#ill post the link to it eventually but its not ready yet

[gavinom123]

my ass has not been drawing ive literally been making a website instead LOLLL

[rosenongrata]

Ancient Dreams in a Modern Land

⋯ 𓆩♡𓆪 Summary. Two sides of the same coin—the divine man and the accursed lady will one day intertwine.

⋯ 𓆩♡𓆪 A/N. so i'm finally getting around to posting this on tumblr. wahoo! anyway, this is the millionth rewrite of my initial self-insert fic that is now deleted. p.s. the fic title is from a song of MARINA's that goes by the same name!

⋯ 𓆩♡𓆪 AO3 Link.

⋯ 𓆩♡𓆪 Chapter W.C. 776.

⋯ 𓆩♡𓆪 CW. the abyss order are blatant bastards, no shame fr. eventual romance. blood & injury & violence. trauma/mental illness exploration. slow burn. OC-CENTRIC, OC-INSERT. OC X CANON.

Chapter 1 — I'll Be Gone.

A tall woman clad in dark shades of red and black passes through the cold and unwelcoming hallways of the Abyss. She's one of the few who has retained her human form and even most of her personality. The Abyss—the Void Realm—does indeed have a dark habit of warping human personalities beyond recognition.

Meanwhile, most in the Abyss have lost their true selves to the never ending darkness. Their minds vengeful as their bodies became vehicles for destruction. And the darkness only spurs them on. To her, this is all more than sickening, and she can only imagine one other person sharing that sentiment—

"Is the plague prepared?"

A sudden voice derails her train of thought, and she's quick to back away from the doorway she had full intention of passing. She leans her back against the wall, falling into a state of silence and stillness.

"Nearly!"

She can only assume the worst about this plague. Choking back a scoff, she files this specific location into her mind for later, she then makes a quick departure.

(I need to make a cure for this plague as quickly as I can,) She thinks; adjusting her black gloves. A nervous habit. (Or else they’ll send this plague to Teyvat in order to cause chaos… And who knows what it’s truly capable of.)

That night, she mixes the cure with the scarce ingredients she could hunt down. It takes two days to find everything as the Abyss is as barren as Khaenri'ah. Sure, there are plenty of vast collections of ingredients, but it's often stored behind lock and key. The Abyss Order never trusted her too much, anyway.

She suffers from her own "plights and struggles"—one's that often interfered with the Order's plans. And the Void Realm itself could never quite tear her down into the little pieces it so desires. She has her reasons for resisting its effects, but it's a deep-seated secret in her heart—one she buried six feet under a long time ago.

Eyes glazing over with so many emotions—she stumbles through the halls in her sleep-deprived state. She worked tirelessly for this very moment. This moment to give Teyvat a bit longer to live in prosperity.

Arriving in the room that hosts the plague vial—she's tearful, fatigued, nauseated; ready to sob and break down at any moment. She pushes herself to persevere through all that stands in her way, all for a place she's never been too familiar with. When she finds the bedeviled vial, she pops it open and shifts her other hand to drip her own concoction in—

"Hauteclaire!" A Herald howls behind her—she can hear the quick summoning of water blades. "What do you think you're doing?!" He takes one step closer, his heavy steps thundering through the room.

"I was checking the vial to ensure its…effectiveness." Hauteclaire—the woman of a bygone time—lies through her teeth. And with that said, she quickly pockets her cure, yet it's spotted anyway.

"You…You are betraying us once more. We have been too lenient with you!" He growls, charging at her with his blades drawn and ready to cut her down.

"Ah, so you knew of my escapades all along—" She retorts, blocking his blade with her own steel one, "—this place is more than despicable, more than disgusting. I've had enough of the Prince and everyone else!" She spits, pushing him back and away from her.

She glances at her sword, a bitter and painful memory filling her mind—

The alchemist's friends' thin lips curve into a mischievous smile, the knowing glint in his shimmering cerulean eyes says it all,

"I know you hate gifts, but…I'd like you to take this. I had it specially made for you. Happy birthday, Claire."

It's a sword of gleaming silver blue, the very one she wields now in the present. And the very one she's left behind—embedded into the Herald's thorax before storming out of this realm once and for all.

“I’m sorry.”

———

As she rushes out of the Abyss, the world becomes hazy and foggy to a disorienting degree. Her sleep-deprived state is now catching up to her more than ever before. Even as she stumbles and trips over her own feet, she makes it out of the Abyss without ever looking back.

She finally makes it into a thick forest prior to collapsing onto her knees, and then falling face down. Thoroughly exhausted, she wheezes into the chilly air—leaving behind a breathy fog. Her hands ball into fists, clutching the freezing yet soft snow beneath her.

Unable to manage her starvation, her fatigue, and her numb heart—she descends into an uncomfortable stupor.

[kaufmo-is-alive]

HIIIIIIIII MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!!

guess who hasnt had access to their drawing tablet all day!!! sorry i cant promise a christmas drawing or anything today because BLEGHHH being dragged everywhere for christmassssss

also sorry i havent answered all the questions in my inbox yet, ill probably end up having to get to those tomorrow. but rest assured this blog still rotates in my brain 24/7!

i may not have had time (or foresight) for a christmas special, but im starting to plan a new years one, so i hope everyones ready for that!

ill be honest, when i started this blog, i didnt really put much thought into how the characters should act, seeing as we literally only have a pilot to go off of for deeper personality. buuuut i realized i can just make all that up!!! so if you notice a bit of a change in how the characters act, just pretend its normal lolll

and finally, you may have noticed a tag ive been putting on every post, {the tag i use for the funny chrono link} as the name suggests, its so i can post a link for people to read the blog in chronological order. problem: my lazy ass keeps forgetting to update the rule post and actually add the dang link! ill rework that whole post eventually (i am not getting rid of the joke about jax’s cock), but if you want the link now, here it is

again, happy holidays everyone! thank you for the lovely asks youve all been sending (except for you, mario x luigi guy)! feel free to send more, i may be a bit slow updating sometimes, and my art may not be the best, but i adore reading them and figuring out how to respond to them!!!

[aithorin]

Chasing You - Thranduil x Reader

Plot: Imagine overhearing Thranduil’s conversation with Tauriel and running away

A/N-This fic is also posted on AO3 under the same username. I will insert a link to it below. However, this is also a slightly different version as I’ve made a couple of edits. I’ll post the updated version eventually on AO3, but for now this is the only edited version. Also, some of the lines in this are from the movies, so as a disclaimer, I do not own any recognizable content.

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823933

Slight NSFW Warning!

The hooves of your horse thundered in your ear as you pushed it to gallop quickly throughout Mirkwood. All around, the sickened trees passed in a blur, and yet somehow they still managed to loom over you, mocking your troubles with their height. You hunched closer to your horse, looking for comfort, and threaded your fingers throughout its mane. The wind burned at your eyes, causing tears of a completely different kind to well. They mingled with the ones symbolic of your heartbreak, mixing so thoroughly that they became indistinguishable from one another. The wind pulled at both, tugging at them as they trekked down your face. The tears disappeared into the air behind you, the wind having successfully stolen them.

So distracted by your thoughts, you didn’t even notice how the wind had prematurely dried the tear tracks along your face, pinching the skin slightly underneath. All you could focus on was Thranduil. Just the thought of his name sent a fresh wave of tears to your eyes, blurring your vision even more. Moments from your relationship flashed through your mind, and confusion merged with your hurt. You just didn’t understand. All this time he had seemed so genuine. To find out it was all a farce so suddenly only made your anguish sharper. There were no suspicions at all; you had been happy, and you thought that he had been happy too. But as a sob escaped your mouth, you realized that maybe some things weren’t meant to be. Echoes of the conversation you had accidently heard rang throughout your mind, and agony grappled at your heart as you thought about Thranduil’s betrayal.

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

Having finished your chores for the day, you hurried toward the throne room hoping to catch a moment alone with Thranduil. It was difficult to spend time with him considering your relationship was a secret, so every spare moment you had to sneak with him was precious. As you passed by a corridor, muffled voices floated through the air causing your footsteps to slow to a halt. Curious, you crept towards the sound, excitement filling you as you recognized Thranduil’s voice. It was perfect! You’d just wait for him to finish and then maybe you could spend a few moments together. But as the muffled noise turned into clear voices, your excitement quickly diminished as a deep hurt took root within your heart.

“Legolas said you fought well today… he has grown very fond of you.” Thranduil’s deep baritone resonated throughout the room.

A few moments passed before Tauriel stammered, “I assure you my lord, Legolas thinks of me as no more than a captain of the guard.”

“Perhaps he did once...now I’m not so sure.” Thranduil sneered.

“I do not think…  you would allow your son to pledge himself to a lowly silvan elf.” Tauriel stuttered back.

“No, you’re right. I would not.” Thranduil declared, “Still… he cares about you. Do not give him hope where there is none”

At his words, a gasp left your mouth as your heart plummeted. Both of their heads snapped in your direction, but by then you had already turned and fled down the hall. Tears welled in your eyes as you began to understand the meaning behind his words. You were no different than Tauriel. In fact, you were inferior to her being that your station in life was that of a maid. If Legolas couldn’t pledge himself to the esteemed captain of the guard, then there was no hope that Thranduil would ever truly pledge himself to you either. All this time, you were nothing more than a fling to Thranduil, maybe even less. Did he see your feelings as a game, something to be toyed with? The conviction with which Thranduil spoke his words told you more than you ever needed to know. It was obvious he didn’t share in any of the things you felt. A choke escaped your throat as you realized your relationship was nothing but a lie.

Fleeing from the corridor, you ran to the comfort of your room. The door to your chambers creaked open, and light from the hall seeped through to illuminate it. As you stepped inside, you looked slowly around the room. Nothing seemed right anymore. You felt as though you were suffocating, and with a sudden clarity you knew what you had to do. You had to leave. The thought of staying in Mirkwood made you nauseous. Having to stay and look at Thranduil everyday, knowing that he never cared about you, would only break your heart over and over again. Leaving was the only way you had any hope of moving on. You quickly gathered what meager belongings you had, and hurried towards the stables. Climbing on top of the nearest horse, you saddled your pack and took off without a backward glance.

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

The trees of Mirkwood continued to whiz by, the tears continuously spilling from your eyes creating a distorted view of your surroundings. Thoughts raced through your mind as you tried to make sense of the situation.

‘How could he do this to me? I loved him! I gave him everything. My heart, my mind, my trust, my body, everything, and yet in the end he didn’t care at all. It was nothing but a game to him.’ A choked, bitter laugh escaped through the sobs erupting from your throat. Everything just hurt; your heart felt tight, a huge lump in your throat made it difficult to breathe, and your eyes were swollen and tired from crying.

Why, why would he do this to you! You never thought he could be so cruel. Lost in the river of your despair, you failed to notice the sound of legs scurrying across the forest floor until it was too late.

A rustle of leaves sounded to your left before a giant spider leapt from behind the brush causing your horse to rear up in fright. The sudden change in gravity threw you from its back, causing your backside to hit the floor with a hard thud, knocking the breath from you. Letting out a wheeze as you attempted to regain your breath, you looked up just in time to see your horse let out a loud whine before bolting back in the direction you came. By then, the giant spider had turned its attention towards you and moved with a speed that surprised even your elven senses. You scurried back on all fours in terror, the dead leaves crunching beneath your hands. All too soon though, your path became blocked by one of the towering, ill trees that resided in the forest. Still, your arms flailed as you tried to get away, but the spider continued to advance, slowly trapping you in your place. Your breath started to quicken, and terrified gasps resounded throughout the forest. This was it. You were going to die in the forest alone, with the knowledge that no one had ever really loved you. A few stray tears escaped your eyes as you realized just how pathetic you really were. By now the spider loomed above you, its pincers poised above you, ready to strike. Ominous hisses spewed from its mouth, and you squeezed your eyes shut, unwilling to watch it deliver the killing blow. Having accepted your fate, your body relaxed, and you waited for the world you knew to be no more.

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

“I want the watch doubled at our borders. All roads. All rivers. Nothing moves but I hear of it. No one enters this kingdom and no one leaves it.” Thranduil ordered, an unspoken warning in his tone, before walking away with a swish of his cloak.

No sooner had he left the throne room was he stopped by a servant.

“Forgive the intrusion my lord, but I couldn’t help overhearing your order and…” The elleth hesitated.

“Out with it, you insolent child! I don’t have all day! You’ve already overstepped your boundaries, don’t push them anymore.” Thranduil said, his patience growing thin.

“Well,” she began, “it’s just...I’m worried about (Y/N). When I stopped by our shared room all of her belongings were gone. I think she went into the forest, but she hasn’t come back. Will she be able to get back into the kingdom with your order?”

At the mention of your name, Thranduil’s blood turned ice cold in his veins. Where could you have possibly gone, and with all of your belongings too? You wouldn’t just leave without telling him, and you knew better than to go into the forest alone. You weren’t trained in the art of combat, and there were too many dangers that lurked in the forest these days. Thranduil’s mind became laced with panic as he ran through all of the possible things that could have happened to you. Were you lost? Injured? Dead? At that last thought, Thranduil swallowed as a hard lump of fear developed in his throat. He had to find you. Now.

He turned to look at the elleth, the cool facade on his face betraying none of the inward worry that he held.

“As king it is my duty to see to the safety and wellbeing of all that dwell within my kingdom. As such, I will personally see to it that (Y/N) is brought back home safe and unharmed.”

At his words, the elleth visibly relaxed. “Thank you my lord. You are most generous and kind.” With a nod of her head, the elleth bowed her head before walking away to return to her duties.

Thranduil turned to the nearest guard. “You,” he said, “Ready my elk. We leave at once.”

“Yes my lord.”

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

Thranduil raced through the forest, looking for any sign of a trail. Suddenly, a lone horse came barreling in their direction, rearing in a panic. The small group of guards he had with him leaped in front to calm it down.

Grabbing its reins, Thranduil inspected the horse, noticing a pack saddled to its back. Peering inside, he saw your possessions and his expression turned grim. Without a word, he swung back onto his elk and charged down the path the horse came from.

Galloping along the path, Thranduil prayed that you were okay. He would never forgive himself if something were to happen to you. Meeting you had breathed new life into him. For the first time since his wife died, he actually felt happy, something his own son couldn’t even provide him. Every beat of his heart was dedicated solely to you, and if you were to be taken from him like his wife was, he didn’t think he would ever be able to recover.

Deep in the forest now, Thranduil was beginning to doubt that he’d be able to find you when he heard noises coming from off the path. The hiss of a spider, leaves crackling as someone scrambled. His eyes widened as he realized a spider was attacking someone. Jumping from his elk, Thranduil’s footsteps pounded as he ran, and the sound of metal scraping could be heard as he drew his sword. Bursting into a clearing, he saw a giant spider above someone, poised to kill whoever was trapped. As the spider went in for the killing blow so did Thranduil. Fortunately, Thranduil was faster, and blood spurted as he drove his sword into the spider’s back. The spider howled in pain, limbs flailing as the life slowly drained from it along with its blood. All too soon, the spider dropped dead, and Thranduil hurried to push it off of whoever was trapped beneath it.

Rolling the spider’s body to the side, Thranduil was met with the sight of you curled tightly, hugging your knees to your chest with your eyes clenched shut. Dried tear tracks painted your cheeks, and visible tremors shook your body. Thranduil kneeled next to you as a big weight lifted from his chest. You were alive! Scared and shaken but alive. He had made it to your side in time, albeit he was cutting it a bit close.

Right in front of you, Thranduil slowly reached out to place a gentle hand on your shoulder. At his touch, you jumped and started to shake even harder, your eyes still shut tight.

“Meleth nin,” he spoke softly, “Open your eyes. I am here, and you are safe.”

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

“Meleth nin” you heard a soft voice whisper, “Open your eyes. I am here, and you are safe.”

At the sound of his voice, you wanted to let out a sob. It sounded just like him, but you knew that it couldn’t be Thranduil. There was no way that Thranduil was in front of you. He was back at the palace, most likely atop his throne, while you were here, probably bleeding out from a spider bite. That was it you reasoned. You had been bitten by the spider, and now you were going delirious from its venom before you died. It was the only explanation. He didn’t love you. You didn’t want to open your eyes. If you did the illusion would be shattered. At least this way you could pretend that you wouldn’t die alone, and that your love was here.

But when his hand started to shake your shoulder, the possibility that maybe he actually was here started to seem more like a reality. You reluctantly opened your eyes to see his cerulean ones staring into yours, deep with concern. You wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold him, but with the threat of death looming over you gone, you remembered why you left in the first place. You snatched your wandering arms back and lowered your eyes as more tears suddenly welled in your eyes. ‘He isn’t mine’, you reminded yourself, ‘he never was’. Having him be so close yet at the same time so far made your heart clench painfully in your chest.

“Melamin, are you alright? I was so worried I had lost you.” Thranduil whispered.

Deciding to ignore the endearment, you chose to answer the way your relationship now demanded. That of a respectful servant addressing her king. Still looking down at your feet, you replied meekly, “Yes, your majesty. Thank you for rescuing me. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

At your words, his eyes squinted ever so slightly in confusion. Why were you talking to him like that, as though you were just another one of his subjects? Something else was wrong. You couldn’t even look at him. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the few guards surrounding the clearing leaving just the two of you.

“What is wrong meleth nin? Why can’t you look at me?”

The continued endearments caused the sob that had been stuck in your throat to escape. Why did he insist on continuing the game? Was it not enough that he had taken your heart? Must he continue to squeeze it as well? How spiteful could he be to insist on calling you that?

“Please,” you whispered “Do not continue to jest. My heart cannot take it.”

Thranduil grabbed your hands and with the sudden movement, you finally tilted your head to meet his gaze. Seeing your heartbroken face, he felt his own heart twinge within his chest. He could feel you slipping away and with every passing minute he feared that he would not be able to get you back. “I don’t understand,” he pleaded, “Whatever it is that I have done, tell me, and I will not rest until I have eased your mind.”

His words made your head droop in despair. So he was going to continue to feign ignorance until he could break your heart and see your expression for himself. His insisted cruelty caused the first seeds of anger to break through the dam of your heartbreak. Thranduil might have shattered your heart, but you’d be damned before you’d let him see the effects. You’d get through this conversation, and then part from Mirkwood and put this chapter of your life behind you.

With your newfound determination, you looked at him with your face hard and eyes steely. “Do not think me so naive that I will continue to play along with your game, my lord. You may have fooled me once, but I refuse to let you do so again. You can cease your act of mocking love and concern. Please, just go back to the palace and have a laugh about the foolish maid who believed that a king could ever possibly care for her, and I will be on my way.”

Thranduil stared at you in bewilderment. Where was all of this coming from? Just this morning, everything was fine, and in that short time you now doubted his love for you. What could have possibly happened?

