#imagine having to balance so delicately doing something your parents taught you to get from one fucking nightmare to the next

[youmustfixyourheartt]

I'm going to use your inbox to rant about a comics choice because it made me so upset I had to stop reading the comic

I was reading the DC line about like all characters are trapped in their worst nightmares Yada yada

What's important about it is that it's a storyline seeped in very important symbolism both in items and locations

So tell me why between the symbol of nightwing being in arkham and nightwing being in the tent he watched his parents die in

Guess how they get between those two places fucking guess

You're right

It's the fucking backrooms

WHY what fucking symbolism does this have

Batman is in the ally his parents died in

Tim is stuck in a loop of the moment right before his father dies

Dick... is in the FUCKING BACKROOMS???

WHY

not even a TIGHTROPE.

[badgirlcovenrep]

The Goddess' Blessing (of a daughter)

Chapter One

(NOTES: the raylla adopts Tiffany fic everyone's been asking for

this is going on AO3 once I get home from my sister's but I wanted to post here first. If you'd rather read it there follow me and I'll post once it's officially in there.

Obs: Tiffany is six in this. Mostly because I wanted to write our witch moms carrying their baby and canonically she's like ten so..... and she's also like severely traumatized. We'll get to the healing soon enough though.

+ Edwin is the best papa. And Scylla has p much already adopted this kid, she just doesn't know it yet.

It's half past six p.m when their train screeches to a halt at the Chippewa station. In all the chaos of the last couple of weeks, Scylla hadn't realized Yule was well on it's way. It is still mid November, but the station has been prematurely decked in civilian Christmas decorations, and almost every wall and corner twinkles in golden speckles and fake pine.

Tiffany had been dozing in and out of sleep on the bench next to her, holding tight to her stuffed parrot as well as Scylla's coat sleeve with her restless small hands that spasmed in pure energy even as she slept. Since coming back from Nicte's mission, Scylla had been in a frenzy to get everything ready for their trip, and Tiffany had followed her around the (no longer safe) safe house, clinging on to her attention with wide blue eyes. She'd always liked kids. Before everything happened Scylla even used to babysit for dodger families.

It was never a lot of money, but she appreciated the levity and humor kids carried. They had hope Scylla prayed she could one day get back. Hope that could only come from the fleeting innocence of childhood. But even then, Tiffany was special, she still had all those wonderful, bright things, and she carried them in bulk, spilling out of her tiny little hands for anyone to see.

Yet she was also touched by things so horrible Scylla sometimes shuddered awake in the dead of night, when her mind conjured up terrible nightmares of being in her place. Of being squeezed into a tiny cage, fed dog food, strung up on a stage as masked psychopaths snickered and passed around stones bigger than fists. It showed, sometimes, in how every once in a while her expression became somber and reserved. How she stopped mid-sentence, and Scylla could see the glint of tears in the corners of her eyes.

It reminded her of Raelle - Raelle, who'd sat in her bed just yesterday and snacked on the stupid expensive popcorn her mother had bought - Raelle, who also carried so much darkness behind her strong, steady demeanor - those were the parts of her Scylla couldn't help but want to protect, and as a result, those feelings also extended to Tiffany. Scylla lost a lot of people in her life, and she'd decided the day she found the child's parents that she would do whatever it took to keep her safe. Just like she wished someone might have done for her. Because that sort of hidden, desolate pain could just as well transform itself into something entirely awful if exploited the right way.

People around her start getting up from their seats, reaching to the compartments for their luggage, there aren't many of them making their way up North this time of year but they still fill the cart in humming conversations, deciding on what to do next or where to get dinner. Scylla takes this as her cue to skim her fingers through Tiffany's hair, gently nudging her awake, "Hey, T, wake up, we're here."

The little girl sits up, bleary eyed, and yawns, looking around at the commotion, "it's already Christmas?" She asks, catching a glimpse of the boisterous decorations set up outside.

"Not yet, no." Scylla chuckles, getting up from her seat to retrieve their own bags - they had everything the two could think to bring, and yet were still not much. A duffel bag for Scylla and purple backpack for Tiffany, with unicorn stickers and colorful buttons sewn to the front. Scylla had retrieved it, along with some toys and clothes, from the girl's home, "People just love decorating early."

"Oh." Tiffany quips, as Scylla helps her fit her arms into the straps of her backpack, then takes her hand in a steady grip once they are done, pulling the young girl towards the door to leave the train, "The lights are pretty!" She exclaims happily, blinking in wide eyed wonder.

Outside, November has definitely made itself known, and Scylla is glad they are both warm in their coats as the wind bites her cheeks until they turn a dark blush. She looks around for Edwin, not sure she'll recognize him from the pictures she'd seen Willa scatter around the house, but still willing to try.

For a second, in that moment, she thinks this might not have been a good idea. When Scylla agreed to it, she'd admittedly not been in her full faculties, brain too preoccupied with seeing Raelle again after so long to completely comprehend what she'd been offered.

After everything that happened, she can't help but be a little nervous to meet the father of her ex (?), the same girl she still very much loved. The girl who had run back to her in that dark forest a day before and clung onto her face until all they could breathe was each other.

If she thought too much about it, Scylla could still feel the soft, almost painful impact of her lips as Raelle knocked her off her balance and breathed fire into her chest like molten lava. It'd been so long, she almost forgot the kind of power Raelle had when she kissed. Like she was always on the verge of tasting your very soul. Their whole day back together before was so very delicate and tentative, air fizzling with electricity like the tension of a bow, pulled tight with an arrow ready to shoot.

The time they've been separated her heart was squeezed tight under an elastic band. Whenever she stopped to think, even for a minute, she could feel it taught, so very strained, reaching from the very inside of her ribs. It was there from the very start. The tightness was what propelled her diaphragm into breathing Raelle in that very first night they spent together, even if she knew she shouldn't, and then, it was what kept them orbiting around each other like their very own solar system. Never too far apart. Always wishing to be closer.

When they kissed in the clearing, hairs messy with the wild strumming of the bat just a few feet away, for the first time, she felt like the band released. The invisible string, so very tight, loosening from under her heart to extend around the both of them and wrap them in what Scylla could only describe as exhilarating, shaking relief. The touch of Raelle's cotton gloves, that she never thought she'd feel again - the taste of her lips, like blood and rain droplets and a mouthful of just her.

It left Scylla running on a high since she walked away from Raelle just the day before, in the early hours of the morning.

It's not how she hoped she'd meet Raelle's dad. Deep down, no matter how much she tried not to, Scylla had imagined herself, more than once, coming to the Cession hand in hand with the blonde fixer. In love and together, going home to meet the parents. It's bittersweet to be here with Tiffany instead, and she has to squeeze the young witch's hand slightly to ground herself from the urge to run.

To just take the child's small body in her arms and run- leave the station in lieu of a cheap motel, one with vending machines, where they could hide from the world a little longer.

When the witch looks down, however, Tiffany smiles reassuringly back at her, squeezing her hand slightly in return, and Scylla can't help the wave of affection that washes over her.

"Excuse me? Are you Scylla and Tiffany?" A voice coming from behind wakes them back from the moment, and when they turn, both come face to face with Edwin Collar.

Scylla's sure it's him. If not because he does still look quite a lot like the pictures she's seen, then because the necromancer can definitely see the telltale signs of Raelle written all over his face. It's mostly there in the kind drop of his eyelids, and the way his mouth creates tiny wrinkles of soft skin when he smiles, but it's there, nonetheless.

"Yes, we are, nice to meet you, Mr. Collar." Scylla greets, settling down her bag to shake his hand.

"Of course, it's amazing to finally meet you. Raelle talked you up a storm," he declares, chuckling proudly, "only good things, I assure."

"Oh, I'm sure I don't deserve that." She let's out, hoping it sounded more playful than it feels for her.

"Nonsense. You seem like a kind girl." The man decides, with a solemn nod, before turning to Tiffany, "and you- Tiffany, I'm very happy to have you with me this week as well, I'm sure we'll have lots of fun together."

"Thank you, Mr. Collar." The small blonde replies, half-hiding herself behind Scylla's pant leg.

"Let's go then. It's getting cold." Edwin finally declares, taking Scylla's bag from the floor without a question. The girl goes to complain, but he cuts her off before she can - "and don't fight me on this. Raelle also never let's me carry her bags, for once I'd love to help."

Scylla still wants to protest. Mostly because she feels that they have already asked so much - and she doesn't quite deserve the kindness - but he seems sincere, so she nods instead, and with the affirmative, all three begin their way to the parking lot.

"Is Raelle your friend?" Tiffany asks innocently, skipping happily over her boots.

"Uh- she- yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Well, you said we were going to a friend's dad's house." Tiffany notes. "Where is Raelle then?"

"About that-" Edwin stops in his step, "did you see her? How is she?" He asks, an uneasy tension settling over his demeanor as he studies Scylla for answers, "they told me she was alive but that was it-"

"She's okay. I saw her yesterday, she was well." The brunette assures, and that seems to send a wave of relief over the man, who breathes deeply before continuing their walk along the various cars.

"Oh, thank goodness." He sighs, "when those people took her I thought- I'm so glad she's okay."

"Yeah. We were all worried." Scylla declares. And this, she can relate to. The way he cares so much for Raelle, it spills into the very movement of his expressions. It's familiar, and it warms her heart. She decides right then that she likes Edwin.

"Did the bad people take Raelle too?" Tiffany questions, frowning in scared surprise as they reach Edwin's old truck.

Scylla sighs, not having revealed much of the mission she'd gone on the day before. She knew it'd be scary for her. Tiffany was still very much traumatized, and rightfully so, after everything she'd been through. But Tiffany was also very smart- and observant. She'd catch up eventually and Scylla feels stupid for not dealing with this before coming.

"Yeah. They tried to hurt her, but me and her other friends didn't let them." The necromancer assures, as she helps the girl into the backseat and clicks in her seatbelt, "she's okay now. We're all safe here."

"Oh- Okay." Tiffany nods, but Scylla can see the doubt shining under her eyes.

Scylla wishes she knew what to say, but words fail her, so she squeezes the girl's hand reassuringly once more, winking in what she hopes is humorous solidarity, before closing the door.

***

Raelle's house is just like she imagines- small, rustic - surrounded by a thick canopy of trees and bushes. It reminds her of the places she used to stay with her parents, scattered over random cities all over the U.S. Scylla likes it.

"It isn't much, but we always have warm dinner and pancakes in the morning." Edwin quips, humbly, as he leads the pair of witches to Raelle's room, "you can stay here. Hope it is comfortable."

"This is more than enough, Edwin." Scylla smiles gratefully, "it's too much, really. Thank you for letting us stay."

"Nonsense." He waves his hand with a half embarrassed chuckle, "It's good to have people here again. After Rae and Tally left everything feels a lot quieter." Scylla nods in agreement, as the man turns to leave the room, the two witches inside watching him carefully, "You guys should change and rest a bit- I'll call you for dinner.

Scylla thanks him, and waits until the door clicks behind his back to turn her attention to the luggage that had been settled over a random chair. The room is filled with so much Raelle, she can't help but notice the letters, pictures, memories and song lyrics, glued to every single wall, from a time before Fort Salem, before them.

The blonde used to leave notes on her dorm walls back at Fort Salem. Lots of silly things like "I'll be back after training" or "You fight people in your sleep. It's cute.". Scylla wonders if they are still there or if they've been taken by the army when she was captured. It doesn't matter anymore, the necro realizes, and she shakes her head in an effort to bring her attention back to the room.

"You should put on some pajamas." Scylla says toward Tiffany, who sat, grievously quiet, at Raelle's bed.

She looked thoughtful, in a way regular six year olds don't quite show unless they have to go through way too much. Her small, bright eyes hide barely concealed darkness as she shifts her looks everywhere but at the older witch.

Scylla sighs, finding this place - this relationship - so very painfully familiar. She'd been the scared little girl last time, feeling so very small and alone. And now, as the adult, she was definitely going to try her best not to fuck it. As difficult as it might be. The world didn't need another suffering witch.

After a few minutes of silence, Scylla realizes she was not going to get an answer, so she opens the girl's backpack and fishes out a pair of mermaid themed leggings and t-shirt, along with the small bag that carried her tooth and hair brushes along with some other toiletries. Scylla places the items by Tiffany on the mattress, kneeling in front of the young witch and studying her clear, soft little face.

