#i really like the lights in the daunt at night for some reason

[robo-dino-puppy]

horizon forbidden west | the daunt 2/?

[aarontaylorjohnsonsdivorcelawyer]

library card ➵ valgrace university au

FINALE - part 10 [masterlist]

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Leo slid his phone down his back pocket and viewed the landscape of New Rome University. He can see that the sun, although ithadn't set yet, is a burst of brilliant light, scattering orange, purple, and pink hues in the sky. He really hates driving at night, and he really could just return to the architecture building tomorrow, but the curiousity is killing him. He had to go back. Now.

"Hey, are you in a hurry? I need to go somewhere," he called to Piper, who was walking by him on the way to the parking lot.

"Where are you going?" Piper asked, abruptly stopping to see that Leo had fallen behind.

"I think I left something. Can you wait for me? Or you can go on without me if you want," he said.

Piper shrugged. "It's fine. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Great!" he replied. "Be safe."

"You too," Piper said before turning to walk away.

Leo tried to walk the first few yards, but his feet took over and then he's sprinting. There was a loud pounding in his chest; whether it was from the sprinting or the nerves, he's not sure. At last, he arrived at the building, and the pounding just banged even more.

He paved cautiously, scared and excited about what he's gonna find. He's been searching for it everywhere he go, turning his head at every drawing tube yielding individual he sees, hoping his eyes lands on the right one. Perhaps it did, but now he will have a name. And now, Leo is certain.

His feet lead him to the bulletin board, his Docs squeaking at every step he takes against the tiled floor. The building is empty except the few students hanging out the tables just outside the archway, close to the vestibule in which Leo is at. He let out a shaky breath, steadying his chest as he approached.

He knew the piece very well. He admits that the reason it slipped his mind to look at the name was because the illustration captivated him first and his gaze simply brushed over the title block in the corner. Then he went back to admiring it.

It's some sort of summer camp. It has multiple buildings that carried different architectural styles but unified with classical elements, which he never imagined would work this well. At the frontage stood a big blue house white trim and wrap-around porch, and close to it stood a big pine tree. The pine tree seems huge and daunting, like some magical entity that protects the land.

There were cabins. It was surrounding a firepit in the middle, in a horseshoe shape. There might've been 20, but he's not sure. He took note of the little shabby chic cabin and got the sudden urge to tell Piper about it.

And then there's the red one. His eyes lingered at the little brick building. It's a mixture of industrial and steampunk, seemingly out of place to the bright gold and the wooden cabins on either side of it. He remembered pressing his palm against the sheet of glass that protects the board, brushing his index finger at the tiny drawing. He had never been in a summer camp before, but the tall columns and the bronze statues and the waves of the ocean are singing that he had been here before. He's even so sure that there's a hidden bunker in the woods somewhere.

Somehow, he is certain, that in another life, he is a camper in this camp, and he is with his best friend Piper McLean, and Jason Grace.

Jason Grace.

His gaze catapulted to the bottom right corner. And then he saw it. Right next to the student number he's been typing at the library for months, was Jason Grace's name. It was a name he memorized so well, so well that he didn't even struggle to read it even with dyslexia. It's as if his mind is trained to look for Jason Grace.

He fished his phone from his pocket, hands shaking. Then he dialed the number.

"Hello?" the speaker on the other end replied. It was Jason's voice.

"Hey. . . I'm at the archi building right now," Leo said, trying to disguise his nervous voice.

"I know, I'm looking at you right now."

He turned to the courtyard, and saw Jason amongst the students in the table. He smiled at him when he caught his eyes, phone pressed against his ear.

"See, I told you, it's easy to figure out," Jason chuckled on the phone. The Jason he's looking at rose, and approached.

Leo dropped the phone. "Hi," he said, to the Jason in front of him.

"Hi." He said it better than Leo. The word glides smoothly out of his mouth, with the smile never leaving from his face. There was a trace of a scar on the top corner of his lips, forming a crescent shape guided by his smile.

Leo bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to think about Jason's stupid lips, and the stupid scar on his lips, and the stupid smile on his lips.

"I'm sorry, this is so embarrassing," Leo said, shifting his gaze away from Jason. "This is so weird."

"What do you mean it's weird?"

"This! I've made it weird! I said some weird things now this is weird!"

"What? No, you didn't do anything weird at all!"

Leo avoided his gaze. "This is like a pattern for me, I fall in love so easily, and I do something embarassing, and then I drive them away. I — I just. . ."

"Hey." Jason put a hand on Leo's arm, sending thousans volts of electricity down his body. "None of this is embarrassing, it's just me."

Leo sighed. "Well, it will soon! I don't know how to act, I've never made it past the daydreaming phase! I've never had anyone know I like them, I just keep it to myself."

"You think this is embarassing? You should ask Malcolm how I acted when I saw you at the bleachers," Jason chuckled, his hand dropping grip Leo's wrist. "Good thing the helmet hid my face well, and you're far enough to not see it."

"W-what do you mean?" Leo stammered.

"You know what I mean! Now I'm the one who's embarassed."

"I didn't know you know me!"

"Of course I know you! You brought amazing flan to Mrs. Jackson's Christmas party!"

"I—" Leo dropped his head to hide his face, chuckling in disbelief. "So what now?"

"I say dinner?" Jason tilted his head, waiting for Leo's response.

"Your treat? Since you're the rich one?"

"Hey, you still owe me 30 dollars!"

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

When he went home that night, a huge smile plastered across his face, Leo took out his phone and changed the contact on his phone. The mystery man he's been texting now has a name, and it is Jason Grace.

He was typing his thank you to Jason for the amazing night when the phone vibrated on his hand, along with it was a text from Piper. He smiled to himself. He has a lot of things to tell his best friend.

[lady-october]

Pairing : Oli Sykes x Female Assistant Genre : Romance, Smut (18+ Only) Future Chapters : Available on Ao3

Story Content : Smut, Drama, Choking, Power dynamics, Romance, Rough sex, Sadism/Masochism, Dom/Sub, Mentions of addiction & self harm, Degradation, Praise kink, Exhibitionism, Orgasm denial, Breath play, Dirty talk.

Summary :

“Don’t you see what a dangerous game you’re playing? Why did you have to look so fucking delicious tonight, I couldn’t stop undressing you in my mind, thinking of all the twisted things I want to do to you.” She had only worked on the touring team for three weeks, but her mind had been hijacked by dirty thoughts of a man she barely even talked to. Sure, he was very attractive, but were there other reasons she was so uncontrollably drawn to him? This is a filthy story of pain, self discovery, and love.

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Chapter 1: Your eyes are swallowing me

Chapter title is lyrics from "Sleepwalking"

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I'd be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed him. 

So maybe I did take a little longer to get ready when I knew he'd be around; maybe my skirt was suddenly pulled up just that little bit higher than usual; maybe I loosened a button or two, but it's not like I was delusional enough to believe I ever had a shot with the man.

I was just an assistant. 

I did the menial tasks that usually went unnoticed. But sometimes when I came back with food he'd flash me the most wicked smile as he took it off me.

"Ta, love", and a shiver would run through my body.

It was the night after a big set in London, an apartment style hotel room had been booked for the whole band with a shared common space. The place had clearly been picked as a bit of a party accommodation to celebrate the tour. It was quite posh, lavish furniture, open planning, and a great view. All the things you'd expect of an expensive hotel. 

Everyone had gotten a bit too drunk tonight, and it was part of my job to make sure they got to bed to catch a flight tomorrow, so I was the only sober one here. 

It was also my job to make sure the alcohol kept flowing, the right guests were let in, and taxis were ordered. 

Despite how busy I was, I kept catching myself staring at him. I couldn't help myself, he was always such a delightful mess after a concert; dishevelled hair, smeared eyeliner, a bit sweaty – a wonderful mix of tired and happy. Essentially he always came off the stage looking like he'd just finished having some really good sex.

I shook my head, realising I'd been staring again.

Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

The night went by in a blur of busy tasks. Suddenly it was four in the morning, I had just finished getting everyone to bed and all the guests out of there. I sighed deeply at the state of the place and began the daunting task of cleaning up. 

That's when I saw him across the room.

The lights were dimmed low as I’d been strategically turning them off throughout the night in the hopes that it would make everyone sleepier, so I was only able to make out the silhouette of a man.

He was sprawled on the sofa, legs spread and leaned back, but I could tell it was Oli – his long, fluffy hair is unmistakable.

"Oh fuck, Oli you scared the living shit out of me."

That was probably the longest sentence I'd ever dared say to him, as I was usually too flustered to form proper sentences, but the sheer exhaustion from the night and the adrenaline from surprise got the better of me.

I heard a laugh from the dark figure on the sofa, "Sorry love I didn't mean to scare you, but I'm not ready to sleep just yet." You could hear the words had been spoken with a lazy smile.

Suddenly I was very aware of the fact that we were all alone, and he sounded... 

No, I didn’t even dare think it.

He's just tired and drunk, surely that's the only reason he sounds so...

"R-right. Just remember we've got a flight tomorrow."

I could see his head tilt to the side as he contemplated what I’d said, but he clearly decided he didn't give a fuck, as his response came unbothered, completely ignoring my comment, "Get me another drink will you?"

Suddenly the walls felt as if they were closing in. I was nervous to say the least. I had never been alone with him before, and for some reason it felt weirdly intimate despite him being all the way across the room.

I didn't know how to respond beyond simply following his order, so I shakily turned around and walked over to the dining room table where all the drink bottles were lined up, while being entirely too aware of his gaze on me from behind. 

There was a rustle of fabric like he’d gotten off the sofa, followed shortly by the sound of his footsteps behind me by the table. 

I didn't get a chance to properly digest what was happening before his hands were firmly gripping my hips, making me gasp, the impact almost making me fall forward. Instead I instinctively braced myself against the table, nearly knocking over the half empty liquor bottles there.

My heart began racing, threatening to jump out of my chest, as I felt his hard cock clearly through the fabrics between us, pressing against my ass as I was pinned to the table. His hand quickly moved to my throat to prevent me from falling forwards further, as if he didn’t want me bent over, using it to guide my head close to his.

I was surrounded by him.

His scent, his hair falling into my view, his lips against my ear, his breath against my cheek, the hand on my throat possessive and firm. I was contorted, pinned painfully between the table and his warm body behind me as I was being held up by his grip.

His lips parted gently against my ear, and spoke in a tone I can only describe as carnal, "I get lonely you see, and I've noticed you noticing me. You want me, yeah?”

He had noticed after all.

I swallowed, hard.

“Will you nod for me love if you want me."

My heartbeat promptly moved between my legs.

I do want him – oh god do I want him. My whole body felt like it was on fire.

But his request was so much more than a search for knowledge of whether I wanted him or not, it was an inquiry of approval, a probing of whether I’d allow this to happen, or if we part ways here before anything further happens.

I nodded against his hand around my throat, causing his breath to speed up.

His lips spread into a smile against my ear, "Let’s have some fun then."

I was wearing a simple, strappy, mini dress so his hair fell onto my bare shoulders as he kissed my neck, his warm breath fanned my skin. My eyes shut from the delightful sensations, and I began mindlessly moving my hips against him, causing his grip on me to tighten.

"Ah, you like that don't you?"

I nodded again, probably a bit too eagerly. 

He chuckled, which I felt as a puff of warm air against my neck more than heard. His mouth returns to my ear, speaking lazily like a predator toying with its prey, "You're so fucking desperate for me, aren't ya?" 

My eyes flew open. I nodded again, slower this time, feeling exposed.

The truth is that I am desperate; desperate enough daydream about him constantly, to touch myself at night when I was all alone, imagining all ways I want to be fucked by him. In fact, I’d grown quite attached to using all my perverted thoughts about the man as a distraction from my life, from everything I’ve been through lately.

From pain.

"I bet you're soaking, I bet you have been all night." His grip on my hip relaxed, turning into a caress, moving towards the hem of my dress, lifting it slightly as his fingers trailed closer to my pussy. 

His voice darkened and intensified, "I reckon you've ruined your underwear just being near me." 

Then his hand finally reached my pooling wetness and my body immediately went electric, my knees buckled and my mouth fell open with a gasping, desperate moan as my hands mindlessly grabbed at his strong arm holding my throat to steady myself.

The hand that had just caused my brain to short circuit from a simple touch to my core, quickly retracted away to yank me back up from slumping over. 

"Sh, sh, sh, you're gonna have to be quiet or you're gonna wake the lads, can’t have that, can we?" He whispered playfully.

I just wanted him back between my legs, so I spoke, in such a desperate tone that I surprised myself, "I–I'm sorry, p--please, please don't stop."

His grip on me loosened to pull the skirt of my dress up to my waist, and slide my underwear down. I felt them pop over my ass before falling to my ankles on the floor. 

"We don't need these anymore." He muttered behind me as he returned to feel my pussy, this time without the soaking fabric stopping him. I felt his forehead on my shoulder as he moved along my folds with intent, his breath coming faster.

"To be honest with you love, I'm pretty fucking desperate too." Then he pushed two fingers into me and I was suddenly fighting for dear life not to moan. 

I gripped the table again to stay upright, willing my body to behave. The last thing I wanted was for him to stop.

His mouth replaced his forehead on my shoulder, kissing me with parted lips, biting slightly every so often, his hips pushed back into mine, causing me to feel his cock against my ass again – now only his fabrics between us.

I felt untethered, like I’d been transported somewhere else, into some wild fantasy; this couldn't possibly be happening. 

I turned my head slightly, searching, wanting to kiss him. His mouth moved to my neck, then my ear, then my cheek, leaving breathy kisses and bites where he wanted to.

Right when I thought he was going to turn me around to kiss him, he removed the fingers and placed the now soaking hand firmly on the back of my neck, pushing me forward. I gasped in surprise and disappointment at the hand once again disappearing from my pussy, but the grip was strong and I could only obey. I pushed the bottles in front of me forward as I was bent over so they wouldn't be knocked over. 

The shock of the sudden movements brought me back to reality and I started blushing. I was currently bent over a table, bare ass and pussy exposed to Oli Sykes, in the middle of a shared common room where any of the band mates could walk in at any point. This was insane.

But I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

"Fuck." he said under his breath behind me, "You're a vision…" Then I heard more fabric rustling, and suddenly something a lot warmer and bigger was at my entrance. 

How was I supposed to not moan? How was I supposed to not… 

And then he started pushing into me. 

