfare to the event, just heartfelt words, sweet kisses, close friends and good food. But your vows have stayed locked in your memory. So much has happened since then. Among other things, you lost him for a time to that snap-happy giant purple maniac. From that moment on, the saying ‘actions speak louder than words’ hit you square in the gut.

It was nothing short of a miracle that he returned to you. So you’ve vowed to make your actions big, your words few. You show him your love; words are meaningless. If Bucky doesn’t know by now just how far you’ll go to keep him on this side of the earth, he’ll never know.

Bucky strokes two fingers over your bandaged foot, which you loosened and sloppily re-applied while he stepped away to talk with the physician’s assistant who first examined you. For a good five seconds, he looks from your hurried, bandage job to you and back again, with an expression that says, “really?”

“Nice try.” He unwinds the fabric, then begins re-wrapping it. He makes the last few revolutions with his eyes on you.

“That’s more like it,” he says. To your delight, the tighter wrapping isn’t uncomfortable. He’s better than a doctor. But you’ve known that forever.

He finishes and secures the bandage, then surprises you with a quick kiss on the top of your covered foot. He gives you just the slightest smile, enough to set a flock of butterflies free in the pit of your stomach.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have done that,” you say, mimicking him.

His smile widens, melting you.

The doctor comes in. Thank goodness. Bucky’s “bedside manner” was about to get steamy.

Good news. No Xrays needed. You can go home.

“It’s not a terribly bad injury, but you need to take it easy so it can properly heal,” the doctor says. “No more of whatever it is you did to sprain your ankle in the first place.” The doctor has questions in her eyes. She glances at Bucky’s arm, concealed by a jacket. Her gaze moves to his face, the bill of an army green baseball cap pulled low to partially hide his features.

The doctor turns back to you. “What exactly were you doing, anyway?”

“Jogging,” you answer. “We both were. I fell into a ditch.”

The doctor cocks an eyebrow. “Did the ditch shoot you, too? There’s a bullet hole through your jacket.”

You shrug. “It’s a fashion thing. Bought it that way.”

“Mm-hm.” The doctor’s not buying it. She rocks on the heels of her shoes and cuts another look back to Bucky. You can tell she has definitely seen him before, but not you. That’s a good thing. You are, in many ways, his cover. He neither wants nor needs to be recognized. But maybe your fierce protection has brought down his guard a little.

That’s a bad thing.

Great. Yet another worry to upset your mind. Since his return, the two of you have yet to know what complete peace and normalcy feel like. Life seems so strange - fragile as the thinnest glass, strong as steel; deeper than unseen galaxies, shallow as a puddle. Lasts too long for those who don’t appreciate it, too short for those who cherish every moment.

Everything seems so confusing sometimes, and you don’t have the words to express it. You and Bucky once talked about starting a family. Now, you’re not so sure you can keep him from the madness of this world and bring another human into it.

After a lecture about proper jogging form, safe running surfaces, and bad fashion fads, the doctor says, “I’ve written you a prescription for pain, and I think we can drum up some crutches that are appropriate for your height. But you really just need to rest. Get waited on hand and foot. Pun intended.”

***

At your apartment, Bucky places an arm around your waist while you drape yours across the back of his broad shoulders, hobbling toward your door. You’ve never been so glad to live on the first floor.

“You sure you don’t want me to bring in the crutches?” he asks, opening the door.

“Ugh. Overkill.” Forget those things. It’s more trouble learning how to walk with them than just hobbling. Besides, you never realized how good it feels to lean on Bucky.

All at once, he turns and scoops you into his arms before you know what’s happening. You could protest, but honestly, it feels nice, and you’re tired.

“We didn’t even do this on our honeymoon,” you say. “Oh, wait. We didn’t have one.”

“This isn’t one, either,” he replies, shutting the door with a swift backward kick, “but as soon as you’re well - ”

“Hold on.” You twist your body a bit to press your thumbprint to the security system’s bio-ID pad, turning off the security system. You reset the alarm, then slide the old-fashioned metal locks into place - all ten of them. Your idea, of course.

“Overkill,” he says in a low voice, but of course you hear him. You growl and lightly bite the tip of his ear until he laughs.

After repositioning yourself in his arms, he walks you to the faded denim couch. He props your head and feet up with pillows. After briefly disappearing into the bedroom, he returns with a magnificent, jewel-toned quilt, a gift from King T’Challa. Coming from Wakanda, there is more to it than meets the eye.

Princess Shuri calls it a kimoyo sheath. Once on, the colors fade and the entire piece turns black, highlighted with symbols, just like the beads, but the sheath’s symbols correspond to the body’s various systems. It conforms to your body, providing cocoon-like comfort. But it does so much more. The sheath’s keen sensors regulate core temperature; run full-body checks; make diagnoses; suggest treatment for illnesses, and in some cases, provide it.

A thin blue light illuminates on top of your twisted ankle, following by words: Grade 1 Ankle Sprain. After the diagnosis is translated into different languages, the bottom section of sheath clings to the affected area and gives it an infusion of enveloping, soothing cold.

“Wow.” You’re in absolute awe. In the past, the sheath has picked up on cramps, shoulder dislocation, bruised hips, gas, and impending diarrhea. You tested it a lot after you first received it, just messing around, but then life got in the way of goofing off. This thing is brilliant. You should use it more often.