“Whoever has planted this seed of doubt in your mind will wish that they had never opened their mouth,” Thranduil swore gravelly, “I do not know what has caused this skepticism, but know that my feelings for you are honest and true.” He lifted your hands enclosed in his to place a soft kiss upon them.

Looking into his eyes, you were tempted to believe him. He seemed so earnest, but the words that he spoke earlier rang through your mind, “Do not give him hope where there is none”, and your temptations were banished. You let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. YOU were the one who made your feelings toward me clear as day, no one else. If you cannot bring yourself to be honest about anything else, then at least take responsibility for revealing your true feelings about me.”

“I do not know what you speak of!” Letting go of you, he stood from the forest floor and began to circle the clearing in frustration. “Care to enlighten me?”

Crossing your arms, you stood with him. “I heard you. Earlier, in the corridor with Tauriel. With it, the veil from my eyes was lifted, and I am now able to see this relationship for what it is: a complete and utter lie.”

He spun around to face you. “That had absolutely nothing to do with you! It was about Legolas. It, in no way, concerned how I feel about you.”

“It had everything to do with me.” you spoke softly. “If the prince is not allowed to pledge himself to Tauriel, the esteemed captain of the guard, where does that leave me? I am a servant my lord, the lowest of the low, and if the prince cannot be with someone who is far above my own station, why would the king of all people do any different?”

You turned to face him, and saw a guilt stricken look cross into Thranduil’s eyes as he realized the implication of his words.

“Forgive me Meleth. I did not realize the severity of my words when I spoke.” He apologized. He crossed the clearing to stand in front of you. Gently grabbing your shoulders, he looked deep into your eyes, “My feelings for you are earnest and unchanging. You have reminded me what happiness looks like. When you came into my life, I saw glimmers of light that I had not seen since my wife died. The first time I looked into your eyes, my heart thawed and began to beat within my chest again. You are the one who has breathed life back into me.”

Shrugging his hands off, you turned away from him.  “Be that as it may, you must believe it someplace deep inside otherwise you would not have spoken as you did. If it really was a mistake, then you would not care if Tauriel and Legolas were together, but you do.”

“No!” Thranduil protested, “I did not realize how selfish I was being when I spoke with Tauriel. If Legolas wishes to be with her so be it. I do not care.” Turning you back around, he gently cupped your cheek and tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “How could I care if it would cost me you?” He whispered.

Staring into his eyes filled with nothing but love, you felt the weight on your chest slowly begin to lift for the first time in hours. Perhaps there was hope after all. Yet as your overwhelming emotions faded, your mind began to clear, leaving nothing but logic and the cold sting of reality as you reconsidered his earlier words. Casting your eyes to the ground, you said, “As much as it pains me to say it, it does not really matter whether you care or not. In many ways, the words you spoke held nothing but the truth. It’s foolish to believe that we can ever truly be together. I am a maid, and you are a king. This relationship has no future for you surely cannot pledge yourself to me. The people would never accept me as queen.”

Crossing your arms, you turned your back so that he would not be able to see the tears welling in your eyes. “We aren’t even truly together right now. We ignore each other around the presence of others, stealing hidden moments in the dead of night. Do you know how painful it is? To see you look at me so coldly, so uncaringly, in the light of day, yet share in the warmth of your embrace at night. It’s exhausting. Do you have any idea how much it makes my heart ache? All I want is the freedom to speak to you, comfort you, touch you, whenever I wish, but our relationship forbids it! I can’t even send you a simple smile when I pass you in the halls! Too often, I can see the stress of a wasted council meeting etched on your face, and I yearn to soothe you and share in your troubles but I cannot. I did not lie when I said your conversation with Tauriel lifted a veil from my eyes, but I can see that it's different from what I originally thought. I think it would be best for us to part ways right here, and that way we can both move on. Elves are immortal. If I left now, I would be but a flicker on the line that is your life. I’m sure it would not be too hard to forget me and our relationship.” you mumbled quietly.

Thranduil’s gaze turned fiery. “Do what you will. But know this, should you choose to leave this forest do not think for one second that I will ever forget you. Ten, a hundred, even thousands of years from now, I will ache for you every second of every day. Not once will you ever leave my mind.”

His gaze softened, “Please… come home, and I promise we will truly be together, no more sneaking around. I am not ashamed to be with you; we will walk the halls together and share in each other’s troubles as you wish.”

“But your advisors and the people-”

His eyes flashed, “Speak no more of it. Love has slipped from my grasp once before, and I refuse to allow it to again. I am the king of this realm, and if I wish to be with you then the people will have to accept it.”

Hearing his words, you wanted nothing more than to accept, but your doubt and insecurity still lingered near the surface. How could you accept when you knew that you would only hold him back? The people would not be happy, and it would lead to unrest in the kingdom. How could you be that selfish? You couldn’t tear apart an entire kingdom for your own happiness. To make matters worse you wouldn’t even be able to help Thranduil bring about peace. You were a servant for crying out loud; you knew nothing about diplomacy!

As an internal war waged within you, Thranduil noticed the doubt in your eyes holding you back. He could sense that you lied upon a threshold and with one little push, you would surrender your doubts and come back to him. Determined to give you that final push, he glided towards you. Lost within your mind, you didn’t even notice that he had started to move until he had pressed himself against your back. The feel of his hard chest against your back brought an immediate halt to the worries swirling within you. Time came to a complete standstill, and you held your breath in anticipation, nervous yet also excited to see what he would do.

Achingly slow, he lifted a hand to gently brush your hair back, baring your neck. With the back of his hand, he started to tenderly trace a path along the curve of your neck. The hand continued downward, skimming the curve of your breasts to reach its resting place on your belly. Your eyes fluttered closed again in appreciation, and without even realizing, you leaned slightly into him, unconsciously craving to be closer. He bent down, his breath tickling the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Tell me Melamin, what troubles you so?”

You shivered as the heat of his breath hit your neck. As he started to pepper your jawline in featherlight kisses, your mind became clouded, but you still managed to share your doubts with him. “I still worry… of the people’s reaction… to our relationship.” you whispered.

Thranduil hummed in response and raised his hand to caress the other side of your jaw. He pressed himself even closer to you and with it a fire that only he could sate ignited within you. “Tell me, does it feel like I care for their reaction? Let go meleth, and I promise you everything will be fine.”

With that, he used his hand to tilt you toward him and leaned down to capture you in a kiss. It started sweet but soon an overwhelming need took over you. The kiss was transformed into a battle of passion, and you turned around to fully face him. Your hands trailed all over Thranduil’s body, sliding up his chest to eventually twist themselves into his hair. With a soft tug, you pulled him even closer to deepen the kiss. Your lungs burned for air, but you didn’t care. At that moment, all that mattered was him. With every second that passed, your doubts slowly melted away as thoughts of Thranduil consumed your mind. All you could focus on was the feel of his lips and his hands gliding over your hips. You wanted nothing more than to drown in the river of his love.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, you opened your eyes to gaze into his. Seeing the love and adoration he held for you in them, you allowed yourself to be drawn into the torrent, and you let go.

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

Afterwards, as you lay cuddled together on the forest floor, Thranduil reached down to entwine your hands together. Resting his head against your shoulder, he brushed a stray strand of hair out of the way and asked once again, “Come home, meleth nin?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, you replied, “Yes.”

[my-writings-and-musings]

Firstly, I've just been dying to tell you I love your writting x3 it's absolutely fantastic! My favorite is the young liason ones. I think they're just the cutest! Would it be alright if I requested Fortress Maximus and Brainstorm for that? Please take all the time you need, and I hope you have an awesome day! You rock :D

Awww thanks a million!! I do strive to provide the cuteness, and I shall do so here! I'll also link the past Liaison posts for those who haven't read them yet!

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: You're Here!

(I've already done Fort Max in part four but I just couldn't help doing him again with a different setup.)

Fortress Maximus

·Stuck in his cell after his "incident", he's unaware of the liaison program when it initially begins, and is thus clueless of what goes on beyond his tiny space in the dark. Amongst the crew, the young humans quickly learn of the ship's considerable history in its short run, including the hostage situation that nearly cost them their beloved psychiatrist. The humans are shocked by the details, but none more so than the news the bot responsible is jailed up in the depths of the ship. All at once, they begin to question such a practice; wasn't this poor bot just acting out of pain? Hasn't his victim recovered and forgiven him? Being told that Fort Max is too dangerous to risk does nothing to dissuade them, and thanks to their youth, the gathered group soon hatches a plan to see something for themselves.

·As one might expect, Fort Max is beyond surprised when he's awoken at night by a number of very tiny visitors to his cell, and is shocked to see that they're all human! Autobot training kicking in, he's immediately concerned for their safety and gets on his knees to encourage them to leave. Lots of these prisoners are dangerous! To top off his shock, the humans say they're not lost and are there for him. They explain the new program with the Lost Light, how they heard his story, and how they're all here now to see him. For an instant Fort Max is speechless, because these tiny humans have just done more for him than the entire Autobot cause ever did. It takes more willpower than he cares to admit not to let his voice crack.

·Despite all of his assurance to the liaisons that what he did was wrong, and that he deserves to face punishment, they hear none of it. Even urging them to leave and stay on the safe parts of the ship go unheeded. They've decided that they like him and don't want him to be lonely. It's incredibly selfish, but he can't bring himself to deny the comfort their company brings him. Every night, with stealth granted by their tiny size, they visit him for as long as they can. Some bring games and entertainment from earth to share with him, and in time he gives up trying to convince them to stop, finding each one of them to be a treasure he just can't give up.

·It's mostly by bad luck they're eventually caught. Ultra Magnus just so happened to be conducting a late night inspection when he came across all the liaisons gathered about the supposedly deadly Fortress Maximus in what appeared to be a slumber party. The former Enforcer had immediately called for back up and demanded the children be released, not backing down when they all made the baffling move to clamor between the cell bars and shield the gigantic Autobot with their tiny frames. No amount of explaining the big bots potential danger could make them leave. Eventually Rung himself had to be summoned to mediate, and at the sight of Fort Max so carefully cradling his friends and begging that any punishment only come to him so they would be spared... The psychiatrist happily declared there was no need for such caution.

·Put on the spot, Ultra Magnus had decided to allow a partial commutation of the bots sentence. Though he's under watch and isn't permitted to have weapons, he's allowed to have his own room and far greater range of the ship, but under supervision. The liaisons accept only after Max does. In no time they're helping him settle into his room, bringing him housewarming gifts, and coming over as often as possible to visit. It almost doesn't feel real to the poor bot. In an almost comical turn of events he's been freed and has gone from loneliness to being surrounded by tiny, loving friends. Even Rung visits from time to time, joining in on the fun and making it clear he holds no ill will towards the big bot for anything that happened. As they all gather for another movie night together, it occurs to him that his painful past has never felt so far away, and for the first time in so long he feels ready for the future.

Brainstorm

·Ever the on the move genius, his curiosity had been piqued the instant he heard humans were going to be on the ship, as a new species is always a fascinating opportunity. He's not all dissapointed by the gaggle of bright eyed youngsters when he finally meets them. Their tour of the ship is quickly guided to his workshop, and in no time he's showing them all the fun ways he's breaking physics or on the cusp of doing so. Pretty soon the rest of the tour is delayed so they can see absolutely everything he's working on. Brainstorm finds their attitude of "science just because" to be monumentally refreshing in the wake of his occasionally stiff crewmembers. Why does he need a reason to experiment on certain things? Sometimes it's fun and invigorating to just invent something because you can!

·As he finds them incredibly motivating and they love helping however he can, he quickly gives each human permission to accompany him as his assistants. With their unique human perspective, he finds himself seeking out ideas that could benefit them directly, whether it's purely for their entertainment or for more practical purposes. Their need for "food" in particular offers a great deal of potential. He's not foolish about it, of course! These little guys are delicate! But if he can make delicious meals that can be stored easily and prepared instantly, why not? Humans need to eat multiple times every single day, why not make it easier and more fun! The hardest part proves to be getting them not to explode...

·The liaisons come to love the incredible energy he brings to every single experiment, and the feeling is mutual. Even if he doesn't understand the references to "Bill Nye" or other such things, he happily allows the humans to take selfies as he works. Spreading the word to their fellows on earth can only help their species catch up, after all. In time though, he starts to socialize with the group outside of his workshop, even bringing them to Swerve's with him to introduce them to all his friends. They stick to him the entire time even though their enthusiasm proves popular with every bot on the ship. Having often struggled to fit in, he finds the feeling of belongings refreshing in ways he never could have anticipated it might be. He'd protect each and every liaison with his life.

·It's quite unexpected when somebot brings up his... stunt, with the briefcase. He'd been so happy for once that his failures had simply... not registered. Thus, he's caught off guard when the humans start asking baffled questions. It's all he can do to mumble an excuse and leave, the confusion in their bright eyes burning into the core of his spark. So many instances of them looking up at him with respect and excitement now seem far more precious, because there's no way they'll ever want to be around him again. Now they know he isn't just the ship's eccentric scientist, and that at his most desperate he tore time and space apart... In hindsight, how could he have allowed himself to forget? He's dangerous, and the liaisons should have been kept distant to begin with... Humans are far too delicate to risk anything happening, and he never would have forgiven himself for allowing harm to come to them.

·Unbeknownst to Brainstorm, the entire group was far from aghast at his actions. If anything, they were heartbroken for his sake. To have been so desperate he'd happily tried to erase himself from existence, in part to save a bot he loved... They want at least to talk to him. Using skills he taught them, they hack past the gridlock on his workshop, and the scientist is shocked by their effort. Before he can say a word they're surrounding him and offering the most effusive of reasurances, particularly regarding how they never want to lose their beloved science bot, and he takes it upon himself to comfort the crying group with a promise he's not going anywhere. In an instant, something becomes incredibly clear to him; these little beings care about him. They don't want him to leave. Trying not to cry himself, he assures the group that he's long since learned his lesson. There's plenty of wonderful things in the present to stick around for.

[lastsonlost]

Many of the women promoting the “cancellation” of men in comics, and demanding they post the recent empty promise known as #ComicsPledge, are in fact hypocrites.  In this article, I’m going to present evidence of lies, collusion, rumor spreading, and, in my opinion, defamation and contract interference.

I personally know that they’ve colluded for YEARS to take down men. Specifically those with conservative politics and philosophies. This is an ongoing, coordinated effort. How do I know this?

Because I obtained access to their PRIVATE FACEBOOK GROUP.

This is Part 1 of the #Hypocralypse leaks

There is simply too much to put in one leak, so I will make the following three points for now.

1. The so-called Comic Book Whisper Network, which has been dismissed as conspiracy since 2016, is real, and I have hundreds of screenshots to prove it.

2. The Whisper Network has been targeting men and trying to destroy their careers, and use their connections in the comic book media to do so.

 3. Whisper Network members have acted unprofessionally and unethically at best. At worst, they have engaged in what I believe could be illegal behavior.

MY STORY

I first heard about the Whisper Network back in mid-2016 from folks I knew at Image, DC, Marvel, and later, Valiant.  Depending on who I chatted with, sometimes the group was called ‘The Women’s Network’, other times ‘The Whisper Network’, occasionally ‘The Whisper Campaign’, and eventually there were more conspiratorial names used mockingly (a friend called them a gender-swapped 4Chan, which became ‘FemChan’ to some insiders).

Regardless of the name, it was all the same group.

The same five or six names kept popping up in conversation over and again. As time ticked on, I noticed a trend on Social Media: half a decade of rumors, false allegations, cancellation attempts , and they almost always traced back to these same five or six people.  The goal of this Whisper Network, according to industry folks, was simple: choose a target, smear them until they lose their reputation, their income, and are ultimately blacklisted – opening up job opportunities for the same people who started these smear campaigns in the first place.

 Behind the scenes these “cancellations” are painted as morally or politically motivated, but in the end it’s all financial. As time passed, the group in question seemed more and more like a reality. I saw their influence. I saw things I knew to be verifiably untrue go viral online, appearing in what I thought were legit news sources. I felt angry and helpless seeing innocent people getting attacked, but did not know what to do. 

A few years passed and by 2018 almost everyone I interacted with in the industry seemed to know about the Network, from top level editors right down to the letterers. It was an open secret, but no one was willing to speak up for fear of being targeted themselves. They knew the consequences.

And after all, this was a secret network. Without proof, there was no point in going public because members would just deny its existence, and use their media connections to smear anyone who challenged them.

 THEN THINGS GOT INTERESTING

December 16, 2018, Whisper Network member Gail Simone, who joined the Network 6 years ago (4 years before the following tweet was posted), mocks “doofuses” who speculate that a “whisper campaign” exists.

At this point in late 2018, I was still skeptical of the Whisper Network’s existence. I’d heard many stories of individuals spreading rumors and lies, and plenty of malicious behavior was going on behind closed doors. Though I wasn’t ready to believe it was a coordinated effort, or collusion was involved.  Then, certain people began openly mentioning the Whisper Network and my attitude changed.

 March 26, 2019, Heather Antos, a member herself, did not outright mention the Whisper Network or her involvement, but she made what some took as a veiled threat to those who got on her bad side.

 Heather “milkshake girl” Antos’ colorful backstory at Marvel, and later at Valiant, is notorious in the comic industry. A conversation about office rumor-spreading and bullying is never complete without someone bringing up a juicy Antos anecdote. Everyone has one.

Up until then, I still hadn’t seen ACTUAL PROOF of a larger scheme. But then, something changed in 2020.

January 8, 2020, Alex de Campi, who I would discover is one of the most active Whisper Network members, openly admits there is a Network. I have no idea if this was a slip or a brazen attempt to show off her power and influence, but this appeared.

Eventually, everything I had heard and read was confirmed beyond any shadow of a doubt after I gained access to their private Facebook group.

I WAS INSIDE THE WHISPER NETWORK!

This is the place where the Whispher Network has been colluding for years. And although their activity is not confined to just this site, from what I can tell, this was where they first met, and started their coordinated campaigns.

Members of the Secret Group called “Comic Book Women”

At present time, there are 440+ members of the secret Facebook group, called COMIC BOOK WOMEN. From what I can tell, a few are regular users, though many of them have never posted.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/comicbookwomen/ 

*unless you are a member, this will not show up in a search

Secret Facebook groups offer the same level of privacy as closed groups, but operate under a cloak of invisibility. No one can search for secret groups or even request to join them. The only way to get in one is to know someone who can invite you. Everything shared in a secret group is visible only to its members.

This secret group includes a list of members whose actions and connections speak for themselves. Members such as:

Zoe Quinn

Gail Simone

Alex de Campi

Heather Antos (aka Heather Marie)

Mags Visaggio (aka Magdalene Francis)

Mairghread Scott

And several key members of the group are women who work in the comics media and can be used to run damage control, including women like Heidi MacDonald of Comics Beat.  They have contacts outside of the secret network as well, with some male allies in both comics and the media.