I bit down on my lip so hard it would probably bruise, clawing at the table. A low moan came from behind me as he pushed deeper, to the hilt. He stopped there for a moment and leaned over me; I could feel his heat, the rising and falling of his chest, his laboured breathing against me, his soaking hand still possessively on the back of my neck. 

"You're doing great love, stay just like that, don't make a sound, yeah?" He whispered close to my ear.

That's when he started pumping, and I once again was transported to some other reality. I couldn't help it, I was moving, I felt wild, I wanted to scream, and suddenly I’d lost control again and another moan escaped my lips.

As soon as I did he stopped, his hand that had been pinning me to the table wrapped around my neck, leaving all the flesh there wet with my own juices, before pulling me back up against him.

His lips were back at my ear, hair back in my vision. “What a shame, you were doing so well for me.”

He pulled away and I felt him slip out of me, causing a pang of sadness to wash over me, thinking it's over, but in the same motion he turned me around, grabbing me by the hips to sit me on the table before him. He spread my legs to step between them, before our eyes met.

And suddenly it felt as if time stopped.

He is gorgeous. 

Dishevelled hair falling haphazardly around his face, lips slightly parted, the tattoos creeping up his neck, framing his face. His eyes were shining bright in the dim light, glassy but still intense. There was so much hunger in them, yet so much sadness.

The words slipped out of me without a thought, barely a whisper, “...Are you ok?”

His brows furrowed slightly as he searched my face, clearly not quite sure how to respond, like I'd thrown him off. You could tell he was intoxicated, as I don't think he'd be this honest with me, essentially a stranger, in a sober state – nor this forward. 

He spoke softly, “Tonight I wanted to throw everything away, just say fuck it; does anything really matter? I'm supposed to have my fucking shit together, yet all I want to do–” He looked away, shaking his head as he cut himself off. 

Silence filled the air around us for a long moment as he was lost in thought, then suddenly his eyes shot back to mine, speaking slowly, thoughtfully, “I've had my eye on you all night, and you look just as wrapped up in temptation as I feel. I just need an escape and I have a feeling you do too, don't you?”

His vagueness didn't matter, I knew what he was talking about, and I felt it too; the relentless pressure of life was crushing and there was a reason I couldn't keep my eyes off of him, why I wanted him so badly. Everyone could see there's something tortured about Oli, something passionate and wild that could barely be contained. 

And while I didn’t like to acknowledge it, I could relate. I also wanted to just let go, be free. Whatever that meant.

And I wanted to go there with him.

I reached out to touch his face, he flinched at the intimate gesture but didn't resist.

My mouth opened to speak, but I couldn’t find the words so I just nodded instead.

His expression softened and he nodded in return; a silent understanding that neither of us fully knew why the other needed this, but it didn’t matter. We didn’t need to know the intimate details about each other's pain to know we’re both desperate for some relief.

His eyes fell to my lips, “I just want to lose myself in you for a little while...”

Lose myself. 

Yes that’s it – a nice little escape from it all. I could feel a sombre smile spread across my lips. With the caress on his cheek I tried to guide him into a kiss, but instead he moved to my neck, tasting my juices still lingering there. 

He made a low rumbling noise in his chest then moved back to my ear, “You taste so sweet, love. Now, let's see if we can keep you quiet for this next bit.”

Pulling away he met my gaze again, this time with a faint devilish smile playing on his lips as he placed his hand over my mouth to encourage me to remain silent.

I didn’t resist, I wanted nothing more than to feel him inside me again.

It hit me that I am not sure exactly where my limits were, as long as he just continued using me.

Using me. 

That’s what it was, that’s what I craved.

I just want him to use me.

While this was news to me, I didn't want to think about this revelation now. The last thing I wanted to do right now was psychoanalyse myself. Thankfully I didn’t have to try very hard to shake the thought off, because Oli pulled me right back to the moment as his less busy hand slipped between us, guiding his cock back to me.

“I'll take things a bit slower at first, yeah? And you will stay quiet this time.” 

He was nodding his head while holding my gaze steadily, clearly expecting me to nod back in return.

So I did, looking nervous as I didn’t fully trust myself.

“Fuck, don't make that face love, I just want to start pounding to watch you struggle.”

Despite his last words, he entered me slowly. His eyes darken as he pulled me closer to him. Then he was moving inside me, that wicked smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his gaze lazily roamed me. When his eyes came back to meet mine I could see something wild flicker behind them, like a promise of things to come.

Yes.

He was moving faster, testing me to see if I could keep quiet. My nails were digging into his shoulders to retain control, but I was doing it, only the slightest of noises escaped me.

“That's it, just like that.”

He looked at the hand covering my mouth, the tip of his tongue playing against his teeth. The grip loosened and two fingers pushed playfully into my mouth, his breath catching at the sight, appearing positively feral. His movements stopped for a moment, before he thrust into me, hard, his smile turning into a more serious expression, as if he was at some type of breaking point.

As if he was really sick of containing himself.

“Fuck it.” He said in a deep tone before removing the fingers that had been feeling my tongue, replace them with his lips. His arms wrapped around me, kissing me deeply, moaning into my mouth as he began thrusting harder.

Our hands are everywhere, grabbing, pulling, pushing, clawing.

I felt fingers slip into my hair to yank my head back in order to bite my neck, and I couldn't help it, I whimpered in response.

But he didn't care, if anything it spurred him on.

After a moment he pulled away to push me down on the table once more, this time facing him.

I looked up at him; he looked dangerous, unleashed, almost animalistic. His hair was everywhere, his mouth was open, panting heavily, and I could barely see his eyes. The energy was infectious, I was smothered in it as I writhe on the table.

Yes, this is it. This is what I need.

He pulled the top of my dress and bra down in one swift and painful motion, his hand gripping my throat agonisingly hard.

Hard enough for normal breaths to become difficult.

A rush of adrenaline washes over me, a confusing yet delightful mix of fear and arousal. He must have noticed, as his grip on my neck loosened slightly, letting me know he was still in there somewhere, despite appearing almost possessed. 

With that knowledge I let go. 

I clawed at him, wrapped my legs around him. He was so warm and solid, and I felt as if I was drowning in it; in him. Our movements became a blur of pain and pleasure. 

Somewhere in the distance I heard glass bottles clanging, then one after another fell to the floor. 

Again, he didn’t care. 

The world had fallen away and it was only us and our ecstasy here.

His head lowered as his movements came slower, with more intent. In a deep, nearly unrecognisable voice he murmurs, “I'm close.”

Another rush of emotions washed over me. 

A certainty, an almost primal need. I spoke my wishes through clenched teeth in a strangled and desperate tone, “Cum in me.”

His grip on me tightens further, this time constricting my breathing entirely. He falls forward on top of me, burying his face in the crook of my neck next to the vice grip he held on my throat. My fingers dig into his hair, pulling him closer. His breath became ragged as I felt him filling me up with every thrust. 

After a moment I hear some of it drip onto the floor beneath us.

The grip on my neck loosened and I inhaled sharply.

We lay like this for a minute before coming back to reality, letting our heart rates slow down.

I was bewildered, yet amazed. 

What had just happened? I felt like I’d unlocked a whole new part of myself, a longing that I didn’t quite understand yet, something simmering under the surface for what felt like years. 

Something in me craved the danger, the fear, the pain, to be used. Like there was some depraved form of freedom in giving my body and mind to someone and letting them have their way with me. And not to mention; how can something make me feel this incredibly good, without having even reached orgasm from it?

In all the confusion, one thing felt completely unwavering;

I wanted more.

Thoughts were swimming around in my head when a gentle caress grazed my throat. It was a sweet gesture, the polar opposite of the aggression I’d just experienced during our shared bliss. My brows furrowed in confusion for a moment before he raised himself up, our faces only inches apart. I studied his expression, he appeared worried – questioning.

A soft, almost boyish voice spoke, “Are you alright?”

Such simple words, but the question wasn’t. 

I could tell he wanted to know if I felt unsafe, if I was in pain, and if what transpired between us had crossed a line. If he had crossed a line.

My face blooms into a tired smile, “Yes. I’m a bit confused, but I’m good.”

His expression softened some but not fully, and he started searching my neck and chest for any signs of injury, but I grabbed his hands to stop him. 

“Really, I’m okay. I didn’t know I could feel like this. I-I don’t fully understand it…“ I paused to try and find the words, “Tonight you’ve done more for me than I could–” 

He cuts me off with a kiss, much more tender than our previous ones. After a moment he pulls away to speak, “Oh love, you have no idea.”

I continued smiling, I couldn’t stop, and his features mimicked mine. 

My words came sheepishly, “Maybe we could do this again?” 

Right as I finished speaking another audible drop of cum was heard hitting the floor beneath us. We both exhale a small laugh – an acknowledgement of how bizarre the situation was.

He brushed some hair away from my face, “How about we have a little chat tomorrow, yeah? When we’re both a bit more clear headed.”

I couldn’t tell if he just wanted a way out, or if he wanted to make sure I was really okay with what had happened tonight. So I just nodded.

“Alright, let’s get you sorted then shall we?” He helped me into a sitting position and attempted to adjust my clothes a bit, as if I wasn’t the picture of freshly fucked; one of my dress straps had torn, my hair was completely messed up, with equally messy makeup, and of course – literally dripping cum. 

I had to stifle another laugh.

He pulled away, adjusting his own clothes, and shot me one last smile before slipping back to his room.

I sat there for some time, taking in the mess all around me. Almost all the bottles were on the floor, with one of them having shattered. 

How had I not noticed? 

There wasn’t a chance everyone in the band hadn’t heard us. 

This will be awkward tomorrow.

... Continue reading on Ao3

[xxxdreamscapexxx]

I don’t want to hear thoughts... Unless they’re yours

Chapter 7: Forbidden longing Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader Word count: 4.2k Warning: NSFW, 18+ just in case, angst, dark thoughts, depressive thoughts, Wanda using her magic in a questionable way, Mommy!Kink, Summary: Wanda wanted to live the normal life she was never afforded, but something was always missing. Something she denied herself and buried deep inside. But watching you move next door, she quickly realizes that this may not be possible for much longer. Especially with all the interesting things she found in your thoughts. Chapter summary: Being alone in a new town can be hard. Especially when your past comes back to remind you of all the things you’re missing out on in life. Would Wanda be able to look the other way? Would she be able to stay away from you? Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6; Part 7; Part 8; Part 9; Part 10 Series materlist                                     Masterlist of all my works