“Check this out!” you call, suddenly realizing Bucky has been quietly puttering in the open kitchen. “We could have just come home and used this fancy blankie instead of going to that understaffed clinic.”

“Couldn’t risk it. I thought you’d broken your ankle.”

You hear him moving things around in the open kitchen, but you’re too zonked to sit up and check. “Hey, what are you doing in there?” you ask.

“You’ll see.” He enters the room holding a tray with a sandwich, a glass of water with a twist of lemon, and your prescription bottle sitting next to it.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you say with a grateful smile. But he doesn’t respond. He’s frozen.

“Bucky? What’s wrong?”

He drops the tray.

“Are you OK?” The words screech from your throat as you sit up and swing your legs to the floor. Did that maniac from earlier today get to Bucky - slip him something without either of you noticing? That’s impossible! You were on that clown like white on rice before he could fire off another shot.

“No, no. Lay back down,” Bucky says, stepping over the mess and kneeling beside the couch.

“Why?” You put your feet back on the pillow but sit with your elbows propped up. You can’t fully relax until you know what’s going on.

“The blanket,” he says. He sighs through a warm smile, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. It’s cooling my sprained foot. Pretty amazing, huh?”

“Not as much as this.” He places his hand below your belly button, under the blue words.

You sit up higher and look down at the scrolling translations.

Ukuthomba - amaviki amane.

Zwangerschap - vier weken.

Schwangerschaft - vier wochen.

Gestation - four weeks.

“What the!” Your eyes double in size. “Gestation, as in p-pregnant? When and how?”

He shrugs, his smile lighting up the room. “Like it said, four weeks ago. The rest, I think you know.”

You rewind your memories. Four weeks, four weeks... Debriefings. Training, lots of training, in preparation for possible new threats. Installing the metal locks while practicing some back kicks. Testing the integrity of the door by having him press against you, your back to the thick steel. A quick, stolen kiss. A shared laugh over a dumb joke. A serious lesson in defensive moves, winter soldier-style. Another quick, distracting kiss. A knee to the groin that was only supposed to make him flinch, not make contact. Him, pretending to double over in pain. You, swatting his shoulder when you realized he played you. Kiss number three, deeper and more urgent. Breathlessness. Peeling clothes away...

And ZERO protection.

“Wow,” you breathe, closing the delicious memory and finishing up a few quick mental calculations. The timing makes sense. “So that’s how that works.”

“Mystery solved.” Bucky chuckles through his brilliant smile, then kisses your cheek, the tip of your nose, your mouth. Tenderly, lovingly.

“Talk to me,” he says.

Of all the things you thought he’d say, that isn’t one of them. You’re not ready for words. You shake your head. “I don’t know what to say. Nothing seems sufficient.”

“Talk. to. me.”

It takes you another second or so to gather the words, but surprisingly, they come. You tell him the truth: that you’re happy - shocked, but happy. That even if you weren’t pregnant, you’d be happy, because he’s with you, and together you make a damn fine team. That you’re a little scared - not just about the baby and how life will change, but about him. That you’re afraid you’ll miss something and he’ll be taken from you again. That you can’t be everywhere and you won’t always be by his side. That you never want to leave him vulnerable.

Saying the things on your heart is healing. There is so much more to loving this man than protecting him.

“Make no mistake,” you add, “carrying a child isn’t going to stop me from kicking ass.”

“I know.” He strokes your hair. “But promise me this: you’ll remember that we’re in this together. You don’t have to shoulder everything. I’ll be more vigilant, more careful. And we’re going to have a real honeymoon, and your only job is to relax and be happy with me.” He rubs your belly and smiles broadly. “With us.”

Joyous tears streaming down your face as you nod enthusiastically and kiss his lips. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close, telling him how much you love him. With his warm cheek against yours, he trembles in your embrace. That’s when you realize he’s at the most vulnerable point you’ve ever seen him, and he’s going to be just fine.

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel #captain america #the winter soldier #civil war #infinity war #endgame

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thebrownblog · 5 years ago

Text

Shaker’s Mill

As the days got cooler and the nights got longer, John Redman came to realise troubles he thought may be downwind had already enveloped him. There wasn’t any one particular moment where this cold truth struck him like a thunderbolt or a holy revelation, but instead understanding dawned gradually, at first mainly expressing itself in a constant feeling of unease deep in his gut.

Things were different now to how they had been at the beginning of that hot and seemingly endless summer that had begun so promisingly. The point where it was still possible to deny this had passed, it simply was. His friends with his cherished gang of brothers-in-arms was never going to be the same again, and that had bent his heart out of shape. Carol was gone and never coming back, and that had shattered it. These were the things that he could put his finger on, but they weren’t all of it. No, there was so much afoot lately that he didn’t fully understand.

Things had been…slipping. Somehow that was the best way to describe it. “Coming apart at the seams” was another decent effort. Unraveling, going south, heading west, taking the Nutso Express headed east, getting fucking weird, going bat-shit crazy. They all beat somewhere around the right bush, but none of them quite hit the nail on the head in expressing exactly how things had been around these parts recently.

“The centre cannot hold” John mumbled to himself before taking another drag from his cigarette. A crow eyed him suspiciously for a couple of seconds before turning its attention elsewhere again.