"Hey. Are you feeling alright?"

"Are the bad men coming here to hurt us?" Tiffany asks, instead of a response, and Scylla frowns in worry.

"No, of course no-"

"They came and took Raelle too." Tiffany notices, tears escaping from her eyelids that Scylla dries up with her thumb, "and they hurt Miss Willa, the other kids' at the office and my mommy and daddy. What if they come here again? What if they really hurt us this time?" As the questions stumble out of her mouth, sobs begin to wreck across her throat until she's shaking, ever so slightly, with the force of her tears and heavy, panicked breathing.

Scylla sighs and rises from the ground to cuddle the girl close to her chest, squeezing tight until she can feel Tiffany's little arms squeeze her back. Scylla's afraid too - most of the time, if she allowed herself to be honest - Ever since watching Raelle leave her in that cell the year before, the girl could feel even more perfectly the path of death and destruction that marked their (the witches') way through the world.

One of the bad things about being a necro - Death didn't like not being known, and it showed itself insistently, to anyone able to notice.

"We don't know whether or not they'll come again." Scylla ends up responding, sincerely, as she squeezes her arms even tighter around the little girl, "but I won't let them hurt you, you hear me? I dealt with them before, I can deal with them again."

"No" Tiffany shakes her head, frowning up at her in teary-eyed fear, "You too. You're safe too. I don't want you to get hurt either."

"Hey." Scylla forces out a chuckle, trying to lighten up the situation for the young witch's sake, "don't be silly, ok? I'm pretty much invincible."

Tiffany doesn't laugh, her breathing having somewhat returned to normal. The girl just stares back at Scylla with a seriousness that's all too unfair, coming from a six year old, and she reaches out, her pinky finger lifted in expectation, "Pinky promise you'll be safe too? Please?"

Scylla knows she shouldn't. The truth is, she doesn't know what will happen. After their plan to capture Nicte was said and done, Scylla barely had any idea what she would be doing now. But Tiffany obviously needs the reassurance, from the way she stares ever so desperately at the necro's face.

"Okay, I pinky promise." Scylla smiles, trying to convey some calm toward the other girl as she let her pinky link with the smaller one. It seems to work, as Tiffany's expression softens and her tense posture falls, "now let's get you under a shower and into some pajamas, ok? You're a very smelly little witch right now."

"Am not!" Tiffany replies, and Scylla can't help but full on laugh this time, pulling the small girl to Raelle's bathroom as she mockingly protests.

Second chapter is almost done, just needs to be read over for mistakes. For C2, Raelle calls home, Scylla meets old dodger friends and she also has an important conversation with Edwin.

Hope you guys enjoyed!

[starksvixen]

Both Good and Evil

Summary: Darth Regius has a mission sent down from Emperor Palpatine. Entice Anakin Skywalker to the Dark Side using any means possible. But as the two draw closer, learning more about their pasts, they realize the balance of both good and evil.

Warnings: Ends with angst, darker themes, LONG ASS FIC

“Careful, Anakin, too harsh of a swing and you can hurt yourself!” 

You tuck a bit of your bottom lip underneath your teeth as you look at the hologram of the handsome young Jedi training with fervor, his blonde braid gently swaying with each swing of his saber. 

“I’m glad you find him attractive, you’ll need that...” a general says from behind you. 

“And why is that?” 

“You’ll need to use your...sexual capabilities to draw him over.”

Turning towards the bitter old man, the sharp static nips at your fingers as the dark Force flows through you, imagining his throat slowly closing under your grasp. 

“You will not comment on my capabilities again unless you like your little hands there, General,”

Throwing him to the ground, you ignite one of the tiny dagger like lightsabers concealed in your corset and send it straight into the General’s head. A soft sizzle and subtle smell of pennies fills the air as you analyze the Jedi from his hologram state.

Anger fills his stature with each calculated swing, a certain glint in his eye. One that obviously hungers for revenge. A weakness, something to prey on.

Something to lure him to the Dark side...

You feel your eyes flutter to a close, the world around you turning to static as you feel for his dark energy. Then you find it, the tiniest of sparks. Before you can prey upon it, your eyes are forced open, a voice echoing from behind you:

“Who are you? How did you get into the Jedi temple?”

There he was, lightsaber raised, fear in his eyes. A fight he knew he might not win against the renowned Darth Regius. 

But as you look around your surroundings, it seems as if he was on the ship with you, standing as if he had boarded minutes ago.

“I could ask you the same thing, how did you get on my ship?”

He refuses to answer, the words on his tongue fighting against his lips, a stoic face to hide his fear for the vixen of power standing before him. You cock your head softly to the side, walking closer to him as you feel the dark static you feel pulsing through your veins exuding from him. 

“You want revenge, I can feel it. You want power and to feel free from the shackles the Jedi Order have locked on you.” 

“You’re wrong!” 

His voice wavers, his saber drops the slightest touch, his shoulders ease. The idea tickles his ears as it runs like a mad man throughout his train of thought. Slowly, you bridge the gap drawn between the two of you, holding out your hand towards him. 

“Show me your pain. And I can show you freedom.” 

You can see the switch in his mind, feel the light side burning you with its touch as an even more real burn makes its way towards your extended hand. The connection ends as the lightsaber lands, leaving singed skin and grimaces. 

But you saw it, the Dark side taunting him, pulling him in slowly. 

He just needed a little push.

-

You sit in your black armchair, looking at the stars as they whiz by, your tongue enveloping the bitter coffee as you sip it. 

“How did you know I wanted revenge.”

You smirk as you place the cup back on the saucer that delicately balances on your lap. Turning your head, you quirk an eyebrow at the shirtless man before you, obviously roused from sleep.

“Well, good evening to you too,”

“Answer the question.”

A soft chuckle bounces across your throat before you lift your small cup and take another sip of coffee. 

“Why the Force of course,” you say softly, looking out at the stars once again. “You’re taught that the different sides of the Force are just that, different.”

“Because one is used for evil and the other good.”

“But the Force doesn’t determine that, the person wielding it does. Some don’t choose either side, some choose to be the balance. Like how you were prophesied to be. The Jedi Order is delusional, thinking that balance means goodness restored.” 

His eyes widen softly with interest, his shoulders releasing themselves from the cords that hung them close to his ears. You gesture towards the chair in front of you, to which he slowly takes.

“Listen, Anakin, I understand the Order is your entire life. But there is so much you don’t know, what they’ve kept from you. Because balance is not one way or another. One cannot exist without the other. You’re prophesied to bring balance to the Force, not be the Order’s puppet.”

“But that balance means the fall of the Dark Side, that’s what I was meant to do.” he says, his face contorted into confusion.

“Not necessarily. While yes, I do believe you will be the fall of the Sith, the Dark Side will always be around. I believe you are not a sole vessel for goodness. You are a vessel of great complexity, holding both good and dark in your hands.”

Silence fills the vessel as your gaze is drawn back towards the stars. You feel his eyes on you until he fades away, yet another connection broken.

- 

“Jedi are swarming the ship! We need to evacuate!” 

Grabbing your lightsaber, you secure it to your corset filled with saber daggers, their handles at the ready. Rushing out from your room, you look at the battleground before you. 

“There she is! Darth Regius!”

A group of young Jedi’s yelled this as they ran down the hallway towards you. But as you pulled the handle from your corset, relinquishing the burning blade, they ran like chickens. 

“(Y/N)?” 

Turning around quickly, you’re met with a stunned Anakin, his lightsaber at the ready. Without hesitation, you take the first swing. As confusion interrupts his beautiful features, you project a message through the Force. 

Look like you hate me. Wouldn’t want your master to find out about our little chats now would you?

Quickly, forced hatred plasters onto him as his strikes become more and more aggressive. As his force becomes harder and harder to block, you become more frantic. No way were you about to let a padawan bring you down, even if he was your mission. 

Without a thought, your next swing strikes him in the face, causing the smallest of scratched burns to form. With a gasp, you watch as he reels back from the blow, a small smirk coming on his face. 

“You owe me a rematch,”

With that, he runs away with his other Jedi as the entire ship cheers in defeat of the Jedi attack. Everyone around you chants your name, but you don’t have the same fervor. Instead, your mind replays the moment over and over again, one sentence coming out in front it all. 

He finally trusts me. 

 -

"Why trust me?” you ask softly from your desk, different forms needing to be signed glaring at you under harsh light. 

“I don’t,” Anakin replies, his lightsaber humming with each swing as he twirls it around with accuracy, pacing back and forth in your room. 

You stop what you’re doing, laying the pen down straight against the papers before standing up. Anakin stops his twirl pacing, looking towards you as you hold out both hands to him.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you something to trust.” 

A few minutes pass as you hold your position in front of him, your hands beginning to shake under the weight of vulnerability. Eventually, he drops his saber somewhere unseen, and the calloused hand as well as metal seamlessly slide into yours. 

You project your worst memory, Emperor Palpatine murdering your parents. They were meant to keep his child safe alongside you, raising the two of you together so you would become dyad’s in the force, a perfect storm of darkness. 

But then the child ran away.  

A dyad unmade. 

A deal broken.

The tears fall as you hear their screams, the buzz of a lightsaber silencing them with one fell swoop. 

“Come, child,” his gravelly voice echoes. 

Filled with fear you follow, the memory ending, leaving you reduced to tears in front of the boy you had just barely gotten to know. 

“You’re...young, like me?” Anakin says shakily, looking at you with unshed tears. “I was always told you were older.”

You shake your head, shaking the tears away, shaking the pain and loss off your heart. 

“I worked hard to survive. Be the child Palpatine lost or face the same fate as my parents.”

“Have you tried to escape? Call for help from the Order?” 

“They are the reason my parents are dead!” 

You harshly pull your hands away from his, the broken and war torn fingers digging into your own hips. 

“A Jedi saw Palpatine’s child and helped him escape, to bring him away from the dark side. That Jedi signed my parents’ death warrant...” 

Turning your back to him, you sigh, lifting a shaking hand to wipe away any sign of weakness left on your face. But another wave of sadness hits you as something different enters your mind’s eye.

Anakin, his nightmares, her dead body, the slaughter, all of it. It plays in your head like a nightmare before his force slowly withdraws. 

Your body disobeys your mind as you twist to the broken man in front of you. 

“You’re not the only one who’s lost someone.” 

Walking over, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him close. His strong arms wrap around your waist as you chuckle softly. 

“We’re both pretty fucked up, huh?”

“I guess we are,”

A knock on the door makes him suddenly disappear, leaving only the shape of him in your curled arms.

-                              

Warm water drips down your skin as you struggle to see through the steam in your small refresher. You reminisce on the months that had passed. What began as long talks across galaxies became long talks across bedrooms. You knew you had a job to bring him to the Dark side, how dangerous a connection to him could be. You repeated the mantra every night. Slipping on the silky robe you placed on the black marble counter, you walk out to your bedroom to find Anakin sitting upon the silk sheets. 

His padawan braid was gone, his dull beige robes replaced by dark leather that showed off his frame quite well. 

“I see they’ve let you graduate, Anakin.”

“Finally...”

“I told you that they wouldn’t understand your power, that they would hold you back,” 

A scoff comes from the man, causing a smirk to come from you. Walking towards him, you gently lay a hand on his cheek where the smallest of scars lays on his handsome face. As you analyze his features, the way his eyes look at you full of lust and adoration, you slowly lay down, laying a gentle kiss on his plush lips. Your hands make their way into his hair as his hands pull you closer to him by your hips. Slowly, your lips break apart but still stay closer together, your mumbles tickling his lips with each word:

“You should grow out your hair, it would suit you,” 

A soft smile, one that only you got to see (but you never knew that) appeared on his face as he gently pulls your hand away from his scalp.

“You flatter me too much,”

“Only because you deserve it.” 

His gaze falls, guilt pushing his shoulders to cave in towards his chest. Your heart shakes, threatening to break. Taking a step back, you take a deep breath as you turn towards the doors of your refresher. 

“You deserve the truth...” you whisper. 

Slowly, you turn back towards him. 

“I was tasked to bring you to the Dark side. Emperor Palpatine is part of the Sith, he is not who you think he is.”

His eyes widen at your sudden divulgence, only to be quickly filled with anger. 

“So all of this time you’ve been manipulating me?!”