On a Wednesday night you sighed as you sat on your balcony, a glass of wine resting on the table in front of you. You looked down at the pool, the lights at the edges giving the water a brilliant quality to it that you could easily get lost in. It was a beautiful view. You had many reasons to be happy, including the fact that you managed to hire the last needed person on your team today. By next Monday morning, everyone would have started onboarding, relieving some of the pressure this project had been putting on you, but you were feeling down. The days blurred together on weekdays and they dragged torturously slowly on weekends and you couldn’t find your balance. You needed an escape, a way to recharge in some way, but the one person who offered you respite, you had to cancel on, and now you didn’t have the courage to speak to her again, asking for some company, even when you needed it. Especially after the way you couldn’t tear your eyes away from her body every time she wasn’t looking. You couldn’t deny the woman her beauty and the allure of her maturity was obvious, which only made you shy away from her more. But this wasn’t the only thing weighing you down. You knew the source of your current frustration. You looked at your phone for a brief moment again, the image on the screen daunting. Your eyes lingered on the face of a blond woman, smiling at the camera. She looked happy. Really happy. God, why did that make you feel so dispirited? She hasn’t been in your life for years now. Perhaps it was her, that made you scared of thinking of Wanda, you thought distractedly. That blond woman, who had a cute girl on her arm, the two of them taking a selfie to the background of a sandy beach, she was your first girlfriend, your first ever love, the first woman to claim your heart and body. And she had destroyed you. You knew her since you were little. She was a friend of your mother’s and always so amazingly beautiful. Her glacier, icy blue eyes often seemed as cold as her demeaner, but you knew the woman had a soft side, she often kept hidden. To everyone else, she was one of the most influential, respected business women in your town, but when she was with you, her voice grew soft and sweet, her lips forming into a kind smile that very few knew, her touch so gentle, it almost felt like she was afraid you’d break. That soft side is actually what you fell in love with. You were awfully young, but that attraction stayed with you and during the summer after you turned 18, she finally admitted she knew of your feelings. You tried to deny it, of course, your heart hammering in your chest and your cheeks turning pink at the mention of it. You weren’t sure what you expected, but hearing her say that she shared in your feelings certainly wasn’t it. Yet, she told you she’d give you her heart. That you had it already and she’d do everything in her power to convince you that she was worthy of your affection. Her words and the sincerity behind them had your heart leaping. You wanted her love desperately, so you hid your relationship from your mother, knowing she would be against it. You spent afternoons after school sneaking though town, so you could meet her and your summer “interning” for her, having the time of your life. She knew how to lead, knew how to take control almost effortlessly and you were so happy to give in, so happy to let her take charge and guide you. She took her time to build your confidence and trust in her, took it so slow and steady, until you were ready. Eventually she became your first and you were thrilled to experience love and intimacy with her for the first time. You were happy with her, happy to be hers. And she was happy too. Having a pretty girl on her arm, one that looked at her with so much love and adoration, with so much affection, was all she wanted. When she asked you to take a gap year, between high school and college, so the two of you could spend more time together, you happily agreed, letting her make the decisions and choices you weren’t ready to face. She gave you a more permanent position with her, allowing you to save some money for college, while spending each day with her. She took you to so many of her “business trips”, which were no more than excuses, so she could take you on vacations and spoil you. It all looked wonderful on your resume too, so despite your mother’s very vocal disagreement of your choice, she let you go ahead with it… Now, years later, she told you, it was because she knew of your relationship. Disagreed with it wholeheartedly, and even almost threatened your now ex-girlfriend, but wanted you to be happy. And you were. You would have been happy to be with her for the rest of your life. But the things you loved about her and made you happy, were the same things she grew to dislike about you. In her eyes you were indecisive and rarely took initiative, always relied on her to help you and she was growing frustrated. After a couple of years into the relationship, she kept telling you that you’re a grown up, that you should be able to do things on your own, to deal with life on your own. You were so co-dependant and it was suffocating her. It was almost time for you to go to college and you kept asking her opinion for every decision, kept begging her to accompany you for every small thing, her presence providing calmness and reassurance, that you didn’t know how to function without. If only you knew how to tell her that. How to make her understand. One day, when you needed to go and shop for all your textbooks and supplies, you asked her to join you and she snapped. God, she looked so furious. For the first time since you’ve known her, she was as cold to you, as she was with everyone else, her voice a growl as she told you that you were such a useless little thing, incapable of doing even the smallest of things on your own. Your co-dependency was too much for her. She told you how sick she was of having to decide everything for you. Sick of carrying you through life, sick of seeing that pleading look in your eyes, waiting for her to save you. That day she broke up with you and broke your heart in the process too. The things she said echoed in your head for months. They fed your darkest fears, heightened your insecurity, until you couldn’t recognize yourself. You couldn’t pick yourself up from the floor, spending the remainder of your free weeks before college trying to grow the confidence to even attend. It was the worst pain you’ve ever known.   Eventually you thought of it as a lesson you had to learn. No one would want you the way you were with her. She told you that. And you believed it. You fought social anxiety and insecurity, trying to be independent and strong, trying to never be the way you allowed yourself to be with her. You were raised to be strong, your mother always reminded you, you were meant to lead, to be in control, to be powerful. And you were often told you’re good at it. People trusted you, you had a highly developed sense for justice and you cared about people. Yet, that was never what you wanted. You always felt safest under the blanket of another’s authority. Your next relationships were very different, but never worked out. You were never really yourself with those women and in return, they grew distant and eventually you broke up. At this point you thought that having a relationship that made you happy was impossible. No woman would care for your true self, would she? Your first girlfriend was the most patient of them all and even she had trouble to sometimes accept you and especially your kinks. She always hated it when you called her ‘’Mommy’’. You didn’t mean to, in fact it just slipped out sometimes, but it never failed to turn her off. She tried for you, of course, talked it through with you, but she always had a distaste for it, so you learned to keep it to yourself, never letting it slip out with other partners. No matter how much your other exes asked you about your fantasies or kinks, you never shared that one. You were sure that you would never meet a woman who would accept you, let alone share your preferences, choosing to forever keep them buried. And to keep them that way, you avoided the type of women, who actually attracted you most, knowing that sooner or later you’d slip… Perhaps that’s why you avoided Wanda? But she was kind, sweet, caring, she was always so gentle with you, yet assertive and strong, confident in herself and what she wanted. God, she was perfect! She was everything you ever imagined in a partner. Although that thought was absurd. You didn’t even know her… Truth be told, you shouldn’t even think of her. If you let yourself imagine what it would be like to be with her, you knew you’d fall for her so desperately. And she would snap your heart like a twig. Yes, thoughts of Wanda were a dangerous thing. So, you did your best to ignore any idea of her that would pop into your head. Keeping your distance would be in everyone’s best interest. Especially yours. In the long run, it was much kinder to your heart. Somehow that saddened you more and you gulped down the glass of wine in front of you, pouring yourself another. You were in a self-pitying mood and you allowed yourself to look at the picture of your ex and her new girlfriend and how happy they looked together, a lump in your throat. God, when would it be your turn to be this happy? To find the person, who would look at you with so much love in their eyes? Why was it, that you had to look at the happiness of others, never being allowed to taste it yourself? Was there truly no one out there for you? What was it about you that pushed people away? Were you not pretty enough? Not smart enough? Or were you simply unlovable? You often thought so. And the prospect of walking through life alone had you feeling disheartened quite often throughout the years. You’d smile for the world, observing it quietly, pretending to be content. And when you’d get home you’d cry for hours and hours, wanting to scream so hard your throat would go sore. But you’d take another sleeping pill instead and you’d sink into nothingness. It could be worse, you used to think… But nothing was worse than what you felt inside. It’s a good thing you found help when you did, you thought bitterly. Therapy helped you pull yourself out of the darkness and to start living in the light. But there were always days like this from time to time. Just as you thought of that, a movement inside the Maximoff’s house, a sudden shift, followed by the lights in the entire house going out attracted your attention. You could have sworn you saw the lights on both floors go out at once, but you could see nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary, so you shrugged, your eyes moving back to the pool with its brilliant blue water, entirely unaware of being watched by a pair of green eyes.                                               *             *             * After she came home from that disaster of a date, Wanda spent the whole night thinking. Her thoughts spiralled for hours, her heart protesting the thought that she should just pull away from you. She certainly didn’t want to. But could she keep this a friendship? After everything she saw, everything she did? After sharing so much intimacy with you, could she go back? Of course, she could, she decided. It meant a lot to her, yes, and God, she wanted to take everything else, but nothing was set in stone. You never had to know about Wanda’s transgressions.   But she knew… She knew about all those wonderful things inside your head and as she watched your movements from a distance, her mind closed to the outside world and to your thoughts, and she felt deprived. It was almost like withdrawal. Just like right now… She could see you there, on your balcony, sulking… And she wanted to know what you were thinking about. She wanted to know what made you seem so sad. But she couldn’t allow herself to probe, not if she wanted to stay away from you. Annoyed, as much at the situation, as she was at herself, she huffed, red magic erupting from her fingers and taking out the lights in her house. You were off limits. A place where she shouldn’t wander. If only she had seen the dark thoughts that swirled in your head, the pain that you felt as you sat there, perhaps things would be different. Perhaps she’d know just how much you longed to reach out to her, longed to text her and ask for a moment of her company. But such a thing was not meant to be. Despite the proximity, the two of you were worlds apart, each one engulfed by her own doubts and fears. You, so oblivious and blind and completely consumed by the fear of rejection that resided in your heart, and Wanda, who could see you so clearly, but couldn’t bring herself to take another chance with her barely salvaged heart. As Wanda walked up her stairs, her feet silent in the darkness, she felt a sudden sense of anger. It was the quiet, deeply unnerving kind, the kind that crawled up your skin and made your body suddenly heat up, but just wouldn’t boil over. It was the kind of anger that lingered. It stayed with her while she undressed herself, throwing on only a t-shirt, instead of her pajamas, it messed with her while she brushed her teeth, while she sat up in her bed and watched you through her window… You looked so sad. You looked so fucking beautiful in your sadness too and it made her want to blast the walls of this house with her magic, just so she could be closer to you. She wanted to know what caused your sadness and she wanted to find a way to make it better. Resentful of her own reservations, her own rules that restricted her, she huffed, closing her eyes and trying to push the thought of you out of her head and find some comfort in sleep. But sleep never came. And every time she opened her eyes, she was met with the same sight. The same out worldly beauty, the same terrible sadness written all over it. And she couldn’t stand it. Why did you have to be so beautiful? Why did that look in your eyes have to affect her so much. Wanda watched you for another 5 minutes, her eyes unblinking and her thoughts surprisingly empty, before she decided that she couldn’t stand this anymore. Rules be damned. She wanted to take care of you. She wanted to be good to you tonight. Wanda’s astral body levitated out of her physical one with surprising ease, despite the fact that she hadn’t projected in years. Some things just couldn’t be unlearned over time and magic came way too easy to her now, so perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. She walked in front of the mirror in her bedroom and her head tilted as she examined her reflection. Yes, some things never changed. Those scars, gained in magical battle might have disappeared from her skin, but she could see them clearly here. Her red eyes glowed in the darkness, her skin covered in angry, jagged lines, the blackened fingers, that twitched with unused magic, the tattered crown over her head and the suit that she hasn’t worn since mount Wundagore... All those things from her past. She was a true horror, even in her own eyes. How could she ever ask a girl like you to love a monster like the one she so clearly was? But she wasn’t going to ask you to love her. In fact, you wouldn’t even see her. You had no magical abilities, she checked soon after you moved in. So she had nothing to worry about tonight. With a final glance that lingered on her face, Wanda flew out of her house and hovered over your balcony, examining you up close. You were almost in a stupor and Wanda’s astral form flew closer, landing near you and taking the last few steps to you. “Poor, sweet girl. You look so tired.” She said with a note of melancholy understanding, knowing you wouldn’t be able to hear her. The dark circles under your eyes gave you a grave expression that didn’t sit right with her, that didn’t even seem to fit in the image she had of you and the way your body sagged looked so unnatural, like you were a misshapen doll, that it made Wanda shudder. Only your eyes gave away that there was still a spark of life in you, a tornado of feelings and emotions that scrambled your thoughts. As if to show her you’re alive, your hand moved, blindly taking the glass of wine and dawning the remainder if its content, the sharp taste making you shiver as you swallowed it. In a gesture of gentle compassion, Wanda reached out, her fingers stroking your hair softly. “That’s not good for you, darling girl.” She said with a tenderness that looked almost macabre, considering you couldn’t see or feel her. To her surprise, you put the glass down, pushing it away with an apathetic gesture and Wanda crouched down in front of you, eyes studying you with a curious expression. She wondered for a moment if perhaps you had sensed her, but nothing actually gave that away. Your eyes looked unseeingly through her and into the blue water of the pool. But perhaps on some level you could feel her, she hoped, standing up straight again and moving to your side, her forehead touching your temple softly as she breathed you in, while one of her hands circled your shoulders and embraced you gently. Her blackened fingers looked so grotesque next to your unblemished skin, but she couldn’t help herself basking in your proximity, in your presence, in your smell, in your warmth. Despite what she might have looked like, she only wanted to get a moment of gentleness from you. She wanted to hug you, to lay your head on her chest and stroke your hair, a gesture she knew would soothe both of you. God, she probably looked deranged right now, but as soon as your body tilted to the side, as if to lean more against her, Wanda lost all ability to care. Some part of you did sense her, she thought, a surge of excitement passing through her body. She wondered just how much she would be able to influence you in this state. You were obviously more susceptible to suggestion in your tired drunkenness, but she was only in her astral form, her own capabilities limited. And she didn’t really want to manipulate you in any sinister way, just to get you to bed, so you could rest a little. You still had work in the morning and it was already so terribly late… “Sweetheart, do you think you can go to bed for me?” She asked softly, still holding you. It was an empty feeling, her astral form incapable of feeling the way she did, but it was better than nothing. With a soft, affectionate smile, she felt you yawn, your arm making the instinctive motion of covering your mouth, but coming up a few seconds late. “Yes, that’s right. You’re feeling very sleepy right now and you want to go to bed.” She whispered, detaching herself from you. She watched you try to stifle another yawn, but it didn’t quite work. You seemed almost ready to fall asleep right on the chair. It was downright cute, the way you tried to snuggle into the chair for comfort. But Wanda couldn’t let you sleep here. “Your bed would be much more, comfortable, darling.” She whispered in your ear, feeling elated. She felt free. To speak as she wished, to say the things she wanted to say, without fear, without restrictions, without limit. In the cover of darkness, in a state, where the whole universe was her witness, yet no human around would ever hear her, she could say out loud the things she kept hidden. Your body refused to move, your eyes opening and closing in uneven intervals as she watched you. Poor baby was so tired. She would have picked you up and carried you if she could, but she only had her voice to use, so she tried again. “Go on, baby. Go to bed. You’re not supposed to stay here.” She said again, stroking your hair. God, it felt so good to be able to say this out loud. To show you the affection you deserved. Perhaps in her freedom, she could use the words she had never spoken out loud… “Come on, darling, Mommy will cuddle you to sleep if you go to your bed.” She suggested, feeling a shiver pass through her at how good it felt to say those words, already feeling the rush of excitement at the thought of having you in her arms. She could talk to you like this for hours. At this, you stirred, straightening in your chair and trying to keep your eyes open and Wanda smirked. Such a sweet, pliable girl… “Let’s get you into bed.” Wanda smiled, repeating her instructions, until you finally stood with a tired sigh and another stifled yawn. “Such a good girl.” The witch praised you, following your steps into the house and its master bedroom.   The space was dark, but you couldn’t be bothered by the lights, not wanting to irritate your eyes, instead standing in front of the bed and reaching to undress yourself. “No, don’t undress, baby. Mommy won’t be able to stop herself if you take your clothes off.’’ Wanda rushed to stop you. It’s not that she didn’t want to see you, the temptation to let you strip yourself down and expose all your beauty almost too great for her to resist. But she didn’t want to take advantage of you like that. “Just lie down, now darling.” She instructed in a gentle voice, coaxing you to lie down. She watched you take a deep breath, before you reached behind your back, unclasping your bra and taking it off your shoulders and from underneath your clothes, throwing in carelessly on the nearby armchair, before you climbed into bed, not even bothering with the covers. It was such a warm night anyway. You pulled down one of the many pillows at the top of the bed and hugged it, your body needing the feeling of proximity and Wanda’s eyes swelled with tears. God, she couldn’t even remember how many nights she had fallen asleep in just the same way. True to her words, she climbed into bed, facing you and she draped one of her arms over your body. “Sleep now, little angel, Mommy’s here.” She whispered softly. She watched you fall asleep in mere seconds, clearly exhausted, and she watched the features in your face grow softer and more content, once you had drifted. You were still so gorgeous, so precious, cuddled up into bed. She could stay and watch you like this all night. She certainly wanted to. She wanted to let her physical body sleep in her bed, while she stayed here with you, watching you, soothing you, admiring you… But she couldn’t do that… She was meant to keep herself away from you, not learn a new way to be close to you. Staying would only tempt her further. Bargaining with herself, feeling reluctant to leave your side, she spent another half an hour next to you, her hand stroking your cheek affectionately as she watched you sleep, but eventually, she left. Her astral form returned back into her body as if slammed by invisible force, leaving her breathless and full of half-felt emotions. Wanda felt so unfulfilled, knowing you were so close to her, sweetly curled around a pillow and sleeping peacefully. Leaving your side truly left a bitter aftertaste in her. She had gotten a glimpse of being so close to you, of being so utterly herself and now she wanted so much more. She wanted to throw away all her restraint and just fly back to you, where she felt whole, felt a sense of serenity that’s been missing in her. As her eyes snapped open, she groaned. Giving you up, would be much harder than she anticipated. ______________________________________________________ As always, I’d love to know what you guys think about the chapter and the story in general.  Disclaimer: Gif is not mine. I’d be happy to give credit if I knew who made it...

[fandomwritingbit]

🔪Hallowe'en Special🔪

William the Ripper.

William Afton x female sex worker reader

Synopsis: You’re a harlot prowling the streets of London in 1891, looking for patronage. And you unknowingly become ensnared by a very dark man. 

A/n: This isn’t anything like what I usually put on here, it's somewhat inspired by real life events aka the Whitechapel Murders, so this is your warning that it might not be for you. I’d also like to say I’m in no way making light of this, yes it was a long time ago, but I still think all victims should be treated with respect. However, this is fictional and I hope you enjoy it, even after all that.