“Clearly not a fan of Yeats, eh?” This time the crow gave him a quick, disdainful look before spreading its wings and setting sail for pastures new, probably ones free of smoking morons who spoke to themselves out loud.

John took a final drag on his Marlboro (“Filthy habit John! I won’t kiss you anymore if you keep smoking those cancer sticks!” Carol had proclaimed, taking a drag on her Lucky Strike. Within ten seconds she had kissed him once again. A long, lingering kiss....), and stubbed it out on the dry clay by the rather shallow-looking brook he was currently standing in front of. He shivered a little as a cool breeze ripped past him. Summer was already packed up and waiting in the departure lounge with its luggage, and wasn’t it a drag?

He was unable to resist the heavy wave of misery that suddenly washed over his constant state of low-level melancholy. He sat down on the clay, let his head drop down into his hands and began to cry. At first he wept gently, but soon he was releasing great unselfconscious sobs, his back arching with the force of them. He wept for the way the bottom seemed to have suddenly fallen out of everything he took for granted. He wept for the way all the innocence had ungraciously disappeared from his seemingly perfectly adolescent life. He wept for friends long gone, even if they still only lived a few blocks away. Most of all though, he wept for Carol. There wasn’t even a hateful bird to keep him company anymore.

***

“Hey give me that, you clown!” Danny bellowed, his laughter robbing the command of any real weight.

“Come and get it, dipstick!” John retorted.

“Go wide, go wide!” Eric cried out to his left.

“Nice catch Eric, you shithead! Now pass it over!” Danny was getting fed up.

“Over here! Come on, come on!” Kyle implored as Danny advanced rapidly on Eric, who seemed unsure what to do in the face of Danny’s genuine annoyance.

In the end, it was this hesitation that caused Eric to botch the throw to Kyle and send it over his head and the right….and straight through one of the factory’s single-glazed ground-floor windows.

“Oh you idiot!” exclaimed John and Danny, almost at the same time. Eric had his hands up against the sides of his head, eyes wide with the kind of shock that usually follows making a sudden, major cock-up. Kyle was standing motionless, head turned left to see the damage two feet behind him.

“OH YOU STUPID FUCKING LITTLE BASTARDS! YOU”RE GONNA PAY FOR THIS!” roared Mr. McKinley as he came bursting out of the factory’s rear fire escape, red-faced with bulging eyes and yellow teeth clenched together in a grimace of rage.

For a moment that felt at least ten years long panic enveloped the quartet of boys, and they all remained rooted to the spot as he advanced on Kyle, the closest target. It would have seemed to any casual observer (perhaps a bird in a tree, for example) that Mr. McKinley was going to be able to simply stride over to Kyle and snap his young neck with no resistance whatsoever. Kyle was only able to stare at him wide-eyed and trembling, like a bird hypnotised by an approaching snake. In the nick of time, the spell was broken however.

“RRRRUUUUUUUUNNNNN!!” screamed Danny, and the paralysis was broken.

John and Danny immediately began pounding the cement of the weedy backyard with their Nikes, gaining a two-second advantage over Eric, who was then away like a steam locomotive once he jolted into life, rapidly gaining on them. Kyle was the most terrified, and consequently the last to get moving, despite being the one who most needed to. A second later and he’d have been seized upon, but the realisation that this was for real hit him with literally not another moment to spare, and he performed a crab-like sideways shuffle to evade McKinley’s outreached arms. He turned his body right so quickly that he momentarily lost his balance and was on the verge of tumbling to the ground. For one very long moment the issue was in doubt, as McKinley continued his lumbering, heavy-footed advance, and then Kyle regained his balance and was in motion, leaving the portly foreman behind.

McKinley, knowing in spite of his rage that his ample frame had no chance of catching up to a skinny teenager’s athletic body, did not give pursuit. Instead he remained in place below the shattered window, shaking his fists and hollering at the young vandals who had disrupted his day.

“I’LL GET YOU! I’LL GET ALL OF YOU LITTLE COCKSUCKERS, YOU JUST SEE IF I DON’T! YOU’RE ALL DEAD! DEAD, YOU HEAR ME, YOU MOTHERF-” Mr McKinley yelled for quite some time, none of it cooking recipes or grooming tips.

As they got out of earshot of the steady barrage of threats and profanity, the boys’ spirits began to lift. They eventually came to rest in a dry, yellowish field about half a mile from the scene of the crime, sweaty and almost overdosing on adrenaline.

“What a pleasant gentleman!” John said, panting.

“Oh yeah, a real pillar of the community, eh?” Danny quipped in return.

“I think he was a tad displeased with us today though” Eric said, getting involved slightly late, as was his custom.

“What a fucking prick!” exclaimed Kyle with all of his usual subtlety.

The other three boys looked at him, Danny’s lip started to quiver with amusement, which in turn amused Kyle enough to start laughing, and within seconds it had spread like a forest fire, with the whole gang in fits of hysteria. The tension had been released.

“What a fucking prick indeed!” John chipped in when he was composed enough to speak and the hysteria was dying down. Danny made eye contact with him, his lips quivering harder than ever, and it started all over again.

***

“What’s wrong Johnny boy?” Tony Redman asked, taking his eye off the television screen and regarding his son with a mixture of mild concern and frank curiosity.