“No! Nothing I ever did was to manipulate you!” you walk closer to him. “Because I found not a broken boy but a strong man meant to carry out his prophecy. Please believe me!”

Anakin pushes you away with the Force, an evil glow filling his eyes. You had done your job, but never had you felt worse. 

“Well, I guess you completed your task.” 

And with that...he was gone. 

[stringergames]

Downtime Roleplay 4 - Checking Out

Post Session 5 - Misty Eyed

Ireena and Magpie spend some one on one time in the Kolyana Library, as the rest of the party continue to exasperate Ismark downstairs.

Words spoken in Elvish are denoted in italics. Spoiler warning: contains spoilers for episode 5 of Edge of Night

Content warning: grief, implied dead parents, alcohol consumption

"So, Mr Magpie, do you like poetry?" Ireena smiles at him as they climb the stairs.

"I do, it can be very beautiful. I prefer such things set to music, but that's a personal taste." 

Magpie casts a slightly wary eye over the opulent staircase, taking in the disrepair and lack of upkeep. He takes another sip of wine and makes no comment.

"I enjoy the simplicity of poetry, so much can be said with so few words." Ireena is caught up in her own enthusiasm and does not notice Magpie's appraisal of the house. "Novels are good for escaping entirely to another realm, and you already know of my enjoyment of learning through books." This is said in Elvish, with a smile, before switching back to Common. "But poetry will remain my favourite, I think. If only for its love of pain that cannot be spoken in other ways."

Ireena opens a door on the landing that leads to a damp room piled with books, in the centre of which is a chair. The dust marks on the floor indicate that a desk once also stood there, but judging by the fate of other furnishings in the house, this was probably pilfered to become barricade materials a while ago.

Magpie replies in Elvish, quietly pleased to be able to use his native tongue. "Songs are my favourite, I believe. The dual storytelling between lyrics and tune is wonderfully versatile, but poetry definitely has a beauty of it's own, I can see why it calls to you so." He takes an almost hesitant step into the room, and checks back that she's joining him.

Ireena follows him into the study and responds in Elvish, clearly excited to be able to do so. "I wish I had a better understanding of music. It is a rare thing to hear music in Barovia that isn't a funeral march. Unless you encounter the Vistani whose performances are... livelier." Ireena smirks, and gestures to the room. "This is my library!"

Magpie quirks an amused grin at her Elvish, and takes a slow look around the room. "We heard Vistani musicians at the party. They played very well, Sierra was there among them actually. You'll have to see if she'll play the violin for you, it's truly beautiful."

"I would like that." Ireena pauses, wondering how far she can push her luck. "Maybe you would dance with me."

Magpie crouches in front of a bookshelf, scanning the titles distractedly, not so much as reaching a hand out to touch any of them. "I'm not sure you'd enjoy that, I was... never in a position to be taught any of the proper dances, and quite besides, I've been reliably told I have two left feet."

Ireena crouches next to him. "Then I shall simply have to teach you." 

Her smile is soft and her tone no longer teasing. The tension in her shoulders is heavy, but not directed at this conversation or her present company. It is tension she's clearly been carrying for a long time. 

"I like this one." She selects a book from the shelf. "It's long, but it tells the most wonderful story of a hero who journeys to find his way home after a long battle away from those he loves." She strokes the cover wistfully.

Magpie looks over at the book, admiring the cover. 

"Sounds like a compelling tale." He casts his eyes to the floor briefly, and takes another drink of wine before focusing back up on Ireena and the book. "You have so many books, it must be lovely to be able to come here and escape with them."

"Father loved to read. And there weren't exactly many other ways for me to spread my wings beyond this village." She sighs darkly and gestures at the window. "Even before..."

Aware that her façade has slipped again, Ireena straightens her shoulders and attempts another smile. 

"But yes, I am lucky. There are a few tomes in here that predate the beginning of the Von Zarovich reign in Barovia."

"Really? How old does that make them?" Magpie looks very interested at the promise of old books, a shadow that had fallen over his face lifting a little.

"Well over a century! Father rarely let anyone handle them, they're very delicate, but I always loved the way old books smell."

“Incredible. I shan’t ask to look at them, but what are they about? I often find some of the most fascinating stuff is in the oldest books.”

"There's a first edition of some very dramatic plays, and a couple of these epic poems too. If I'm being entirely honest, I am not completely sure I know what is in all of the oldest books Father had. But please, if you would like, feel free to select any volumes that take your fancy to take with you. It is wonderful to finally have a fellow bibliophile to share these with. My brother is not opposed to literature, but he's mostly been too busy with more important things to indulge me in expounding the joys of fiction."

Magpie looks gently surprised. "You'd let me bring some? Just like that?"

"I doubt Ismark will miss them, I will certainly be bringing some with me, and Father hardly has a use for them any more. Of course you may take some, as many as you would like." She laughs a little. "Or as many as you think you can carry, at any rate!"

Magpie laughs a little in return, a hesitant set to his face still. "It won't be many then. Most of us ended up here without a bag. You're sure I can borrow some?"

"Borrow, have, whatever you would like. And while we can't promise armour or weapons, I feel confident my brother can provide satchels or something to carry possessions in." Ireena puts a hand on his arm gently. "I mean it, really."

Magpie flinches at the touch, and pulls his arm away gently. "Satchels would be a great help, I don't think Fox's bag will survive anything else being put in it."

Ireena retracts her hand, but does not seem offended. "I did notice that sewing does not appear to be among Lord Ripley's particular skills."

Magpie laughs properly this time. “Apparently not, though I’m not sure I can say much after the gods awful job I did on those replacement gloves. It turns out not having something proper to cut the fabric with is a significant hindrance.”

"I hadn't liked to mention it, but they were somewhat unorthodox." Ireena giggles. "I wondered if it was some new trend from where you're from!"

“Decidedly not, just shoddy and hurried craftsmanship on my part.” He gives her a lopsided grin. “If you’re certain I can take a couple of books with me, do you have sections you’d rather I chose from? Or perhaps any recommendations?”

"You must feel free to choose whatever you'd like, although I suggest you take something less likely to fall apart when you touch it! But if you are open to suggestions, then I could show you some of my personal favourites?"

“I’d welcome that gladly, I find myself decidedly in a position of rather too much choice, and while I’d often like nothing more than to stay up all night browsing, I fear after the day we’ve had I need the rest.”

Ireena starts pulling books from shelves and various piles. They're all well-thumbed volumes, but don't seem in danger of falling apart completely. They span a wide range of genres: a poetry anthology by a Lord Byron, the classic epic poem she'd picked out earlier, a trilogy of long form fantasy, a collection of old Elvish plays, a couple of shorter looking novels (one historical fiction and one murder mystery), and a nonfiction biography of ancient rulers of Barovia. She sets them down in a pile in front of Magpie.

"This should narrow down the selection somewhat, I wasn't sure what you preferred, so I have chosen my favourites of many genres." She looks between Magpie and the pile a little nervously. "I hope there's something to your liking here?"

Magpie looks at the pile in astonishment, and brushes a gloved hand delicately across the covers. 

"All of it, I'd wager; I'll struggle to pick those that I can carry from such a fascinating collection." He looks up and catches her eye. "Thank you. Truly."

Ireena shows him a flash of the smile she must've had before the recent events of her life, and it lights up her whole face for a moment. 

"You are more than welcome, Magpie. I am aware that the journey ahead of us will be difficult, but I will not regret the opportunity to spend more time with you." She pauses and then adds almost as an afterthought, "With all of you. It will be nice to be able to say I have friends."

"It would be lovely indeed." Magpie looks back at the books, carefully thumbing through a couple of pages and starting to sort them into two neat piles. "After such a kind gesture, the least I could do is help you with your Elvish, if you still want to learn."

"Very much so, if it isn't too much trouble!" Ireena suddenly looks like she might cry and turns towards the door. "We should be getting back to the others, it is intolerably cruel of me to leave them solely in the company of my brother for too long." She turns back, and if her voice cracks, she doesn't acknowledge it. "Besides, as you said, you've all had a very long day. I imagine you will be wanting to rest soon."

Magpie blinks a couple of times at the abrupt change in mood, but makes no comment on it. He drains the last of his wine and sets the glass down, carefully picking up a stack of five books he'd set aside, the biography of rulers of Barovia, Elvish plays, and trilogy of fantasy, balancing them carefully in his arm before picking his glass back up. 

"Are these alright? Is it too many?"

"No, no of course not! That's fine! Would you like some help carrying them?"

"That's very kind of you, but I have a good hold on them, and there's no risk of me spilling my wine." He gives her a cheeky grin. "Well, shall we go and save the others from the company of your brother then?"

Ireena smiles back, small and shaky, but perhaps more real than some of her smiles up to this point. "An excellent idea, Mr Magpie." 

She leads the way back out of the study. She pauses on the landing and points at another door. "I believe that is to be your room for the night, if you'd prefer to drop the books off there, although I have no objections to you bringing them downstairs to share your finds with the others, if you wish."

"I –" Magpie looks torn, and a flicker of something passes over his face. "Perhaps, I'll drop most of them off. Bring just one down. To flick through."

"Great, I can wait here, or just meet you downstairs if you'd rather?"

"I'll be just a second." Magpie smiles at her briefly, and dips into the room to gently place the books down, keeping hold of the Elvish plays, and returning to her quickly.

"Shall we?" Ireena gestures at the staircase.

Magpie nods, and walks alongside her downwards, gently clutching the gifted book to his chest.

*

Written by Francesca Forrest & Nick Drew

Edited by Rowan E. Madden

Edge of Night is a dnd 5e actual play podcast, brought to you by Stringer Games. It is available on iTunes, Spotify & all good podcast providers.

[bubblegumholland]

A Deal With The Devil (KOH! Tom Holland X Reader)

Praying to God wasn’t working

So I made a deal with the Devil

The heart monitor beeped to a steady rhythm. Y/N bat the tears from her eyelashes as she stared at the dying girl. Her darling sister was only eight, and at this rate she wouldn’t live to nine. Y/N clenched her eyes shut, failing at keeping the tears at bay. She knelt at the hospital bedside and clasped her hands together.

“Please, God, please… I’d do anything for her, please help her, heal her..” She repeated over and over. Y/N opened her eyes to see no difference in her sister’s condition. She bowed her head in frustration, “I knew it wouldn’t work…”

She bit her lip and looked down. She paused for a moment more.

“Help me… Please, I’ll do anything, I promise, anything.”

And suddenly her vision went black.

_____

“I heard you’d do anything, darling.” 

A dashingly handsome man laughed at the shocked girl. He stood about 5′8 with startling black iris’ and deep chocolate colored hair. 

“What’s the matter, darling? ‘ thought you wanted to make a deal with the devil.” Y/N stared at the gorgeous demon, she had a hard time believing this was real. 

“Where am I?” She looked around, the land was cold and bare, definitely not what she expected Hell to look like. 

“This isn’t Hell,” Satan stated, as if he could read her mind. Could he? She looked at him, “it isn’t?” 

The charming devil shook his head, “Welcome to Purgatory. We’re between the land of the living and death.” 

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows, “Am I dead?” The devil laughed, “not yet you aren’t.” “So, I’m dying?” she stared at the attractive man with a British accent.

“Well, technically everyone’s dying,” he answered patiently. “But you want to save your sister and that comes with a price.”  Y/N bit her lip, “So, what’s the price?” 

Satan smiled, clearly delighted. “One of my favorite myths is The Legend of the Infinity Stones. There were six but that’s not important  But one was called the Soul Stone, the trade for it was a soul. A soul for a soul. And that is what I want from you. Agree to die and accompany me in Hell, and I will save your sister.”

She thought for a moment, she would accept the deal in a heartbeat normally, but this was Satan. “How can I trust you? If I’m offering my soul up for ultimate damnation I need to trust you.” He stepped closer to her. “Smart. But the only way for me to prove myself is for you to have faith in me. And with your dear sister’s condition I’m not sure you have a choice. Time is not on your side.”

She cursed quietly, he had a point. “What does giving you my soul entail? Do I just wake up in the fields of punishment?” She questioned. He thought for a moment, “Normally, yes. But, in this case I have something else in mind. I need a queen. Someone to balance out my decisions and help me rule. You would be living the most lavish life a woman can in Hell.”

“Why my? Don’t dozens of people offer their souls to you?”