Warnings: sex-work/Victorian prostitution, violence, hints at sexual assault and rape, murder, this is really dark folks.

Image above is of Dorset Street, London, taken in the late 1800s. Just for a little scene setting.

This night felt off from the start. There was a brutal chill to the air, the penetrating kind that made your joints sore just from enduring it. And the depressing rain fell to the ground in a quickly succeeding tap-tap, tap-tap… so rhythmic that your pace matched it instinctively, making you walk hastily through the quiet streets.

The weather made business achingly slow and you clutch the sixpence in your pocket that little bit harder, resigning yourself to the fate that tonight that was all you were going to get. The knowledge that you would have to return tomorrow night is daunting, though if you tried to find more custom now, in this weather, you’ll only fall ill, and that is one of the worst things that could happen to you.

You begin to move faster, turning on your heel and nearly throwing yourself down alley after alley, you’re damp to the bone, your skirts clinging together to form restrictive and heavy baggage that only makes you more desperate to escape the night air. You pass an inn where the water runs fast from the swinging sign, dripping painfully cold down your back, reminding you of how little clothes your line of work calls for. And it only became more apparent as patrons step out of the inn, calling after you. You should stop, they look like sailors and God knows sailors are a reliable custom, but something stops you, some forbidden instinct or knowledge that motivates you to keep going. Something that felt dangerous. 

Fear lessens when you stumble out onto Dorset Street, the familiar sight of other midnight women a comforting sign, you’re not far now. Not much longer until you’re back in the cramped rooms you share with girls who’d fallen on similar hard times, girls who bind together, who made you feel as safe as you could be here, with nothing but a fucking sixpence to tide you over. 

You exchange a nod with a girl whose name escapes you, jealous of her shawl and good boots that were going to allow her to stay out tonight and earn enough to buy herself breakfast in the morning. Very much unlike yourself. You enter the last cut before your accommodation, shivering from both the cold and the lack of visibility that makes unease rest around your shoulders. It was so dark you could hardly see your boots hitting the cobbles below you, let alone any sight of the end of the alley, all you have for confirmation that you’re moving is the sound of you walking, step, step, step, step… not loud but the disconcerting stillness echoing it around you. You’re somewhat glad it's so silent, it means you’re astutely aware of your surroundings, almost too aware, so aware that it doesn’t take you long to clock the dull thud of steps behind you. 

Your head turns without any consultation from your mind, like a rabbit who’s nose twitched at the mere thought of a predator. It’s then it dawns on you how dangerous this really is. 

Not far from your trembling form is a figure, a gentleman, the hat and cloak kind of man who clearly had some money. At first you panic for a different reason, thinking it could be a peeler and being overcome with images of the constabulary, a place you never wanted to return to. But a copper wouldn’t follow you down here, what with your lack of punter, what would he have to take you in for after all. But if it’s not the police…

You turn fully, stopping still and trying to hide any wobble from your voice. “I’m not working. F-find someone else!” You call out, the fear is evident despite your efforts and so potent you nearly cry. The cloaked form stops in turn, the short distance of a road between the two of you, yet still you can’t see anything of him, other than the menacing figure of a man much taller than yourself. 

In the silence that follows, the figure raises a hand up in a slow and patronising wave, almost making you think you had it right, just a john who’d take your words as rejection. You breathe deeply in an attempt to steady yourself, turning your back on the gentleman and resuming your walk, your pace now quickened with a primal urge to see yourself protected by the eyes of others. 

Step, step, thud, step, thud, step- 

You whimper, movement nearly faltering with the realisation that the man behind you was still mirroring your pace, each sound of his feet hitting the ground making you flinch. Reeling, you walk faster and it quickly becomes a run as the desperate need to get out of the alley floods through your veins.

A bend in the path sees your body hit the wall, your hands scrambling along the wet bricks to try and navigate the turn, the darkness so suffocating your touch is all you have to see. A gloved hand grabs your arm with such force you instantly cry out, fear repelling you away, a new-found power in your pulling which allows you to free yourself. 

You try to run from the man again, tears warm as they stream down your face. Your feet hit the cobbles loudly and messily, the rain making it hard to keep your balance as your cheap boots lack the necessary grip. Stumbling, you lose your footing, sliding before wrenching your ankle in between the stones. The sudden bleaching pain makes you scream and as you fall to the ground, the pain in your ankle is soon joined by a dull ache in your whole body from the force of the fall. Knowing the figure is still pursuing you, you try again to crawl to your feet, but such a scorching grasp on your arm drains the will from you. 

You’re pulled forwards before the man’s other hand strikes you across the face, the bright agony knocking you senseless. He again grabs you, tilting your face to him and in the almost pitch black you can see him smiling. A foul grin slashed into his face, so sinister you go completely still, stunned into submission. 

“Maybe you should have been working, whore.” He spits, the venom of the words like an ice-cold grip on your heart. You sob, lacking the strength to pull your face from his hold, a despondent futility settling over you, and you only hope he’ll take what he wants from you and leave you to drag yourself home. But whispered rumours of much worse things happening to other girls blur in the back of your mind.

“Please, sir. I-” the sound of your voice sounds foreign and you hardly recognise the shrill desperate noise.

He wrenches you up closer to him, his grip settling under your jaw, making it hard to breathe. “Go on.” You open your mouth but the words turn to shuddering breath when you hear a light click followed by the sensation of cold metal against your throat. “Beg.” His voice isn’t human, it’s void of anything and just looking at his eyes you see an absence of life. 

This was it. The face other's saw before meeting their most grisly end. You'd heard all about it, girls who disappeared and were found days later with their throats cut. Butchered by Leather Apron. Mutilated by the Whitechapel Murderer. Taken apart by the Ripper. Whatever the papers would take to calling him this week.

And strangely, it occurs to you how unremarkable this man looks. Not some self-loathing creature or deprived streetwalker. A gentleman. A handsome one that many ladies would happily take on as a john.

The silence rings out and, for just a moment, all you hear is the rain and the sound of your own heart. The monster chuckles darkly, pressing the knife hard against your throat.

He sighs, “What a shame.”

A/n: And that's me done! Happy Hallowe'en, folks! Thanks so much for reading and I hope you have a spooky one this year. X

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Two Lines (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Modern AU Rated: G - domestic fluff Word count: 1.7k

Summary: As you settle into your new home, you have a surprise for Benedict.

Author's Note: Sometimes late at night, modern Ben shows up and hands me a one-sitting story. This is one of those. I cannot express enough gratitude to @bridgertontess who put so much thought and care into making the custom photo edit above 🫶 I hope you enjoy this little cottage moment, my dear 💙

Two lines. Eight, if you were counting all the tests together, the reason you had locked yourself upstairs for the afternoon. Each of them clear as day, opening some new chamber of your heart and flooding it with so much feeling, you had to sit on the floor and allow yourself a little cry. You had tried for so long, the process eventually becoming so demoralizing that you had stopped planning and both started to make your peace with it. You would let nature decide, and had nearly convinced yourself she simply wasn’t in your corner, until now. Right when you had stopped worrying about it, that’s when she caught you by surprise.

Your husband hadn’t even registered your absence. He was too busy painting the rooms of the ground floor. The cottage you had purchased was the definition of a fixer-upper, every wall and window and fixture needed attention. You had been daunted when he showed you what he had found, but that undeniable light in his eyes would have made you agree to move into a caravan. He was enjoying himself with all of the projects, something to pour his boundless energy into when he wasn’t working. He was taking on more than he should, in fact. You loved him, but he was tragically posh and really had no place touching the electrical box. But he would be damned before he’d allow you to hire someone. All probably something to do with male pride and being king of his proverbial castle.

With your heart pounding in your throat - it had only pounded as hard before on your wedding day - you descended the cramped staircase and walked to the dining room.

“Benedict Bridgerton, please be careful on that thing!”

The ladder he had found looked to be as old as the house itself. Some splintery relic that wobbled with every brushstroke he made. He had unearthed it from the shed and saw no point in shelling out for a new one. Now it was the only thing keeping him suspended over the double length windows as he turned the dingy walls a muted sage green.

He looked down at you with a shrug, which caused another wobble. “It’s fine.”

You moved to the ladder, ready to brace a fall. “I can’t afford to have you break your neck. Or anything else for that matter.” You suddenly realized what a challenge it would be to keep him intact over the coming months, especially as your mobility gradually became impaired.

The look on your face must have been upset enough, because he pouted and descended a few rungs, reaching a stable center of gravity. “But wouldn’t it give you just a little bit of vindication? Proof that you were right and we should have hired someone?”

That smirk. That smirk was the reason you had allowed him to try his hand at everything in the first place. His undaunted confidence. It made you admire him to the point of resentment.

“No, it wouldn’t,” you spat. “I don’t want my husband in hospital, even if it proves my point. You’re covered. Take a break.” 

Glancing down at himself, he saw that his hands and forearms had practically been dipped green, and the splatters were never going to come out of his orange t-shirt or jeans. He didn’t have many tops to speak of, so he had better start using his brush more carefully. Somehow, this lauded artist who could stipple and blend the most delicate details into a portrait or landscape, looked like a five-year old with a bowl of spaghetti sauce when it came to wall paint. 

“The sun is setting anyway,” you handed him a cloth. “Come watch with me.”

You could see through the west-facing window how the sky was layering orange, pink and purple. Your little spot of countryside afforded you the most breathtaking sunsets, the sellers hadn’t lied about that. It really was the perfect home for an artist and Benedict had known as soon as he saw it. All sky and wildflowers and distant sounds of birds. 

He wiped his hands and swiped the bottle of wine your new neighbors, the Crabtrees, had brought over. He grabbed a glass.

“Do you want some?”

You waved him off. “No, thanks. I’m alright.”

The back garden held another relic, a stone bench that was surprisingly comfortable. That was where you watched the sunsets together, plotting all the improvements you wanted to make. Benedict sat and poured the wine, and you laid down beside him, resting your head in his lap. The hand not holding his glass trailed softly through your hair. You realized he was probably turning it green, but you didn’t mind. 

He took a sip and looked down at you curiously. “Are you feeling okay?”

You furrowed your brow. “Is that some commentary on my drinking?”

He laughed. “No…I mean, well, you do always join me, but…” His voice grew soft. “I just want to check.”

There he went, intuiting everything. Your pulse jumped wondering if you had already been too transparent. If he could see right through you, as usual, and knew what you were about to tell him. But you checked yourself. Of course he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to keep calm with the news. You smiled, snuggling into him. “I’m feeling fine. Very good, in fact.”

He smiled back, lopsided and devastating. “Good.”

You both looked skyward, watching the orange slip out of sight, then the pink fade to indigo, and the purple to navy. It was autumn and the last of the birdsong was accompanied by gusts of wind, blowing about the falling leaves and grey brush in the flowerbeds stretching before you. The garden had been the lowest priority as you focused on making the cottage comfortable, especially as winter approached. But now there was a new deadline to prepare for, more to take into consideration on what you tackled and how.

Benedict finished his glass and kept one hand combing through your hair, bringing the other to rest on your ribs.

“We need to clear out these beds.” You gestured to the abandoned mess of long-dead foliage in front of you.

“I know,” he nodded. “It’s on the list.”

“If we do it now and plant some bulbs, they should bloom in the spring just in time.” You wrapped your hands around his forearm, sliding it lower, his massive grasp spreading out across your abdomen.

“In time for what? Do you want some grand housewarming once all the projects are done? I’m not sure my family will fit in this place.” He snorted.

You held your breath, feeling the warmth of his fingers pressing softly onto your body, a cosmic point of connection where the three of you intersected. Your momentary little secret. 

You couldn’t help but quip. “Your family fits in here just fine.” 

If he noticed your goofy grin, he didn’t comment on it. You turned your head and nuzzled into his stomach, that knee-weakening sandalwood scent still evident under the paint fumes. This man, he gave you so much by simply existing. Now you had something to give back that finally felt like an adequate reciprocation. You were ready.

“I want the flowers as a backdrop for a portrait.” You said matter-of-factly.

He leaned down and ran his nose into your hairline, murmuring against your skin. “Mmm, that would be lovely. You in our garden.”

“Yes, the both of us.” You whispered, breathless with anticipation.

He kissed your forehead and chuckled deep in his chest. “If you want me in it too, I’m not exactly sure who is supposed to be doing the painting.”

Keeping one hand pressing his into your torso, you brought the other to his hair and gently pulled him to look at you. Locking into his eyes, you spoke, quiet but purposeful. “I didn’t say you’d be in it.”

He stared at you, blue-grey eyes darting back and forth at your pupils, the smile on his face fading from bemusement to confusion, a furrow forming between his brows. Then the penny dropped, and you felt the jolt run through his every muscle. With a shout he melted over you, rocking you as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. You didn’t know if he was forming words, he seemed to be gasping and letting out wonderful little sounds of desperate happiness. His arms bound tighter around you, trembling with nervous energy. You could feel the heat of his tears on your skin, and it was enough to break you. You cried too, clutching back with fingers curled into his dark hair. 

Such euphoria, that you had planned on for so long. Had nearly written it on your calendar you felt so in command of when it would occur. Then when it had been denied and denied and denied, the least painful route was simply to give up hope. To comfort yourself with the knowledge that Benedict brought you so many other euphorias, it almost seemed selfish to demand this one too. But now it was yours, and you felt spoiled by the universe. Spoiled but oh so grateful. 

Gaining some semblance of control over himself, he hovered his face above yours once more, eyes wild, breathless. “You’re��oh my god…we’re…”

You laughed through your tears. “Yes, my love.”

His hand brushed warm over your belly, reverently. You could already see in his eyes that he was going to treat you like you were made of glass for the next nine months. It would be equal parts endearing and aggravating. The house projects would be laden with a new layer of stress, everything now with a greater sense of urgency, and he would try to do it all himself. 

Immediately confirming your assumption, he snapped to attention. “I’m clearing the beds tomorrow.”

You pulled his lips down to yours and hummed. “Not if I don’t let you out of ours.”

At the very least, you could delay his preparation mania for one day. You wouldn’t let him bear every burden on his own. You would build your home together, the two of you, until there were three. Then you would keep building, and see what other gifts lay in store.

With a smirk, he scooped you into his arms and rushed back into the cottage, the two of you giggling like fools.

No tagging, just goofin

[albaskies]

August

Ginny on her sixteenth birthday, her loneliest to date. (Also on AO3!)