Just the fact that all of these folks were secretly linked in a private network came as a shock to me, considering their reputations and the accusations that they’ve made. Immediately I began to connect the dots…

They’ve denied for YEARS that they coordinate their actions in private. And yet they always coincidentally appear on Twitter, retweeting and amplifying each other’s accusations, signal boosting one another, and helping them gain traction. And their allies in media – Bleeding Cool and CBR specifically – will turn those same tweets into stories almost instantly & with no fact-checking or verification, sometimes within the hour.

I’m going to start explaining who the key actors are, and, from my perspective, how they coordinate these attacks.

KEY ACTORS

There are too many people to focus on at once, so I will have to break this into several posts, but I will start with one of the clear group leaders IMO.

Alex de Campi is well connected, despite never being part of the Big Two (since, from what I’ve been told management is well aware of her bullying, harassment, rumor-spreading and unethical behavior that goes back years, and depending on who you talk to she’s almost as notorious as Antos or Tess Fowler).  She just wrapped up a graphic novel campaign on Kickstarter with David Bowie’s son, the Hollywood film director Duncan Jones. It grossed over $366K

All the while she makes baseless accusations while demanding transparency from everyone else.

Now, I’ll take you into their private network.

Two years ago, on May 13, 2018, De Campi launched a private campaign to target an independent creator, claiming she was using her connections to have Simon & Schuster cancel their book.

In addition to contacting the publisher, others in the Whisper Network coordinated their efforts to contact media outlets to have the narrative changed, according to the posts in this thread.  Again, in my opinion, this could end up as a defamation or tortious interference case, and has many implications regarding media bias as well.

 

The following month, on June 23, 2018, de Campi posted private text messages between herself and writer Max Bemis in what appeared to be an attempt to damage his career. Despite Bemis being mentally ill (diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2014), de Campi still posted the private messages with malicious intent IMO. According to US and UK law this is an actionable offense: posting private texts without both parties consenting.

[minetteenfers]

Day 4: Breaking More Than My Heart (Chapter 2 of Hello, My Old Heart)

Here is Day 4 of @blancweek! Nothing NSFW in this chapter, but I will post the link to the story beneath the cut at the end since the fic is Rated E. ^-^

Chapter 2: Day 4= Breaking More Than My Heart

Marinette stood in the kitchen, pouring her soul into making a meal for Chat Blanc. She had worked all day out picking herbs, spices, and gathering a swan for the dishes. Then, she had come in to turn it all into something. Her father had taught her many things as a child, one being how to make the most delicious food that they could create. It was a hidden talent that she had since she was small. Something that she could do well.

Her mother had perished during childbirth and she had always dreamed that she had met her. Her father always told her that she would have loved her because she was exactly like her in many ways. She sighed and finished up supper, putting the items onto dishes for Chat.

Marinette wiped her hands on her skirts. Normally the kitchen of a castle would be full of bustling servants and people with duties to help bake and cook, but this one was empty. She assumed he must have gotten rid of them all. Which meant this only made her life that much harder. She took a deep breath and carried the courses out to the massive dining table.

Chat sat at the table drinking his wine and speaking with guards about how much he disliked people in the keep. It seemed to be his go to conversation until she would set the table.  She didn’t know why the man never spoke of anything but hatred and negative things, but she really couldn’t blame him for being so broken.

He peered up at her and a dangerous smirk appeared on his full lips. “Ah, there you are. What have you provided me with today?”

“Swan and vegetables with bread, your grace.” Marinette grabbed her skirts and curtsied, waiting for him to respond.

“Come. Join me at my side.” Chat kicked the chair beside him away from the table, and she stood up straight to sit down beside him.

Marinette took his fork from him and sighed, taking a bite of swan from his plate. She knew it wasn’t poisoned. She had made it herself and she wouldn’t do that to him, but clearly his trust was lacking.

Chat watched her for any signs of being ill before taking his fork and stabbing a vegetable holding it out to her. She stared at him with a blush, gazing around at his court.

“Go on then.” Chat gestured with his fork and she swallowed hard.

She leaned in and grabbed the bite from his fork. She chewed and took a moment. “Tis good, your grace.”

“Very well then.” Chat cut some of the swan on his plate and took a bite, letting the spices and herbs settle onto his tongue. “Rather delicious.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Marinette smiled and tried to look poised beside him.

“Did your father teach you?” Chat stabbed a potato and brought it up to his lips.

“Yes, your grace.” Marinette licked her lips and tried to not focus on how her stomach rumbled.

“Are you hungry? Surely, you did not eat.” Chat poked a piece of swan and held it out to her. “Eat.”

Marinette shook her head and chewed on her bottom lip. “I shouldn’t.”

“I insist.” Chat smiled and something about it was different than before.

She parted her lips and wrapped them around the bite of meat, taking it into her mouth with a soft hum. “I do miss my father’s cooking.”

“Your father was a good man. Tis a shame my father rid the castle of him ages ago. I should have loved to have him here still.” Chat stabbed a carrot harder than he had intended to, his knuckles turning white around the utensil.

“Twas not your fault, your grace.” Marinette touched his fist, and he licked his lips and sighed.

“Perhaps not, but my father was still my flesh and blood.” Chat grabbed his knife and sliced it along his palm, closing his fist, and dripping the blood onto the tablecloth. “You told me so. I am very much alive, even if I erase the name. Until I perish, I will still be an- an- never mind.”

He flipped his knife and stabbed it into the table, leaving it standing on its sharp tip. “Never mind, shall we finish our meal so that I may make more decisions for the town.”

Marinette wanted to mend his hand and help him, but she didn’t know how. She had no idea how to make him come back to her. He was too full of pain. The bad outweighed the good, and she needed to figure out how to bring him back.

“Shall we take a stroll through the garden?” Marinette hoped that he would agree. She wanted to get him alone, away from his father’s guards.

“Why ever would we do such a thing?” Chat raised an eyebrow at her. “I have far too much to accomplish.”

“Taking a moment to breathe is always a lovely idea.” Marinette touched his arm and he peered down at her hand with widened eyes.

He ripped his arm from her hand, and she sighed. He had done a complete one-eighty since they had played in the kitchen. She felt like her touch burned his skin and no matter how hard she tried, he wouldn’t let her in. He had put up the highest walls with the best guards that their currency could buy and she couldn’t storm it.

“Fine. I shall entertain your idea.” Chat sighed and finished his meal.

Marinette took his plate to the kitchen and went to her chamber to get ready to walk through the garden. She had barely finished getting ready when a knock sounded on her door. Marinette rolled her eyes and opened the door, finding Chat standing there.

“I have yet to explore the gardens since my mother’s death.” Chat worried his bottom lip and she warmly smiled, grabbing his forearm in her hands.

“Allow me to reintroduce you two then.” Marinette led him out of the castle and down to the garden.

Purple and white wisterias hung down from the overhang as it opened up to elegant topiaries and overgrown rose bushes. It was like a dream and it also needed a lot of work.

Chat Blanc held his hand out, catching petals as they fell with a blank expression like he could care less. It had been so long since he had gone out there. So long since he had seen the garden that his mother had insisted on having. To be honest, he had been afraid to venture out to it again. Too many memories of being a child with her. Too many fractals of her smiles and laughs before it was taken over by coughs and tears.

“Your mother loved this garden.” Marinette sighed and ran her fingers along the flower bushes. “Tis sad to see it overgrown like this. Although, I am sure that it can be mended easily. It just needs a bit of love.”

Chat swallowed hard as memories of his mother and him flooded his memory. Memories of her sneaking him out to play like she had felt a kid should.

“My mother would sneak me out here to play as a child,” Chat spoke quietly, and Marinette nearly missed it.

“Mm-hm. She was fond of children being able to play. She would always speak of children needing to have a bit of fun even if society has deemed it to be inappropriate.” Marinette giggled and plucked a white flower, spinning it between her fingers, as she walked back towards him with swaying hips. “I used to dream of what it would be like to be in Eden and I always felt that this must be what it is like when I came here. Though, not often. There were duties to be done.” She reached up to place the flower in his paled golden hair. “You had them too.”

“Too many. Still do, I am afraid.”  Chat took the flower from his hair and flicked it across the garden.

Marinette watched it land in the pond, sending slight ripples through the water, and she nodded. “I see. Well, I shall not keep you then.”

Chat tried to ignore how he felt surrounded by his mother in the garden. He tried to ignore that he felt like she was whispering to him and trying to pull him out of the waves of disaster and pain. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want to be helped, even if he had told Marinette to.

“Marinette.” Chat stopped her from leaving with his hand held out to her.

“Yes, your grace?” Marinette turned around to stare at him, watching how the fallen petals swirled around him and for a moment she thought she saw Adrien instead. But it quickly faded away as fast as it had come.

“Do-” He had no idea what he was going to say. His words had left him.

“Yes?” She walked closer to him and hoped he was coming back.

“Do you think that my mother is watching?” Chat swallowed hard as he thought about it.

“I think… she never left.” Marinette warmly smiled and ran her hands down his doublet to smooth it out, stopping to play with a button.

“What do you mean?” Chat peered down at her slender fingers on his button, fiddling with it.

Marinette slowly peered up to meet his saddened gaze, “Your mother lives on in your heart.”

“My heart has frozen over.”

Marinette placed one hand over his heart, “If it is merely frozen over then it just needs a bit of warmth. The forest is not dead all year. Eventually, the sun comes out to warm its leaves and streams. The forest rebirths into something wonderful again with spring. The flowers bloom and the leaves green. The streams flow and trickle with beautiful waters. Much like our hearts. The memories and pain may never take their leave, but we can heal with time. Just takes a bit of love and warmth. Someone to tell us that everything will become well again.”

Chat swallowed hard and touched her hand, searching her gaze and struggling to not let tears fall. Why was she not running? Why was she still here? Why was she saying everything that she was? He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve anything she was telling him, and he knew he had to prove it. He had to prove that he was as bad as they say in the town. She was getting too close.

“You know what my father told me?” Chat took her hand from his chest and she raised an eyebrow at him as he walked away with his hands behind his back.

“I am sure he told you many things.” Marinette didn’t know what he was getting at.

“He told me how useless your father was in the kitchen. How much he loathed the man and his subpar cooking.” Chat peered up at the wisterias.

“Yes, well he was not too fond of father.” Marinette sighed and walked towards him again. “But his grace rarely enjoyed the company of anyone except your mother.”

“My father also spoke of you.” Chat slowly turned to face her and she swallowed hard.

She knew what was coming and she wasn’t prepared for it. He was spiraling backwards, and this experiment had only turned south. She took a deep breath and prepared herself.

“And?” Marinette cringed as she spoke the word.

“He was correct. You are good for nothing more than a mistress.” Chat’s words sliced through her heart and her bottom lip quivered.

“You do not mean that!” Marinette stormed towards him and he glared at her as she held up her hand about to smack his cheek.

“I would think wisely before you choose to do such an action to your king.”

“I do not see a king or a prince, but a scared little boy,” Marinette spit the words at him and ran back to the castle.

Chat growled beneath his breath as he watched her run from him. He still considered himself a prince, but he needed to say something stronger. While he was now the King, he didn’t want it and so he kept his title as prince within the castle. And while he was terrified of being alone, as he was, he wouldn’t go as far as saying he was a small child. He had grown and become mature because he had had to. There wasn’t another option. And if he let her get close, then she would know how truly broken he was and he couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t be a burden for her.

 ***

 Marinette laid on her bed and sobbed into it. She just wanted Adrien back. She wanted the boy that she grew up watching in secret back in her life. She wanted the man that had been in the kitchen the other day back. But right now, he was nowhere to be found. She sniffled and got up, visiting her vanity to wipe the tears from beneath her eyes. She had to clean up his chamber among other duties around the house.

It was the last duty that he had put on her list for the day. She had no idea how he lived alone with no one to keep up on housekeeping. It was more work than one person could handle alone. She knew that it wasn’t his fault that he had obliterated everything, but a few guards. That he had done away with most of the servants because he was afraid of hurting anyone. His heart was broken after his father had been trialed and his name had been soiled. Not only that, but he had been shoved onto the throne with little time. The whole town had erupted into questions over the late King.

Adrien hadn’t been ready to deal with it and she knew that. She knew that it had been too much too soon. He had been trained since birth to do his father’s bidding, but that had not prepared him for something such as this. So, the man had shoved everyone away and locked himself away with few guards. Ones he trusted since he was a child.

She took a deep breath and brushed her trembling hands down her skirts and put on a fake smile. She could do this. She had to do this. She had been told that no one could change him back but her. There was something about her that would make his mind flip back to being the kindhearted boy that he had always been. She felt more tears threaten to fall and she reached up to wipe them away.

“Seize your sobbing, Marinette. You are merely being silly.” She rolled her eyes at herself and walked out of her chamber, making her way to his.

Guards whispered near the door and she stood and waited for them to let her inside. They stepped away from the double doors and she opened them, finding Chat sitting on a chaise lounge.

She gasped and about turned around to leave when he stopped her, “Are you not going to wash my items?”

“I thought you would be in your study.” Marinette cleared her throat, as he stood up and walked over towards her in only a tunic and a pair of trousers.

“Tis true that I should be making decisions, but alas, here I be.” He spread his hands out and relaxed them beside his thighs on the cushion. “So, feel free to wash up around me.”

Marinette rolled her eyes and walked over to his bed, stripping it to begin to get it ready to be laundered. She worked around him, ignoring how his eyes seemed to follow her every move.

“Do you really intend to watch me?” She peered over at him as she placed new linens onto the bed.

“Would you rather I helped?” Chat raised an eyebrow at her and she scoffed at him.

“I would rather you were more of a gentleman,” Marinette mumbled under her breath as she fluffed his pillow.

“Pardon me?” Chat stood up and walked over towards her.

Marinette sighed and let her hands rest on the bed before she stood up straight, “Do you know what your mother would speak to us every morn?”

“Enlighten me.” Chat set his jaw, and she knew that he didn’t want to hear it.

“Every morn, she would come gather the children to tell them a tale. Usually, one with a moral story.” Marinette shrugged and went about the room, finishing up other duties.

Chat Blanc watched her with no words, mostly because he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to talk about his late mother that had passed away from an illness. He didn’t want to venture into the pain that still gripped at his heart and made it hard to breathe, hard to live.

“Have you heard of The Songbird?” Marinette opened his curtains that appeared to have not been parted in God knows how long.

“I can not say that I have.” Chat gave in and sat down in a chair, grabbing a cup of wine. He held it out to her, and she sighed, grabbing a tasting bowl from the bag hidden by her skirt.

She took the bottle and glass, pouring some into the bowl and tasting them for him. “Tis good, your grace.”

She passed them back and he took a long sip from the glass. “Enlighten me.”

“Once there was a songbird, that was free to fly about the land. A knight was wandering through the forest and came upon a beautiful melody. The most beautiful one he had ever laid his ears upon. He peered up to find a golden songbird on a branch. The gorgeous little thing sang and sang. The knight thought that his maiden would love such a prized possession so, he captured it in a cage.” Marinette sighed and folded a few more items.

“Seems quite ridiculous.” Chat scoffed and rolled his eyes, drinking more wine.

“The knight brought the little bird home to his maiden and presented it to her. She was quite delighted, and of course, she wanted to hear the bird sing.” Marinette leaned forward a bit with an awkward smile.

“And did the damned thing sing?” Chat leaned back in his chair with his forearm draped over the arm of it.

“He tried to make the songbird sing. He tried everything he could ponder up, but nothing seemed to work. He failed in every way. His maiden became quite upset and questioned why he would present a broken gift. He told the tale of how he had come upon the little bird. How beautiful the bird had sung in the forest.” Marinette sighed and sat down on the chaise lounge. “For days, he would shake the cage and demand for that poor bird to sing. But the bird would do nothing but sit on the small perch made from a twig in this gilded cage. He called it useless and unworthy, pathetic, imperfect. The poor thing dropped its head and became sadder. Trapped, it’s beautiful golden plumage dulled to a pale butter.”

Chat moved on to tipping the wine bottle to his lips, ditching the glass onto the table beside his chair. He didn’t want to hear more of this story. He had had enough of this silly game.

“The knight became angry and grabbed the cage, taking it outside. His maiden had followed him, wondering what the commotion was about. The knight opened the cage, and the little bird was shy. It would not budge from its gilded cage, feeling like it was nothing more than an imbecile bird. Too damaged and imperfect. Unloved and unwanted. But the sunshine warmed its wings, comforting it, and coaxing it from its cage. The poor thing began to gently flap its wings, before taking off. It landed on a branch somewhere in the forest and began to sing its sweet melody again. For how can a trapped bird sing?” Marinette searched his expression and watched his eyes flash to emerald before shifting back to sapphire again.

Read and bookmark the whole short fic here!