“Huh?” John replied groggily, jolted suddenly out of his reverie.

“You’ve barely said two words all night. What’s eatin’ ya?”

“Oh nothing dad, I’m just tired. Long day I guess.”

In a way this was true. It felt like every day had been a long one recently. All experiences, even ones which would usually be rather mundane seemed to have taken on a sometimes sickly intensity as the summer approached its sweltering, sticky crescendo.

“If you say so, son. If ever there’s something you need to talk about, you know where to find me, OK?”

“Yeah I reckon I could track you down if I had to, dad.”

“I’m an old fart, but I’m not quite over the hill yet, you’d be surprised at how much your old man knows about things.”

“I don’t doubt it. You still owe Jesus five bucks from school after all!”

“The old ones are the best, eh?” his father chuckled and turned his gaze back to the television. His concern for his son was genuine and didn’t recede with the turning of his head, despite appearances. The boy had been off-kilter for a couple of weeks now, John’s handsome face too pallid for his liking... and had he lost weight? It certainly seemed so when looking at the boy (boy? Hardly anymore! Where do the years go?) in profile this evening. Tony Redman, who had indeed lived more of a life than his son would believe or credit, continued to ponder the cause of his son’s malaise (Drugs? Girls? Bullying?) until he dozed off in his armchair with half a can of undrunk beer sitting next to his left foot.

***

Lying in bed unable to sleep at the antisocial hour of 1am, John’s mind ran down the hazy, nebulous paths which are so well-defined and accessible during the small hours. He had seen things in the previous few days that he was struggling badly to reconcile with. This had been the case too often recently. Tonight, as with the previous night he had tried reading, usually a surefire way to doze off quickly, but had found himself completely unable to focus, reading the same few lines over and over until he threw the paperback on the floor in frustration.

Uncomfortable images refused to stop flashing in his mind like blinking warning lights. Carol and Danny engrossed in a secret conversation. The unnatural act the homeless man had performed on the field. Fragments of shattered glass twinkling in the sun. McKinley waving his fists, his face twisted in an expression of raw fury. The chubby boy from the year below sprinting as fast as his stubby legs would carry him, panic in his eyes. Blink blink blink. Flash flash flash.

It was enough to drive a fellow mad. The stench of stale sweat and sleeplessness permeated his room as he resigned himself once and for all to another day of grotesque fatigue in the July heat. The radio had been announcing all day that tomorrow (now today already) was going to be a scorcher. Sunscreen would do precious little for the expanding bags under his eyes however.

***

John was not the only adolescent boy in Shaker’s Mill unable to fall asleep that night, far from it. Two miles away (as the crow flies anyway), Danny McGrogan was enduring a similar bout of greasy insomnia. He too had seen the quality of his sleep decline rapidly in recent times, for reasons similar but not entirely the same as those troubling his good friend and long-term accomplice in mischief.

“What the fuck is going on?” he murmured to himself, and not for the first time that week. Unlike John, he had given up on trying to sleep well before midnight, and was currently sat at his desk, gazing out of the large rectangular window overlooking the deserted street below. Deserted for now anyway.

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frxggi · 8 years ago

Text

[VICTON] Cold As Ice

Listen.. I fuc-look at me-I fuckin-LOOK AT ME IN MY EYES-I fucking love bad boy aus A little Hanse (HELL YEAH) scenario based off of this post I had loads of fun writing this, so I hope you all have fun reading it Genre: Fluff Word count: 3,484 Feedback is always appreciated, Thank u and goodnight

Contrary to popular belief, you are not a scaredy cat. Sure, you can barely make it through haunted houses during Halloween time, but isn’t everyone like that? And of course, rollercoasters were entirely out of the question, but so what? Lots of people are afraid of rollercoasters. Arachnophobia is one of the most common fears. Clowns can be unsettling to everyone. You’re not scared of the dark; it’s just the uncertainty that not being able to see presents that you dislike. You most definitely are not a scaredy cat.

However, there is something that will never cease to have your knees buckling, to have you shaking in your boots. Well, more like someone. It’s not secret that you have a pure, unhinged and unadulterated fear of none other than Do Hanse. He’s your average macho man crossed with 1980’s bad boy rebellion. Throw an ice cold attitude and foul mouth on top, and you’ve got a concoction of all the right things to have you trembling every time he draws near. You’ve crossed paths with this Do Hanse far too many times for your liking.

The first time you ever saw him was in your junior year. Hanse had just transferred to your rather prestigious academy of the arts (which, frankly, he had no business attending). It happened one fateful Wednesday; you were late for class and busy rushing down the now empty hallway, books held tightly to your chest. You rounded a corner entirely way too fast and crashed right into him on his leisurely way to a class that, now that you think about it, you’re sure he never even attended. Your books tumbled to the ground, and he only offered an irritated, “watch it!” as you scrambled to pick them up. You stood, countless apologies falling from your lips and that was when you locked eyes. His eyes were narrowed, his stare sending an ice cold shiver down your spine. You hadn’t ever seen eyes like that before, and you found something-you’re not sure what- so utterly captivating in those deep brown eyes. You’ll never admit to it aloud, but you still do. You sputtered, mumbling out another timidly rushed apology as you took a bow, subsequently and inadvertently headbutting his chest. Hanse only clicked his tongue, forcefully pushing past you as if you were in his way, even though he knew full well he could have easily stepped aside and continued on.