He’s painted the end of her summers with beacons of light and green and gold since she was nothing but a little girl; he’s filled every August with colours so bright she’d never seen before. He’s been in every breeze, every pink sunset, in the faded and distant sound of crickets chirping somewhere in the garden. But he’s also been in the scorching hot sun, in the breathless and sweaty afternoons spent in the orchard, in the laughter and the yelling and the banter, on her skin like her new summer freckles covering her bare shoulders. She doesn’t exactly remember when she’s stopped awaiting August like the month that would bring her birthday, her month, and when she’s started yearning for it as the month that would bring him, his month. 

But he’s not around, this August. In the month where he used to be just about everywhere, now he’s gone - gone from Ron’s bedroom, gone from the kitchen, gone from the orchard, just nowhere at all. This August is not bright or green or golden; this August is dark, it’s hazy, it’s red, and it burns deep in her veins. Her anguish is suffocating; at every breath, she feels like her chest is being cut open and her heart is being ripped out of the body, leaving her breathless, leaving her numb. 

Sometimes she feels like she doesn’t even exist anymore; and yet, time seems to go on around her like nothing's changed. Somehow it’s her birthday today - but that’s barely even possible, because it feels like only one single, daunting, dreary day since they’ve left, since he’s gone and he’s taken her whole heart and soul with him. She feels sick for having taken it for granted then; for having thought that they’d have more summers, for having thought that they’d have August forever.

-

Funny how she’d once thought that I can’t be involved with you anymore would be the toughest, most wrenching, ever tormenting thing she’d have to process - how foolish, how naive, how could she be ever so damn stupid . Because not knowing is worse, it’s what keeps her awake at night, what haunts her in her sleep and in every second of her day. She hears it in her voice every time she speaks, it weighs on her chest every time she takes a breath. And it’s not about not knowing what his classified and important mission is all about, whatever Dumbledore has left him and Ron and Hermione to do. No, she’s long given up on that - it’s never even crossed her mind that she could ever dare to ask, she knows it all too well that it’s not her secret to learn. It’s simply about not knowing if he’s all right, if they’re all right - if they’re injured, if they’ve found shelter, if their hiding place is hidden enough. If they’re hungry; when is the last time that they’ve had any food. If Ron and Hermione are healthy, if Harry’s -

He’s alive, she often has to remind herself, her stomach painfully writhing and lurching. He’s still alive. And yet, somehow, for some sickening, twisted reason she can’t shake that one daunting feeling, as if she’s already grieving him.

-

Just as her brother lights up her candles with a flick of his wand, and just as everyone starts singing to her in a way that reminds her of her childhood, those three empty seats become somehow emptier, her agony unbearable. The smiles around her are strained, the eyes are wary, yet nobody seems to notice her trembling hands, nobody seems to hear her heart pounding so hard it could burst through her ribs. Why does nobody hear it?

Her parents kiss her on both cheeks, they squeeze her tight, mumbling some dull pleasantries about how fast she’s growing up, already sixteen, already a woman. Sixteen has never meant anything to her really, except being just short of coming of age. Yet she’d never expected that she would have turned sixteen on a day like any other, and that the pain would have been just the same. She’d never expected she would turn sixteen on the eleventh day after being ripped away from the person she longs for the most.

Not that it matters now, but he did promise her once that he’d be there for her birthday - heavy rain was pounding on the windows as they were sitting on one of the couches in the common room, curled onto each other, dreaming of August. He said he hoped to join her at the Burrow right after his birthday, or even before if he could have his way, and he really meant it when he vowed that he would do his best to make her day special. She even allowed herself to picture it back then, ridiculously naive as she was - he would’ve sat next to her at breakfast, held her hand under the table, looked at her with those sparkling eyes as he always did; and then he would’ve led her to the orchard, where they would’ve snogged and played Quidditch until they would have both been out of breath. Not a care in the world, at least not on that day. And then, at sunset, she would have told him that this was exactly the day she had wished for that very same morning, when blowing on her candles.

But she doesn’t have it in her to make any birthday wishes this year - it’s too far-fetched, too unattainable, too illusory. Something out of someone else’s life, her mind says before she can stop it, a chill stealing through her chest. She knows it all too well, if she’d even dare to allow herself to form a wish in her head, she’d think of bright little bedrooms, of doors that do not bang open, of wandering hands and wandering lips, of whispers and gasps and blushes. She’d think of him, his messy hair, his enchanting gaze, his beautiful, beautiful smile. She’d think that she loves him, because it’s true, she loves him so much - but it’s too late now, and she can’t even remotely daydream of saying it out loud.

-

He’s never told her he loves her, not with words at least; and yet he’s told her a million times over with his eyes; he’s told her with his hands and with his lips, always craving her touch, always eager for her. She often finds herself pondering if she’s managed to tell him in the same way he’s told her, if he’s understood. She would have liked him to know, after all. She would have liked to whisper it in his ear, that one evening by the lake when they had held each other while everything else around them had started to crumble. She would have liked to scream it from the top of the stairs here at the Burrow, right to his face, and to hell anyone else. I love you, I love you, I love you. Then also: I miss you, please don’t go, please don’t leave me. And finally: Fuck Dumbledore, fuck Voldemort, fuck this war, fuck whatever it is that you have to do that has taken you away from me. But then he would’ve found another stupid noble reason to push back, to keep her at arm's length, to return to doing his thing - saving the world and all that. At the end of the day, she wouldn’t have expected anything different from him. At the end of the day, she would have loved him even more for it.

-

‘I’m sorry we couldn’t celebrate your birthday in better circumstances, Ginny,’ her mother says, her voice sombre, her eyes sunken with apprehension. 

Ginny looks at her - her sweet, yet unwavering, courageous, ever powerful mother, now worn out by worry and fear. She’s raised and loved seven children of her own, and now she is condemned to ignore where most of them are, when she’ll see them again, if she ever will.

‘It’s fine, Mum,’ she replies softly, giving her a timid smile. ‘I’m really grateful.’

She’s become good at putting on a brave face, better than ever. She feels like she owes it to her to her mother, to her father, to all her family who’ve already been forced to give up on so much. She doesn’t think it’s her right to give them another reason to be concerned, especially not now that she’s about to go back to Hogwarts, to leap into the unknown. And besides - there is something oddly comforting about having a secret, something that is hers and hers only, her own holy place where to seek refuge. She only ever allows herself to brood late at night, when she’s sinking deep into her bed, sheltered by a couple of blankets, and she can’t sleep anyway. That’s when she lets her mind wander wild to faraway memories, to brighter summers, to explosive and colourful days that have slipped through her fingers way too fast. Sometimes her thoughts work a soothing effect on her, allowing her to peacefully doze off into blissful oblivion; sometimes she weeps silently on her pillow, despite herself. And then there are other times when all she feels is anger, really. She is angry, she is extremely furious for being so stuck in her own head, wrecked and defeated by emotions she’s unable to control. Those are the times when she’d curse her brother for sitting next to Harry on the train, that September of so many years ago. She’d take her silly crush, her starstruck awkwardness and clumsy elbows a thousand times over all this.

‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ had said Hermione once, quoting some Muggle poet. It can’t really be true, now, can it? She reckons nothing in the world could ever justify this living hell, not even the greatest, most earth-shattering love of all time. But then the sound of his laugh elbows its way through her memory, a warmth suddenly floods her chest, and for a short, fleeting second she feels like she’s whole again. Maybe one day she’ll fully see that it was worth it, maybe one day it won’t hurt as much - but not today, not as she’s playing with the leftover cake on her plate because her body can barely take any food, not when the mere thought of him still crushes her soul.

And as her attention is suddenly caught by Bill placing a soft kiss on Fleur’s forehead, his new wife of eleven days, it finally hits her - that on the same day her brother has gained a forever partner, she has forever lost hers.

-

Touch has always been their language since their very first day together, that glorious sunlit afternoon after winning the Cup. She never would have expected he’d enjoy it that much - that noble and restrained git who turned out to be anything but . He loved kissing her and wasn’t afraid to show her, or Ron, or Hermione, or pretty much anyone else in their entire school. All that seemed to matter to him was that his lips were on hers, or her hands, or her neck, or her hair (particularly her hair), or her collarbone, anywhere on her skin. Sometimes he would forget to catch his breath, would become all flushed and clumsy, and she would just laugh, laugh at how unbelievably happy she felt, laugh at how she’d really thought she could ever be over him. One day he told her that her mother had been the first person to ever kiss him goodnight, and then she vowed to do anything in her power to kiss him goodnight every single night for the rest of their lives or (and here she would have to correct herself with the hint of a blush) at least while she could. That night she nicked his cloak and snuck into his bed to kiss him once more, and then again and again and again, just as Ron snored loudly right next to them.

-

She often wonders if she’s given him enough; she often wonders if she’s managed to make him happy during those eight short weeks they’ve had together. If she’s given him enough smiles, enough touch, enough sunshine. His life will have been back to being all dark and eerie by now, wherever he is, whatever he is doing, but she hopes that he’ll be able to cling to that one last kiss they’ve shared, if he’ll ever need to. She hopes it will bring him light; she hopes it will bring him treacle tart, broomstick handles, a flowery garden, a small glimpse of a warless August. She hopes it will bring him home.

And when it will, that very summer will be filled with dread and despair, and only the grip of his hand will guide her through what will be the darkest days of her life. Every night she will leave her bedroom door unlocked, and he will be the one sneaking into her bed to kiss her and love her as if both their lives will depend on it - and, quite frankly, they will. She’ll start to see it then, hesitantly at first, but so fiercely and intensely later - the future. It will look all messy and blurry, blissfully chaotic, but certain at last. They will finally have the chance to heal, to slowly take their time; and nothing else in the world will matter other than getting to live an eternal August together.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

salt-and-vinegar dreams

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians Pairing: Percy/Annabeth Rating: T Word Count: 1256

Summary: Percy might have an evil, prophesizing grandpa hijacking his dreams, but he also has Annabeth, and she's welcome any time.

Based on Percy’s extensive and up-close experience of bullying and recess dynamics, Camp Half-Blood makes no sense. Sure, if he compares pretty much any aspect of his life among mostly humans to his life here, there are some fairly glaring differences, but this is what stands out:

Out there, a kid who wins a fight becomes the Toughest Kid, and nobody wants to mess with that kid. In here, a kid who wins a fight also becomes the Toughest Kid, but everybody wants to fight them to see how they measure up—even if, instead of pushing another kid down on the playground and kicking sand in their lunch, they clobbered the god of war with a humongous wave. Percy kinda gets it, in a weird way, like he’s kinda getting everything about this, being here, being who he is. But he’s also tired.

He’s tired of dodging Clarisse’s attempts to take her turn at him. He’s tired of turning his last conversation with Luke around and around in his mind until it becomes a whirlpool it’s hard to pull back from. He’s tired of the dreams. Sinister, persistent. Always at the cottage in Montauk, which really pisses Percy off because that’s their place, his and his mom’s, but as soon as things go all dark and foggy, he can’t keep Kronos out. Just once, he’d like to tell that trespassing asshole there’s no welcome mat for a reason, maybe slam the door in the face he keeps hidden under a hood like preserving maximum spookiness when Percy already knows who he is isn’t the lamest thing in either this world or the subbasement the Titans call home. Instead of being stuck in the front room, Percy would like to run deeper into the cottage to grab the baseball bat he knows is somewhere in his room (back of the closet? Under the bed?) and use it to crack that dumb lantern he carries. He’d like to rush Kronos before he reaches the door, keep him outside and chase him around, spraying him with the garden hose.

Yeah, there’s a lot Percy’d like to try. At the top of that list is a good night’s sleep. These new Kronos-flavoured dreams suck; like a watered-down salt and vinegar from the heavy fog. And when he wakes up? Clammy skin from that fog, and the general bitter aftertaste anyone might associate with interacting with their creepy pit-grandpa. Zero out of ten.

So he’s a little worn out.

While everyone else is cramming their final days at camp with hand-to-hand combat—plus other normal stuff kids do for fun—Percy’s getting really into afternoon naps. Oh, that’s supposed to be an old-person thing? Uno reverse, Gramps. He already has the Poseidon cabin to himself, so it’s not hard to find a quiet spot. Even with his shiny-new status as the Ass-Kicker of Ares, the Mount Olympus Backtalker, the Lotus Casino Strip Poker Champ (ok, maybe the rumours are getting out of hand), the other campers don’t usually seek him out here. His guess is that the cabin stood empty so long that it became sorta mythically untouchable. Maybe that makes him the murky algae growing on the glass of the haunted aquarium, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to sleep.

Except one person never hesitates at the threshold. She doesn’t seem to mind the fishermen’s cathedral aesthetic or the unusual light; it spills down through tall, diamond-paned windows and reflects off the lap pool to cast a wavy aurora maris on the ceiling. Annabeth’s not daunted by the creak of suspended skeletons or the lobster traps piled by the door (why?).

She gives him the face that says he’s making a stupid choice which may or may not actually be wrong (she’s still deciding) and asks, “Why aren’t you outside?”

“I’m the demigod version of Superman: I prefer my solitude,” he says, then pauses. “Or, I guess Clark Kent, ’cause I’m not on duty.”

Annabeth frowns.

“Who?”

“Just… this journalist. Doesn’t matter.”

“You felt like being alone?” she somehow translates, sifting through the broken oysters of his words for the pearls.

He looks at her, her head tilt that could be cautious except he knows it’s thoughtful, her steps that miss all the squeaky boards his personal water feature has swollen with damp, the way her straightforward question spreads like a ripple—you felt like being alone alone alone alone?—because her eyes keep asking it after her lips close. Her feet keep walking into his abandoned marine museum, his one-storey lighthouse, his rejected Little Mermaid film set. He looks at her.

“Not… exactly,” he says, liking her here. “I was just gonna try to get some sleep.”

“Would it be alright if I stayed?”

There’s this feeling in Percy’s chest—sore and warped, but warm and still. He’s glad she asked; it means he doesn’t have to. It would’ve come out of his mouth wrong, fumbled and awkward, even though they’ve slept near each other before, basically the whole quest. He nods; it’s alright if she wants to stay. He can’t say he’ll probably be able to sleep better with her watching over him, that, actually, he’s scared a lot of the time, but not so much with her nearby. Even if their eyes are closed and their defenses are down.