He nodded, “You’re not wrong, darling, but out of the thousands who have done that no one has ever done it for a non-selfish reason. I like the way you think and you morals aren’t shit. Now, what do you say?” He produced a contract out of thin air. 

Your parents always tell you not to take candy from strangers and here she was standing here about to sell her soul to the devil. “Deal,” she grabbed the pen and scribbled her name on the dotted line. 

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

And her vision darkened once more. 

____

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open. She was in a dark-ish room with red hues. Ah, yes. This is more like the Hell she imagined. Her attention was drawn to the door being thrown open. In walked in her husband (?). His coffee colored hair slicked back to perfection. His body adorned in an all black suit. He looked pretty hot. Not that she’d admit that, She glanced down to see she was wearing red silk pj’s. A nightgown that was considerably scandalous but by her means, pretty cute. She awkwardly held the blanket over her to shield her mostly-exposed body from Satan’s wandering eyes. Y/N cleared her throat, gaining his attention.

 “Hi..?” she spoke softly. He smiled and sat on the end of the bed, “Good morning, darling. What’ d’ya think?” He gestured to the room. She nodded, “It’s uh... nice. Real homey.” He laughed a little, “Well, I would hope so. This is your home now, after all.”

“Didn’t sarcasm originate in Hell?” She deadpanned. 

Satan laughed heartily, “Fair point, love.” 

“So, are we like...married?” Y/N questioned delicately. 

The demon was silent for a moment, “I suppose so, you are in my bed after all.” She jumped to her feet, forgetting the duvet that covered her exposed skin. 

“Fair point,” she repeated his words. “Um.. can I get some clothes?” She gestured to her cleavage. He laughed once more, it was a surprisingly delightful sound, no where near as malicious and evil as one would expect. “Sure, darling, although I much prefer the cloth you are sporting now.” He snapped his pale fingers and a pile of clothes appeared on the bed. Y/N rummaged through it, carefully not bending over in front of her new beau. She pulled out black skinny jeans, and a red blouse. “Y’know red is my favorite color,” She stated as she pulled of her nightgown, being left in only a bra and panties. “Funny coincidence, Y/N, so is mine.” She rolled her eyes, “Never would’ve guessed.” As she pointed at everything in the room. He smirked at her response, “I like you,” she raised an eyebrow playfully and went up to touch his chest with both her hands. “Well, given that you offered me the position of wife instead of eternally damned soul, I figured.” He leaned in, almost like he was going to kiss her, but she stepped back with the following words. “How’s my sister?” He licked his bottom lip before answering, “part of deal is that you can’t talk to her... Or see her.” Your E/C eyes widened, “Why didn’t you tell me that!” she yelled at him storming across the room. “It was on the contract, darling. Not my fault if you didn’t read it.” 

Her breathing became heavy and labored. “Oh, my God...” 

“Who taught you to not read the contract when you make a deal with the devil?”

“I didn’t know that this was even real!” She didn’t even notice the tears on her face until she tasted them on her tongue. 

“Any regrets?” He asked. 

She shook her head in disbelief, “Can you at least tell me if she’s alive? And going to live?” 

“Fine, yes she is well. She will live to be 83 before she dies peacefully in her sleep. Happy?” His face was neutral, didn’t seem to care or not care. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

She shook her head, “No, I think I’m just gonna go back to bed..” 

He nodded, undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Then let’s go to bed.”

_____

According to traditional Christian belief about witchcraft, the pact is between a person and Satan or a lesser demon. The person offers their soul in exchange for diabolical favors. Those favors vary by the tale, but tend to include youth, knowledge, wealth, fame, or power.

A/N Hey! First part “Deal with the Devil” is completed! This will be a 3 part series and I’m really excited. New chapter will hopefully be up this week but don’t hold your breath. DM me if you wanna be added to the taglist. 

TAGLIST 

@loxbbg  @saxgirl21  @peterbrokenparker 

[christinefoley]

How To Manage Time and Work Like A Boss

I’ve been a teacher for nearly thirty years now, and so I should be red hot at knowing how to manage time. After all, the average classroom teacher regularly has so many plates spinning on a daily basis that every limb is a whirling blur in perpetual motion. Experience has taught me that allowing even one plate to go gyrating off its axis can bring chaos and catastrophe for the whole delicately balanced collection.

Blogging

But this blogging malarkey- well, that’s different. And I’m finding the whole issue of time management more challenging than I’d anticipated, to be completely honest. I mean, thinking about the whole idea of becoming a blogger was…well- just fantastic, really. I love writing, and blogging means that I can write about stuff that really interests me, and never again have to write about things that just don’t.

Primary School Teacher

To clarify what I’m talking about, you may not know this, but the average primary school classroom teacher is obliged to take an interest in such mind-numbing subjects as: rocks and soils, units of measure ( both metric and imperial), adverbial phrases and subordinating and coordinating conjunctions. Admit it- you’re bored already! Imagine having to feign interest in that lot- and a whole host of even more boring topics besides- for nearly thirty years! I don’t know how I’ve done it!

Working From Home

So, what I thought was: become a blogger: write about interesting things, things that get my fingers positively sparking over the laptop key board: it’ll be great! Hey- and you get to do it from home, and manage your own time! Goodbye M6! Goodbye difficult parents! Ta-ta to staff meetings and professional development and tedious meetings about assessment. No more report writing- hurray!!

This will be the new pattern of my Week

Monday morning: awakened at 7am by the alarm- no more 6:30 for me anymore! Up, dressed, breakfast and ready at my laptop to report for writing duty by 8:30 am at the latest.

Straight into writing/ preparing next blog post.

Timetable

9:30 am: take first break: wee, coffee, throw the ball for the dog in the garden for around 20 minutes, then back to the keyboard to work steadily through until lunch at around 12:00.

12:00 healthy lunch put together: salad, hummus, green stuff- that sort of thing- and eaten before 1pm before returning to the laptop for another hour’s work. That hour will be spent emailing, and suchlike.

FREE TIME!

2pm-5:00 FREE TIME! Wow! The whole afternoon off!!

Obviously ,this precious time will not be frittered away on any kind of pointless activities: no, it will be utilised for exercise, dog-walking and attending classes that I’ve really wanted to attend but have always been otherwise occupied teaching PE, the Egyptians or subordinate clauses or suchlike. No, now I will spend my afternoons attending French conversation sessions, singing, creative writing workshops and book clubs. I may even join a hiking club and enjoy hiking in the nearby Lake District.

5pm: teatime. Evenings will be spent working on my blog business- no more than an hour or so- and then I’ll actually go out: live music, pubs, the theatre, meals out- whatever I want, because there are no lessons to plan for the next day- and certainly no marking. Fantastic!!

Manage Time?

It’ll be a joy! No more telling myself I’ll do an hour’s marking, then I’ll fill in those assessment tables and then I’ll spend another hour and half preparing tomorrow’s lessons, before……..NO MORE, No more for me!

So, you’re asking, has it worked out like that?

Well, the fact is that I’m still teaching at the moment, so haven’t had the chance to try out this new lifestyle which I have planned out for myself just yet; but I’m having this creeping suspicion that I’m not going to be able to live that life exactly to plan.

Deadlines

Why not? Well, I guess I kind of like deadlines- I am programmed to respond to them anyway. I was always that one who started working on my essays well before the deadline at university, so that I had plenty of time. I was never the last minute panic type-no, I kind of used the whole two weeks preparation time to get pages of notes together and then panic over the last few days about how I was going to create anything of any value out of all that stuff.

Being My Own Boss

What worries me now, is that, as a blogger, working on my own blog, I am going to have to impose my own deadlines, and I’m not convinced that I’ll be all that good at it. It’s that thing about being my own boss- in one way, it’s what we dream of, but in another way it’s kind of scary. I mean, when you’re at work and things go tits up, the boss is ultimately the one who has to take it on the chin- not you. But if you are your own boss, and things don’t go right- well……it’s all your fault.

How To Manage Time and Work Like A Boss

So, before I cut the umbilical cord of a regular job and life pattern, I’ve been researching some hints and tips from the experts about time management- I’m in my note-taking preparation stage.

Find Your Most Productive Hours

Now, there’s a great idea! Work out when you are generally at your most productive and schedule most of your heavy lifting tasks for those times. A  first rate tip for time management- after all, how many people have you heard declare themselves a ‘night owl’ or ‘an early bird’? Loads, right?

Night Owl, or Early Bird?

So obviously that got me to thinking about myself: am I a night owl, or an early bird? A night owl, probably, because I’m used to working in the evenings after school. OK, so save all the deep-thinking stuff for the evenings. Yes…..possible, I guess.

Write a to-do List the Night Before

Undeniably a top idea! Apparently, only takes about five minutes and it means that the next day you can hit the ground running without any fiddling about. Hmmm, so- five minutes before bedtime…just a quick list…

You know what that would mean for me? Five minutes writing, followed by 45 minutes lying awake thinking it all through. Sleep well and up at 7:00 am to hit the ground running? Not on your nelly.

Back to the drawing board…next tip for how to manage time, please?

Start on the Most Critical Task First

Yes….now, that’s good….I get that. Get the thing that’s bothering you most out of the way first thing and you’re bound to feel better about yourself and what you can achieve.

Now that makes perfect sense! Thing is….that’s just not me. No, better for me to get a few little things ticked off my list first to get me stoked up with enough confidence to bring out the big guns and get cracking on those tasks that are going to CHANGE MY LIFE.

Sit down at my laptop and hit myself straight between the eyes with something that scares the pants off me and has probably kept me awake ever since I wrote it down on that to-do list the night before? That just ain’t happening.

Next hint, please….

The Eisenhower Matrix

What d’you mean- you’ve never heard of it? Well, I’m not a fan of tables, because they bring out all my twitches, but this one makes perfect sense- you may want to look it up. In essence, the idea is that you write down all the tasks you need to do- in one, long, terrifying list- then you categorise all the tasks. If it’s urgent, mark it ‘U’, if it’s important, mark it ‘I’, and if it’s neither of those, then cross it out.

Still following me?

Next, you evaluate how much time each of the remaining tasks on your list is likely to take and arrange a plan for yourself. Now, I must admit, I’m liking this idea of time management…especially the stuff that you can cross off the list altogether. The aim is to identify your genuine priorities: which tasks on your list are going to get you to achieve your objective the most quickly, and which, simply, are not.

Like it. Yes, this is one for me! Next tip, please…..

Use Time Constraints- Set a Timer

This tip to help you to manage your time advises using a timer to set time to achieve certain tasks, as the task will inevitably expand if there is an unrestrained time in which to do it. The idea is to beat the timer- complete the task in even less time than that which you allocated!

Hmm. Have I not escaped the 5-9 to escape exactly that- time constraints? The school timetable is gone, so I devise one of my own? Not sure I want to do that to myself, although I do understand the benefits of this time management idea, and every task does undoubtedly expand if there are no constraints in terms of time.

Hmm… I need to think this one through…….and while I’m thinking about it I might just make another cup of coffee and put a load of washing on…maybe iron those few shirts? Watch a bit of TV?

No, Christine, you’re talking about being productive, remember? Now, sit down and just get on with it.  

Next hint to ace time management, please.

No Distractions

No browsing your ‘phone, checking through emails, doing odd bits of housework. Now I have struggled with this trick of how to manage time, but have actually had a breakthrough in recent weeks.

What has worked for me, is to go out of the house- no dog wanting to play, no endless possibilities for making coffee and no housework-style responsibilities. The other benefit of being out of the house-for me- is no silence.

Silence

I’m not very happy with silence- it makes me a bit edgy. Never been very productive working in libraries and such places. However, it’s no good putting on music either, because then I start listening to that instead of concentrating on the job in hand.

Coffee Shops

I’ve found that coffee shops are my perfect place for productivity. Not only is there the gorgeous aroma of freshly-ground coffee beans wafting up my nose, but there’s just the right kind of background noise- neither too loud nor too silent to distract me. Obviously, a great cup of cappuccino also enhances the whole experience.

If you would like to learn more about how to manage time, and tips that you could use to improve your own productivity, then take a look at this excellent article by Dan Silvestre: ’23 Time Management Techniques of Insanely Busy People.’