Needless to say, the experience had your skin crawling, your teeth chattering in fear as you eventually made it to class.

Much to your dismay, you had soon come to find that the tough guy you had met in the halls was the newest addition to your literature class. Almost immediately, he was sent to detention for mouthing off to the teacher, and you rarely saw him in class because of it. It wasn’t uncommon to hear about Do Hanse’s Latest Rumble, whether it be through the grapevine or through the victims themselves. He absolutely was not the type of boy you wanted to mess with, and within the first month of his attendance at his new school, you easily learned one thing: Stay Away From Do Hanse. Which, of course, was easier said than done. You shared only one class with him, but it seemed as though he would follow you everywhere you went. You knew better, of course. He couldn’t have actually been following you, right? No, of course not. That’d be weird.

Weird, however, was perhaps the number one descriptor when talking to Hanse’s friends. They didn’t see him as the scary guy he is, but rather a misunderstood soul with a troubled past who had been wronged by society. Halfway through the semester, you had come to learn that Hanse lived alone rather than with his parents. Not only did he live alone, but he was notorious for being branded the Kid That No One Wanted. It was through Seungsik, your mutual friend, that you’d learned Hanse grew up without his parents to guide him. The court system at the time was anything but just, so he easily became lost amidst a slew of foster homes and misplaced adoption papers. A tragic story, in all reality, but Hanse wasn’t exactly at the top of your charity list.

The times when Hanse was absent were those you both cherished and loathed. One instance, in particular, Hanse was put out of commission for nearly two weeks; a result of a scuffle that hadn’t turned out in his favor. He spent his time away from school in the hospital, and when he returned he was covered in bruises and bandages. Your chest ached every time you caught a glimpse of the scratches on his face, or his swollen lip. He looked absolutely pitiful like that, and, were it not for the icy glare that pierced through your defenses still plastered on his face, you would have felt sorry for him.

As fate would have it, you found yourself intently listening to yet another story of Do Hanse roughing it up with someone he didn’t like. The details were missing, but the gist of the situation was that apparently some guy in the drama club had looked at Hanse in what was, unfortunately, the wrong way. Given that, Hanse supposedly snapped and knocked the guy’s teeth in. It was a story that, regardless of its legitimacy, chilled you to the bone.

From then on you had made it your top priority to avoid the boy with the charmingly stone like stare at all costs. Every time he drew near, you went far. You did your absolute best to keep yourself off the radar of Do Hanse, and it had worked. Now, Hanse of course, didn’t like it one bit. A secret, so taboo that only his most trusted friends know, was that macho man Do Hanse had the hots for a girl in his literature class. Chan, his partner in crime, though admittedly less aggressive, demanded details. Hanse’s lips turned up into a devilish smile that would surely have you weak in the knees, and he casually threw out your name to his group of friends. “Y/N? The girl who placed first in the poetry reading? I know her!” Seungsik excitedly exclaimed, and Hanse’s face fell in an instant. His ears grew hot and embarrassment laced his tone as he confirmed that yes, you were the one he had his eyes on. Unfortunately for him, though, he never got the opportunity to see you after his hospital discharge.

You had successfully managed to get through the entirety of your second semester without crossing paths with Do Hanse, but, luck was never really on your side. Which brings you to now, the first day of your senior year. Your teacher, Mr. Han, has aged gracefully, evident in the gray that now tints a number of dark strands of hair, the silver dollar making its appearance known on the back of his head. He’s a sweet old man, one who’s endlessly patient with his students, who’s maybe a bit too passionate about Western Literature. Never in your 3 years as his student has he wronged you, but that’s changed now. It’s a new year, after all. Due to some new policies, it’s now mandatory that Mr. Han provide a seating chart to all his classes. Although it’s something so trivial, Mr. Han is adamant on enforcing the new rule. The new seating chart is posted on the whiteboard at the front of the room. Your eyes scan the piece of paper, searching for your name and when you find it, your stomach sinks and you curse to any and every God there is. You are sat next to none other than Mr. Macho Man himself, Do Hanse. As luck would have it, Hanse happens to be absent on this very important first day of school. Typical of him. You’re thanking the Gods you condemned only moments ago as you plop down in your seat. When class is over, you’ll politely request a change of seats. Mr. Han has never refused a request of yours before, why would he now?

You soon come to realize that Mr. Han would definitely refuse your request for a seat change, his firm, “I don’t make the rules.” leaving a lasting impression in your mind. You don’t have time to think of a solution, however; you’re next class is math, and you need to be on your A Game if you don’t want to fall behind. Of course! You’ll just skip class tomorrow! Easy. Simple. Perfect fix. Mr. Han had said earlier in the period that tomorrow would be a repeat lesson for those who couldn’t make it. It’s a great idea, you muse.

Tomorrow comes and goes, and now it’s Wednesday, and you’re treading the halls alongside two of your good friends. They greet you with warm smiles. “Hey, did you guys see Hanse in class yesterday?” You question. Your friends both nod. “Well, did he say anything about being sat next to me?” “Not really. I don’t think he cares, honestly.” One of them says. You breathe a sigh of relief, though your nerves are quickly back in place as you glance through the classroom window. Hanse is already in his seat with his earphones in. Your friends enter the class and take their rightful seats towards the front of the room while you linger just outside the door, taking the chance to hype yourself up, to calm your nerves. You smack yourself gently on the cheek, a newfound determination as you march into the classroom.