Though Percy doesn’t stray from tradition and put his guard up as he lies down on his cot, there’s an awareness of a different nature. Annabeth darts a look at him like she’s suspicious that he’s going to keep watching her, but then she does something kind: she sits at the edge of the pool, right in his line of sight. She has her back to him as she strokes her hand back and forth through the water. Percy rolls onto his back, exhales. He’s not going to fall asleep, but he’s watching the light change on the ceiling, and he’s listening to the gentle waves break against the sides of the pool, and his eyelids are feeling heavy…

The cottage surrounded by darkness.

Kronos with the swaying lantern, the billowing cloak.

Percy: wide-eyed to be suddenly adrift inside his own mind, the cottage a trick.

An ominous message, full of blame, full of a sickening pride, full of ownership and control and—

Do you ever dream about Mom?

The look in his dad’s eyes, and then falling, but falling through light, falling like floating on water.

Percy knows he’s still sleeping—it’s the one similarity between this scene and his seaside encounter with Kronos—because he’s looking down at the lap pool from above. The water’s serene, undisturbed.

When he faces Kronos, does his body give clues? Does he twitch or flinch or groan? Anything that might call Annabeth away from the pool? Because she’s sitting there on his cot, holding his hand while he sleeps. Did he do something to make her scared for him, or is it another thing? A scared-if-you-don’t-feel-this-too thing. Scared if you do. Percy doesn’t know if this is real, but the feeling of wanting it to be is. They’re just… a good team. And if his tired brain was reaching for an antidote to Kronos’s unwelcome invasion of his subconscious, yeah, it coulda done worse than Annabeth’s hand tucked into his, light on her braids casting shadows like sea turtle ribs.

She’s looking at him. Her head tilts, and it could be cautious, wary, unsure.

Except Percy knows it’s thoughtful. She’s always thinking.

Right now, she’s thinking about him.

[eddysocs]

The Tie That Binds Us — Chapter Ten (The Writing On The Wall)

Summary: Harper returns to her mother’s house to pack up her belongings and she and Olivia share their first dinner out of the house together. Later, Olivia visits Liberty High in search of answers about Hannah, and Harper shows her some hints at the struggles Hannah endured.

Word Count: 1,190

Warnings: Some angst

Saturday morning brought about the daunting task of retrieving her things. Olivia drove her over to her mom's and Harper made her promise to stay in the car so her mother didn’t get a chance to upset her again. Then, she made her way inside. She had a couple of suitcases in the back of her closet, and she planned on packing them to the brim and leaving it at that. Whatever she could fit was all she was going to take.

The first one filled quickly with only clothes and shoes, her brush, comb, toothbrush and toothpaste and a spare few other essentials. The second was curated more carefully. She knew she wouldn’t have room for everything in her bedroom, but she’d be able to squeeze in most of it if she did it just right. She took the art off the walls, various posters and painted pieces of sunflowers, her laptop, art supplies, and several small knickknacks, one of which Hannah had given her. From there she surveyed the room, scanning for anything else she felt she couldn’t live without. Not seeing much, she stripped her bed and folded up the sheets, stuffing them into the suitcase and pressing on it a little to get the zipper closed. Two suitcases her life had amounted to so far.

She rolled both bags out to Olivia's car and hauled them into the backseat. Her mother hadn’t acknowledged her the entire time she’d been there. Perhaps she hadn’t even been home. Harper hadn’t cared to check. Once secured, Harper exhaled heavily from the effort and went to join Olivia up in front. "Let’s go home," she said, and the grin that blossomed across her face was the widest she’d had in weeks.

Not wanting to take over Hannah's room, Harper made Olivia's guest room her own. Unpacking didn’t take long, maybe a couple hours at most, but she still felt tired after everything was out and set up how she wanted it.

A light knock came from the doorway, and Harper turned to look at Olivia. "Hey," Olivia greeted.

"Hey," Harper replied.

"Looks great in here. Sunflowers are your thing, I take it." Olivia nodded into the room, the sunflower motif absolutely unmistakable.

"Yeah," Harper admitted with a shred of embarrassment. "I’ve loved them since I was like four, and now they just remind me that sunnier days are ahead."

Olivia smiled. "That’s a really nice way to look at it." There was a pause as they both took in the room and let the weight of Harper's sentiment settle over them. "Actually, I came in here for a reason. I was wondering if you’d like to go out to dinner tonight. Nothing fancy, just burgers, but I thought it might be good to go out."

"That sounds lovely, actually."

Olivia left Harper to change clothes, not having been particularly excited at the prospect of going out to eat in sweaty clothes from the move, and then they were off.

They walked into the restaurant laughing at something Harper had said, Olivia playfully bumped into Harper's shoulder as they made their way to a booth in the back. It was only when they placed their order that Harper caught sight of a couple of her classmates from Liberty High. They shot a couple of looks their way, and whispered something amongst themselves that Harper hadn’t been able to hear, but she was determined to ignore it. She wasn’t here for petty teen gossip, she was spending a nice night out with Olivia and she was going to enjoy it.

Harper listened to several stories of Olivia's as they ate, mostly amusing anecdotes from before the Bakers moved to Crestmont. Every so often the table of students would look their way again, but finally they left and Harper could focus solely on Olivia.

As they went back outside after their meal, the sun had gone down, and the streetlights lit the sidewalks, lighting their way back to Olivia's car. A few lampposts down, and a lightbulb fizzled out with a loud zap and Harper flinched away from it, reaching out for Olivia's hand. Without a second thought, Olivia threaded their fingers together, pausing to ask, "You okay?"

"Yeah, just startled me." When they continued their walk to the car, Olivia never let go, and Harper couldn’t help but question what that meant, or if she was reading too much into it, but she thought about it for the rest of the night.

When Monday rolled around again, Harper dragged herself out of bed to Liberty High to complete her gym credit. It was only an hour each day. Maybe a little over an hour and a half if she counted the walk there and back. Either way, it felt far too long and she couldn’t wait to be free of the place come winter break. She only had a month to go.

And so Harper repeated the arduous process of hiking there and back every day. What she wasn’t expecting on a Thursday afternoon however, is for Olivia to be standing in her school. She looked distraught, frustrated too. "Olivia," Harper called down the hallway, not caring who might hear her refer to her by her first name.

"Harper? I thought you’d be done for the day by now."

"I caught up with Clay and Tony and decided to stay and have lunch with them. I was going to text but…anyways, that’s not important now. What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

"I thought maybe someone could tell me about Hannah. What it was like for her here at Liberty. But it seems none of the staff have any answers. The ones that would even talk to me that is. Of the few that did, they just said she was smart but quiet, like that tells me anything." Harper could see Olivia was on the verge of tears, and as much as she didn’t want to upset her further, she knew that there was something she needed to see.

Harper took Olivia's hand and pulled her towards one of the women's restrooms. Once inside one of the stalls, she saw the graffiti. Some were innocent so and so was here messages, but others were far less kind. Harper had even caught her own name appearing more than once. This may have been just the tip of the iceberg in regards to what school was like for Hannah, but if she could give Olivia even a hope of understanding what happened, this was how she thought to do it.

Olivia took several pictures with her phone of the worst of them and though she didn’t immediately know what she was going to do with them, she wanted evidence in case anyone went to cover it up. It was a smart thing to do, Harper thought.

After seeing all that she saw, Olivia was more than ready to return home. She and Harper walked out together, passing a few classmates in the halls between classes as they left. Harper saw some funny looks, but nothing was said. For that, she was thankful.

🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶🩶

Chapter Nine <- 🩶 -> Chapter Eleven

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @kmc1989, @curious-kittens-ocs, @fanficanatic-tw, @gcthvile, @immyowndefender

Harper Cassidy: @megandaisy9, @boobear729, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @freshmoneyalmondathlete

[samskaterguy]

I love Ever After High more than I could probably ever say, but I’ll try in honor of its 10th anniversary. 

I discovered Ever After High when I was maybe 7 or 8 years old, so I was very young, and I LOVED Disney Princess movies (kind of ironic given the history, huh?) and so I discovered the Brothers Grimm fairytales, and I adored those too. I find a series from a YouTuber I don’t remember the name of (7 Super girls? Or something?) And I think the video was “What’s your favorite show?” And the girl in the video explains what Ever After High is and that sounds AWESOME to a little kid like me. It was a high school for the children of the Brothers Grimm characters?????? AMAZING! Obviously not much was aid about the more,,grizzly details of the stories as this was a child’s doll line as well.

I started watching, and I instantly fell in love with Raven Queen when I saw what her whole deal was, also I really liked her style, as I was a little emo kid, and Raven striving to be herself in a world that didn’t accept that, that she had to just follow the rules that actively worked against her. That struck a little cord with me, and I wouldn’t realize it until many years later, but, spoiler! I’m trans. Raven is a character that, in general, means so much to me. I full person and soul mean this when I say she is my favorite fictional character of all time. Raven Queen meant so much to me, and others as well. 

Ashlynn and Hunter because I ate, slept and BREATHED True Hearts Day as a kid, to see these two people that loved each other, so deeply and true that they were willing to sacrifice their stories for one another despite the danger. Society told the two of them their love was wrong, Ashlynn’s best friend even told her she thought it was wrong, and that crushed Ashlynn. She even broke up with Hunter over her fears about their stories, but also so everyone would just. Stop. The whole reason they even told ANYONE was because Duchess had threatened to essentially out them when they weren’t ready. 

Then, after all of that pain, and trail and tribulation they got up, well Ashlynn did, she got up and she told the whole world that she loves Hunter, and doesn’t care what anyone, or their destines have to think. If she can’t love Hunter and be a royal? Then call her Ashlynn Ella the rebel! 

Then as the years went on, I got older, and Dragon Games aired. I saw Darling Charming, a character I didn’t really care about too much until I got older, and I saw her give “CPR” to Apple White, a character I hated, and ALSO grew to love as I got older. 

My personal feelings to these character didn’t matter, though. I saw these girls KISS on screen. I saw two same gender people give TRUE. LOVES. KISS. to one another for the first time ever. It wasn’t just an m/f couple with some VERY gay subtext. Seeing that kiss was more magical than anything in the show. That one moment between two characters that I grew up watching, as if to say it was okay..I won’t lie when I tell you I maybe cried that night after I finished watching it. It made me feel so happy, so seen. Safe. 

As I got older, I saw these characters in different lights, and I saw more depth to them than I ever did before. Characters I hated as a kid suddenly made more sense, this horrible system of destiny looked so much more daunting and scary than it ever did before. I hated Apple as a kid, and that’s an understatement. Sorry Apple fans, I love her now, and that’s because as I aged I saw more depth in her than I did when I was younger. 

Apple was also a victim of destiny, just in a different way than say Raven, or Briar. She had such high expectations put on her from her mother, her father, the WHOLE SOCIETY THEY ARE STRUCTURED AROUND. Apple also faced a traumatic experience as a kid that also just reinforced this line of thinking. She had her entire life planned, if she liked that or not, and she couldn’t escape it. Apple was faced with harsh reality so suddenly at what was supposed to be the biggest, most important day of her entire life. All of that particular planning to be the perfect princess, her entire life’s purpose for as far as she knew, was over. Torn away in an instant with the rip of a page. It would make sense that Apple would take so long to come around to the idea of choosing your own destiny, or that CHOOSING can also mean living your destined story, but maybe with some tweaks. 

Apple’s whole arc in Dragon Games and Way Too Wonderland is just so good. I love her so much.

ALSO Raven never even wanted to start a whole movement or anything, she just wanted to not be like her mother, she just didn’t want to be evil. She was just 15, like literally everyone else in the show. All she wanted was to exist as herself, and it was a battle to get close to that goal.

I realized as I aged, and in general became a tad more jaded towards the world that oppressive systems don’t really help anyone. A lot of kids at Ever After High, royal or rebel, is screwed over with the destiny system in some way. It made me think about our own society in ways I haven’t before, but that’s a talk for another day.

Also, as a kid I only had access to YouTube and maybe Netflix, so I didn’t read any of the books until literally about two years ago when I could get my hands on them, so I literally just have NEW information to sift through, and grow with a world that I’ve had for so long with me already.

I think there’s so much more i can say about family issues, and family non-issues, and about culture, or the way there are rebels who want their destiny, but still side with the rebels because they think everyone should have a free choice, or how Cedar and Cerise feel just a tad trans to me, or THE WONDERLANDIANS AND RED AND BADWOLF, but that’s more general fandom posting or a bit too personal, so I’ll just leave it here.

In conclusion, Ever After High, it’s been a beautiful, spellbinding 10 years and I’m so thankful for the fans, the people that made the series/dolls/books/etc, and that I wish all of these characters, and people a Happily Ever After in their own ways.

[kmhnsecretexchange]

Title: Just as the sun rises, we’ll meet again

Author: Hipster71elmWeebtrash (1queer-bookworm on tumblr)

For: shinakiham_soup

Pairings/Characters: Hajime Hinata, Nagito Komaeda, Hajime Hinata x Nagito Komaeda

Rating/Warnings: General, no warnings.

Prompt: Fanfic: DR3 despair arc - what-if scenario detailing how Komaeda and Hinata could’ve met in a version of despair arc where Chiaki doesn’t exist

Author’s notes: Here you go! I chose your what-if alternate meeting scenario and may have taken some liberties…it became a little bit more like a meet-cute. But I hope you like it anyway, it was a very fun prompt to play with!

It is an odd time of day: the early hours of the morning.

While it is true that the night has its grasp on the body, burdening the limbs and clouding the head. Thoughts then gain the tendency to sink, allowing the gravity of them to linger and rake over every inch of oneself: leaving only the bright and buoyant to remain unnoticed. This is but a fraction of its grandeur.

For, once the weight of midnight has been thoroughly dusted off and the phantom of dawn is imposed onto the gloomy canvas of the sky: all is well and truly tranquil. At such a time, it’s likely for one to witness those billions of static lights dim as they’re steadily eclipsed by the rise of the glorious sun and its all-consuming brilliance.

And as humanity is wont to do, most miss it all. Catching but a glimpse of what it means to see all fall into despondency, then ascend with the silent constant that accompanies all light.

If one were to witness it as Komaeda has, then perhaps they might genuinely understand the true power of Hope.

-read more line-

Yet, even this despairful fact can be momentarily eclipsed by a stroke of fortune.

One such, is the enviable reality that the academy’s library is open at all hours of the day, allowing Komaeda to have the odd pleasant morning.

This, admittedly, wasn’t the prettiest daybreak. The sky was a firm wall of somber storm clouds that both hid any hint of light and threatened to rain at a moment’s notice. A perfect recipe for the typical melancholic day, the scent of petrichor at one’s doorstep, the chill of a dim sky and the inability to know for certain if the sun had ever risen at all.