[alternislatronemhq]

Congrats, EMMA, you have been accepted to AL for the role of ANDROMEDA TONKS (FC: Camilla Mendes). WOW, Emma, I was blown away by your application! Andromeda is such an incredible character in your hands and I am so excited to see her develop on the dash!! I’m so happy that you’re joining us! Please send in your blog (no sideblogs for first characters, please) in the next 24 hours and be sure to take a look at our new player checklist. Welcome home (once again), we’re so excited to have you join the family!

OOC

name — Emma age — 24 pronouns — She/Her timezone — CST

any questions? — Is it okay if I make Nymphodora birthday November of 1973, so that Andromeda was 100% 18 years old when she got pregnant? Instead of her being 17 years old when she got pregnant and then giving birth at 18. I know it’s a minor detail, but I wanted to make sure it was alright.

IC Overview

name — Andromeda Ophelia Tonks (née Black) faceclaim — Camilla Mendes age — 31 ( April 14th 1955); Andromeda is an Aries. gender — Female

sexuality — Demisexual & Biromantic; For Andromeda, it is not about the gender of someone. What matters to her is the heart. However, the she never voiced her feelings as society had expected her to marry a pureblood man when she was younger. She may have had crushes at Hogwarts on both female and male students, but they were fleeting. She eventually found Ted and it was Ted’s warm personality that brought her to him.

patronus — Hippogriff; A proud and dangerous creature that sort of harkens back to Andromeda’s upbringing at first. She was taught to be a proud member of the Black family and develop proper skills, as well as etiquette was extremely important. Even now, Dromeda maintains a certain poise about her. Though, just as a hippogriff there is more than the danger and the properness. As the hippogriff, Andromeda is fiercely loyal and protective of the ones that she loves and have earned her trust. Andromeda would do anything to make sure that her husband and daughter are safe. Additionally, just as hippogriffs can grow to love former enemies and have their respect earned, Dromeda can too with time and understanding.

     The memory that first led to the corporal form of her patronus originally had been a memory of her braiding Cissa’s golden hair while telling her about a story she had read. However, that is no longer the memory that summons her patronus. The memory that now leds to the corporal form is the memory of seeing Ted hold Nymphodora for the first time.

boggart — Ted and Nymphodora killed by her sisters; This fear ties two things that were big for her together. Dromeda had lost her family when she had chosen her love over their ideals. It was a heartbreaking thing to deal with at such a young age and having no where to go. Ted and Nymphodora, along with Sirius, became her new and chosen family. Andromeda could not imagine losing them as it breaks her heart and she would do anything that she can to protect them. The thought of her lost family killing her new chosen one is almost too much to bear. It is this fear that causes her to be especially cautious with letting Narcissa back into her life. However, for now, she believes that Bellatrix would be the sister that she would have to worry about.

IC In Depth

personality traits —

+ Good-Hearted; A trait that one might have found hard to find in the household that she grew up in, especially when looking to her parents. She has a kindness and a compassion for others regardless of what their background is. As a healer, it is in her nature. While this trait was repressed in her younger years if expressed towards the wrong type of person, she is now more free flowing with her kindness. It still is something that she had to learn to be more okay with outwardly expressing.

+ Loyal; Fraternity is something that will always be important to Dromeda and she will always feel loyal to those that she feels it with such as her friends and family. Before she realized how wrong their ideals were, Andromeda had been fiercely loyal to her family. It had been to the point that she had ignored her cousin Sirius at first when finding out he was in Gryffindor and breaking the status quo for their family. It took better friends and better people to show her that her loyalty was misplaced and misguided back then. Now, her loyalty is with the people that deserve it such as her husband, daughter, friends, and cousin after she profusely apologized.

+ Ladylike; Since practically her birth this trait was instilled in her in order for her to become the perfect pureblood housewife. Trained from a young age, Andromeda had once been the perfect example of a lady. She was polished, proper, and polite in the necessary situations. The middle Black child has always held a very feminine beauty that is quite graceful and delicate. She knows the correct time to pause and to speak in proper company. As a proper woman, she is well educated in many things, such as fashion and culture. Andromeda always knows the right things to wear and how to act in high class situations. As a lady, she is accepting and tolerant of others. While she rejected a great deal of her family’s ideals, it does not change the posture of which she holds herself. She is charming when she needs to be and typically rather good at holding her calm when she is freaking out on the inside. That being said, when you see that she is no longer calm, it is a hint to how serious something might be.

+ Protective; When I say that Andromeda would do anything to keep Ted and Nymphodora safe, I truly mean it. She is a fiercely protective mother and wife that does put her family first. Dromeda knows that she is not always the perfect wife or mother, but she would do anything under the sun for those two. If it ever comes to it, she will fight her parents or sisters for them though it would be so disheartening for her to have to do. Her protectiveness does extend to her cousin and friends though it is not nearly as severe as her immediate family. She would do what she can to help and heal, but she would not risk her life as much as she would for her child.

- Stubborn; When Dromeda sets her mind to something, there really is no turning her away from it. She had always been this way since she as a kid. It was also why Narcissa’s letter when they were younger did not turn her away from her decision to be with Ted. Her stubbornness was certainly hard on her relationship with Ted at the beginning of their marriage because she wanted things done a certain way and had a difficult time with compromising. Even with good intentions, being obsinate can take its toll on those around her.

- Cunning; Something that ends to help that stubbornness in not having to rear its head is that good old Slytherin cunning. She knows how to get what she wants as long as the ends can justify the means. She will take advantage of opportunities, even if it means deceiving people at times. There are times when you may need to have a certain disregard for the rules in order to make sure that the end you had in mind is the one that is achieved.

- Unsure; Dromeda is troubled though she will not readily admit it. She has a hesitancy and cautiousness about plenty around her. This trait causes her to be slow to trusting others and that she something she certainly wishes that she can work on. As stated in her patronus, one must earn her loyalty though it is difficult. Not only that, but she is unsure about her decisions as a mother as well as with her family. She doesn’t ant to do that wrong thing. She wants to have Narcissa in her life again and she wants her daughter to know the love of an aunt… However, she is not entirely trusting of that situation just yet. Many times in her life, Andromeda has felt that there are many paths that she could take, but never was completely sure which one. Times that involve her family cause her to feel insecure and unconfident about her decisions because she wishes for those she cares about not to get hurt. For someone who usually has confidence in her decisions and simply not a great deal of trust in people, it is family that can shake her whether it be her chosen one or her previous one… There is a major reason she agreed that ti would be best to simply stay under the radar.

- Blunt; Having had to pretty up what she was saying to pureblood families for so long, Andromeda became rather blunt after leaving the Black family. If you need someone to give you an honest opinion, she will not try and hide it. Of course, she will voice it in the nicest manner possible. However, it will still be the straight-forward truth even if it hurts.

character biography —

      Not a star, but a whole galaxy was granted to the middle daughter of the Black family. Little did she know growing up that they gave her a galaxy in honor of her true parents. Andromeda was not born a Black though the way she held herself seems that she has always been such. Druella Black and Cygnus Black III adopted Andromeda before she was even a year old, so she knew no different life than the one that they provided for her. Though little was known about their death, her birth parents had the right friends obviously because Andromeda never wanted for anything growing and was never made to be an outsider among her sisters.

      Andromeda was a Black and she held her name with pride. The middle child was somewhere between Narcissa’s delicate grace and Bellatrix’s warrior spirit, but she did her best to keep that balance of strength and beauty. Following in the legacy of her older sister at Hogwarts, Andromeda did not disappoint. She held on to the ice queen mentality and borderline arrogance that you would expect from a woman holding the last name of Black. One of the areas she excelled in during her schooling was odd for a future wife of a follower of Voldemort; she was a healer. Yet, her parents easily dismissed the thought it could mean anything other than she will be a good wife one day. Druella insisted that due to the healing having been paired with exceptional skills for household charms that keep the house pristinely clean, a talent she had gotten from the woman herself, it was clear that Andromeda was going to be the perfect match to the pureblood they had her betrothed to.

     While her parents were determined to make sure she was set up for a perfect marriage that benefitted the family, that wasn’t something that Andromeda could see in her future. Anytime she went to a pureblood wedding, she was simply bored out of her mind and just wanted it to be over. Even during the receptions, she only danced with the pureblood boys because it was required of her and her parents were watching. She didn’t just want to be just a wife locked in a house. There had to be more than what they were expecting of her. Had these thoughts meant something was wrong with her? She was unsure. She just couldn’t imagine herself being trapped in a loveless marriage. Andromeda would never mention that; just as she would never directly tell her parents that being a wife and not working was not for her. Her greatest desire was for her to convince them to allow her to train more in healing, so she could actually do something of use instead of sitting around with the house elves and gossiping along with other pureblood women. Though her lack of desire to marry into a loveless pureblood relationship and her drive to work, she didn’t want to disappoint her parents and that’s why she kept the thoughts form them. They had provided so much for her throughout her entire life and cared about her. However, Andromeda had her own way around the arrangements that would-be set-in place that she didn’t approve of. She was a Slytherin after all… Though back then she was intelligent enough to understand that her preverbal clock is ticking on how long she can hold off her own marriage to some pureblood man, especially seeing that her older sister had been paired with one of her own.

     There is one other thing that she hasn’t mentioned to her parents that she knew would upset them more than anything related to marriage or working; Andromeda does not have the same values as she knew that they did.  She knew that she is supposed to hate muggleborns and halfbloods, but she cannot bring herself to. However, she will pretend to be distant towards any muggleborn to keep up the appearances and reputation that her family has worked so hard to create. Andromeda knew the risk if she were to bring her heart into things and mess up the reputation of the noble Blacks. The young witch had never wanted to risk losing her family. They mean the world to her… Though, there as a small issue. A muggleborn that she had met in her first year had grown on her throughout their time at Hogwarts. He was sweet, cute, and loyal. They were just friends, she swore. However, even their friendship had to remain a secret. Slowly, this Hufflepuff began to introduce her to more people that she never would have met should she had stuck in her pureblood bubble. Andromeda the once ice queen had started to melt. She made friends in secret at first, but they were friends that didn’t have a particular house or family. The freedom of it all was nice and though the rebellious part of it felt wrong. Andromeda felt as though she was keeping a secret and a part of herself away from her sisters, but she knew it was something that they wouldn’t accept.

     Fifth year… That Hufflepuff went from cute and sweet to something a bit more charming and hot. Andromeda felt her cheeks grow warm when he was near, and she couldn’t chase thoughts of him out of her mind. Her heart would race in both excitement, nervousness, and fear. She couldn’t admit that she liked someone like him. It wasn’t right even if he had weaseled his way into being her friend, the stupid honey badger. Andromeda tried to shake loose all feelings of him, and it was their fifth year that she as the coldest she ever was to him. Any secret studying was cancelled, she ignored any letters… Though, it didn’t matter because he didn’t give up on her as easily as she had wished for him to. It was an admission of his own teenage love that got her to talk to him again the end of their fifth year. That was when it happened. The typically cautious and reserved Andromeda Black said yes to dating the muggle-born wizard, Edward “Ted” Tonks.

    It was a secret that she had kept for the longest time. All of the summer before their sixth year, only their closest friends had known. Andromeda rehearsed ways that she would be able to convince her parents that he wasn’t one of the bad mudbloods and that he was a genuinely good guy. She wanted to explain to them that she could not help how endearing he is and if they met him then they would know how incredible he is too. Though anytime she felt her speech was going against what her parents believed, which was most of it, she questioned how effective it might be. Halfway through her sixth year was when everything blew up in her face. One of her sisters have heard her speaking in front of the mirror as she didn’t get a chance to before an owl was sent to her for a hidden relationship with a mudblood. Her parents typically wanted to send a howler but did not wish to expose what was going on to the public, as they were convinced that they could convince Andromeda that she was out of her right mind. They demanded she come home and speak with them. When she did, her speech that she rehearsed fell flat and sounded as though it questioned every single value that they had raised her to believe. Druella claimed she had clearly gone mad and Cygnus pointing out that Andromeda was ungrateful. The sixteen-year-old held tears in her eyes as she tried to defend what she was saying to her parents because she knew what she was saying was right. She knew that muggleborns and halfbloods were good people because she witnessed it. None of it mattered to them. Druella and Cygnus were embarrassed and wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Andromeda was kicked out of the house at sixteen. Her only crime was loving someone.