“Newfound determination” doesn’t do much. You get to your seat, pausing a brief moment to assess Hanse’s attitude before you hesitantly take your seat. Hanse is fiddling on his phone, paying you no mind, yet you feel yourself tremble simply at his presence. “Stop shaking.” He says cooly, causing you to straighten in your seat immediately. A noise of surprise leaves your throat. In the next moment, Hanse is ripping his earbuds from his ears, tossing them unceremoniously onto his desk. You avert your gaze, trying to look at anything but him as your fingers timidly play with the hem of your skirt. He leans over the desk, peering over at you. You brave a glance at him. The jacket of his uniform is unbuttoned, a black t-shirt draped loosely across his torso. He’s got his legs crossed, and you can see the bright fire engine red of his shoes. It’s a blatant violation of the school’s dress code, and you hide yourself in the thought of him being potentially being caught and sent to detention on the first day of school. That would be a shame, too, since the look suits him so well. Hanse himself is quite handsome, though you’ll never admit to it. His voice, low and smooth and cool, breaks through your thoughts. “Shit, am I that scary?” He asks with a chuckle that has no right making your heart flutter, and his tone is laced with amusement. His lips are quirked up into a smile that, given any other circumstance, would take your breath away. You can’t find the courage to respond, and at this, Hanse leans back in his chair. He clears his throat, then his voice, demanding, resonating just loudly enough to be heard among the murmurs of students, sounds throughout the classroom. “You all have three fucking seconds to get your asses out of here!” And then they’re scattering like roaches, all out of their seats in a matter of seconds. You get up to leave as well, wanting desperately to be rid of this situation, but a hand on your wrist stops you. Hanse’s grip is firm, unrelenting, yet it’s far gentler than you would have ever thought him capable of.

“Not you. Sit down.” And then he’s pulling you back into your seat. You’ve no choice but to look at him now. “It’s just you and me now, little flower, so I’ll ask you again,” He says, and his voice is much softer this time, barely above a whisper as he repeats his question from earlier. “Am I really that scary?” You’re blushing, your face is burning because his face is so close, far too close for your liking and his eyes are searching yours almost desperately for an answer. You nod. That grin is back, and your heart skips a beat because he’s handsome, far too handsome and he has absolutely no business looking so good and he has no right to be having this effect on you. “Why?” He continues to pry. You can’t possibly answer him, the weight of his gaze like dozens of stones on your chest. Hanse leans back in his chair, his ringed finger tapping on the desk and sending a sharp tang through the room. “You know, I can count to three-” “You hurt people!” You blurt out, effectively cutting him off and causing his eyes to widen the slightest bit. “Yeah? What of it?” He presses. The amusement is gone from his tone. “Is it so bad to hurt people that have hurt you first?” “You sent a kid to the nurse’s office just for looking at you!” You exclaim, as if it were the simplest concept to understand. Hanse looks taken aback, blinking a few times. “That’s why you’re scared of me?” He asks, “Some shitty fucking rumours?” His voice rises a bit, causing you to avert your gaze. You nod when he demands an answer. You can hear him shuffling, snatching his headphones from the desk and rising from his seat. “Fuck’s sake, you’re just like everyone else.” He’s marching out of the classroom, but he stops and turns to you before leaving, “I don’t care how you do it, but I want that seat empty by tomorrow. Got it?” The iciness of his stare causes gooseflesh to prickle your skin, and the hardness of his voice has returned. Class goes by without him after that. The following day, you’re sat in the cafeteria telling Seungsik about your experience as you idly push the food around on your tray. Literature is your next class, and your gut twists into a mess of nerves. “Listen, Y/N, I know it may sound hard to believe, but Hanse is pretty infatuated with you. I think it broke his heart to find that you believed all those rumors about him.” Seungsik speaks softly, sensing that this is a topic to tread lightly. “That kid that he sent to the infirmary? He only got tangled up with Hanse because he kept running his mouth; said that Hanse wasn’t nearly as tough and scary as everyone thought he was. And if there’s anything you need to know about Hanse, Y/N, it’s that he hates lies and he always has a point to prove.” “That doesn’t excuse it, Seungsik!” You reply. “I know it doesn’t, but hear me out. Hanse has always had this wall built up around him. He’s like a hawk, and if anyone threatens to break that wall, he doesn’t hesitate to put them in their place. He’s really not a bad person. He just doesn’t… He really only has me and the rest of the guys. And trust me when I say, he really likes you. He’s always going on and on about how kind and honest you are, because he’s never seen that in a girl before, you know.” You don’t respond, instead choosing to mull over Seungsik’s words. “Look, all I’m saying is that even though it may not seem like it, you really hurt him yesterday. And yes,” he interjects before you get the chance to throw in a snarky response. “He can hurt. You didn’t hear it from me, but he’s actually as fragile as precious china.”

That can’t possibly be true. Hanse got his feelings hurt? Impossible. Hanse doesn’t have feelings.