It was all for the best, really, although it may superficially appear as a stroke of bad luck. For, Komaeda could have the reassurance that his misfortune could harm no-one but himself, the nonsensical hour and daunting sky detering all reasonable people.

If it were the middle of the day, the simple task of both stepping outside and entering the library would’ve surely wrought disaster. He can picture the dismay as the sunny skies are swallowed by a great wave of cumulonimbus clouds and the panic as the shelves rattled.

Though, nevermind the hypothetical dooms, Komaeda had been given a book recommendation and he was determined to find it. 

It was a collection of papers by a fairly modern astronomer: Nevermind had described it as both a rewarding and engaging read. A suggestion he was inclined to pursue.

Komaeda could admit that his urge was in part duty and curiosity. He wasn’t well-read in matters of physics or cosmologie as it hadn’t been an interest of his Father’s and thus, the closest approximation to it on the shelves of his home had been philosophical texts. 

That all meant that the words of the book’s title meant very little to him, presently. And there was, of course, no staff present that could aid him. As such Komaeda was left with nothing but a title and a vague sense of an author with which to comb the hundreds of shelves.

His dedication eventually leads to a touch of luck, the book appearing in the corner of his left eye, exactly at eye-level. It’s a tome, rather, wrapped in an emerald leather binding and its font appearing a tasteful copper.

Komaeda reaches towards it mindlessly, his body twisting to follow the movement purely as an afterthought and as his fingers graze the spine- his hand jolts as it collides with something notably softer than leather.

There is the briefest moment in which his hand lingers on the spine, his ring finger brushing right against the other’s index and their hands remain still. Another’s hand, just as bruised and just as unsteady and yet- sturdier, calluses and the odd speck of dirt under their alarmingly uneven nails. Nothing but the distant sound of the rumbling sky that often preceded thunder to prove that time hadn’t simply- stopped.

Then, their eyes meet. 

And Komaeda is immediately struck with the thought that this is an idiot.

An idiot with handsome green eyes. An idiot with tousled dark hair, short bangs thrown askew. An idiot who didn’t sleep well -if at all- and was hardly ever awake enough to take notice of the violet under his eyes. An idiot who lacked any sense and threw himself into conflict, seen by the scabs on his chin and the mottling bruise the size of a fist, on his cheek. An idiot who didn’t dress for the weather and left the house in a suit…A black suit. A familiar black suit.

…an idiot reserve course student.

Komaeda quickly snatches the book, slapping the reserve’s greedy hand away in the process.

“Hey- what the hell!” The idiot cradles his hand and has the gall to look offended. “I need that for class!”

“Well, you can’t expect me to really believe that a reserve course student could deserve this more than an Ultimate, someone with the capacity to actually create Hope in the world.” Komaeda answers smartly. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me-” The reserve’s frown forms easily, anger seeping into every crease of his face in an instant. “You’re so full of yourself it’s absurd! You don’t even have a reason! I actually need this book and you just-” He flounders. “Want it!”

Without so much as the decency to surrender his turn to speak, the fool continues with an air of mockery. “And what’s your talent anyway? The Ultimate Astronomer? Oh yeah, I remember now, you’re the luck guy. Well I don’t know how reading Burnell’s observations could help with that” He then stupidly adds, “or hope. So if you think I’m just going to stand here and let you-”

“You reserve course students are nothing but a plague, taking resource after resource without thought-”

“Oh, right.” The reserve interrupts him callously. “The people who actually pay to be here have no right to use anything on Campus-!”

Komaeda scoffs. “How small minded of you, it really is typical of a reserve course student to consider only the selfish option- no thought of sharing or relinquishing it to its rightful-”

 “Well,” The reserve mutters, his eyes widened by the mere thought. “I-I guess we could share it…”

Any and all of Komaeda’s ire is swept away with a single exhale, the reserve’s offer registering in his mind. “…I suppose we could, theoretically, both use it…” Komaeda relents, pressured by the fragile sense of sincerity that occupied the meager space between them. Although he can’t quite muster the ability to imagine what he’s proposing. “…simultaneously.”

The reserve course student simply stares at him in response, his eyes occasionally lowering to the book he supposedly requires. Komaeda breaks the silence. “You do know what simultaneously means, or do I have to explain that to you?” 

The frown is back. “How stupid do you think-” He stops himself and takes a deep breath, his -admittedly dapper- suit rising and falling in sync with the motion. “Okay, sure. That-that works. I shouldn’t need it for more than a few hours, anyway.”

Komaeda, still with a firm grip on the hulky book, starts towards the library’s common area and the reserve course student easily falls into step beside him. Neither rushing or meandering.

Komaeda ventures to ask, the tables not yet in sight. “What exactly do you need this for anyhow…you…” He meets the boy’s eyes, “I wouldn’t have guessed that astronomy would be a hot commodity for people like you.”

“It’s Hinata to you,” He quips, then he begins blabbering on. “And well, if you really want to know, this is for my astronomy thesis. I wanted to reference the initial notes made on the pulsar and compare it to the language used in today’s observational astronomy, maybe cite a few passages if it fits with my outline.”

Hinata then proceeds to give an entire spiel on what Komaeda can only rationalize as the death of stars and the telescopes, using far too many terms without relinquishing their definitions and presumedly with the assumption that Komaeda was well-versed in the subject already.

Hinata finishes with a dramatic sweep of the hands. “This is one of the only copies in the world with Burnell’s actual, unedited thoughts on the whole thing! Even the very first recorded use of the term pulsar! I couldn’t not include it!”

There’s an unmistakable passion underlying his rant, an earnestness that not even his unpleasant attitude could mask. It was clear in the faint flush of his sole pale cheek; the way his pace had started to match his as he’d lost himself in exuberant explanation.

 “So…” Komaeda averts his eyes. “you’re looking to become a researcher?”

There was something agonizing about that image. The image of this boy  -just as brash and just as stubborn-, poring over calculations, agonizing over theories, and spending his nights peering into the night sky through a million lenses. All just for a chance at uncovering the truths of the universe and giving humanity a fighting chance in the unending struggle for purpose.

…an image void of hope (as any featuring a reserve course student would) and yet, inexplicably brimming with it.

Hinata then grows uncharacteristically quiet, his previous enthusiasm suddenly dashed, until at last he says. “…I don’t think I’ve got much of a chance at that…it’s one thing to like the class and another to-”

Hinata stops, sheepishness giving way to a dawning optimism. “Well, I guess I could be, now, in a sense…” He shakes his head. “Whatever, even if it’s a hard class, that’s no reason not to try your best and try to have a little fun with it.”

Then predictably making far too many assumptions, Hinata asks. “What’s so weird about it? Do you Ultimates not write papers?”

“Well of course they do! Ultimate Students are constantly conducting research for the betterment of the world!”

“I don’t need the sermon- it was a rhetorical question you know.”

Komaeda huffs at the pitiful excuse. “Regardless of your intentions, to have the sheer audacity to imply that the Ultimate students could neglect their duties and stoop to a virtue as hopeless as sloth! You forget yourself and- your place!” Hinata’s scowl returns with a vengeance. “Although I don’t necessarily have first hand experience-”

 “Wait, you haven’t written a paper? Not even a memoir- I heard that was all the rage on your side of things!” 

“Well,” Komaeda sputters. “why exactly would anyone write about something as worthless as me?”

“You said your talent was luck, right? Who wouldn’t- of course I’d want to read about that! The fact that you can actually quantify your luck enough to call it a talent is interesting enough.” And he’d seemed so certain of that fact, that Komaeda was forced to agree, although he’d have argued that it wouldn’t be educational or worthwhile, if that were relevant. 

Once the two of them arrive at the muster of tables, Komeada finds himself strangely content with allowing Hinata to pick two chairs and unwilling to voice any protest when they find that to properly share it they must sit chair to chair, thigh to thigh.

Thus, the morning begins not with sunlight, but with the faint glow of the chandeliers overhead and the counterfeit warmth of fingers nearing just enough to turn a page. The hours creep up until it’s nearly time for classes to begin for the day, leaving no room for any further procrastination. 

Just as they’re about to part ways, however, just as Komaeda opens the door- it is only then that it begins to pour. Not the pathetic trickle of hours ago, but a true downpour that could easily drown a rat. Not the kind of rain that either of them could properly see in, nor escape without irremediably drenching every inch of clothing.

There’s a moment in which they both look at one another and realize that neither of them have an umbrella. Komaeda closes the door.

Hinata starts, glancing between him and the entrance. “So…I guess we’ve got to make a run for it…”

 “Well, at least the journey isn’t very far at all.”

Hinata’s expression shares nothing but melancholy. “It’s a ten minute walk. For me…”

“Oh…right.” Luckily, at that very moment there’s a crash and a decent sized umbrella rolls to Komaeda’s feet.

 “Huh, that’s convenient…” Hinata hesitantly suggests, tripping over his words. “I guess we should probably- I mean…” 

“That would be…logical…” 

And so…they do. They walk into the rain, side by side, under an umbrella that happens to be just the right size to shelter them both if they walk exactly shoulder to shoulder. Hinata’s forearm is strangely warm and if Komaeda were to turn his head, he might brush his cheek.

Then, not a minute into the journey, he hears Hinata’s voice. “…I think we will see each other again.”

Suddenly, Komaeda feels terribly self-conscious about the terrible weather. “Hopefully in better circumstances.”

 “Oh, it will be. Everything will be better.”

[traumacatholic]

any help on reading the Bible? I struggle a lot with it & feel super unmotivated while reading.

Something you might find helpful is participating in a Bible study group, or if you can't join one then using Bible study resources online. I know Fr Mike Schmitz has done a Bible in a Year video series, you can always use that or something similar. Sometimes the reason we struggle to engage with something is because we're struggling to fully process what we're reading. Having someone else provide helpful insights, and talking about things can make the Bible more accessible and therefore easier to engage with.

Some people find it helpful to have a structured routine and approach to Bible studying. Be it taking a quiet moment in the morning or night, and really just trying to focus on God. Maybe they will light some incense, maybe they will play hymns quietly in the background. You might find doing something like this can create a habit which can carry you through even during periods where you're unmotivated. It can become a time that you associate with feeling peaceful and calm, and so you can look forward to it.

We are always going to have periods in our life where engaging with something can be very difficult. Motivation is very much something that's fleeting, and while it's helpful and nice to have it. It's about trying to develop the discipline to do something even when we aren't particularly feeling like doing so. And as much as we might feel like we're not getting anything out of the Bible during those periods, we are still connecting with the word of God and that's always going to be beneficial even if it doesn't feel that way in the moment.

You might also be trying to read it for either too long (past your attention span) or not giving yourself a goal time. You might find telling yourself 'I'm going to read the Bible for 15 to 30 minutes' makes it much easier to engage with the Bible because it feels less daunting. You could also really break it up and do 5 minutes here and there throughout the day.

Pray before reading the Bible. Pray to be able to engage with it, to be able to concentrate on it. Be open and honest with God about your difficulties in concentrating. And then push yourself to engage with it and to concentrate on it.

If it's still a huge struggle, then I'd say switch to the Daily Readings: https://bible.usccb.org/daily-bible-reading. They're shorter, and you will be reading along with the Church. You might find engaging with these for a bit encourages you to pick up the Bible to read a bit more around the daily readings.

[depressedhatakekakashi]

Challenge Results: Snow Shoveling!

There were two hundred and sixty one houses in Konoha and thirty two different business', all in desperate need of a good clearing after a night of heavy snowfall.

Two hundred and ninety three buildings and only two shinobi to do the job.

"Surely there's more people to help us out," Kakashi had complained when Tsunade-sama had finished explaining the task. "Just Gai and me to do all of this seems a little-"

daunting.

tiresome.

downright impossible.

There were a lot of words Kakashi could think of to describe his exact feelings about the situation.

"I do have other shinobi," Tsunade confirmed. "But I thought the two of you might have a little bit of fun with it on your own."

Fun.

For some reason that word didn't sit right with him in this situation. There was nothing fun about shoveling snow on the first day off he'd had in two months.

"I don't think-"

A hand came down hard against his shoulder, forcing him to take a step forward. "Come on now, Rival," Gai cheered, forever ready to meet a job head on no matter how impossible it may seem. "We can make a challenge of it."

"A challenge?" his eyes sparkled with excitement. It had been far too long since his last challenge with Gai, but it wouldn't do any good to let his friend see how his words had affected him. Gai would never let him hear the end of it if he knew he actually enjoyed their challenges. "Well, I don't know-"

"How about something to help you decide?" a light smile played at Tsunade's lips. "a prize of sorts."

Kakashi perked up at the mention of a prize. When it came to free things, there was nothing short of senseless murder that Kakashi wouldn't do.

"Two hundred and ninety three places," it only took him a second to divide the work load into two. To win he'd only have to shovel one hundred and forty seven walk ways. It would still involve a lot of work, but it was felt like a much more achievable goal with a prize on the line. "And what do we get in return? other than the pay that comes with doing the job."

Tsunade scrunched up her nose at the reminder. "You want your pay and a prize?" she huffed. "Never one to get as much as you can, are you brat?" settling back into her chair, she folded her hands together and thought. "how about dinner?"

"you're paying?"

"of course."

"well, in that case," turning towards the door, he flashed Gai a quick smile. "see you out there."

With that, he was gone. the wind under his feet and Gai's voice calling out to him as he headed straight for the closest building.

------------------------------------------

One hundred and forty six.

Kakashi had pulled out every trick he could think of to beat Gai and secure himself a free dinner for the night. From using fire style jutsu's to melt the snow, to abusing the power of Obito's eye to vanquish it into an unknown dimension.

All of that effort he'd put into winning, and none of it had paid off.

"I should have known you'd cheat," Gai laughed as he held Akino up over his head. "really, Rival. Have you no shame?"

Kakashi huffed. "Don't talk to me about cheating," he grumbled under his breath. "You sent your student's to try and distract me!"

"Well, yes," there was no hint of shame in his voice. "but only after you sent the hounds to distract me."

"and you used the fifth gate! how do you think Tsunade-sama is going to take that? Using one of the forbidden gates for...for a competition!"

"You used Kamui!"

"Only once!"

"Once is enough to land you flat on your ass."

"Lee was shoveling snow back into the walk way to try and help you win! I had no choice!"