     That was when she received a letter from her younger sister, one that she immediately burned in a flurry of tears after reading. Words on the page that told her: a baby could be dealt with or left with the father. That her dating of Ted would not help her with being the most desirable, but there would still be a pureblood husband for her to take on… She wasn’t pregnant and she didn’t want to just be some good housewife. Her heart ached though because she wanted to respond so bad. She wanted to tell Narcissa that she loved her, missed her even though it hadn’t been that long. However, she also wanted to tell Narcissa about everything she learned. Her parents had been wrong. It didn’t mean that she wanted to leave them. It didn’t mean that she didn’t love them, but they had been oh so wrong. It was better to never reply. Replying would only hurt her more as she still yearned for her parents’ approval. She hadn’t meant to fall in love. She hadn’t meant to be rebellious. This moment was always something that Andromeda struggled with and something she always looks back on. Had there been a better way to handle it? Had she made the right decision?

    The rest of her six year, that summer, and holidays during her seventh year Andromeda was grateful to a friend that had taken her in. It was not one of her pureblood “friends” that she had known practically her entire life, but a friend she had made through having the open mind that Ted helped her have. The support of her newer friends and Ted didn’t change the year in a half being the hardest year that Andromeda had a Hogwarts. She was able to see Narcissa, but not be with her. She was ostracized from a great deal of her house. It was time for Andromeda to become an ice queen once more, but this time, it was towards those that once cherished her because of the Black family name. It was jarring to see how quickly all her pureblood friends and family had turned on her. Even thinking back on it can cause Andromeda to feel a tightness in her throat and her eyes to grow watery. There were a few times her seventh year that she thought about going back to her family and profusely apologizing to see if they would take her back, but that is something she kept to herself and never told anyone. Even at sixteen and seventeen, she even shakily knew that the values of her childhood were wrong… But it was so hard. Seeing Narcissa in the hallways, she wanted to run to her sister and hug her. Andromeda desperately tried to harden her heart.

     After graduation, Andromeda and Ted had moved in together. It was a rocky start and they couldn’t afford much, but she had found that he had been working the previous summer after she had been kicked out in order to give them a kick start and support them. Tears had been brought to her eyes when she realized that he was already giving so much to her. He wanted to give her a family and he wanted to be there for her. Of course, nothing was perfect their first year. They greatly struggled with finances, though his family tried to help them where they could. Andromeda’s life was still upside down. She had been once used to luxury and their place was rather dingy at best with not all the furniture that they might have wished. A mattress was in place of an extravagant bedframe. A couple cushions on the floor in place of a couch or dining room… Though that year was full of love and loyalty. Sure, there were disagreements between her and Ted though they always solved it before they went to bed. Andromeda learned not going to bed angry was a key to their strength in their relationship. During this time, they were saving up for both a better life and they wanted to save to support Andromeda’s dream of becoming a healer.

      It was that summer that they found out something rather unexpected. Andromeda was pregnant. Ted had originally wanted them to be able to live together a bit longer before getting married, but he was certainly planning on marrying her. The unexpected pregnancy at 18 was scary for the new couple, but they knew that they wanted to be the best parents that they could be. Andromeda’s dreams of training took a bit of a backseat. The couple worked together to save more money where they were able to get a small house and begin to furnish it in preparation for the baby that they were expecting. She was proud of their small cottage by the time their daughter was born. It was in this cottage that Ted and Andromeda resided while attempting to lay low during Voldemort’s reign. It was also in this cottage that Ted and Andromeda finally got married after Nymphodora was born. Of course, Andromeda made sure that her baby that was a few months old was dressed beautifully for the occasion that only a select few were invited to. It was hard as the war had already begun at the time and the Tonks’ stance on the matter was neutral. They had chosen not provide support for either side as they were not wanting to her family to be able to find them. It was her own self-preservation and for the protection of her daughter that she knew she would never regret this decision.

     During those years that she was lying low, Andromeda continued to put off her dreams of training to become a healer. Instead, she was a stay at home mom as Ted would work and provide for the family. It was something that in her Hogwarts years that she thought she wouldn’t enjoy, but for Nymphodora to be taken care of and to be safe was all that mattered for her. Those years held both extremely good and very scary memories for her. Seeing her daughter grow before her very eyes was something that she was extremely thankful for.  Those moments with her daughter are ones that she wouldn’t have traded for the entire world. Still, there were nightmares that would persist that would make her heart go still. A reoccurring dream that Bellatrix would take everything away from her because Andromeda betrayed their family. She would wake up crying with an ache in her heart. What would settle the thoughts would be to check on her beautiful baby girl that was already growing up so fast.

     In 1981, Voldemort’s reign ended and her older sister was carted off to Azkaban. It was the first time that Andromeda felt like she could actually breathe safely. Nyphadora was turning eight that year and now could have more freedoms in terms of play because Andromeda didn’t have to worry. At first, it felt odd that she didn’t have this fear looming over her. It was peaceful, nice. That first year was when she got encouraged to go back to following her dreams of having wanted to become a healer. Her daughter was three years out from going to Hogwarts and her husband had work of his own, so Andromeda finally began the steps to get trained as she had wanted so many years ago. Andromeda had been quick on her feet and the training to become a healer was rather smooth. Soon enough, she was working at St. Mungo’s. But also just as soon, she was sending Nymphodora off the Hogwarts for the first time. It was also during these years of peace that Narcissa reached out to her. Focusing on her family and her studies, Andromeda was admittedly cautious at first. She knew that Narcissa’s husband had been a Deatheater, as well as those words in the letter about sweeping a child with Ted under the rug when they were teenagers at Hogwarts were burned in her mind. However, that yearning for her family and to be close with her sister had not stopped after all the years and she decided that she would give Narcissa a chance. While she was slow to trust and she is not entirely sure where Narcissa’s head is at, she is thankful to have a relationship with her once more. What Andromeda hopes is that Narcissa will eventually be able to be a family figure in her daughter’s life, but for now she is still testing the waters.

     Andromeda enjoys her job at St. Mungo’s and is happy to care for everyone that she can. Having a teenage daughter is a bit more stressful than what she expected, and she wonders if even as a younger mother that could keep up with the best of them that she might get grey hairs prematurely. Still, Ted and Dromeda are doing their very best in raising her as they have always tried to. Though Dromeda has been noticing that the house is so quiet when Nymphodora is away at school. Her thoughts have been softly drifting to that of potentially having another child, especially during such a peaceful time as it would be a great deal easier on them. However, she has not exactly brought this idea up to her husband just yet. One thing that dampens the glow and Andromeda’s excitement of the peace is whispers that the Deatheaters may be on the move. She hopes that they are just rumors and nothing more. Bellatrix is still in Azkaban, is she not? So, hopefully, there is nothing to worry over.

plot ideas — 

+ Cissa; I definitely would love to see how the family dynamics work with Dromeda and Cissa now that they are both mothers and Narcissa had reached out to try and reconnect. I think there could be a push towards fun angst as it seems that the reaching out could have been more manipulative on Narcissa’s side and more genuine on Andromeda’s.

+ MOTHER OF A TEENAGER?! OH GOD; I think it could be fun getting into the fact that Andromeda’s daughter is now a teenager and that comes with dealing with all that teenage angst. It could be interesting for maybe mothers to ban together. Molly potentially being a good person to bond with this case as she has a bit of experience.

+ Empty Nest; Continuing on with the Nymphodora related plot ideas, I think it would be interesting to rp out Andromeda going through that whole empty nest feeling now that Nymphodora has been at Hogwarts for a couple years. It is possible that she is even feeling a little bit of baby fever as she sees some of the younger kids and misses when her daughter was that age.

+ Sirius-ly; Of course, I would love to plot and bond with Dromeda’s favorite cousin. I think that they could have cute and fun moments, especially ones where she is doting on how well he is doing with Harry.

+ A Slytherin’s Hufflepuff; Even through their ups and downs in marriage, I think that I ultimately would love soft fluff between Ted and Dromeda. It will be nice to see how no matter what their love always seems to win out.

+ Paging Dr. Tonks; I know she is a Healer and not a doctor, but stick with me. Lol. I think with this, I would like to explore the different kinds of people that she heals, and it can be open to really anyone in the rp.

+ You Picked HIM over ME?!; Another plot/connection that could be fun is a pureblood and potentially a death eater that Andromeda was betrothed to for a certain period of time before she fully picked to be with Ted.

+ Lighthouse in the Storm; I would love there to be a female character that their family took her in during the second half of her sixth year and the summer before her seventh year.

extra —

-          handwriting — She almost always writes in perfect cursive. Andromeda was taught to write cursive at a young age and very much perfected it to a t. The rare occasions that she doesn’t write in cursive, her handwriting is quite bubbly and curly almost mimicking her cursive writing. Not to mention most of her I’s are dotted with a star.

-          doodling — Dromeda doodles on all of her papers and had when she was at Hogwarts as well. She feels like when she is drawing that it helps exercise her brain. Whether the doodle is an organized drawing or random scribbles, she finds it improves her ability to focus and gives her good thoughts.

-          painful memories — Andromeda always keeps a locket around her neck. In the locket, is a picture of her and her sisters from when they were kids. Andromeda had been given this locket when she was ten and the picture had always been the same. Even after everything, she didn’t see it as right to take the picture out of the necklace. While she still doesn’t agree with them, she sometimes finds herself occasionally opening the locket and remembering how they used to be. It’s not uncommon to find her absent-mindly twirling the necklace. She has never shown her husband or her daughter what is in the necklace as it is deeply personal to her.

-          nail bitter — When she is nervous about work, Andromeda tends to bit her nails. She does not know how to habit started and does not do it often. People at St. Mungo’s know when she gets to stressed because her long and beautiful nails become a lot shorter

-          amortentia —

Water Mint: The smell of water mints reminds her of nature. The river that ran past her home had water mint plants running along its banks. While she was not supposed to be dirtying her dress in the wilderness, she still snuck off sometimes.

Unknown Smell: There is one smell of her amortentia is unidentified. Later in life, she realizes it is the smell of Ted’s aftershave. When she first realized this, she had not believed it. However, as their love developed, she fully realized why the smell of him is in her amortentia.

Old Books: It might not be believable, but Andromeda had enjoyed studying. The library was her quiet place where she can find her sanctuary to study the subjects that she enjoys very much. One day, she wants to have a small library in their home.

Crunchies: Crunchies became Dromeda’s favorite candy when introduced to her by a muggleborn friend. To her, it is the perfect combination of honey and chocolate that is absolutely divine. It even smells good on its own.

[jcmorgenstern]

"#hey where's the fic where chaotic bisexuals jace and clary are in a relationship with clary's estranged brother's foster mom#literally lease my crops are DYING i NEED cougar lilith i NEED#(mundane AU 20k rated M or E) #im gonna have to write it myself arent i" // perhaps Lilith is beside herself over Jonathan leaving, and this is a chance to feel closer to him through people important to him. perhaps I love this idea.

tags from this post (thank you anon!!! i went a little fucking crazy and wrote this which is entirely unedited.....rip in pieces)

It had been a year and a half since she had seen Jonathan last. He had been hers in all the ways that mattered (but never flesh and blood) until he wasn’t, a stabilizing weight by her side cut loose. Sudden as that, she was in freefall. A prestigious editorship at a major fashion magazine turned to ball and chain, the envied life of a socialite the vanity of a mere woman, a luxurious New York loft to the dreaded empty nest. At her third strong drink in an evening, she could feel the thin coat of dust layering her womb, a mausoleum. Her son and one frivolous argument too many did what scores of small men had tried and failed to do.

On balance, she supposed she ought to proud it took her this long for the bland Promethean cycle of waking-working-talking-eating-sleeping-repeat to wear her down, and ashamed she gave in at all. A good mother, she knew, would never be caught where she is now--standing out in an ill-fitting tinsel dress she wouldn’t have been caught dead in two years ago, avoiding the eyes of men too young for her (beneath her) in favor of one in particular.

I only want to look, she’d told herself as she’d scrabbled at the bottom of her purse (Himalaya Birkin, years out of style, a metaphor dangling in crocodile skin off her arm) for her keys. Just to see. Get close. Watch.

It had been complete coincidence that she’d found out about the art exhibit in the first place. An invite to a wretched student affair from a once-great school grasping for relevance in the cynical age of the internet stuffed in with her morning mail delivery, ordinarily not worth a second more of her attention than it took to sweep it into the trash. The name was what caught her attention, an instinctive flash in the pan--Fairchild.