Hanse is absent from school for the rest of the week, and, ego be damned, you’re mildly upset that you don’t get to see him. You had taken Seungsik’s words to heart, and are now intent on apologizing to Hanse, no matter how mortifying it might be. Aside from that, you can’t sweep the knowledge that Do Hanse likes you under the rug. The boy is absurdly good looking, and he’s eons out of your league. It’s no secret that he has plenty of girls falling at his feet, charmed into oblivion by his bad boy persona, so why does he like you, of all people? You consider yourself to be painfully average when compared with other girls at your school.

It’s been a week and a half since you’ve seen Hanse, and that was long enough for you to whip yourself into shape. You’re dead set on apologizing to him. Plus, you’ve unfortunately (or fortunately?) developed a hopeless crush on the boy. You hear from Seungsik that today is the day to expect Hanse back at school, and with his friend’s help, you’re able to pinpoint the exact station at which he catches the train to school. You wake up extra early, and throw on the tiniest bit of makeup (not because you want to impress Hanse or anything. No, definitely not.) before you’re out the door. You’re across the street, trying your best to peer over the cars speeding by in hopes that you’ll catch sight of him. The streetlight overhead turns red, and the oncoming traffic screeches to a halt, and that’s when you catch sight of the boy you’ve been unable to stop thinking about for the past week.

“Do Hanse!” You yell out, mustering up all your might. You book it across the street, determined to make it to him before the light turns green. He turns to see you as you’re dashing into the road, maneuvering between cars, and his eyes widen. You make it to his side just as the light turns green; the traffic picks back up as quickly as it stopped. Hanse fixes you with a glare, spitting out a, “What do you want?” You straighten your figure. Hanse is not much taller than you, but you feel so utterly small under his watchful eyes. Now is not the time for cowardice, though. “I’m sorry.” Are the first words out of your mouth. Hanse doesn’t seem to be effected, so you continue before he gets to brush you off. “I’m sorry for believing stupid rumors. I talked with Seungsik and I now realize that what I believed wasn’t what really happened and I realize that it hurt you and that wasn’t my intent so I’m here to apologize.” As you speak, you don’t notice how Hanse’s gaze morphs into one of surprise and adoration. You’re still rambling when a pair of calloused hands grabs your face and then his lips are on yours and he’s kissing you and oh God, Hanse is kissing you. His lips are soft against yours and you can taste his mint flavored lip balm as he puts ages of pent up emotions into the kiss, and your heart speeds up and your eyes flutter shut because you enjoy the feeling of Hanse’s lips against your own far more than you should. When he breaks away from you, his eyes are the size of saucers, and his cheeks are a flushed a bright crimson, the embarrassment of his action settling over his shoulders. “Do Hanse, do you like me?” You ask, determination lacing your words. Hanse chuckles, his eyes wandering for a moment before they meet yours. “Yeah, I do.” He says nonchalantly, a stark contrast to the sheepish grin on his face. His expression morphs into one of surprise and frustration, though, only mere seconds after. “But what the fuck is with you, running into the road like that! Are you crazy?! You could have been hit!” This causes you to laugh, a smile stretching from ear to ear as you toss your head back. “I’ll have you know that I like you too. Not that you were wondering.” You say, folding your arms across your chest and jutting your lower lip out in a pout that has Hanse struggling to stay standing. “And uhh, the light was red, by the way.” At this, Hanse’s ears burn with embarrassment, and he clicks his tongue. The train pulls into the station just as he loops his arm around your shoulder, what you initially think to be a sweet gesture, only to shriek out a “hey!” when he puts you into a haphazard headlock. “Shut it.” He barks, but unlike before, there’s no malice in his words. He leads you onto the train like that, and you smile to yourself.

Do Hanse might be foul mouthed with an icy stare, but he most definitely is not a bad boy.

#im so on board for bad boy aus #especially when u apply it to boys that are so sweet theyll give u cavities #aka do hanse #as always this isn't edited so excuse any error #victon #victon scenarios #victon imagines #hanse #do hanse scenario #hanse imagine #kpop #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #victon hanse #y'all its like #half past midnight #im going to post this and then im off to bed #froggi writes

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Aisling Bea: My fathers death has given me a love of men, of their vulnerability and tenderness

The comedians father killed himself when she was three. She was plagued by the fact he made no mention of her or her sister in the letter he left. Then, 30 years after his death, a box arrived

My father died when I was three years old and my sister was three months. For years, we thought he had died of some sort of back injury a story that we had never really investigated because we were just too busy with the Spice Girls and which one we were (I was a Geri/Mel B mix FYI). Then, on the 10th anniversary of his death, my mother sat us down and explained the concept of suicide. Sure, we knew about suicide. At 13, I had already known of too many young men from our town who had taken their own lives. Spoken about as inexplicable sadnesses for the families, spoken about but never really talked about terrible tragedy nobody knows why he did it. What we had not known until that day, was that our father had, 10 years beforehand, also taken his own life.

When I was growing up, I idolised my father. I thought his ghost followed me around the house. I had been told how he adored me, how I was funny, just like him. Because of our lovely Catholic upbringing, I secretly assumed that he would eventually come back, like our good friend Jesus.