Some of the songs I wrote To:

This one for some reason screams Chat Blanc for me in this or in general:

[babysizedfics]

I need to know about doctor mama lo taking care of a sick baby Virgil if you would like pretty please. I dont wanna ask on the in character blog cuz I feel like it would be weird to ask for details and lo seems kinda busy anyway lol.

hey tumblebee!! yeah yeah lets do this, Im gonna write it so that ppl who dont follow the other blog can understand too

WARNING IF U HAVENT ALREADY BLOCKED THE TAGS ILLNESS TW AND VOMIT TW THEY ARE VERY PREVALENT IN THIS

also this is a VERY long headcanon!!

so last night vee got ill, he had been regressed in the afternoon with patton and he was acting much more fussy than usual - not being entertained by his cartoons, not having the energy to play with his rattle, pretty much constantly whining and pouting and he gets very wriggly when he's fussy

patton assumed it was because vee had been upset earlier that day. at one point vee started gripping his stomach, and patton assumed its because he was hungry and could smell the food roman was cooking

but when dinner came around no matter how hard patton tried he couldnt get vee to eat a morsel - he kept turning his head away from the food and whining. at one point patton and logan both managed to convince him to eat a spoonful but his face crumpled with a wince and it looked almost painful for him to swallow it. it was at this point logan noticed he had a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead

things fell into place quickly after that - logan checked his temperature and it was indeed slightly higher than was healthy, they noticed vee's hands were trembling and he was constantly on the verge of tears :(

while patton cleared away dinner and excused roman who wanted to go and craft in his room, logan took vee to his bedroom and tried to check for more symptoms, since vee was non verbal and unresponsive totheir questions. he tested his tummy by pushing it a little to see if the pain got worse when he released it (this is a test for appendicitis) but there was no reaction thankfully except vee being upset by logan not cuddling him. he checked his throat for any redness or infection, nothing.

vee's crying became more pronounced and eventually he was in constant tears, occassionally pleading 'mama mama' through sniffles and hiccups and whines of pain :(( Patton brought him a baby bottle of cooled tea made with fresh mint leaves since that is supposed to help stomach pains. though he left the room again since logan thought it was best not to crowd virgil. Vee's crying had dissipated but he was strangely silent and seemed almost loopy now. he only drank a little of the tea before he pushed it away with a gag.

logan immediately took him to the bathroom knowing what was coming, and sure enough vee threw up into the toilet, crying between gags. logan dutifully managed to keep vee in his lap the whole time and held his hair and rubbed his back, telling him he was such a good boy the whole time

Thankfully it didnt last long as there wasnt much in vees stomach to be emptied. he was shivering and sweating and flushed and had lost all energy. he wasnt even crying anymore, just whimpering under his breath. with a bit of a struggle logan managed to show him how to rinse his mouth out with mouthwash - though he had to hold vee over the sink and pat his back to make sure he didnt swallow it

during all of this patton wasnt able to help because of his heightened empathy, if he sees someone throwing up the likeihood is he will too and that wiuldnt be very helpful! so instead he drives to the store to pick up some medicine and ice pops - and comes back with half the store including some actual baby medicine smh - ((im actually begging u to read that linked post i think its so funny))

it was originallly meant to be logans night to put roman to bed but understandably patton took on that task instead. after roman was drifting off patton pokes his head into vee's room. he had hoped to find lo and vee asleep but they werent. they were lying in the dark with an in the night garden audio story playing on a portable speaker and with vees salt lamp and star night light lighting up the room in a soft glow.

logan offered a strained little smile and nod to patton as he stroked vee's hair and cuddled him close. vee was completely out of it honestly. his body was wholly lax against his mama, his lips were in a permanent pout and his eyes were puffy and wet. he barely even acknowledged his papa coming in, his teary eyes just settled on him for a moment then dropped back to the bedsheets without a reaction. he kept lifting his thumb up to suck on it but logan kept capturing it and apologising as he brought it away. Vee shouldnt suck on his thumb and logan doesnt want to give him a paci while he's ill. understandably, baby vee was completely miserable.

patton asks if logan thinks vee could handle a popsicle or plain crackers at the moment but logan disagrees. he doesnt expect either of them to get much sleep so he will make sure vee eats something in a few hours. with a gentle kiss on vee's forehead patton goes off to bed, confident that logan will be able to look after vee and will come get him if theres any issues

logan and vee really dont sleep much at all. Vee drifts off for a few minutes at a time then gasps awake from vivid fever dreams. logan keeps ice cubes in a bowl by the bed for vee to suck on if he needs to cool down and wraps a couple in a flannel to press to vee's head when his fever rises in the middle of the night.

around 3am logan jolts awake and realises he had drifted off. and vee isnt anywhere in the room. he panics momentarily, bolting up from the bed and dashing to the closet to see if virgil is in there - which he tends to do when he is overwhelmed - but then he hears sniffling from the bathroom.

he finds vee, no longer regressed, curled up against the side of the bathtub with his bangs clinging to his sweaty head. vee is the palest person logan knows but he looks positively grey at the moment

'can i help in any way?' he asks, aware that he doesnt need to baby talk at the moment but still eager to look after this bundle of miserableness

virgil just groans under his breath and clutches his knees to his chest. 'i.. i didnt know what to do with the..' he gestures vaguely to something on the floor

logan notices virgil, being not regressed anymore, had obviously wrestled off the diaper he had been changed into the night before and not known how to dispose of it

'its ok, ive got it' logan wraps it up in a bag and puts it in the trash can they have in the room for just this purpose

'sorry.. m stupid' virgil croaks

'You're not stupid.' logan says firmly as he washes his hands 'You're ill and probably delirious from the fever. it's alright virgil'

theres quiet for a bit longer, virge's head pressed against the porcelain edge of the bathtub likely in an attempt to cool his fever. logan stays there with him for a while just waiting. then suddenly virgil starts sobbing and buries his face in his hands.

'sweetheart, tell me whats wrong please' logan hurries to kneel beside him, lifting his hands away from his face. that wouldnt help the fever

'i dont feel well' virgil cries pathetically, tears rolling down his face.

logans heart breaks 'no, you dont. i'm sorry little one, i know its not nice'

at the nickname virgils thumb raises to his lips again, which logan hurriedly intercepts. 'i'll make you a deal, okay? you're allowed to use a pacifier, but you have to use the same one everyday until you are better. we will need to sterilise it every night too.'

vee sniffles and nods, then chokes 'm not a baby right now though'

'that doesnt matter. you dont need to be regressed to want one of your pacis, vee'

vee is unresponsive and starts scratching at his pyjama pants. logan gets a feeling he isnt saying something. then he notices virgil's pout is much more infantile than his adult ones. 'are you feeling little, baby?'

with a harsh shake of his head vee starts crying again. he whispers 'dont wanna be a b...' then cuts himself off and whimpers

logan cards his fingers through virgils damp bangs. he knows what virgils mind has jumped to. 'were you going to say you dont want to be a baby?' he lifts virgils chin up to look at him 'or that you dont want to be a burden?'

virgils pale lip wobbles 'same fing'

'no sweetheart, no no no,' logan sits on the tiles beside vee and pulls him into his lap. virgil goes willingly. logan rocks his baby as he says 'youre always always allowed to be a baby and its never ever going to upset your family. even if you're an adorable wonderful brave baby boy alllll of the time' he scribbles his finger on virgils rosy cheek and delights at the tiny smile it earns him. 'but especially when you're feeling yucky. you feel a bit yucky today dont you, little one?'

vee nods with a pout

'but yknow whats not yucky? softies and pacis and diapers and lots and lots of cuddles with mama' he holds virgil tighter to prove his point. vee sighs and drops his head to nuzzle against his mama's neck. logan feels he still has a slight fever. 'i know what might help you feel less yucky. does my sweet baby want a sweet ice pop?'

thankfully vee nods against his shoulder and grips tight onto his pyjama shirt, preparing for when logan lifts him up

he first makes sure to change vee into another diaper and even decides that he should wear one of mama's t-shirts as a light dress so he doesnt get as overheated by his pyjamas. at this point vee actually giggles for the first time pretty much all day as he feels the tshirt swish lazily around his legs. logan makes a mental note to observe whether little vee might want to try wearing dresses if the feeling sparks this much joy (at this point logan is unaware that vee has secretly been trying skirts and dresses in his room for months, and roman found out a few weeks ago, but vee isnt ready to tell the cgs yet)

by the time vee is in his diaper and mamas tshirt dress and has a paci and jiji clutched to his chest he is a lot calmer and happier. he's still very ill and exhausted and teary, but theres a tiny smile on his face instead of a pout. in the kitchen he picks a strawberry ice pop and it goes down well, logan convinces him to have a cracker too though vee is in such a young headspace by then that he is just sucking on it, which logan supposes is fine too

by the (real) morning vee is still regressed and has managed to have a couple hours undisturbed sleep. its not much but its better than nothing. logan didnt fare much better. by then vee misses his papa and asks for him and logan hands the responsibility over to papa patton, trustinf the other caregiver enough to catch up on a quick power nap himself

but yes, the main thing is vee thought being ill was a burden enough that he shouldnt be regressed too, but logan makes him see that its okay. vee is regressed pretty much the whole time he is ill over the next few days because its stressful and painful and its a lot easier to feel comforted when ur a baby

yeah! gosh that was long, theres probably a billion spelling mistakes! feel free to ask follow up Qs if i missed anything u wanted to know abt this event

[zenosanalytic]

Harrow the Ninth: *Happy Viper Chair-Dance of Happiness*

So I buckled down and spent ALL OF YESTERDAY finishing Harrow the Ninth, finishing ~5pm cst started writing THIS ~7pm cst(tho I decided to rewrite it today), and you can deduce from above my feelings :| I’m very subtle so it COULD require some real ferreting out :| :| Take your time; I’m in no rush.

Good? Ok.

I’m going to be pretentious(ME?!) now and call it “Titanic” and “Olympian” and “A Masterclass in Literary Mechanics” and, if you think I’m being extravagant, I’ll just say I FEEL as if I am but humbly polishing the very merest Shoeflesh of Extravagant Praise with these deservéd words; kneeling over my meager shinebox -greasy rag clutched in my entirely metaphorical hands; newsboy cap at a Determined, yet Rakish tilt upon my head; Gigantic patent-leather shoes, absolutely WRECKED by late 1800s Urban Streets, shoved close to my ganderbulbs- buffing assiduously that stubbornly muddied Boot-toe as Mista EP reads The Times, readying itself for the full and vigorous day of honestly describing the greatness of this book which lays before it. Dear Dear Sweet, Precious, Sweet Dear Dear Readers: I implore you to read no hyperbole when I write, that parts of this book are like riding out a hurricane to Dorothyville in a glass case of Emotion :| :| :|

I cried, Dear Readers; I cried often, moved suddenly -to my core- by simple phrases plainly stating sincere emotions with all the surprise of a beam of light bursting through a thunderhead, or turning a corner to bunp your own birthday cake from the hands of a loved one you thought on the otherside of the world, to the floor. Of course as a snake my tearducts empty directly into my mouth so there was, conveniently, no public teariness to speak of; but I assure you there was much sniffling of nostril, much jittering of jaw, much trembling lip bitten and turned aside from the page as composure was summoned and mastered, much broken recitation and shaky curses of “Damn you Muir! Damn Your Cruel, Umbral Genius!!” Followed swiftly by sobguffaws at a cruelly cutting poetry joke. If I told you the gag-a-minute gore-ridden story of Juggalo!Catholic!Rose and Twincest!PastelGoth!Vriska receiving an awful and grimly abusive post-graduate education at the hands of a kismestic Donald Duck and Goofy, overseen by an Unholy mashup of Calvin’s Dad, Dr. Scratch, and Prince Charming -and, Hell, PROBABLY Sora; he’s PROBABLY SORA TOO I never played Kingdom Hearts but I BET there’s something there I couldn’t see- was one of the most powerful and sensitive examinations of Humanity, Grief, Loneliness, Mental Illness, Death, and Poetry ever written, would you believe me? You should u_u

I Laughed; I Cried; I Cheered; I Condemned; I Contemplated: I literally felt EFFERVESCENT having finished this, or perhaps like a loose, sparking wire, happily dancing its dangerous jig across the sweaty concrete floor of a poorly lit corridor. I had NO FUCKING CLUE what was going on at the end(I do now; I’ve thought about it) which I found Entirely Appropriate, in part because this book took, like 200 pages to end. The Climax ALONE has a four-act structure! It is Wonderful, and Powerful, and, as so many have said, the Pagekind Equivalent of a Marathon, and I am deeply happy it exists so that I could have read it, and I am Legit Serious about considering it a Classic Work. It kills me to think that, because of its genre and our Era, it probably will never get treated with the culture-wide seriousness it deserves. I love Gideon the Ninth and this is, like, Ten Times the book GtN is(though that’s a bit unfair since they’re VERY different). Which I didn’t think possible. Honestly, Taz is Too Powerful u_u u_u What Hath the Internet Wrought? What grease-painted beast, its hour come round at last, glomps towards Manhattan to be born?

Anyway: I initially had a huge readmore section on this post but I think I’ll leave this Fevered Declaration standing as my solitary Reaction, and write separate posts for my specific thoughts instead, to eventually be all linked together so it isn’t solitary at all.

ANYWAY!

GO READ THIS BOOK! WHEN YOU HAVE TIME!! AND THE MONEY AND OR LIBRARY ACCESS TO ACQUIRE IT!!!

I’m not even really sure if you need to read Gideon the Ninth first to get it, though I absolutely would recommend doing so since it’s a fun and meritorious read in its own right, and for its own reasons.

[theomnilegent]

2019 Upcoming LGBTQA Fiction I’m Excited For!

A new year, a new top nine for women-lead LGBT fiction I’m looking forward to reading! There are, of course, a great many more books than the nine I’ve chosen this time ‘round - I think I will eventually make a part two to this post. I am so, so happy to see that this year we have even more diversity, even more stories about characters from all walks of life, from different parts of the LGBTQA umbrella, and even more LGBT novels. I remember a time where it’d be hard to find more than two YA novels with LGBT themes published in a single year - and now we have so many amazing works coming out!

The themes for 2019 seem to be gay witches, space gays, and explorations of mental illness in the LGBT community. I am so excited to read stories about girls and magic! I am more excited to read stories about girls and love! And I am definitely excited to see multiple books seriously addressing the issues of mental illness in young lesbian and bisexual women - it is a serious topic that has often been glossed over in the past, and to see multiple works that want to tackle these issues, and the issues of toxic relationships, in a healthy way is refreshing. 

Below you’ll find titles, summaries, and goodreads links.

Laura Dean Keeps Breaking Up With Me by Mariko Tamaki Laura Dean, the most popular girl in high school, was Frederica Riley's dream girl: charming, confident, and SO cute. There's just one problem: Laura Dean is maybe not the greatest girlfriend. Reeling from her latest break up, Freddy's best friend, Doodle, introduces her to the Seek-Her, a mysterious medium, who leaves Freddy some cryptic parting words: break up with her. But Laura Dean keeps coming back, and as their relationship spirals further out of her control, Freddy has to wonder if it's really Laura Dean that's the problem. Maybe it's Freddy, who is rapidly losing her friends, including Doodle, who needs her now more than ever. Fortunately for Freddy, there are new friends, and the insight of advice columnists like Anna Vice to help her through being a teenager in love.

Starworld by Audrey Coulthurst & Paula Garner Sam Jones and Zoe Miller have one thing in common: they both want an escape from reality. Loner Sam flies under the radar at school and walks on eggshells at home to manage her mom’s obsessive-compulsive disorder, wondering how she can ever leave to pursue her dream of studying aerospace engineering. Popular, people-pleasing Zoe puts up walls so no one can see her true self: the girl who was abandoned as an infant, whose adoptive mother has cancer, and whose disabled brother is being sent away to live in a facility. When an unexpected encounter results in the girls’ exchanging phone numbers, they forge a connection through text messages that expands into a private universe they call Starworld. In Starworld, they find hilarious adventures, kindness and understanding, and the magic of being seen for who they really are. But when Sam’s feelings for Zoe turn into something more, will the universe they’ve built survive the inevitable explosion?

The Lost Coast by Amy Rose Capetta Danny didn't know what she was looking for when she and her mother spread out a map of the United States and Danny put her finger down on Tempest, California. What she finds are the Grays: a group of friends who throw around terms like queer and witch like they're ordinary and everyday, though they feel like an earthquake to Danny. But Danny didn't just find the Grays. They cast a spell that calls her halfway across the country, because she has something they need: she can bring back Imogen, the most powerful of the Grays, missing since the summer night she wandered into the woods alone. But before Danny can find Imogen, she finds a dead boy with a redwood branch through his heart. Something is very wrong amid the trees and fog of the Lost Coast, and whatever it is, it can kill. Lush, eerie, and imaginative, Amy Rose Capetta's tale overflows with the perils and power of discovery — and what it means to find your home, yourself, and your way forward.

Tell Me How You Really Feel by Aminah Mae Safi Sana Khan is a cheerleader and a straight A student. She's the classic (somewhat obnoxious) overachiever determined to win. Rachel Recht is a wannabe director who's obsesssed with movies and ready to make her own masterpiece. As she's casting her senior film project, she knows she's found the perfect lead - Sana. There's only one problem. Rachel hates Sana. Rachel was the first girl Sana ever asked out, but Rachel thought it was a cruel prank and has detested Sana ever since. Told in alternative viewpoints and inspired by classic romantic comedies, this engaging and edgy YA novel follows two strongwilled young women falling for each other despite themselves.

The Meaning of Birds by Jaye Robin Brown Before, Jessica has always struggled with anger issues, but come sophomore year that all changes when Vivi crashes into her life. As their relationship blossoms, Vivi not only helps Jess deal with her pain, she also encourages her to embrace her talent as an artist. And for the first time, it feels like the future is filled with possibilities. After In the midst of senior year, Jess’s perfect world is erased when Vivi suddenly passes away. Reeling from the devastating loss, Jess pushes everyone away, and throws out her plans to go to art school. Because art is Vivi and Vivi is gone forever. Desperate for an escape, Jess gets consumed in her work-study program, letting all of her dreams die. Until she makes an unexpected new friend who shows her a new way to channel her anger, passion, and creativity. Although Jess may never draw again, if she can find a way to heal and room in her heart, she just might be able to forge a new path for herself without Vivi.

The Weight of the Stars by K. Ancrum Ryann Bird dreams of traveling across the stars. But a career in space isn’t an option for a girl who lives in a trailer park on the wrong side of town. So Ryann becomes her circumstances and settles for acting out and skipping school to hang out with her delinquent friends. One day she meets Alexandria: a furious loner who spurns Ryann’s offer of friendship. After a horrific accident leaves Alexandria with a broken arm, the two misfits are brought together despite themselves—and Ryann learns her secret: Alexandria’s mother is an astronaut who volunteered for a one-way trip to the edge of the solar system. Every night without fail, Alexandria waits to catch radio signals from her mother. And its up to Ryann to lift her onto the roof day after day until the silence between them grows into friendship, and eventually something more...   

How It Feels To Float by Helena Fox Biz knows how to float. She has her people, her posse, her mom and the twins. She has Grace. And she has her dad, who tells her about the little kid she was, who loves her so hard, and who shouldn't be here but is. So Biz doesn't tell anyone anything. Not about her dark, runaway thoughts, not about kissing Grace or noticing Jasper, the new boy. And she doesn't tell anyone about her dad. Because her dad died when she was six. And Biz knows how to float, right there on the surface--normal okay regular fine. But after what happens on the beach--first in the ocean, and then in the sand--the tethers that hold Biz steady come undone. Dad disappears, and with him, all comfort. It might be easier, better, sweeter to float all the way away? Or maybe stay a little longer, find her father, bring him back to her. Or maybe--maybe maybe maybe--there's a third way Biz just can't see yet.

Going Off Script by Jen Wilde Seventeen-year-old Bex is thrilled when she gets an internship on her favorite tv show, Silver Falls. Unfortunately, the internship isn't quite what she expected... instead of sitting in a crowded writer's room volleying ideas back and forth, Production Interns are stuck picking up the coffee. Determined to prove her worth as a writer, Bex drafts her own script and shares it with the head writer―who promptly reworks it and passes it off as his own! Bex is understandably furious, yet...maybe this is just how the industry works? But when they rewrite her proudly lesbian character as straight, that's the last straw! It's time for Bex and her crush to fight back.