"I'm sorry," an energy radiated behind them. An murderous energy that could easily trump Orochimaru's 'will to kill' in terms of effectiveness. "Did you say you used Kamui and the eight gates?"

For his own safety, Kakashi chose not to turn around. Unfortunately, Gai did not seem to have the same strong survival instincts, because he spun round to face his doom with a cautious smile and a quick explanation.

"Tsunade-sama! I didn't realize- well, it doesn't matter," he chuckled in the face of death. "We've completed our task."

"I see that," Kakashi could feel her eyes staring directly at his back, but he still refused to budge. If he was going to die today she would have to stab him in the back. "And you used dangerous moves that could potentially land you in hospital to do it?"

"Ah, well you see-"

"Gai..."

"Kakashi was cheating. He summoned the hounds," Akino whimpered when Gai held him out towards Tsunade-sama like some sort of offering. "I had to catch up."

"With a dangerous technique that has resulted in broken bones in the past?"

"Ah, well...yes?"

"Gai..."

"I was just trying to-"

"Gai, shut up!" Kakashi reached out and grabbed hold of his friend's arm, pulling him away just in time to avoid taking a punch to the face. "Run!"

"But Kakashi-"

"If you want to live, Run!" He insisted, releasing his grip on Gai's arm and making a break for freedom with Gai hot on his tail.

There was very little chance he'd successful escape Tsunade's wrath. Even if he managed to outrun her, she was known for holding a grudge for years. His punishment would catch up with him sooner or later.

his only goal at the moment was avoiding that punishment right now and hoping that Shizune was able to calm her auntie down a little before Kakashi and Gai were forced to face her again.

A bruised arm from one of her more restrained punches and an extra week of A rank mission's was a much better punishment than having his rib cage caved in by one of her strongest punches.

[lindsaystravelblogs3]

Days 19/20 – Tuesday/Wednesday, 13-14 June

Tuesday

After breakfast, we spent all day in our room until about 6pm. We did some washing, some reorganising, sorting and editing photos, and writing for our blogs during the day. We had a light lunch in the room but went out for a walk late in the day, down as close as we could get to the harbour (you really can’t get very close) and sat at a quiet outdoor cafe, nursing a couple of drinks for an hour or so.

We had a very interesting conversation, mainly about our travels - the great experiences we have enjoyed, the exotic places we have explored, what our future commitments, aspirations and expectations were, and a bit of a review of our recent bus trip.

We concluded that neither of us had any wish to join another group tour (although we were still reasonably enthusiastic about the next six trips already organised or planned) – but certainly no more bus trips after the upcoming one.  We simply much prefer the freedom of doing it on our own, with no obligation to fit in with the wishes and schedules of those with whom we have to travel. We probably enjoy some company sometimes, but prefer to choose our own companions, with similar hopes and passions as ours, rather than an unknown cohort with whom we often have very little in common.

We also decided that international travel is quite stressful and entails a lot of hard work. Language is often a challenge, as are currency exchange complications. Local practices and customs (including the iniquitous, almost mandatory, practice of tipping) are often difficult to understand and comply with, and being on the move so frequently and encountering these differences day to day, is pretty confronting. It is so much easier when travelling domestically (or in places like NZ or perhaps even Southeast Asia) - or perhaps surprisingly, in places like the Arctic/Antarctic or South America where foreigners like us are seen as oddly different and to be accommodated, instead of us having to accommodate the disparate plethora of people who demand that we comply with their random and exotic expectations. I know this sounds a bit odd, but Europe seems much more challenging than any of our other meanderings.

I am itching to get away in our caravan, perhaps doing a long, notably slower excursion, with Tassie being one of our preferred places to visit. A campervan in NZ is also high on my hit-list, but fitting this in between our existing commitments is a bit daunting.

After our drinks and travel analysis, we strolled a bit further up the street and settled on one of many al fresco restaurants for dinner. We restrained ourselves in the face of a huge and tempting menu and arrived back at our hotel ready for bed at about 11pm.

Wednesday

We are gradually catching up with our laundry and did a little more before a latish breakfast. We had purchased tickets for the HOHO (hop on hop off) bus last night so set off just a minute too late to catch the 10am bus a couple of blocks away. Our tickets allowed us to hoho the Red-, Green- and Blue-lines for 24 hours so we started with the Red-line. The circuit took about an hour, but rain was threatening so we spent most of the time in the bus, rather in the open upstairs. The windows were pretty dirty and are largely covered with advertising so it is almost impossible to take useful photos when downstairs. I can’t imagine how stupid the designer must have been, plastering advertising on all the windows of a tourist bus with seats positioned higgledy-piggledy, half facing backwards, with only a single seat anywhere having a reasonably clear view.  And then someone has plastered dozens of small stickers on the inside of the windows telling people not to stand up, to keep their seat-belts fastened and other instructions in Italian.

When we arrived back at the starting point, the weather was looking a little more promising, so we boarded the Green-line bus for a shorter circuit into the centre of the city. It was very interesting, so we decided to stay on the bus and complete the Green circuit again. Unfortunately, we didn’t get far. The street we had driven along less than half an hour earlier was now closed with police cars, police people, and what might have been a SWAT team, preventing further progress. We never found out exactly what the problem was, but I gather it was some sort of emergency incident at the bank just in front of us. A bank robbery???

We still wanted to go on the Blue-line, but it wasn’t leaving for a while so we had lunch at a little cafe beside the bus stop - a slice of pizza, very fresh and tasty.

The Blue-line bus driver seemed to find every pothole in Palermo within the first couple of hundred metres and we were rocked and rolled mercilessly, with a bit of rain making matters worse and the limitations of the downstairs section making it pretty pointless so we got off after about five stops and retreated to a restaurant for a drink - and as an excuse to use their toilet. After twenty minutes or so, and after hailing waiters at least half a dozen times, they finally took our order. Half an hour later, we stood up to leave, just as our drinks were finally delivered. They were fairly busy, but we were certainly being ignored because we just wanted drinks rather than an expensive meal. We did not leave a tip!

We walked across the road to take some photos of the impressive Teatro Massimo while waiting for the next bus and became surrounded by a wedding party. It seems that the wedding had just been completed and the couple and all their guests were milling around for photos. We finally escaped when a Red-line bus arrived to take us back to the starting point.

Once there, we still wanted to do the Blue-line, preferably with a better driver, and were ushered on to what we were told was the Blue-line bus. Oh well, I am colour-blind too. It was another Red-line bus, but we enjoyed the ride - on the top deck this time.

At the end of the circuit, there definitely was a Blue-line bus waiting and we decided to chance it again, albeit with the same driver. We completed the circuit this time, but more than half of it was downstairs because the rain was more persistent by now - also, the ride was a little less bruising in the lower section of the bus.

So our HOHO ticket gave us about two-and-a-half Red-line circuits and one-and-a-half circuits on each of the Blue- and Green-lines. We saw a lot of Palermo. Unfortunately, although we saw a lot and there were stories to go with many of the things we saw, none of them were sufficiently engrossing (or memorable) for me to relate here.

[dreamersparacosm]

consider.

"you were supposed to be there for me. and you weren’t. you weren’t there." or “you aren’t the person i fell in love with years ago.” or “frankly, i don’t give a fuck.”

surprise me, angelina. also love you and congrats again!

sfw!

note ; ally. how dare you. honestly we are just becoming the queens of angst and it is starting to concern me like who wronged us😫 anyway this is kinda inspired by ur fic bc i didn’t know what else to do and i rlly loved the prompt 😘

warnings ; none i can think of!

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

theoretically, this is supposed to be the best night of your life. all the tears, all the yearning, all the trials and tribulations that landed you in your exact position: a modeling contract so prestigious you get the opportunity to walk in new york fashion week. theoretically, this was the first night of the rest of your career.

but your boyfriend, the one who got you to this point, the one who told you that you were born to model, the one who stood by you through every casting call, was nowhere to be found. in fact, if math hadn’t failed you, he was exactly 4,352 miles away from you.

instead, this was shaping up to be the worst night of your life.

“do you just not care? is that what this is?” you shout into the phone, pacing your hotel room that resembles more of a shoebox than anything else. the lights of the city spill in through a gap in your curtains. it’s daunting more than anything else.

thank god he can’t see your face, for if he did, he would see a girl with mascara smudged under her eyes, mimicking a raccoon, and an expression that was so desolate it would bring anyone to depression.

“no, no, baby, i swear. i swear to god i bought the tickets. check, check online! the flight is canceled,” austin rushes out in defense. he’s not lying — the flight really is canceled, so canceled that they’re not even delivering a new aircraft — but somehow, he feels like he is.

“god, austin, you picked the latest flight to new york! you couldn’t ask for the day off or something?” you’re gripping your hair so tight you nearly pull it out of your scalp.

“you know i can’t. i already took off so many days —“

“do they know this is my first runway show? christ’s sake, it’s for prada. this is my big debut. mine. and i’m in a fucking hotel room fighting with you because for some reason, you think your career is more important than mine!”

you’ve twisted the knife in too deep, and you know it. it’s just heavy breathing and silence from his end, nothing but useless thoughts swirling around in his brain. you’re burying homicidal urges, as if hating him will make him appear at your doorstep. “let’s talk tomorrow. i’ll see if i can catch the next flight out.”

you swallow down a sob that bubbles in your throat. your voice, just below a whisper, wavers as you speak, “you were supposed to be here for me. and you’re not. you’re not here.”

he is enraged at you for thinking that he didn’t want to be there with you, for believing that he would table your career for his own. his heart is ripping out of his chest excruciatingly, breaths coming out shaky. “i’m sorry, [y/n]. i tried.”

“no. you fucking didn’t.”

the next thing he hears is a click and a monotone buzz. he realizes seconds later that you’ve hung up on him and left him stranded in an airport in hungary, with nothing but his two carry-on bags and a love for you that transcends across any ocean.

sadly enough, that’s all he has left to give.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

join the celly here!

[nanowrimo]

Opposition Research: Where to Get the Best Info for Your Novel

Now that you’ve written the first draft of your novel, you may find that you need to do some extra research to fill in those plot holes and polish up your story. Today, author Jodi Compton is here to shine some light on researching elements of your story between drafts:

I’m a crime and mystery novelist. It’s a genre which requires a good deal of research—a daunting task many Wrimos will be tackling for the first time in December and beyond. Many of us research between drafts, writing the first version straight through as a ‘proof of concept’ rough draft. Writing “[research tk]” at strategic points in a first draft can be an essential part of getting to 50K.

For that reason, I want to share a secret I’ve learned about good research. At first, I’ll be using crime fiction as my example, but the lesson is applicable to all genres, which I’ll address. (Hang tight, you hordes of fantasy writers!)

When I first began writing crime fiction, I did what most mystery novelists do. I read books on investigative work and forensics. I watched documentaries on the same subjects, including Dateline and Forensic Files and Women and the Badge. Later, when I had very specific questions, I found sources in the law-enforcement world and asked directly. 

The upshot of all the books, documentaries, magazine articles and interviews tended to be this: There’s always forensic evidence. It’s always correctly gathered. The DNA test is always right. The polygraph is always reliable. And everybody involved—the police and prosecutors—almost always do the right thing. 

This past year has—to put it mildly—called those assumptions into question. But that’s the subject of another article. However, long before this troubling year, I’d noticed something interesting. Crime-fiction writers like myself are always trying to write a story about the exceptions—the locked-room story, the extremely clever criminal who almost gets away with a murder or a heist, or a story in which the most unlikely person imaginable is actually the killer.  

So why are we always looking at sources in which the most likely suspect is, in fact, the murderer, in which standard operating procedure gets the investigative job done, there’s always DNA at the scene, and the polygraph tells you exactly who did it?

Because, mystery writers might argue, there’s no source for stories about cases where things went sideways. Nobody writes about those, and no source on the inside wants to talk about them. 

That seems true, at first. Ask me how I know: My first novel, The 37th Hour, deals with an FBI agent-in-training who does a Very Bad Thing just before his term at Quantico starts. To flesh this out, I spoke to a public information officer at the FBI—who dismissed my concept out of hand. That really wouldn’t happen, she told me. Our psychological screening would catch someone like that. 

It didn’t seem very productive to say, Like your psych screening caught Robert Hanssen? So I didn’t. (Plus, I didn’t think of it until hours later). 

It was only later in my writing career that I learned that there are people who talk and write about how the criminal-investigation process runs off the rails: They’re called defense attorneys. Behind them, and fighting a larger battle, are the ACLU and the Innocence Project—lawyers, law students and investigators who uncover false convictions. These convictions can be those due to mishandled DNA, inconclusive polygraph results interpreted as guilt, false confessions made by exhausted, hungry and confused people in interrogation rooms, or naive, easily-swayed juries. 

You have to get off the beaten path to find these stories, told in smaller-circulation magazines or blogs or documentaries. The “Dateline Saturday Night Mystery” has been immensely popular for years. No network is going to air the “ACLU Saturday Night Miscarriage of Justice” any time soon. But the latter, I think, would be as fascinating as the former. And, for the novelist looking for ways to complicate a straightforward crime, very profitable. 

Okay, you say. That’s fine for crime writers, but the most popular genre in National Novel Writing Month is fantasy. How do we fit into this situation?

I hear you. Fantasy is to NaNoWriMo what Thin Mints are to Girl Scout Cookies. So let’s say you’re writing a story in which characters have supernatural powers. This is where—though science is considered the opposite of magic—an understanding of physics, biology, chemistry and more could add great verisimilitude to your novel.

A study of magicians and their tricks can be useful as well. Many magicians are diehard skeptics about the paranormal—James Randi, of course, being the most famous example. But they also know a lot about physics: For example, the manipulation of light and how it affects what people see, or think they see. Might your genuinely-magical character manipulate light to create glamours or illusions?

‘Opposition research’ will be of varying use to writers in varying genres, but I’d argue that there’s almost always something to be gained in doing it. Conflict is the engine of virtually every story. Whenever you look at ‘maps’ or ‘graphs’ of a novel’s plot, you’ll see points labeled ‘conflict 1’ or ‘first setback.’ Understanding what opponents or devil’s advocates have to say about your protagonist’s quest will be of great help in creating conflict or setbacks in that journey. 

Jodi Compton is the author of four crime novels, starting with The 37th Hour, about Minneapolis detective Sarah Pribek. Her fifth book, Redball, will be released by Amazon early in 2021. She is an eight-time National Novel Writing Month participant.

Top photo by Russ Ward on Unsplash.