He didn’t go by Fairchild, of course. He was a man, and why would a man wear anything but the name of another man? At the threshold of adulthood, Jonathan shed the vile name of the woman who had given him up in favor of a ghost of a father. Her own, she realized now, had never been in the running. And so he called himself Morgenstern, an ugly name sealing him off from her like foreign territory. Morgenstern had a terrible finality to it.

She didn’t answer a single email or call the rest of the morning, snapping at any EA foolhardy enough to raise a word against her. By noon, she knew the girl and her boyfriend from smiling model pictures on Instagram, incomplete snippets of life from Facebook and Twitter. The wordless temptation finally had a face and a name and an achingly familiar mane of red hair. Fairchild was the name of his sister by blood, the girl for whom his birth mother had scraped together enough love to keep.

She picked the weaker link first--the blond. Men gave themselves away more easily than women, basking in every oozing ounce of attention. She took his measure in-between smiles and small conversations, observing him over the shoulders of conversational partners she took no interest in. Well-built, handsome, artfully disarranged hair, a James Dean sort of affable. The type girls wished for long after he’d moved on from her entirely. She could see him in the glossy pages of a fashion magazine and allowed herself to hate him, dip the fashionable one syllable of his white-hipster name in poison. Jace.

The second hour she allowed herself closer, indulged in scratching the surface. Uncomfortable in worn jeans and leather jacket surrounded by talk of Bosch, Mondrian, Xiaodong, he was here for his girlfriend, treading water in the art world to lend her a familiar face. He flirted with the girl at the bar more out of obligation than interest, reading off his come here often? lines stiff and atonal. By the time she drifted up beside him at the bar, she had given him enough nuance she could have convinced herself to like him.

“I don’t suppose you could get me one of those?”

It came out easy, like slipping into clothes from another life. Her first job as waitress faking pretty rouged smiles through propositions and comments and ass-pinches, or her first magazine internship weathering the same. He was drinking beer, and she couldn’t stand beer, but men had a peculiar weakness for women who drank their own kinds of drink.

He turned, bemusement turning to something else as she deliberately met his gaze. He was lovely up close, and all in a dizzying rush she felt the barest spark of that indescribable satisfaction she’d been chasing, found the ghost of Jonathan’s angular features in the broader contours of his face. His too-polite smile broke the spell. “I’d love to, but I don’t think my girlfriend would like that very much.”

The waitress smile slipped off. Put him in his place. “It just seems you’re the only one who can get any service around here.”

His smile turned instantly sheepish. “Oh, uh--sorry.” A quick word with the bartender, and soon she had her very own mug of alcoholic piss. He visibly cast about for a line of conversation, and it raised her ire that she couldn’t tell if he did it out of flirtation or pity. “Are you with the gallery?”

“Oh, no. I’m with Poise magazine. We like to browse local shows for rising talent. Keeps us fresh.” She gave a half-flicker of lash at fresh. The cover story was self-indulgent--the answer she gave only mattered to herself. She wasn’t searching for her son where she knew he wouldn’t be found. The flirtation was by rote. “Are you an artist? We’re always doing submission intake.”

It was an old and familiar lie. General licensure was the best any hopeful would get without prior connections.

“Me? No way.” He was warming up to her, rising to her charm like a snake from a basket. How old was he? He couldn’t even be half her age. “Clar--my girlfriend, she’s the artist. I’m here for her.”

For her, not with her. There was a distinction. She cued up the smile she used for interviews. “That’s lovely. What kind of artist?”

“A painter.” For a second, Jace’s expression was almost shy. “She landed the art school gig, but her mom taught her. It’s kind of her last connection to her, you know? Painting keeps her mom alive.”

The enormity of his statement quavered between them like a note from a tuning fork struck on an edge. She felt her expression flicker and melt like wax--Jocelyn was dead. Was it cancer, murder, a hit-and-run? Half-thoughts spooled out in her imagination, part vindictive and part lurid. Did he know? Did he think of her the day he learned she was dead, wish for her to put her arms around him and let him cry into her? She savored the imaginary heat of his short, hitched exhales on her neck, the precious hot droplets of salt falling on her skin.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m an ass,” Jace was babbling. “Did you--have you lost a parent too?”

For a moment, she could have laughed at him. Her father was buried, her mother entombed in a home somewhere conveniently out of mind. With a strange, electric jolt she realized he had assigned her fallen expression to the closest thing at hand, unbiased by that all-encompassing occupation: mother. A mother must have lost a child; a person could lose a parent a lover or a friend. It had been so very long since she’d been seen as anything but.

“Jace! JaceJaceJace--there you are!”

A mess of red-gold curls bounded by her to plant a messy wet kiss to Jace’s cheek. They kissed, young dewy-skinned and unabashed, and she watched with a feeling unlike Jonathan creeping on the edge of her thoughts. Jace broke away first, pulling her back into conversation. “This is, uh, Clary. Clary, this is--” he broke off, embarrassed.

Clary spluttered in the middle of knocking back the last of a sidecar, whipping around to stare at her with something wide-eyed and akin to wonder. “Don’t you--? Don’t you know who she is? Editor at Poise? The Lilith?”

“Not exactly,” Jace admitted.

Clary paid him no mind, cocktail glass immediately moored at the bar. She looked up at her and once she saw past the stars winking in the girl’s eyes, she could see they were the same soft hazel as her brother’s. Clary was drunk, and brimming with it from her ugly artistic blouse to her blunt art-student-lesbian bangs to the untamed curl of her hair. “It’s really you,” she gushed. “I’ve been following your blog forever, and your twitter--I’m being so embarrassing, aren’t I? Can I...can I have a picture?”

Lilith disliked her with a magnetism that pulled the girl in close, letting Clary slip an arm around her waist and hold up a phone too big for her small, delicate-boned hands. In the phone’s screen she could see herself frozen in real time, her red lips lifting in a waxen smile. Next to the peach-fuzz facewash-clean of Clary’s skin, her fashionable makeup and Oscar de la Renta dress looked old and severe, black and gold metals oozing out of her like a snake shedding skin.

“You were my first-ever crush,” Clary was saying with tipsy candor, and with a strange bump Lilith realized Clary was talking to her, not her boyfriend. Her words rushed out in a graceless rush, difficult to make out over the music and wordless chatter drowning her in a dull roar. “I’d spend hours cutting out your photoshoots from magazines, making collages--it drove mom crazy, all those internalized gender roles and whatever. She realized later I just thought you were really hot.”

The full blushing import of Clary’s words hit them all at once and Clary flushed a blotchy pink all the way to the roots of her hair and touched her free hand to her cheek. “Oh my god, I’m fucking drunk.”

Lilith became suddenly aware her hand was still on Clary’s warm waist, trapped under her arm. This was all unscripted, unrehearsed; she felt as flustered as Clary looked, thrown off by the noise and the heat and the alcohol she hadn’t even drank. She was wearing perfume, something cheap and cloying, and in a strange moment Lilith could imagine Clary spread out over a glossy page, slim peachy legs and delicate collarbones bold and daring out from under the heavy drape of a dark dress.

She reached for something cutting to take the girl down to size, but what came out instead was a genteel, “That’s very flattering.”

Clary gave her a pinched little smile in return, the very pink tip of her tongue darting over her bottom lip, and her blush did not abate. Lilith looked to Jace, who was looking between them with something uncertain in his eyes.

A strange, smouldering sensation had risen in her chest, thick and suffocating as a plume of smoke. Her hand did not so much as tremble when she raised a hand to tuck away a stray curl, the color so much lighter when it caught the light. Clary’s face swam before her eyes, raw and pink from crying over her dead mother.

“You’re very sweet,” she said, and there was a husky quality to her voice that only came on with one or two glasses of red wine. Her heart was pounding out a dull, insistent throb rising in time with a painful lump in her throat.

Her phone vibrated in her bag, breaking the spell with a start. She pulled away to relieve the sudden alcoholic flush and dug into her bag with utter disregard for her nails, feeling for the familiar cool rectangle of her phone. When at last she managed to disentangle herself citing creative emergencies needing her immediate attention and a whole host of familiar excuses, it was only then she realized on habit she’d given Clary her card.

The taxi ride back to her apartment was blissfully silent, dark except for the rising crests of light along the near-silent streets. Her own face hovered ghostly in the window, close enough to touch. Her fingertips met glass with a flash of red-gold and her eyes seared with a sudden heat, the ache in her sternum widening.

Her thoughts lingered on him as she greeted the front desk clerk, beside her in physical form in the elevator, hovering at the margins like a melancholy raincloud as she launched into her nighttime routine. Squalane cleanser to remove makeup, wash face before an exfoliant chemical blend, a layer of hydralaunic acid and then niacinamide to hydrate, an retinol under-eye cream to top it all off. The ritual grip of her thoughts relinquished only once she’d folded herself under the covers in her nightclothes, receding as she fell into the uneasy lull of sleep.

This time, the thought of him was mixed with traces of red and gold.

[writingwitchly]

A Potter never accepts a defeat

Word count: 1,8k

Warning: NONE OF THAT HERE, THANK YOU

A/N: For my gem wife, @beaubcxton. Darling, this is my idea of that special date they never got to have. I hope you like it, tho it’ll never be as good as anything you write, but the angel that is @hermione-who fixed it with her magic. @reggieblck calling you too, sweetie <3.

Pairing: Jily

***

A Potter never accepts a defeat.

He had kept trying, trying, trying.

He was on the right path. 

***

The trees’ naked branches were perfectly still, the castles’ cavities as silent as the approaching Christmas holiday allowed. There was no wind, and thank Merlin, because James Potter was about to ice on spot, even inside the dormitory.

His eyes scanned the grounds, the earth muffled under the thick layer of last night’s frozen rain, and he smiled a goofy smile. He tore his gaze from the window, and swung around to get his muffles before sprinting down the wooden stairs. His hand grabbed the last newel post, almost ripping it from its place, to facilitate his change in direction as he zoomed toward the exit.

The common room was warm from the crackling fire in the chimney, the regular murmured conversations and ocasional laughs formed a pleasant buzzing. James thought that the place had never been this wonderful. But today, everything was.

“Where are you running to?”

Peter’s sarcastic question hung in the air, but it did not matter. Everybody knew the answer. 

Caught in his excitement, James didn’t notice Marlene’s sideways smile as she shouted at him to right his glasses, nor did he hear Kingsley's imprecations as they nearly collided before the Fat Lady’s portrait. He didn’t laugh at Remus’ hot chocolate mug almost ending up on the floor as he suddenly appeared in the hallway, nor did he take time to stuck his tongue out to a very flustered Filch -- “No running in the corridors, you duke of limbs!”

In less time than it would have costed Sirius to enrage Professor McGonagall, James’ boots were drowned in the outside snow, his eyes frantic behind his glasses in search of a spot of color among the whiteness. A red spot, to be precise.

“Good morning Potter.”

She was to his right, a foot behind him, grinning like a four year old who’d just won a game of hide and seek.

His heart skipped a bit.

“‘morning Evans.” His tongue was as numb as the rest of his body.

The clarity around made her cheeks look like a rose’s petals, and James sucked in a deep breath at the sight of her red lips.

Her smile widened as she stepped forward. “You almost look decent today.”

He wanted to answer. Really. Something witty maybe. But he could have opened and closed his mouth a thousand times, nothing was going to come out of it.

Merlin, she was gorgeous.

Lily gently tilted her head, amused by the boy’s lack of his usual readiness. “Are we going to stay here for long? I’m becoming an ice cube.” 

James shook his head, and premorously offered her his arm, making her laugh.

They began their stroll in silence, her looking at the sky in innocent distraction, him holding her as close as he could without being awkward. The way was empty, except for a couple of squirrels that seemed eager to follow them while rolling in the snow.

The temperature was not as low anymore, and the boy assumed it was because the sun was on its way to the roof of the sky. Or was it because of the growing heat on his face? 

If she had been there to watch the scene -- which seemed to come right out of a Peynett drawing -- Euphemia Potter would have told her husband that ‘They look very much in love.’ After an amused look from Fleamont, she would have added ‘The squirrels, of course,’ and then hid her malicious smile -- the one Sirius had taught her -- behind her handkerchief.

But the Potter parents were not here.