These Witches Don’t Burn by Isabel Sterling Hannah's a witch, but not the kind you're thinking of. She's the real deal, an Elemental with the power to control fire, earth, water, and air. But even though she lives in Salem, Massachusetts, her magic is a secret she has to keep to herself. If she's ever caught using it in front of a Reg (read: non-witch), she could lose it. For good. So, Hannah spends most of her time avoiding her ex-girlfriend (and fellow Elemental Witch) Veronica, hanging out with her best friend, and working at the Fly by Night Cauldron selling candles and crystals to tourists, goths, and local Wiccans. But dealing with her ex is the least of Hannah's concerns when a terrifying blood ritual interrupts the end-of-school-year bonfire. Evidence of dark magic begins to appear all over Salem, and Hannah's sure it's the work of a deadly Blood Witch. The issue is, her coven is less than convinced, forcing Hannah to team up with the last person she wants to see: Veronica. While the pair attempt to smoke out the Blood Witch at a house party, Hannah meets Morgan, a cute new ballerina in town. But trying to date amid a supernatural crisis is easier said than done, and Hannah will have to test the limits of her power if she's going to save her coven and get the girl, especially when the attacks on Salem's witches become deadlier by the day.

[ninzied]

another kind of goodbye

for @carry-the-sky. happy birthday, my friend! have a little post-cancellation kastle fic.

It’s three months, give or take, when Frank lets himself think about her again. Really think about her. Not in the passing kind of way, where he’s walking down some street and sees a bouquet of gardenias, like the kind he’d almost gotten her instead of the roses that day. Or when he’s sipping on coffee, and Karen’s face flashes like a mirage at him across the cheap Formica table – blonde hair almost white under the shit diner lighting, but those eyes still so blue as she told him he would never lie to her.

So – okay, so he thinks about her. He thinks about her.

(He wonders if she—)

Frank eventually makes his way back to the city again, after. Another day, another job. Madani thinks he’s meant for something greater than this – than picking off these scum-of-the-earth kinds of assholes that litter the streets of a place like New York.

He can’t believe that he was meant for greater, but. Sometimes, he does wonder. If a part of him – whatever part of him that’s not still buried deep down in the ground with his family – was meant to come back here. To walk these streets and feel the pull of her, always, even when that’s all he can afford to feel.

He tells himself that has to be enough.

He’s been laying low, since his return. Coughed up some cash for a three-hundred-square-footer in Brooklyn, but he crosses the bridge to the city most days, maybe even finds his way to Hell’s Kitchen from time to time too. It’s risky, he knows. If Murdock catches wind of him, they’d be lucky to walk away from each other in one piece. And Karen…

There’d be a different kind of hell to pay, if Karen ever found out.

His phone gives a single buzz in his pocket as he’s hunkering his way down 47th, and he stops in his tracks, nearly colliding with an elderly woman in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Excuse me!” she says in a shrill voice, bag clutched tight to her chest.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he nods as she makes a show of putting as much distance between them as possible, and then he fishes his phone out, hesitating for one absurd moment before glancing down at the screen.

Back in town yet, Castle?

He barks out a laugh. Chrissakes, Madani.

His phone buzzes again.

I have a job for you, if you’re still interested.

“Still,” mutters Frank, with a scoffing shake of his head. He thinks he admires her perseverance, but Madani’s gotta know she’s only wasting her breath.

He cuts south down 10th, toward Lincoln Tunnel. It’s a brisk day, and the wind on his face feels sharper than usual, considering he hasn’t bled much there in a while. He jams his hands deeper into his pockets, ignoring the insistent drone of Madani’s follow-up call.

He’s got a date with a park bench on the wrong side of town, and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend it’s the same bridge overlooking the water, and when he opens them again Karen’ll be there, waiting for him.

…

His closest call comes with, of all people, the lawyer. Not Red – the other one. Franklin Nelson.

Frank’s emerging with coffee two storefronts down just as another door opens, and he’s cursing himself for not seeing the signs when out tumbles Nelson with his back turned, adjusting his tie against the wind.

“Foggy bear, wait!” someone else is laughing, and a blonde lady steps out to chase after him, slinging a purse over her shoulder and reaching with her other hand to link around his elbow.

“I told him this was gonna make me late for work,” grumbles Nelson, but without any heat to the words. “Dad’s surprise party isn’t until tomorrow, don’t know why this couldn’t have waited – oh, crap, I forgot I told Karen I’d pick up some coffee—”

Nelson’s about-facing sharply, girlfriend following closely behind. He doesn’t appear to notice Frank crouched down in a corner by the 7-Eleven, hood obscuring half his face as he trains his eyes on the ground by their feet. The girl unearths some coins from her bag as they pass, clinking them onto the lid of Frank’s coffee cup without seeming to hear his low mutter of thanks.

He’s leapt up the moment he hears the door latch shut, brushing the coins into his palm as he goes.

He leaves them with a guy camped out by the train stop, a dog lifting her head from their blankets to blink sleepy eyes up at Frank, and he walks away harder, takes the steps two at a time and wishes – God he wishes—

…

Another text from Madani.

He shuts his phone off. Goes back to retrieve it ten seconds later from the trash can that he’d dumped it in, wiping it down and scowling as her message pops up on the screen.

Castle – offer still stands, FYI.

“You should call her back,” advises a man huddled down by the newsstands next to him. His face is like leather, worn down and weathered with age, with living. “Apologize for whatever it is that you did, so you don’t end up out here like me.”

“Already there,” Frank tells him, turning the phone over and over in his hand. Madani’s message lights up again each time, flashing and flashing until he sees it like a burn through his retinas even when the phone’s no longer facing him.

“Damn. That’s a damn shame.” The guy shifts, scratching at a spot on his back. “Maybe shouldn’t’ve stayed away from her for so long.”

Frank shakes his head, uttering a short, incredulous laugh. “Well, maybe I got my reasons, yeah? You think about that?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” shrugs the guy. “Does she think they’re any good? These reasons of yours?”

Frank turns away, jaw working furiously.

“Yeah.” The guy shouldn’t have any right to sound as smug as he does, and yet. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

…

He’s got no place in coming here. He knows it. He knows it, but he thinks it was always meant to be this way, him circling back around to her, even after everything that he’s done to push her away. Maybe a part of him had never left. And the rest is just – there, hovering right at the edge of some sharp realization, that he could try to be whole again if he simply took that first step. And a part of Karen must at least sense that. It’s why she’d never really given up on him, before.

It doesn’t change how I feel about you.

Frank wonders if she’d forgive him this time. If he’d even want her to.

It wouldn’t be anything close to what he deserves, that’s for goddamn sure.

He gazes up at her fire escape, counts the number of steps it would take just to be able to reach that bottom rung from his vantage point across the street. Her shades are drawn, the lines of them blurred out in the dim orange light. On one corner of the windowsill, wedged up against the glass, there’s a small stack of books. On the other, a vase. From this angle, the shadows folded into the fabric of her curtains look almost like flower stems.

Frank squints, and the stems disappear.

…

There’s about a week in between, where he feels himself inching closer to something, each time he drops by her block. He never goes farther than the patch of sidewalk across from her building, but it’s getting harder not to just careen over the ledge.

More than anything, he wishes he knew, in those moments obscured in half-darkness, whether he’s come to look for that after she’d spoke of, or if he’s come to say goodbye.

Then, one day he spots flowers in her window, for the first time since—

(They’re pale white against the cream of her curtains, their stems dark slivers of green, and he imagines them pricking the pad of his thumb, drawing up a spot of blood.)

Frank takes a deep breath.

…

She doesn’t look surprised to see him when she opens the door, swinging it back two-thirds of the way before stopping. Her lips are pressed tightly together, like there’s too much to say, or maybe there’s things that she can’t, either way he can’t read her and he thinks she’s never terrified him more.

Frank drops his gaze, mouth moving soundlessly until the words grind their way out. “How’d you know I was here, Karen?”

He’s not sure what kind of answer he’s expecting. That Nelson had grown a real pair of eyes, or that Red had managed to ferret him out of his lurking somehow. Or maybe Karen really just hadn’t known at all, and those flowers were never for him.

What Karen says instead is, “Dinah and I grab a beer together, sometimes.”

“That right?” he asks, trying to lay out an image of this in his mind. It sits strangely there, stumping him for a moment, and some of his bewilderment must show on his face because Karen’s mouth almost turns up in a smile before flattening again.

She leans away from the doorjamb, waving her hand in a worn-looking gesture before letting it drop to her side. “Besides, you…haven’t exactly been subtle, in your haunting of Hell’s Kitchen.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, other than a gruff, “’S’what dead men do, Karen,” as she folds her arms and sighs at him.

“You sure you’re not just losing your touch, Frank?” She steps into the doorway, whether to move closer to him or to block him out of her apartment, he can’t tell. “Or was it because you wanted me to know but couldn’t tell me to my face?”

His eyes snap up to hers, twitching slightly under the sharp weight of her gaze. He shakes his head, wishing he could just ask her, What do you want from me, Karen? but they’re long past that now, and if he can’t find his own way to answer her, then.

God, he really doesn’t deserve this woman.

“I think I—” He shifts his body and tries again. “I think I needed to figure some things out. Karen. I was waiting 'til I felt like I was ready, and I don’t think I’ll ever be that.” But I’m here, he wants to say, but I’m here.

“Yeah.” Karen’s nodding, hair falling into her face, and she brushes it back, resting her chin in her palm for a moment. “I know that, Frank.” All of the fight in her seems to have ebbed slowly back, and he resists the urge to reach out and shake the storm back into motion, to make her understand she doesn’t get to let him off the hook so easy.

The look she gives him now is softer, but he knows. Fight’s not done. May never be done. And he knows this because he knows he’ll never stop fighting for her.

She’s stepped back into the door, letting it swing open further. She doesn’t invite him in, but she’s quirked an eyebrow up at him, biting her lip with another deep sigh and a shake of her head.

“You, uh.” Frank glances back and forth at their surroundings, doesn’t quite meet her eye. Tries to lighten his tone through the gruffness as he asks her, “So, you wanted to see me?”

Her voice is soft, forbearing, with a hint of gentle knowing behind it. “You didn’t?”

She’s holding back the clear start of a smile from him this time, and Frank. Christ. It’s taking everything in him not to step toward her, to—

Karen tilts her chin at him, the motion loosening another wave of blonde hair, and he can’t remember anymore why he was trying so hard to stand back from all this. He’s moving, swaying forward until she’s just an arm’s length away, and there’s something almost teasing about the way she relaxes her shoulder into the door as she watches him.

“You back to kill some people, Frank?”

He feels a corner of his mouth turn up. This girl. He licks his lips, lets out a quiet sort of laugh. “That was the plan, yeah.”

Karen gazes up at him, unblinking. “Have you?”

“I was—” Frank has to look away for a moment, finally turning back when he can. His eyes are steady, boring into hers, voice low and full with meaning. “I was. Working on it.”

Karen nods. Doesn’t speak for long seconds, and he measures them out in heartbeats, chest tightening hard enough it feels like it might break when she asks him, very carefully, “Still?”

Frank steps closer, close enough to feel the way her breath shakes with a small sigh, how her body moves away from the door to meet him.

His hand is inches from hers, but he doesn’t reach for her. Not yet.

She waits, gaze searching. He gives the barest shake of his head, and a single word, gravel-filled, a promise. “No.”

Something cracks open in her expression, and it means everything to him, her head ducking away as though she can’t have him looking too closely at the way she's biting back that smile of hers, and he thinks – he thinks he wants to make her do it again, and again, for as long as she will have him.

“Would you like to come in, Frank?”

He takes her hand in his this time, feeling the pull of her as he steps across the threshold, door shutting firmly behind them, and it feels like coming home.

[allatariel]

Beth and Saint Catherine of Alexandria

I wrote this nearly three years ago and it has been languishing in my google docs waiting to be made tumblr-ready ever since. I have not updated the content appreciably, so it may very well contain outdated theories or speculations long since proven false or at the very least ill-timed, but it feels like unfinished business. I'd rather realease it into the wild than delete all this work. To my knowledge, no one else has yet touched on at least the visual connections herein, but I have been out of touch with TWD and the fandom for a few years now, for various reasons. Thank you for your indulgence.

Apologies if I'm rehashing old information; I looked and couldn't find anything like this, but maybe I ain't looking right.

Special thanks to @bethgreenewarriorprincess and @bethgreeneishopeunseen for listening to me ramble about this and all your help!

The image below of Beth waking up in the hospital never appeared in the show, but has been used often promotionally (here, here, and here for a start), even years later (on August 7, 2016) with the tweet of the Beth's Journey video originally posted to YouTube on November 30, 2014 after 5x08 Coda aired.

She looks altogether more beatific than Rick did in roughly the same situation. See how the light, almost heavenly in nature, illuminates her clean face, smooth brow, and shiny hair and reflects in her eyes, giving them a diffused look, as though she’s looking at something no one else can see, like an apparition. Contrast this with Rick bathed in wan light, sweaty and unkempt, his brow furrowed in confusion and dawning alarm, as he takes in the evidence of neglect in the room around him that is plain for us to see in the ensuing shots.

I knew I'd seen this image somewhere before, and I know it's a very typical depiction of beatific passion, many examples of which can be found in religious art and throughout art history (e.g., here, here, here, and here). But it specifically looks, to me, most like Raphael's Saint Catherine of Alexandria. (for an additional analysis of Beth's saintly framing supported by connections to another saint, St. Mary Frances, see here)

This is a cropped screenshot of the full image found on Wikipedia. Note that another depiction by Caravaggio, whose The Denial of Saint Peter figures very prominently in 5x04 Slabtown (for an analysis of the use of this painting in 5x04, see here), is linked from that page and vice versa, but not any other artist's versions, of which there are many (see here, here, and here for a few). (It is also interesting to note that Caravaggio's The Denial of Saint Peter is housed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, and though it has toured, it has never been exhibited at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, Georgia. The High does have another painting titled The Denial of St. Peter in its collection, which was painted some twenty years later by Nicolas Tournier who was influenced by Caravaggio's work.)

Saint Catherine of Alexandria is a bit of a mythic figure; the following summary of her life is quoted from the Wikipedia page for her, with citations included linked within.

Legend

According to the traditional narrative, Catherine was the daughter of Constus, the governor of Alexandrian Egypt during the reign of the emperor Maximian (286–305).[6] From a young age she had devoted herself to study. A vision of the Madonna and Child persuaded her to become a Christian. When the persecutions began under Maxentius, she went to the emperor and rebuked him for his cruelty. The emperor summoned fifty of the best pagan philosophers and orators to dispute with her, hoping that they would refute her pro-Christian arguments, but Catherine won the debate. Several of her adversaries, conquered by her eloquence, declared themselves Christians and were at once put to death.[7]

Torture and martyrdom Catherine was then scourged and imprisoned, during which time over 200 people came to see her, including Maxentius' wife, Valeria Maximilla; all converted to Christianity and were subsequently martyred.[8] Upon the failure of Maxentius to make Catherine yield by way of torture, he tried to win the beautiful and wise princess over by proposing marriage. The saint refused, declaring that her spouse was Jesus Christ, to whom she had consecrated her virginity. The furious emperor condemned Catherine to death on a spiked breaking wheel, but, at her touch, it shattered.[7] Maxentius finally had her beheaded.

Burial A tradition dating to about 800 states that angels carried her corpse to Mount Sinai. Her body was discovered around the year 800 at Mount Sinai, with hair still growing and a constant stream of healing oil issuing from her body.[9] In the 6th century, the Eastern Emperor Justinian had established what is now Saint Catherine's Monastery in Egypt (which is in fact dedicated to the Transfiguration of Christ).

She is generally believed to have been eighteen at the time of her death. Her feast day is November 25, and in celebration of this day in France, unmarried women pray for her intercession to find them husbands. These unmarried women are referred to as “Catherinettes” and their friends make elaborate hats, or bonnets, for them, using the colors yellow for faith and green for wisdom. The Catherinettes are crowned with these bonnets and make pilgrimages to St. Catherine’s statue in their local churches. Also of note and pertaining to France, she is believed to have appeared to Joan of Arc.

Saint Catherine has patronage over many things; because of her chastity, she is the patroness of unmarried women; because of her scholarship and skill in debate, she is the patroness of apologists, archivists, educators, female students, jurists, lawyers, librarians, libraries, philosophers, preachers, scholars, schoolchildren, scribes, secretaries, stenographers, and theologians; because of her association with the breaking wheel and wheels in general, she is the patroness of craftsmen who work with a wheel (potters, spinners), mechanics, millers, and wheelwrights; because of her beheading, she is patroness of knife sharpeners; because of her martyrdom, she is the patroness of dying people and nurses; because of a tradition in France on her feast day relating to her patronage of unmarried women, she is patroness of milliners, hat-makers, tanners, and haberdashers.

She is associated with a number of items, or attributes, and when depicted in art these items are often shown with her. A crown, either atop her head or at her feet, denoting her royal birth; a book, held open or closed in her hands, and perhaps her arguing with the pagan philosophers denoting her eloquence and wisdom; a bridal veil and ring denoting her mystical marriage to Jesus Christ; a dove as one legend states she was fed by a dove while imprisoned; a scourge, the breaking wheel, either whole or itself broken at her touch, and the sword that finally ended her life by decapitation; (hailstones are also listed in places, I got nothing). The type of firework known as the Catherine wheel is named for her.

Additional references for information about Saint Catherine of Alexandria can be found here, here, here, and here.

And now for the parallels, the reason I’m boring you all (all two of you) with these details about a long dead, and likely entirely legendary figure.

Like Saint Catherine, Beth is the daughter of a leader. Hershel Greene, initially of the Greene family farm and later of the prison. Before the fall of civilization, Beth was a student and after she doesn’t start out understanding what’s really going on in the apocalypse. When faced with it, she thinks she wants to die, but when she tries to kill herself she has an epiphany and chooses to live; this is rather like Saint Catherine’s path to conversion, in how she devotes her life to learning, then experiences a vision and becomes Christian.

Beth was “imprisoned” in Grady Memorial Hospital, was beaten, but never broken. Carol and the others "visited her" in her prison and she converted people, like Noah and Dr. Edwards, to another way of thinking. She broke their system by challenging it and getting Dawn killed after having killed the biggest offenders, Gorman and O'Donnell. She was shot, but didn’t die. Saint Catherine was imprisoned and tortured, many came to visit her and were converted. They tried to execute her and she not only survived, she broke the tool of her execution, symbolically breaking their system. Both were eighteen at the time of their imprisonment and attempted execution.

Beth was carried out of the hospital by Daryl, who wears angel wings, and left in a trunk after running from 800 walkers. She wasn't dead so her body would not corrupt. Additionally, she is immune to the infection and incorruptible by it (another way she “breaks the wheel” by breaking the infection). Her immunity will be the source of the cure and thus heal others. Saint Catherine's body was carried to Mount Sinai by angels and was found incorrupt and issuing healing oil in the year 800.