My mother, being the wonder woman that she is, never held his death against him. When she looked into his coffin, she felt she saw the face of the man she had married: his stress lines had gone, he seemed free of the sadness that had been dogging him of late. But it was still tough for her to talk about. She didnt want to have to explain to a stranger in the middle of a party how he was not defined by his ending, but how loved he was, how cherished the charismatic, handsome vet in a small town had been. She didnt want his whole person being judged.

Once she had told us, I did not want to talk about him. Ever again. I now hated him. He had not been taken from us, he had left. His suicide felt like the opposite of parenting. Abandonment. Selfishness. Taking us for granted.

I didnt care that he had not been in his right mind, because if I had been important enough to him I would have put him back into his right mind before he did it. I didnt care that he had been in chronic pain and that men in Ireland dont talk about their feelings, so instead die of sadness. I didnt want him at peace. I wanted him struggling, but alive, so he could meet my boyfriends and give them a hard time, like in American movies. I wanted him to come to pick me up from discos, so my mother didnt have to go out alone in her pyjamas at night to get me.

I look like him. For all of my teens and early 20s, I smothered my face in fake tan and bleached my hair blond so that elderly relatives would stop looking at me like I was the ghost of Christmas past whenever I did something funny. You look so like your father, they would say. And as much as people might think a teenage girl wants to be told that she looks like a dead man, she doesnt.

Aisling Bea with her father. Photograph: Aisling Bea

And then there was the letter.

My mother gave us the letter to read the day she told us, but, in it, he didnt mention my sister or me.

I had not been adored. He had forgotten we existed. I didnt believe it at first. When I was 15, I took the letter out of my mothers Filofax and used the photocopying machine at my summer job to make a copy so I could really examine it. Like a CSI detective, I stared at it, desperate to see if there had been a trace of the start of an A anywhere.

I would often fantasise that, if I ever killed myself, I would write a letter to every single person I had ever met, explaining why I was doing it. Every. Single. Person. Right down to the lad I struck up a conversation with once in a chip shop and the girl I met at summer camp when I was 12. No one would be left thinking: Why? I would be very non-selfish about it. When Facebook came in, I thought: Well, this will save me a fortune on stamps.

Sometimes, in my less lucid moments, I was convinced that he had left a secret note for me somewhere. Maybe, on my 16th no, 18th no, 21st no, 30th birthday, a letter would arrive, like in Back to the Future. Aisling, I wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand. I was secretly a spy. That is why I did it. I love you. I love your sister, too. PS Heaven is real, your philosophy essay is wrong and I am totally still watching over you. Stop shoplifting.

This summer was the 30th anniversary of his death. In that time, a few things have happened that have radically changed how I feel.

Three years ago, Robin Williams took his own life. He was my comedy hero, my TV dad he had always reminded my mother of my father and his death spurred me to finally start opening up. I had always found it so hard to talk about. I think I had been afraid that if I ever did, my soul would fall out of my mouth and I would never get it back in again.

Last year, I watched Grayson Perrys documentary All Man. It featured a woman whose son had ended his life. She thought that he probably hadnt wanted to die for ever, just on that day, when he had been in so much pain. A lightbulb moment it had never occurred to me that maybe suicide had seemed like the best option in that hour. In my head, my father had taken a clear decision, as my parent, to opt out for ever.

My father had always seemed like an adult making adult decisions, but I suddenly found myself at almost his age, still feeling like a giant child. I looked at some of my male friends gorgeous idiots doing their gorgeous, idiotic best to bring up little daughters, just like he would have been.

Finally, just after my 30th birthday, a box turned up.

The miserable people he had worked for had found a box of his things filed away and rang my mother (30 years later) wondering whether she wanted them or whether they should just throw them in the bin.

She waited for us to fly home and we opened it together three little women staring into an almost-abandoned cardboard box.

Now, most of the box was horse ultrasounds which, Ill be honest, I am not into. But there was also his handwriting around the edges and, then, underneath the horse X-rays and files, there were the photographs.

Any child who has lost a parent probably knows every single photograph in existence of that parent. I had pored over them all, trying to put together the person he might have been.

The photos in the box had been collected from his desk after he had died. We had never seen them before. They were nearly all of me. He had had all of these photos stuck on his desk. I was probably the last thing he looked at before he died.

My fathers death has given me a lot. It has given me a lifelong love of women, of their grittiness and hardness traits that we are not supposed to value as feminine. It has also given me a love of men, of their vulnerability and tenderness traits that we do not foster as masculine or allow ourselves to associate with masculinity.

To Daddy, here is my note to you:

Im sad you killed yourself, because I really think that, if you could see the life you left behind, you would regret it. You didnt get to see the Berlin wall fall or Ireland qualify for Italia 90. You didnt get to see all the encyclopedias that you bought for us to one day use at university get squashed into a CD and subsequently the internet. You have never got to hear your younger daughters voice it annoys me sometimes, but it has also said some of the most amazing things when drunk. I think you would have been proud to watch your daughter do standup at the O2 and sad to see my mother watching it on her own. Then again, if you hadnt died, I probably wouldnt have been mad enough to become a clown for a living. I am your daughter and I am really fucking funny, just like you. But, unlike you, Im going to stop being it for five minutes and write our story in the hope that it may help someone who didnt get to have a box turn up, or who may not feel in their right mind right now and needs a reminder to find hope. Aisling

In the UK, the Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is on 13 11 14. Other international suicide helplines can be found at befrienders.org