The mystical marriage of Saint Catherine is interesting; one variation on her conversion involves her search for a husband that matched her in intellect, nobility, and beauty and a hermit in the desert who, after a vision of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, went to Saint Catherine and told her of the spouse she desired. This hermit eventually baptised her, preparing her for her mystical marriage to Jesus. C@rol, who was a hermit for a while, brought Beth’s knife (an attribute of Saint Catherine, a small sword) to Daryl, giving him his lady’s favor, essentially marrying them (more here).

Saint Catherine’s reason for her refusal of the offer of marriage from the man who was trying to have her executed makes me think of the metas about 4x12 Still and the blood splatter on the white sweater foreshadowing Beth losing her virginity with Daryl (here and here, though there are more). I can just imagine Negan asking her to join his harem and Beth refusing by saying she's already promised to someone.

Bonus connections!

Beth’s father, Hershel, was beheaded with a sword like Saint Catherine; I know this isn’t a direct parallel as this happened to her father and not her, but I think the connection is solid enough with him being her father and her having watched it happen.

The spoked breaking wheel rather resembles a clock, which is heavily connected with Beth.

Saint Catherine appeared to Joan of Arc and counseled her; in 5x04 Slabtown Beth brought some small comfort to Joan during her confinement after her amputation.

Coda aired on November 30, the Sunday following Saint Catherine’s feast day of November 25.

Saint Catherine is a patroness of mechanics, and Daryl, Beth’s apocalypse husband, is the mechanic of the group (bonus bonus, he rides motorcycles which have spoked wheels like the breaking wheel).

The blond walker in the yellow wheelchair (mentioned here, here, and here, towards the bottom in all three) with the wounded left foot in 4x06 Live Bait is connected with Beth through her signature yellow color and wounded left foot in 5x13 Alone, and the spoked wheels of the wheelchair resemble the breaking wheel, symbolically representing the hospital and foreshadowing her breaking of it.

In Raphael’s Saint Catherine of Alexandria, there is a braid in Catherine's hair that starts at her left temple; Beth often wore a braid on the left side in her ponytail.

The traditional colors of the bonnets made for the Catherinettes celebrating Saint Catherine’s day in France were yellow for faith and green for wisdom; Beth has been strongly associated with yellow and faith and her last name is Greene. Also both she and her father have been associated with wisdom.

Not to mention the St. Catherine of ALEXANDRIA thing.

The final parallel I would like to highlight is the breaking of the wheel as the breaking of the cycle the show is currently stuck in, like a pair of millstones, the runner stone circling on the bedstone seemingly endlessly. The official synopsis for season 7 says “This half season is about these characters starting over. The overall theme of the season is beginning again.” The first episode of season 6 was called First Time Again. In season 5 after Terminus they begin again together. The Governor destroys the prison and they are forced to begin again, scattered. How many times will we take it once again from the top, everyone? (Washington D.C. = D.C. = da Capo, anyone? “Da Capo” is Italian for “from the head” and shares the same Latin root with “decapitate.”)

I mean, that's what the comic has done, over and over and over again; the war with the governor, All Out War, The Whisperer War—same shit different day. Abraham references this in his speech in 5x02 Strangers, “Wake up in the morning, fight the undead pricks, forage for food, go to sleep at night with two eyes open, rinse and repeat?” as encouragement to get them to join his mission to D.C.

Beth’s return is a way to break that cycle for the show—in the endless string of deaths and losses, finally they get someone back.

Morgan says, “People can come back, Rick.” in 6x15 East. Morgan says it to Rick just like Rick said it to the governor when he came to take the prison. Rick says, "Everyone who's alive right now. Everyone who's made it this far. We've all done the worst kinds of things just to stay alive. But we can still come back. We're not too far gone. We get to come back. I know... we all can change." in 4x08 Too Far Gone.

In 6x15 East, Morgan also says, "It—it's all a circle. Everything gets a return." Everything comes full circle with Beth’s survival, she’s not just “another dead girl” as she says in 4x12 Still.

The circle, the cycle, the wheel—Beth will break the wheel just like St. Catherine of Alexandria. Once more from the beginning, but skip to a different ending (da Capo al Coda).

[angelaiswriting]

The Assistant (6 of ?) | Vladimir Ranskahov x reader

[original picture: pinterest]

✏️ Pairings:

(eventual) Vladimir Ranskahov x fem!reader

Anatoly Ranskahov x OC (Paulina)

probably other pairings in the future

✏️ Requested by @kellydixon01  : Y/N–hacker, big mouth, even bigger attitude–is the new addition to Fisk’s team. Sent to help the Ranskahovs, she immediately gets on Vladimir’s nerves. But as time passes, they start to take a liking to each other, even if none of them is willing to admit their feelings. Yet.

✏️ A/N: we’re finally inside Y/N’s mind in this chapter! Btw I hope this story doesn’t suck and that it makes sense.

✏️ Warnings: mention + talks of murder, death in general, probably angst (but isn’t this story a pile of angst?) and I think that’s it. Tell me if anything triggers you and I’ll add it.

✏️ Word-count: 4,200 

REQUESTS ARE OPEN IF YOU WANT ME TO WRITE FOR YOU 💛

📚 To read the previous chapters, click on the MASTERLIST link in my bio (unfortunately I can’t put links here if I want my post to come up in search results. I apologize.)

CHAPTER SIX: TRUST ISSUES

“What the fuck?”

Y/N’s choked scream came as a surprise. On one thing, Vladimir Ranskahov had been right: she had never seen a corpse and now that she stood just meters from four, she couldn’t help the trembling in her legs.

When the men turned around, diverting their attention from the four criminals at their feet, they saw she had left the security of the car. Surprisingly enough, she had been the first to react and as she stared at them with eyes full of shock and fear, Vladimir was the second.

His brain was working a thousand miles an hour and as his fingers tightened around the grip of his gun, he thought he could shoot her down. A bullet between the eyes and all would be over with. But the more he stared, the more his rational mind fought that urge, and the more his anger boiled and screamed throughout his whole body.

How was it that the first–and hopefully last–time they brought her along, they almost got played like some kids? She comes, she does her juju with the phone signal and Dobos is ready to try his luck and overthrow him.

Before his rational mind had the time to realize it, he had her pinned against the side of the car, the hot muzzle of his gun just a breath away from kissing her temple.

And suddenly, all was calm once again. His mind had stopped racing, his blood had stopped boiling, his breath had evened out. His hold was gentle on the gun, the coarse surface of its grip a soothing caress against his cold palm. There wasn’t the sudden surge of adrenaline he got during a fight, nor the buzzing enthusiasm of anticipation coursing through his muscles. There was calm. He was calm, for the world had gone silent and all he could hear was the soft whisper of her breath against his chin.

“Do you have anything to do with this?” The tone of his voice burned harder than the still warm muzzle of his gun near her skin, but she didn’t dare move away. Nor speak up.

“Let her go.”

Anatoly had finally entered her peripheral vision and even though his presence calmed her enough to distract her from her churning fear, she couldn’t but stare in Vladimir’s gaze of steel. “No,” she eventually whispered, wishing she had just stayed in the car–that she had just stayed at Wesley’s side, for she knew, no matter how much she disliked him, that he’d protect her somehow.

“You knock out phones and then they come and Dobos has new men. Money he gives us is fake. Why shouldn’t I shoot you?”

“You have already made up your mind about me, even though I told you I’m here to help. Why are you asking, then?”

“Because you spy on people,” he casually answered. “And I do not trust you.”

“I guess you either shoot people in the head or you trust them, then. You don’t give anyone the benefit of the doubt. But if you’re waiting for me to confess you that I somehow knew of their trick, you’ll be left waiting forever, even long after you’ve killed me.”

“No one will kill anyone tonight,” Anatoly intervened, tearing the gun from his brother’s grasp. “Why you have to be so paranoid, I truly do not know,” he added as he pushed Vladimir backward. “What we must do now is dash back to garage before police come here.”

*

Y/N couldn’t understand Vladimir and still, at the same time, she could. She had spent the majority of her life not knowing who to trust, or if trusting that person was going to make her end up in trouble, and at the same time she had never stopped hoping she could stop, just for one minute, and give the people that stood in front of her the benefit of the doubt.

To give a chance had always felt stupid–and dangerous. It had always made her whole body shiver in fear and anticipation, her muscles ready for the jump of her life in case things went downhill. But she had tried, and so far Fisk and Wesley had yet to fail her.

But now, as she stood in a corner of the garage as the Russians argued together, she felt small and insignificant under Vladimir’s accusatory glare. That and the silent treatment he had reserved her in the car scared her more than a gun pointed at her head.

Silent was… terrifying. It was the unknown slowly but surely transforming itself into a ghostly body of its own and she could almost feel its icy breath trace the line of her spine.

Vladimir Ranskahov was predictable when he screamed, for he would never attack as long as his mind was busy yelling at somebody. She had learned that long before she had actually met him, his past had been an open book once she had found her way in, and it had been easier to read than Anatoly’s. When his anger got the best of him, he was the only one at risk of dying as the scorching emotion burned him alive. But when he went silent and his body got as still as a predator stilled before it lunged at its prey–that was the moment you should be scared, the moment you should pray your fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and self-preservation brought you to safety.

Vladimir was easy to read when he let events take the best of him, for then he was still a man. But when his survival instinct surfaced and he couldn’t even feel the wound on his arm left behind by a flying bullet, the same wound Sergei was now sewing up, that was when he turned into the animal that got out of Utkin.

She wasn’t sure whether he knew it or not, or if maybe it had just turned into an instinctual behavior when he felt like his life was at risk, but he still knew how to use it in his favor. That version of him scared him more than the sight of those four men left dead on the pavement, back at the piers.

Had she gone through what Vladimir had been forced to live, she wouldn’t trust herself either.

But she was here and she was willing to help–willing to put her own life in the spotlight of the unknown and of the risks it threatened her with–and she couldn’t but feel like the stupid kid that had hoped too much when hope had never entered her house.

And as she eavesdropped those criminals talk and reason together, she wished she had been honest from the start–at her own risk. She spoke Russian and therefore understood every ill and every nice word they had ever said about her, the things they said during their Russian-only meetings, the insults they threw at Wesley and Fisk when they thought she didn’t understand shit. It had all been a game so far and she had always thought she was the cat and they the mice, when it had always been the other way around. She had learned the meaning of Vladimir’s tattoos and had always laughed at them, but now that he had her life in his hands–now that she had been foolish enough to move into the apartment across from his–she wished there was still time for sincerity.

“Y/N, come here!”

But now, as her body obeyed Anatoly’s order before her brain had the time to process it, she knew her confession could only do more harm than good–and it didn’t matter that she had nothing to do with the Hungarian and his plans. Nor that she was deliberately ignoring Fisk’s orders to give him inside info on the Russians so that he could control them better.

And with each step she took, she could feel herself shrink and get smaller, almost as if she could disappear so as not to face Vladimir’s wrath. He was her biggest fear, but as the saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.

She had most likely overestimated herself.

Sergei was applying the last stitches, but Vlad never flinched, not even once. It was almost as though he couldn’t feel it, almost as though he were still in beast-mode. She had never wished she had Wesley at her side as much as she wished for it now.

“Why did you want us to change place for meeting?” Aslan’s voice wasn’t as threatening: it was calm, soft, and even though she suspected he was anything but, she was still thankful.

“Because you’ve always been stupid enough to give your clients the upper hand.” It was almost an out-of-body experience, or as close as she could get to one: part of her wanted to cower away as her self-defense mechanism finally kicked in, and another part of her welcomed it as her muscles started to slowly relax.

It didn’t matter that she had done her best to focus on Aslan’s face because she had kept Vladimir in her peripheral vision and her mind had been more focused on him than on his man. And so, when he tightened his jaw, she didn’t miss the movement.

“We never give anyone upper hand,” he growled.

She sighed, half in exhaustion and half in contentment, for he was slowly slipping back into his angry self, burying the beast deep inside his mind once again. It didn’t mean complete safety–to think that meant you were only a fool–, but it also didn’t mean immediate death, either. It was a dangerous yet comfortable middle ground that Y/N knew how to handle–sort of.

“We keep eye on them,” Anatoly agreed, forcing her to sit on the chair in front of his brother, who was sat on the desk Sergei often used as his accounting office.

“But you still trust their choices too blindly. What would have happened if tonight’s meeting had been held where those people wanted to?”

“I don’t know, you tell us, spy.”

Vladimir was stubborn. She thought she had known it before she had started to work with him, but being in his presence had proved her wrong. He had turned out to be more inflexible than anyone she had ever met–and she was used to working with Wesley, who was only happy if and when things were done his way. Working with him should have been the right training to be able to manage Vladimir Ranskahov, but either it wasn’t the case or they weren’t as similar in their stubbornness as she had previously thought.

“The guy could have had more men.”

“They cannot bring ‘more men’,” Vladimir mocked her, yanking his shirt out of Anatoly’s grasp. “It’s deal.”

“Yeah, like paying you with Monopoly cash, apparently.”

“It had never happened. Maybe it was you who tried to work with vengry and play us.”

She scoffed. “I work for you, and therefore for Wesley and therefore for Fisk. Fisk is the one who signs my checks, not your cheating friends. Why would I side with them to trick you and risk getting shot and then dumped into the Hudson? I thought you were stupid, but I swear to God, you’re on another level! If you stopped being this paranoid for one second, you’d realize I just made you a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Volya, zamolchi,” Anatoly threatened. He wasn’t in the mood to play the peacemaker, not tonight, not after the flop with Dobos. He just wanted to go home, fuck Paulina into tomorrow, and then spend the next day sleeping to avoid coming to work and deal with his brother.

He was tired, but neither Vladimir nor Y/N seemed to realize how close to combustion he was.

“And you,” he pointed at her, “no more insults.”

“You all still doubting my loyalty after me trying to help you is an insult, me stating the truth is not. If your brother would just get his head out of his butt and use his brain for something that’s not murder, for once, he’d see I’m not the spy he thinks I am.”

And she wasn’t going against Fisk’s direct orders just to be called a liar and be stepped onto by some criminals.

“I don’t doubt you,” Tolya sighed. Aslan had quietly distanced himself from them and was now checking the rest of Dobos’ money with Sergei, both sitting in a cab. “You tried to help and Hungarians did shit. It was just coincidence.”

“Of course it was not!”

There was a fight, then: Anatoly had to stop himself from attacking his brother and Vladimir had to do the same. Y/N simply estranged herself from the scene and with the fact that they had switched back to Russian, she was able to cut their voices out of her mind without much of a problem.

She understood paranoia–she really did–, but she didn’t understand when someone just wanted to be an ass. And she wasn’t in the mood to put up with it, not now that the surge of fear-induced adrenaline had died down and all she could see before her eyes were the corpses of four criminals lying on the pavement.

It had all happened so quickly that she had barely had the time to register what the heck was going on. One second Vladimir was checking the money in front of her and the next, dollar bills were flying in the air as the Russians shot the Hungarians down. They had been quick and she hadn’t exactly understood how Tolya, Sergei and Aslan had known they had to open fire that their guns had already shot.

It didn’t matter. Only Dobos had the luck to fire a blind shot, grazing Vladimir’s arm, before he went down like a trunk. Even above the sound of the echoing shots at the pier and now, above the Ranskahovs’ heated argument, she could hear Miklos Dobos’ body thudding against the asphalt. She didn’t know how, she didn’t even want to know why, but that was the sound her brain had put on a loop as all she could see was the perfectly centered hole in the man’s forehead.

She didn’t know who had gunned him down, but she knew that if Vladimir got pissed enough with her, that was how she was going to go down–a bleeding hole in the middle of her forehead, brains splattered everywhere as she fell down to the floor.

Dead. Lifeless.

This wasn’t the first time she feared for her life, but it was definitely the first where she felt like she was so close to the end of her life and to meet the Creator.

Fuck.

She had been so dumb. Moving in next to a criminal? What had she been thinking? Now that she found herself in the company of murderers–not that they hadn’t already been before, it was just that now she had seen them at work–that unplanned decision suddenly didn’t feel like a good one anymore.

If Vladimir decided that he really didn’t trust her and that he was tired of her, he could… He lived mere feet from her: he just had to cross the hallway to…

She couldn’t think it. She couldn’t form that thought in her mind.

And yet, it was an easy one. Death was easy. You go down and you leave this world and it all happens in a fraction of a second. All the rest is just torture–or torturous wait. All she needed was an unexpected millisecond to leave this world for good. And all Vladimir needed was the previous millisecond, before he opened the door of his apartment and drilled her body with bullets.

Y/N had thought that working with Wesley had been torture. Do this and do that and dodge his advances and play deaf when he told her anything that could be interpreted as sexual. And it wasn’t just that, it wasn’t just that all he wanted to do was fuck her and that he didn’t waste any occasion to remind her that. It was that he wanted her to do things a certain way, even when there were way easier and faster ways to do it, and when he was pissed, he got prissy and intolerable and she had to tiptoe her way around him.

Working with actual criminals had felt like a nice change in the wind’s direction back then, when Fisk had first proposed it–or rather told her she was going to do it without giving her the chance to say anything. It had felt like freedom in a way: no more Fisk, no more Wesley, no more suits and high heels and tight buns because there wouldn’t be another Wesley that wanted her to dress that way.

She found herself hoping the Russians would ask her to dress more formally now, to come to work with freshly manicured nails and spot-on make-up. It would have been easier. And yet, she had come to work with the knowledge of all the research she had conducted on the Ranskahovs, with slightly less information about Sergei Yurchenko, who she felt was almost as important as the other two kingpins… and with her lies. She had come with white lies: she had to inform Fisk of anything that could even remotely be useful and she had to keep a close eye on the Russians–headstrong and therefore dangerous Vladimir in particular.

Technically, Vladimir was right: she was indeed there to spy. But she had done no such thing. The first couple of days it had been because she wanted to get to know them–she hadn’t succeeded. The next days it had been because she was trying to help them with the shipment–she hadn’t succeeded. Then it had been because Vladimir doubted her too much, while Anatoly seemed to at least be okay with her presence as long as she didn’t annoy him, and the other Russians were just either uninterested or they chatted a bit before they went back to work.

There technically was nothing to report–or this was the excuse she brought up when Wesley bugged her for intel. There wasn’t an exact reason why she kept her mouth shut when it came to spying on the Russians, but all she could think of was that her silence meant more time away from her usual office, job, and colleague.

“Vladimir will accompany you home.” Anatoly’s words felt like a punch to the stomach, one that left her breathless–and one that brought her back to reality.

She moved on her chair, the muscles in her back suddenly tense and heavy. Was that how she was going to die? In a kingpin’s car?

Vladimir didn’t say a word: there was no way he could escape his brother–and he was tired. So tired he felt like going to bed and sleep for a century, willingly embracing nightmares and spasming muscles as he waded his way through a memory lane he could not elude. So, he groaned as he jumped down from Sergei’s desk with the grace of an elephant.

He didn’t wait for her: he headed towards the exit, suit jacket thrown over his left shoulder as he retrieved a packet of cigarettes from one of its pockets.

“If he does anything, you call me, da?” Anatoly softly ordered her, but Y/N didn’t turn even when he put his hand on her shoulder. “At any hour.”

“Will he kill me?” She didn’t really want to know, but at the same time, she did.

“No.”

“Why doesn’t he trust me?”

“You didn’t give him reason why he should.” The man shrugged his shoulders, his gaze fixed on her face.

“Why do you trust me, then?”

“I don’t exactly trust you either,” he confessed. “But you haven’t given me reason why I should accuse you of anything, so I’m good, for now. You don’t trust us either.” There was a smirk then, one that proved her there was more to him than what his tattoos could say.

“You are unpredictable and I never know what to expect,” she stated, and that confession seemed to cost her more than she’d ever thought.

*

The ride in Vladimir’s car was weighed down by a tense silence. She didn’t dare ask him to put out his cigarette, just as he didn’t care to ask her if him smoking was alright with her.

(It wasn’t.)

The radio was turned off and just as with his cigarette, she didn’t dare ask if she could turn it on. This was his territory and she was afraid of what he might do.

But the late-night traffic was thick that day and they both thought back at the Hungarians they had abandoned by the Hudson. The police had probably found them already, Y/N thought, not knowing Anatoly’s men had already taken care of them.

“Why did you move in next to me?”

Vladimir’s voice was tense, rougher than usual–probably because of the smoke or the anger, she didn’t really know. It took her a couple of seconds to convince herself to turn her head to look at him: he was staring ahead, his right hand gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles had turned white, almost as though the tattooed barb wire of his trips to jail had robbed them of their color. His jaw was clenched and she could see the sudden leaps of muscle underneath the skin when he gritted his teeth.

She opened her mouth, left it hanging like a fish out of water, and closed it again with a sigh. “It seemed like a good idea back then,” she answered then, gaze traveling back down his arm, skirting over the blood stain on his otherwise immaculate shirt.

“You should have not done that.”

“I guess I got it now.”

He remained silent for a while, until he finished his cigarette and threw the butt out of the open window. “My brother says I should give you chance,” he said. “‘Benefit of doubt,’ as you called it.”

She nodded, eyes lifting up from his barbed knuckles to the side of his face. For a second she was about to stretch her arm out and touch the scar that ran down from his right eyebrow to his cheek, but she tightened her fists in her lap and kept still.

“But my trust comes with price.”

“What do you want?”

He turned to stare at her then, and it scared her both because he wasn’t minding the street and because his eyes had turned to steel, to rock-hard hatred. “I want to know if you’re spying. I know you are.”

Y/N swallowed, and the movement was slow and thick and almost painful as she tried to swallow down her own fear, too. She was stronger than this. She had put up with Wesley and with Fisk–and with her family–and she was not going to give Vladimir Ranskahov the power of making her feel minuscule and insignificant, so small he could step on her and put her out the way she had watched him put out endless cigarettes, back at the garage.

But she had lied enough and there was no reason why she should continue, not now that he knew. He had always known, she had never deluded herself into thinking Vladimir was some stupid ass that could be tricked without much effort–he wasn’t like James, whom she played like a doll.

“I should be,” she found herself correcting him. “But I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

What was the reason? Was there a reason? She didn’t know.

“Why not?” he insisted. He parked in his usual lot, but the engine was still roaring under the hood of his expensive car.

Was that-? No, it couldn’t be his BMW.

“I like it, at the garage. No one bothers me. You’re stubborn and we fight a lot, I know, but I’d rather be locked up in a room with you than with Wesley.”

How had he found out she had moved here?

“If I find out you spy, I kill you.”

Was he waiting inside?

“Okay.” Her hand was trembling on the door handle, but it wasn’t out of fear nor was it because of Vladimir.

He followed her gaze, eyed the white BMW she was staring at, and eventually shrugged one shoulder as he opened his door.

Y/N’s feet weighed like lead as she walked to the elevator with Vlad at her side.

What did he want?

“Don’t come up now,” she said just before the doors to the elevator opened. “Wait a few minutes before you go up.”

“I take no orders from you.”

She stopped him with a hand in the middle of his chest, right on his sternum, and under the thin cotton of his shirt, his warm skin and hard muscles, she felt the faint thudding of his heart.

“I think Wesley is upstairs.” And she really didn’t want him to realize she lived right across from Vladimir Ranskahov.

How was this? Hopefully okay... As always, feedback, requests and suggestions are welcome and appreciated :) Thank you for reading  💛 I feel like I’m not doing this story justice, but hopefully it’s just bc of the swamp my life is these days.

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask. Same goes for ‘Bratva’)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892  @mblaqgi

Bratva (people not on the lists but that might still be interested): @sweetvengeancee @theranskahovs @brobachev 

[galadrieljones]

A Funeral: Chapter 11 (Arthur Morgan x Mary Beth Gaskill)

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Epiphanies, Backstory, Banter, Deep Emotions, Sharing a Bed, Swimming, Arthur to the Rescue, Forests, Abduction, Angst, Heavy Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. In their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of trials, some small, some big—all of which bring them closer to one another as well as to the future, and to the unchecked dangers of the natural world.

Thanks @bearly-tolerable for the lovely banner!! <3

For the rest of this story, you can visit the masterpost or AO3, both linked in the replies to this post and also at my blog. ^_^

Chapter 11: Deer Cottage, Pt. 2

They got to the cottage in the early evening. It was good timing, as dark hadn’t fallen and so there was time to drum up and gather their supper. Arthur didn’t want them to be traveling or hunting after dark, and Mary Beth didn’t either. It was just too much risk after what they’d been through the night before. Their plans were to stay in the cottage that night, head north to hunt early in the morning, and then be back to the cottage by evening once more. They had no more plans to sleep in the tent outside, not until they left these more remote parts of the land, heading back to Shady Belle.

Deer Cottage was just as Hamish described it. Modest but clean, with a little garden of lavender and what looked like moss roses. There was some thyme growing around, too, and the moment they got there, Mary Beth began to pick a bunch and gather it into her skirts, and then she found a basket sitting by the green door and dropped it in, along with a selection of poppies and apple blossoms and lavender, too. Arthur fed the horses and made sure they were watered and then together they went inside.

It was small, one room, but it had a very nice and open look about it. The fireplace was clean, with wood chopped and ready, and there was a full kitchen with a basin and a stove and a bed and a table with two chairs. Nothing grisly about it, nothing unsightly or out of order. Hamish was a tender man, it seemed, when it came to keeping his spaces. There were even extra pillows and blankets in the armoire by the door. He noticed, too, there was a gramophone. A real one. It looked dusty and he didn’t know if it was working, but there it was, a fancy novelty item, sitting there by the end of the bed, on the floor.

“This is so quaint,” said Mary Beth, happy. She put the basket of flowers on the table. Then, she went through the cupboards till she found an empty pitcher. “We need water,” she said.

“I saw a working well out back,” said Arthur. “I’ll get it. I’ll see if I can’t shoot something for us to eat as well.”

“Be safe.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling.

The cottage was up a narrow path off the valley road. He took his rifle off of Sarah and his shotgun, too. He didn’t have to go very far. He found a bunch of whitetail grazing in a patch of open grass, the sunlight spreading through like gold. With patience, he honed in on a small doe, took it down in the crosshairs, watched the rest of them scatter, along with several birds. He hauled the deer back to the cottage, flung over his shoulder, tossed it on the ground, real crude, to skin and carve it up. He wasn’t Mr. Pearson, but he could get the job done okay. It was a big score, a nice pelt, and a lot of the meat he salted and wrapped, preserving for the way home. He was bringing in a couple fresh cuts for their dinner now, a big bucket of well water, and some wild carrots, too, which he had found growing along the path back up to the cottage.

When he got back inside, Mary Beth gasped. “Arthur,” she said. “You’re up to your eyeballs in gore."

He looked at his hands, his sleeves, quite bloodied. “You're right,” he said. Then he set down the fresh cuts of meat, the water, and the carrots. “Guess I should wash up.”

“What did you get?” she said.

“Whitetail,” he said. “A good quantity. We’ll have some for tomorrow and the way home as well.”

“Good job, Arthur,” she said, smiling. “I mean it.” She had cleaned up the kitchen, and it looked far less dusty than before. She then poured most of the water from the bucket into the basin, and then the remainder into the tea kettle on the stove. Then, she handed the bucket back to Arthur.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

She watched him, very courteous. He tipped his hat to her and then went out the door to the advancing twilight. She saw him fill the bucket with more water from the well, then he proceeded to splash it over his arms and his face, through his hair till the blood was gone. He removed his shirt, went over to Sarah, found a different one, folded up real tight inside the saddlebag. This one was white. He took a quick look at his stitches, and then he buttoned up the shirt and replaced his suspenders. All of this Arthur did having no idea how she watched him. She felt quietly rebellious. She hadn’t meant to spy. But he was right there, so close, going through with his intimate and masculine routine. He dumped the bucket, filled it up with clean water. Then, he was heading back to the cottage.

She busied herself at the basin, washing some dishes she had found in one of the cupboards. She had also started the burner on the stove for frying up the meat and the carrots. She was touched that he had thought to bring in carrots. It was like he remembered her unfinished business from the night before and made it whole, and he said not one word about it.

He got in and closed the door behind him. He held out his hands, showed her his clean face and collar. “Better?” he said.

“Less bloody, that’s for sure,” she said. “I thought I’d make up dinner now.”

“I’ll, uh, start a fire,” he said, gesturing to the mantle.

“Sounds good.”

Things had changed a little, between the two of them that day. They were more cordial somehow. They had known each other for years, but now it was like that kiss had sealed them up tight, but it also removed them into some new and foreign territory. Neither was entirely clear on how to navigate it yet, but there they were.

After he got the fire going, Arthur began going through the flowers Mary Beth had brought in from Hamish’s garden outside. He chopped some of the thyme for her with the hunting knife from his belt. He set the chopped thyme in a mortar and set it on the counter, beside the stove. She thanked him. He then went about pouring some of the fresh water from the well into that glass pitcher, and then he found an empty coffee can in the pantry. He blew out the dust and put just a couple inches of water in the bottom, and then he put Mary Beth’s assortment of gathered flowers inside. He set it on the table, as he knew she had intended, and he admired its pretty simplicity. It made the cottage feel a little more like a home.

“You know,” said Arthur, leaning now, watching Mary Beth cook. The smell of the meat was filling the air. It was very comforting, making him feel sentimental. He did not have a problem feeling sentimental in front of Mary Beth. He never had. “My ma used to bring home wildflowers like that. In a basket and everything. This reminds me.”

This made Mary Beth blush. “That’s real nice.” She looked at him then, pushing the loose hairs off her face as she stood by the stove. “Where were you born, Arthur?”

Arthur thought on it, went and sat down at the kitchen table, folded his hands in front of him. “I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “I think whereabouts of southern Nebraska. But we took off on the Oregon Trail when I was barely old enough to speak.”

“Oh my,” said Mary Beth. “That must’ve been hard.”

“On my ma, sure,” said Arthur. “I don’t remember much. If anything at all.”

“So up in Oregon, that’s where she died?” said Mary Beth.

“Yeah,” he said, looking down at his clean hands. “She got sick.”

“What sort?”

“I don’t recall,” said Arthur. “A fever, maybe. My pa took me east after that, into Idaho, then Montana where we lived for a long time. He was a hustler, mostly card games, but he robbed folks as well, got busted one night when I was maybe ten years old. We went running into Wyoming, where he was killed, eventually. South Pass City. Pulling a bank job he was ill-prepared to undertake.”

“Did he run with a gang?”

“No,” said Arthur. “Perhaps that was part of his many failures. He did not get on well with others.”

She turned to face him then. The food was almost finished. She leaned against the counter, like she was thinking real hard. “South Pass City,” she said. “Is that where you was found by Dutch?”

Arthur smiled. It wasn’t fine times, looking back. But it didn’t hurt too bad. And her standing there, listening, it made him feel like sharing. “No,” he said. “No. I wandered on my own a while. Maybe two, almost three years. Robbing homesteads mostly to stay alive. I worked at a ranch for about one of them years. That’s where I learned breaking horses. I left there, and then headed back west, to the Tetons, in a place called Jackson, that’s where Dutch found me, working tables at the saloons. He saved me from getting my ass almost beat to death. I was barely fourteen.”

“Working tables?” she said. The meat was done. She checked it a little and then turned off the stove and took the pan off the burner, wearing a green oven mit. “What’s that?”

“Cheating cards, mostly,” said Arthur. He was slouching in the chair now. He’d taken off his hat, hung it on the back of his chair. “I was a good con artist because I was so young. No one suspected a kid to know how to cheat successfully at Blackjack.”

“Cheating cards, you learnt that from your daddy?”

He nodded. “My pa was a poor outlaw and a piece of shit but he wasn’t none too stupid with numbers. He could hold a lot of them in his head at once, and it turned out I could, too. He taught me when I was...nine or ten. I got some sleight of hand I’d use as well. Things I’d picked up over time. No one ever caught me, not right up till the very end.”

This seemed to both amuse and impress Mary Beth very much. She stood over the smoking pan. “I didn’t know you could do all that, Arthur.”

Arthur smirked. “I don’t do it much no more,” he said. “Takes the fun out of gambling. And if you get caught, well, you get killed. I’ll do it to John sometimes just to piss him off, but never in the saloons.”

Mary Beth laughed. “Oh, John,” she said. “He’s kind of sensitive, ain’t he?”

“In certain ways,” said Arthur. “Sure.”

He got up then, instinctually, to get the clean plates off the counter. He brought them over to the table, along with a couple of forks and knives. Mary Beth followed him over, served the venison and the pan-fried carrots. Arthur poured them each a big glass of water, and then together they sat down at the table to eat. The food was good. They spoke in an idle fashion. They felt civilized and grateful as humans in the world.

When they finished, it was full dark. Arthur peaked through the window, picked up his shotgun, which was leaning against the door frame. Mary Beth was clearing the plates and asked him what he was doing.

“I’m gonna just take a quick look around the perimeter here,” he said, looking back at her from the window pane. “I’m sure everything’s fine, but it would just make me feel better to know exactly what’s out there and what things sound like, so if anything changes, I’ll know.”

Mary Beth stopped very cold, holding a plate in each hand. She seemed surprised. “It’s so dark out,” she said.

He sighed. He had half-predicted her concern. “Nothing’s gonna get the jump on me, Mary Beth. I promise. I know what I’m doing.”

“I know you do. It’s just—it’s not just men could be out there,” she said. “There’s animals and things.”

“I know. But I been in these parts many times. I won’t be gone but ten minutes. I promise. I need to take this precaution, Mary Beth. Please understand.”

She still did not move, but she did understand. She nodded, swallowed, dry. She strained a smile. “Just be careful,” she said.

He nodded, trying to reassure her. He was not afraid. She didn’t need to be afraid either. “I always am,” he said. “Lock the door behind me. I’ll be back soon.”

She obeyed. He put on his hat. She went with him to the door, and he went out of the door, then she closed it and turned the bolt and pulled the chain. She heard his heavy boots on the step and then soft in the grass, and she heard him load the shotgun and cock it, ready to shoot.

Mary Beth waited very impatiently after that. She bit her nails. She wondered stupidly at first about why it was he couldn't bring the key, and why instead she had to lock the door behind him. But she knew. It was so that in case someone got him, they couldn't find the key in his pocket, which might lead them back to the cottage. And back to her. He was locked away into the outside world and its myriad of threats and deadly agents just to protect her. She closed her eyes to the possibility.

Mary Beth was used to sleeping outside and noises and enemies everywhere. She was used to men and even women like Karen and Sadie and Miss Grimshaw doing the perimeter walks at night with their big guns back at camp. She never felt afraid at camp. She liked to see the good in their situation. She liked feeling safe. Before now, she trusted that Arthur was a superhuman when it came to the likes of violence, like so many of the other men of the gang. They were impervious. They went out, they shot things, they worked mean angles. They robbed banks and coaches with armed guards. They brought entire trains to their knees. These were serious men of their serious trade. When Arthur had come back almost dead from that O’Driscoll ordeal, even then, she knew in her heart of hearts that he would live. Because he was solid. He was made of something stronger than regular men, and this would protect him from the scourge of mortality. She always saw him that way, maybe him more so than anyone, because he stood so tall and so eager, and he had great skill for what he did.

But somehow, this trip was changing things. It had started with that night at the Winterson’s B&B. It wasn’t about seeing him injured, seeing him bloodied or beat up. That, to her, was second nature. It was about seeing him scared. That night, that dream about Eliza. He was scared. And then the night before with the ambush, when that horrible man had him by the neck in the woods, in the middle of that violent storm, that knife so close to cutting him open right in front of her—he was in danger. He could have died. She could have died, too, or worse, but she wasn’t thinking about her. That’s not what this was.

When he kissed her back in the loft at Hamish’s cabin, it was like a dream. Even if it was only for the moment. She remembered what it was to feel safe and held and accepted, like she had a place somewhere solid and real in the world, tucked away into his arms, arms she had, up until now, understood only as abstractions, symbols of strength and vitality and the unflinching heroism of such a handsome outlaw with a stoic disposition.

Their swelling intimacy, grown of both fear and what might be amounting to love was bringing him all the way down to earth now. She had always known he was a man, and a good man, but now he was a mortal man—he got scared, he lived his live in danger, and he was sort of becoming hers a little bit, and seeing and touching these inside parts of Arthur made her realize that he was not super, he was not impervious—not in his mind, heart, or his body. He could be hurt, and he could die. And thinking of this made her think about a life in which he did not exist. In which she did not hear his boots on the porch step no more, or walking the hallways of Shady Belle at night, making sure everyone was in their right places, safe as houses, before he would allow himself that same luxury of sleeping. He was so solid and big and strong and brave. How can a body like that die? How can a man like that feel fear? She had never thought about it before. And now, he was just out there, in the wilderness, alone, with his guns and his know-how, doing what he always did, which was just to make sure everything was safe, and she was frozen. She could barely even busy herself with the dishes. She was so consumed with her sudden realization that Arthur Morgan could die, that her heart was like a dumbass drum in her chest. And at some point, it was getting to be too damn much.

So she turned around from the window, and she tried to smack some sense into herself like Miss Grimshaw would do. Miss Grimshaw was a mean bitch but she knew a thing or two about practicality, a trait without which no woman of ambiguous station could have survived in their world. Mary Beth took a deep breath, leaning against the table.

“Get it together, Mary Beth,” she said. “This ain’t nothing new.”

After that, she came to her resolve. She pushed off the table, washed the plates and set the pan in the basin. She filled it with some water from the bucket, and added a little soap to let it soak. She found a bottle of bourbon under the sink then and took just one sip, and it burned and made her cough. She had no idea why she did this. Maybe because she thought it was something Sadie would do, or Abigail. These women who were a little older and ripened to the world, and they both had been in love with men and gone through real fucked up shit in their lives with men, and their maturity and wisdom about men gave her something to shoot for. She set the bottle down on the counter. She breathed. She blinked. And that is when she looked over at the bed nearby the crackling fire, and she noticed the gramophone.

It was dusty, but it looked new. It was half covered in a plaid-looking dust cover, tucked against the wall. Dutch had one sort of like it. He would play music that permeated through the camp and made it feel romantic and safe. She went over, and she took off the dust cover and picked it up. It was heavy, but she was strong. She brought it over to the kitchen table. It had a record and everything, and it was a little dirty on its surface, so she wiped it down with a soft linen towel, and she wiped down the record, too. The label was missing. She didn’t know what she was in for. But she secured that record back on the turntable, and then she removed the little break on the spring motor, so the turntable rose up a little and the record started to spin. And then she set the needle down on the record, gently, and in an instant, it started to play.

Meanwhile, Arthur was outside. He did not encounter much on their horizon. It was quiet, and typical, and a boring perimeter check, which was the only good kind, but still. There was a grown black bear, night-prowling, rubbing its back on a tree not too far. When he came upon it, he made eye contact with the beast, pointed his gun and made a whistle, shouting for it to flee, and he waved an arm in the air. The bear was annoyed. It lazied away from that tree and kind of gave him a rebellious look, but then it lumbered into the dark, all aloof. Arthur lowered his gun. He was chewing on a piece of bark. He spat it to the earth and looked around some more. The world was pristine. He was done. He started heading back toward the cabin, and pretty soon he got close enough that he could hear music coming from inside.

It was weird at first. Not what he expected—such a manmade sound. He got up to the door, knocked, peaked through the window, took off his hat when he saw Mary Beth. She opened the door and right away she took his hand, gathering him inside the cottage. She palmed his cheeks like she was checking to make sure nothing had got a piece of him in secret while he was gone, and then she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him so hard, it dragged him down the full ten inches of height he must’ve had on her.

He laughed, holding her, dropped his hat. He was taken by surprise. “I’m fine,” he said. “There was nothing out there but a dumbass black bear.”

“Did you kill it?” she said, her face deep in his neck.

Her hair was getting in his mouth, his nose, everywhere all around. It was a clean smell of rainwater and iron, and it tickled. “No,” he said. “It might’ve robbed us blind of our provisions but it ain’t no danger. I just scared it off.”

“Okay,” she said. She was still right there in his collar, like she was breathing him in real deep.

He didn't want to move. He pushed all of her hair over one shoulder. He was taken aback by her level of relief and concern. As usual he had underestimated her affection for him, or perhaps he just kept forgetting. A defense mechanism of sorts. He sighed and held her face gently and pulled away so he could look her in the eye. “I’m fine,” he said, smiling. “See?”

Mary Beth nodded, her cheeks red and she kind of cast her eyes downward like she was embarrassed. “I know. I'm sorry.”

"Don’t be sorry."

They met eyes, and there was a moment, but then Mary Beth defused it by tucking her hair behind her ears and moving away. She went past him, and he exhaled and watched her go, and then he locked the door and closed all the curtains, and he leaned his gun against the kitchen table and removed his neckerchief and rolled up his sleeves and took a deep breath. He went over to the gramophone, where Mary Beth stood now with her arms crossed, watching the record spin. Arthur examined it with his hands on his hips. It was playing a lovely waltz, violins and a piano and everything. “It works,” he said after a little while.

“Yeah,” said Mary Beth. “It’s pretty new. I think it’s nicer than Dutch’s.”

This was amusing. “Don’t tell him that.”

“I never would.”

Arthur was rocking back on his heels a little bit now, looking at Mary Beth and her pretty face, her warmth, smiling at the gramophone. He was done with the day. The day was over, its various procedures and protocols taken care of. All these things he had to do to safeguard against so many of life's uncertainties. Riding, hunting, preparing, protecting. But that wasn’t all there was to it, was there? Life.

When he had been outside before, getting dirty and cold, spooking that bear, he felt good about their dinner, their conversation, and how it had been so warm in the meantime, even despite this newfound tension between them. It made him think of her, and, again, how he just liked hanging out with her, and how he knew her touch now, her taste, and he'd felt her, and he'd let her in, and he hadn't allowed this for himself in so many years. So many. It changed things, and while he was outside, away from her, he missed her, and he did not want her to be worried, and it was too much. It turned out that it was too much, but for a man like Arthur, too much was probably just enough. It was only that he needed a little bit of hindsight. What does a man want at the end of his day? When his duties have been fulfilled, and the moon is high. What did Arthur want? He glanced around the room now. His gun was leaning by the door. His hat hung up for the evening. He felt accomplished in some weird way he could not pin down and could not describe, and yet, he was unfinished.

“So,” he said, deferring to her. "What do we do now?" She always had good ideas.

She had both of her hands behind her back. She looked at him, hopeful and a little pleased with herself. She said, “Do you wanna dance?” And she held out her hand.

Arthur smiled. He took her hand in a familiar fashion. He said, "Sure."

[keyboard-smashed]

The Storm That's Brewing

Summary: first glance of restaurant

Warnings: food/eating mention

(first, previous & next chapters linked at bottom)

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Chapter 5- The Mind Palace

The car journey wasn’t great. Patton called shotgun, so he sat up front with Roman (who, for the record, was a terrible driver). The pair ended up singing the whole journey. Logan inquired about whether it was best for Roman to be wearing out his voice before a performance, but Sir Sing-A-Lot argued that he was warming up. Though, Virgil knew that there were better ways to warm up your voice than failing at rapping Nicki's part in Bang Bang.

That left the two less enthusiastic singers in the back trying, failing and eventually giving up on holding a regular conversation. Luckily, the car journey was pretty short- lasting only four songs (two of which Virgil, the emo he was, didn't even recognise).

From outside, the restaurant didn’t look like anything special. The white paint on the bricks was peeling and the whole place looked quite small. The door was painted dark blue, with several darker panels painted in, and white squares at the top that reminded Virgil of the TARDIS. When he walked inside the restaurant, he found out why. The place was a lot bigger, and a lot cooler, than its outside suggested.

The entire restaurant was a mix and match of seats and sofas from various film and television shows' sets all centred towards a small stage in the middle of the back wall, between two closed off rooms Virgil assumed to be the kitchen and perhaps a storage or changing room.

Immediately next to the entrance was the iconic couch and table set from Friends. There sat five girls; one of whom didn’t look completely dissimilar to Phoebe, with long blonde hair and hippie clothes. Virgil thought that perhaps it was on purpose, or maybe just a lucky coincidence. Although Virgil didn’t quite believe in coincidences. He chose instead to believe that figures, like the Fates from Greek mythology, liked to sit around and decide on fun ways to mess with Virgil.

Behind the Friends set up were four wooden tables with benches on both sides. They were relatively big; Virgil thought that with a squeeze, each bench could fit about eight people, meaning a table could seat sixteen. When the group walked a little further in, he saw four prominent, coloured banners hanging on the walls above the tables: yellow for Hufflepuff, red for Gryffindor, blue for Ravenclaw and green for Slytherin. Hanging above the tables were electronic candles. They weren’t on at that moment, but Virgil still thought they looked extremely cool, and it was a great detail to throw in.

Further back was a dark oak door. There was a sign on it, but from the distance, Virgil couldn’t make it out.

A small, dark wooden corner bar sat at the edge of the room. Over the top of the bar was a sign that said 'Puzzles'. Virgil couldn’t figure out what the bar was a reference to. To him it was, well, a puzzle. Virgil internally groaned. He’d been spending too much time with Patton.

In the centre of the room stood six circular tables with white table cloths covering them. Each table had a set of menus in the middle, accompanied with a small pink lamp on one side and a vase of (probably fake) roses. It was very cliché. Very romantic (not like Virgil would ever going with a date). Very tasteful. The whole set up gave Virgil a French vibe for some reason. Those tables definitely had the best view of the stage, but each only seated two people.

The stage itself was not very big. However, in the pretty small restaurant-café-bar-hybrid it looked bigger. It was clearly supposed to be the central point of focus. Red curtains hang open either side of the stage, although Virgil wasn’t sure if they were functional or not.

The whole place felt like someone at the movies had eaten a pick 'n mix bag of fandoms and then thrown it all up. In other words, it looked quite like their side of Virgil’s mind. The place was called 'The Mind Palace' after all.

Confirming all earlier suspicions, Roman's manager was very surprised to see him arrive early, even more so when he said he was there to help set up the stage. Turns out, they never actually put the equipment away since they had live music on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays and karaoke on Sundays. Virgil made a note in his phone about never going to the restaurant on Sundays.

With almost an hour to kill before Roman's performance, all four got a table. Well, shared a table with some strangers. The only tables left that could fit them all were the Hogwarts tables. Everyone agreed that Roman could pick the table so of course he picked Gryffindor which was the busiest.

Roman and Logan sat on one side, Logan wedged between Roman and a stranger. Roman insisted on sitting on the edge so that he could leave quickly to sing. Virgil sat on the end for the same reason, minus the singing. He also didn’t like the idea of being sardined next to a stranger. Logan wasn’t particularly fond of it either, but he knew that he’d have more space once Roman left, unlike Patton and Virgil who’d remain squished, so he didn’t complain... Much.

The menus were presented in rolled up scrolls. Virgil thought that was a nice touch. Roman informed his friends that each section of the restaurant had a specialised menu themed on what fandom they were from, except the Hogwarts section where the food was a big mix and match of everything. Roman's boss was the coolest.

Roman only ordered a drink, yet his still took the longest to order as his drink order was so unnecessarily complicated: warm milk with about one eighth of a cup of honey, a spoonful of sugar (a line that he sung, to which Virgil commented about how he really chose to be as extra as possible whenever he was given the opportunity), 3 drops of vanilla extract and several drops from a fresh lime.

The waitress sighed, "Roman, you know we don't stock any limes."

Roman smiled and threw the waitress, Mandy, a lime he brought out from his pocket. Seriously, what? Where did he get the lime from? Had he bought it before his manicure and had it in his pocket the whole time?

Mandy laughed, pocketing the lime. She continued to take their orders as if this was normal.

Mandy seemed to be used to Roman's stupid antics. If Virgil got a customer as annoying as Roman, he'd probably quit right then and there. Roman claimed the drink readied his throat for singing which was fair, except Virgil was sure plain water or milk would do fine. He was just being fussy.

The two vegetarians with glasses both ordered salads and vegetarian burgers. Logan ordered a green tea too. There was some boring reason for his choice that he'd explained to the rest, and the waitress, but Virgil had been really interested in his napkin while he was explaining and missed it.

Patton also ordered a regular burger for Virgil and hot chocolates for the both of them. Virgil had actually wanted a soda, but Patton thought a hot chocolate was more appropriate for the late hour. Virgil wasn’t going to protest.

The restaurant began to fill up in anticipation of Roman singing, but their food still came relatively quickly. It was delicious too. Everybody wolfed down their food and was finished before Roman's performance, except from Roman

"Logan, what time befalls us?" Roman asked dramatically, pointing at Logan's watch, as if he didn't have his phone in his hand.

"This watch shows the time in Greenland which I doubt would be of much use to you, however..." Logan briefly brought out his phone, "In our current time zone, the time would be four minutes to nine."

"Thanks teach." Roman said, sliding himself of of the bench. He slid his drink over to Virgil, "It's best when warm but I'm sure you'll still love it. Enjoy!"

Roman pranced off behind the bar and through a door before Virgil could protest. Virgil looked cautiously at the drink. Who knew what illness that drama queen could be hosting? Still, Virgil was curious.

He picked up the mug, discreetly warming it in his hands. Then, he sipped. Admittedly, despite being as obnoxious as it was, it was really good. Sweet enough to satisfy Virgil's sweet tooth, but not so sweet that he thought he'd have to schedule a dentist appointment straight afterwards. That lime really added a nice tang.

Virgil was brought back to attention by a gentle tap on the shoulder. Patton barely touched him, yet still received a static shock and shocked (in the less literal sense) Virgil. 

"Sorry," he whispered, "But look!"

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Taglist: me, myself, I

Chapter 1:

Chapter 4:

Chapter 6:

[wctkins]

ok yall ive never made a sideblog before so this may go rough but ! u kno what 2019 is about us facing our fears ok. in other news this is my new Child callia ( um hi i’m cali ty’s mun if u didnt know ) . i was gonna write out a whole gr8 intro but honestly got lazy lmfao whats new ?? under the cut is the usual, wanted plots and stats and whateva ok xoxo

BASICS !

name:  callia ( beautiful voice ) bianca ( after her mother ) donatella ( after donatella versace ) watkins ( welsh surname ) nicknames: calli, cal age: twenty three birthday: november 3 1995  zodiac: scorpio hometown: melbourne, australia occupation:  head engineer at a green tech company  hobbies: working out, partying, watching jeopardy, drawing, reading, trying new foods, going for walks in central park family: emil watkins ( iron ore mining magnate ) , bianca watkins ( socialite )  style inspo: kendall jenner, elsa hosk, rachel green, 90′s drew barrymore, bella hadid muse inspo: donna pinciotti, monica geller, tai frasier, mylene cruz, fallon carrington ( career wise )

HISTORY !

ok so if yall haven’t seen the show yummy mummies on netflix gd thats my new addiction / guilty pleasure o shit that show’s hilarious. callia’s family is fully based on carlos and maria ( maria’s this random selfish bitch who’s obsESSED w versace and herself like go watch fr ) so callia grew up wearing only designer, mostly versace and burberry clothing. she didnt rly care when she was a small child but as she started growing up she started like ?? getting shit on by her other for being a regular child & wanting to play when her mom just wanted her to be decor essentially

had a pretty lonely childhood tbh spent most her time with her terror of a mother bc she wasn’t rly allowed to go hang out w other kids & was never involved in school activities. like essentially she only went to whatever prissy academy so her mom could show off her new car or her daughter’s outfits & brag to other moms lmfao

tbh didn’t give a shit about the brands and labels despite their house being covered in head to toe versace everythING she was more interested in sports and actuaL hobbies ?? so she wanted to play sports but wasn’t allowed bc goD FORBID she get a bruise or smth on her perfect skin. so she just started working out on her own in their home gym and found it was a rly good escape from her fam

another method of escape her mother’s grip was by delving into her studies. she was always top of her class and worked so dang hard ( but like also could afford the best tutors and education lmfao) so sis basically could get accepted wherever she wanted to go for post secondary

eventually she was able to convince her parents to let her study abroad for a year in nyc going to stay w her cousin #jessegrove where she was ! finally ! able to escape the clutches of her awful mother and her pushover disconnected father. she told her mother she was going to use the year as research for a career in modeling or fashion or smth bc she knew it’d cater to her moms interests but rly she just needed to get tf out of melbourne and live a normal life

she’s lived in nyc ever since ( since she was 18 - she’s 23 now ) and wanted nothing to do with the expensive brand names she’d grown to despise. so she found herself a condo ( def spent millions on it bc god forbid bianca watkins’ daughter living in anything under 5mil) but didn’t want it to be anything crazy bc she was so over that lifestyle so its def luxurious but very basic and minimal compared to what she grew up with

got into columbia’s earth and environmental engineering program bc she figured she ought to do something good with her smarts and her parent’s money so she went to school to get a degree & got a sweet job at a green tech company where she basically gets to do whatever tf she wants bc she’s the head engineer & makes fat stacks 

PERSONALITY !

during the week goOD luck convincing cal to leave the office like she basically lives there but she loves it ??? or shes at home doing facemasks and binging on reality tv like weekday vs weekend shes a completely diff person

weekends like......u better watch out. having grown up so isolated and sheltered callia has come to LOVE the nyc nightlife scene like she will get blackout one night and be ready to get drunk at brunch the next. shes not usually the life of the party moreso bc she enjoys just being a shit disturber and finds it fun lmfao

experiences maJOR fomo

she rly tries to be nice to everyone stemming from a deep need to have friends and be liked lmfao and is overall v approachable and friendly

can come across as fake tho bc she tries to be so nice she won’t disagree w people unelss they’re waY off from her own ideas

is v politically engaged & cares alot abt the environment so she’s vegan, walks most places, will 10/10 give a ted talk if anyone asks more deeply abt her job

honestly she wears mostly like simple clothing. like she just buys what she likes, whether its at h&m or at prada she has a distaste for exclusively brand wardrobes. def mostly walks around in high top converse and levi’s jeans 

WANTED PLOTS !

roommates ! the apartment linked above has 4 bedrooms so i’d loVE for 3 lil old roomates :’) 

hook ups / fwbs ! all that pent up stress has to come out somewhere lmfao shes tryna get laid at every turn so imma need a bunch of hook up plots ok no specific gender ( unlimited )

best friend ! the mary kate to her ashley, this person understands her inside and out & tbh knows her better than she knows herself. def knows about her crazy mother & can put up w the rants ( open )

friends from college ! they prob have wild stories abt college parties & have seen one anohter at their worst. preferably someone who went to columbia also ( open )

mutual dislike ! they think callia’s annoying and preachy, she thinks they’re rude and devil’s spawn bc they’re not as passionate abt environmental issues ( open )

exes ( she ghosted on them ) ! pls ok pls i need many !!!! cal’s so willing to adapt her personality to fit w whoever she’s with so she prob would be rly lovey dovey and make it seem like they were perfect for each other and meant to be but she low key lied abt everything, her family, her background, her feelings for them, etc. she prob thought they were ok but wasn’t rly into them besides for sex. so eventually she just got so invested in her work she ghosted on them ! i imagine them dating for a while too like maybe a year & they never met her family or rly got to know her bc she was hella guarded ( open ! )

exes ( on good terms ) ! they dated when she was new to nyc - she was like oooh an american they were like ooh an australian & tbh their sex life was gr8 but they didn’t rly have much going except for that so they called it off. they’re still friends & sometimes laugh abt the relationship ( open ! )

current fling ! they’re hanging out , might be moving towards exclusivity but aren’t there yet, its casual ( open ! ) 

sibling like relationship ! she never had siblings so she always felt like that aspect was missing from her life. she prob treats them like a sibling, asking if they’ve eaten and keeping up to date on their life. she cares alot & has good intentions but can sometimes be seen as over protective and pushy ( open ! )

ok yall im tired of writing this shit props to yall who do like literal essays, bullet points are even too much for me. LIKE THIS n ill slide into yo dms ok thanks for coming to my ted talk