It was just the two of them, on a date, finally.

James and Lily.

And the squirrels, of course.

“So, Potter...” He glanced sideways at her perfect profile. Her words, when out of her mouth, turned into graceful clouds. “Justify yourself for making me skip my saturday morning visit to the library when it’s below zero outside.”

The first draught of the day sent chills running down his spine. Or maybe it was her grip, tightening delicately.

James cleared his throat.

“Reading too much isn’t good for your eyesight, you know.” She couldn’t hold back a snort, one of those she used to offer him when he widely flirted with her, but she was ready to decline. Except this time she hadn’t. “It’s true! Plus, it’s not good for your mood, breathing book dust all day long. You’d turn into a red headed Moony. We don’t want you to wear unmatching sox and become addicted to chocolate, do we?”

Her laugh was a bubbly hint of spring in this early stage of winter. James could have sworn she sounded like flowers blooming.

“So what should I become addicted to, Potter?”

The mischievous glint in the green of her eyes was something that had only very recently appeared, in the last months. 

He was going to fall back into muteness, embarrassed by what this question could mean. After all, he assumed that it was what she wanted: to have the last word.

But a Potter never accepts a defeat.

“Learned to be tricky, didn’t you?”

“Yes. From a real expert.” Hadn’t she been so close, James could have thought he’d daydreamed about her wink. “So?”

What could he do but smile?

“So you talk too much, Evans. I say you should make your feet work more and your tongue rest.” Lily raised her eyebrows, and her look followed the direction in which he was pointing. “See the bridge? Shouldn’t be more than thirty meters away. The last to get there is a-”

But she had already sprinted forward, ready as she always was to win a competition, the two squirrels trailing behind her with happy squeaking.

It took James a good fraction of second to stop gazing at the flames of her hair against the white landscape, and to move from his position. She had gained some advance, but he could make it before her easily.

A Potter never accepts a defeat.

He felt the air burn in his lungs, his muscles awakening after a week without Quidditch practice, and the adrenaline shooting him forward like one of Dumbledore’s spells. He heard her broken breathing, some meters before him, and pushed harder on the ground, his boots making the snow creak like broken shell nuts.

He was not more than three meters away from her…

Her inhaling waves were stressed.

A Potter never accepts a defeat.

Two meters…

She glanced behind her shoulder, and let out a high-pitched cry of surprise.

A Potter never accepts a defeat.

One meter…

Anybody else would have surrendered, preferring to let their heart recover a normal beat instead of winning a stupid race.

A Potter never accepts a defeat.

When they were just a few bounces away from the river, James gave one last effort.

But, right when he could have bypassed her, his legs slowed down, and a moment later she was perched on the first of the three stone stairs that started the bridge.

A Potter never accepts a defeat.

But a Potter knows to choose the right victory.

Holding her ribs, bent in two, struggling to inhale any air in between her chuckling, she was the best view James had ever had the chance to see.

“Nice run, Evans.” He was quicker than her to stabilize his breath, obviously. His hair was ruffled, he pushed his glasses up with a finger that would have been all sweaty, in another season. “Let’s see if you can do it again, shall we?”

“Shut up, Potter.” She muttered. “You talk too much.”

He bursted in a loud laughter, and stepped forward to offer her his help.

Had the squirrels not been there, maybe nothing special would have happened that morning. But the little animals found themselves right on the spot where James’ feet was set to land, and he lost his balance in an attempt to avoid them at the last moment.

He was going to fall sideways, but Lily was fast in catching his arms, pulling him near her. They found each other nose to nose, close enough to inhale the same air.

James’ heartbeat had climbed up to his ears.

“Look.” Lily whispered with a shy smirk. “I’m taller than you.”

Her eyes were magnets that attracted his.

“Only because you’re on a step, Evans.”

This was his very breathless attempt to cool his nerves down.

There was a pause. They didn’t notice the icy wind anymore.

“I’ve dreamt of this for quite some time, you know.”

“What? Being taller than me?”

“No.” She leaned forward, and James’ mouth became incredibly itchy. “This.”

Her lips were as soft at the snowflakes that were falling from the sky, sprinkling their hair with Nature’s pureness. The skin of her face brushed against his, her hands getting lost in his hair.

He had dreamt about it countless times, inflicted his wild imaginations to his friends for years, depicted the most hopeful scenarios, but nothing of what he had pictured was worthy of being compared to this moment.

Eyes closed, James kissed her back, circling her waist with his hands, tenderly pressing her body to his. A cherubs’ choir had set up a grandiose show in his mind.

On the border of the path, the two squirrels had stopped chasing each other. Their little eyes were fixed on the young couple, their muzzles shaking, as if in approval. One of them even seemed to sketch a malicious smile.

James felt Lily’s cold wrists on the back of his neck, her smile against his.

It was evident that the snow was falling, now, that they should probably head back to the castle if they didn’t want to be buried.

But before that...

“What do you think about this, Evans? Want to withdraw your affirmation?”

He was referring to the time she had told him he was probably awful at kissing.

A lost sun ray reflected in her white teeth.

“I guess you’re an ok kisser, Potter.”

“I know r- What? No. No way. I am an outstanding kisser. You were just too amazed to realize it.”

Her hum of indecision got a smile out of him.

“I’m really not sure, Potter. I think you’re just average.”

“And I’m telling you, you’re wrong.”

“Oh, really. Then what? It’s my word against yours.” Lily whispered.

She was teasing him, and it turned his inside into a big knot.

He could have shrugged, rolled his eyes.

But a Potter never accepts a defeat.

“I say have the right to a second round, to prove you wrong.”

The squirrels turned their back on the river and sped toward their tree, leaving the place entirely still. The mass of clouds above them separated, letting the sun bath this white parcel of the world, the wind sat down, waiting to see.

As James’ mouth found Lily’s again, the winter seemed to hold its breath.

[ftscge-blog]

greetings friends (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ im jay and im excited to b finally making an obnoxious entrance .. Yea couldnt be more late but please (Softly begging) dont be a stranger. i promise to overwhelm u with ideas and headcanons about our characters eating pasta or arguing about who gets to eat the pink mentos ... Right ??? right. under the cut u will find a few pointers about my spiritual sage and i will post some possible connections tomorrow (although id be MOre than happy to brainstorm more). Also, dis klutz hasnt got a soulmate yet so if someone reads this and goes ‘yea cool’ ☺ .. here is ur chance ....... we can work magic ????? okay 

as per usual, if u would like me to im u about conspiracy theories or to plot summnnn bonito give this a HEart. Alternatively if u want to give mark the zucc or pity like, dats also welcome. Thank u

!!!!!!!! tw: death, depression !!!!!

kendall jenner + cisfemale + she/her — have you met sage hawke? they are a twenty-two year old furniture sales advisor known as the conundrum. a pansexual cancer, they are astute + attentive, as well as mercurial + phlegmatic. their soulmark is a olive branch behind her ear, and they can’t feel the emotions of their soulmate, who happens to look like any fc. // jay. 20. she/her. gmt.

❃ sage was born in berkeley, california in the back garden of a school bus turned tiny house to a pair of flower children that did not plan to become parents and underestimated just how much it would shift their otherwise, spontaneous lives. they were far from picture perfect, with their tendency to outburst and get stuck when things didn’t go their way. theyd often forget to pack sages breakfast or dress her in unmatched socks, leave her unattended, allow her to squeeze herself into places where she shouldn’t be.. they’d trip over pacifiers and forget to warm up the milk but they gave sage a warm place to come back to with muddy knees after repeatedly falling off the monkey bars and loving arms to fall into after someone made fun of her in elementary.. and she was the kind of person who wasn’t afraid to dig through dirt 

❃ her mother was delicate, she could never secure a real job.. she couldn’t be criticised, she took everything to heart and found it hard to open up to people.. she couldn’t be alone for too long and never slept with the lights off. she met sage’s father at the age of 19..from the moment they saw each other, it clicked. they were soulmates. he was 10 years older than her. He was a childish spirit that never grew up, he never took things too seriously and always had an alternative for any situation. He had a backbone that was able to support both of them emotionally, without him, Sage would have never taken her first breath in the first place. For him, it was always going to be okay eventually??? he was the one to sit sage down after she brought home a bad grade, he’d read her the bedtime stories and teach her her first guitar chords. her mother always looked up to what he would do and try to be the same, but it always felt staged, detached. like she never knew how to react around sage. Like she couldn’t grip her own struggles so, how could she begin to understand her daughters ... difference is, her father thought he couldn’t but he always tried. they balanced each other. around him, it was hard to believe anything could possibly get worse 

❃ but it did.. on her 14th birthday sage got a dog, a golden doodle that jumped with excitement at the sight of sage as much as she did at the sight of him. later that night, her father suggested they all go to a park to enjoy the first day with the new addition to their family and so they did. it was the first time, sage’s mother smiled so big it gave sage and her father goosebumps. he was playing fetch with the dog when pain pierced through his chest and bolted up his spine. in that moment, everything slowed down. sage felt her ears buzz and her sight get blurry, the moment she kneeled down in front of her father and begged her mother to call for help but instead, all she did was stood still. she screamed at the top of her lungs and tried dialling for help but realised, she was never taught the emergency number. she banged her fists against her father’s chest and begged for him to wake up, but it was just as though someone turned off his on switch. sage broke down, curled up beside her father and held the dog in her arms as though to repress his playful nature. the world turned grey that evening, the air felt denser. her mother was taken under care that day after she succumbed from witnessing her soulmates death... they had given her a couple of days before her light would turn off along with her soulmark. it was in these last days that sage learned more about her mother than ever. she learned that she was self conscious about motherhood knowing she couldn’t teach sage the qualities that mattered like resilience, courage and acuity. that she observed without interrupting, that she remembered every single detail of sage’s life more than she recalls her own. sage learned that her mother is where she inherited her tenderness and idiosyncrasy from, that her favorite flower is a blue bell and that sage was her happiest accident  

❃ to bury both of her parents at once wasn’t irrational to sage, it was what was ingrained in their destiny. if one soulmate dies, the other most likely follows. but although sage had remarkable understanding of the world for her age, she could never accept the fact that they were there one day and the next, they were gone. her father never finished teaching her guitar chords and her mother never ate her piece of sage’s birthday cake. how do you go on knowing you can’t go back and replay something in a way that feels tangible ?? how do you go on knowing you are all alone. who do you complain to?? who is there to live for??? ? it is hard losing both of your parents on its own and even harder to accept when you are old enough to make sense of it. seeing images everytime you try to rest that bring back all the pain, not being able to stop the tears from streaming down your face because everytime u do, you realise that with each passing day the memory of their faces becomes more blurry. the voices become ruffled in your brain as if theyre just a fragment of your imagination. you bottle up. you scream, you hit, you tire yourself out and try to shake the feeling off but it feels as though its ripping through your bones and leaving ulcers on your heart that pound in pain everytime you go back to the last time you’ve smiled and realising, you cannot remember. sage’s unapologetic demeanour  attracted the wrong crowd. she was the girl who would leave lipstick marks on necks and who’s voice could be heard at the other end of the hallway having an argument with her high school sweetheart. whoever it was that month. she was unapologetically eccentric, sloppy and unwell. but to this day, the people who really know her see her as an incredibly sensitive individual who deals with her issues hands on. who’s piercingly honest, sometimes too much. someone who is able to convey their vulnerability in ways that seem lunatic and astute all at once. she is incredibly tough, she’s able to force anyone look at themselves in the mirror, see themselves in a new light and turn their lives around. just as she is convinced she did

❃ sage was placed in foster care after her parents’ passing and due to her neurotic nature, was never a feasible candidate for adoption.. she worked as a waitress at the local diner owned by a family friend until they realised she was better off helping the chef in the kitchen, away from the customers that often walked right out the Moment sage graced their table JGRIEOGJEI When she turned 18, Sage was given a care plan and various locations where she could make her home. After spending a month, digging through job advertisements and applying to anything that didn’t require a college degree, Sage got one reply. It was an informal email requesting an interview for a furniture sales advisor in captiva island, florida. one of the places on the care plan list. She packed everything she could and moved to Captiva. the next morning, she arrived at the furniture shop and was greeted by a greying man with wood sand on his jeans and a lady with too much hairspray in her hair waving at her from across the counter. And the rest is HISTORY ???  from the moment they’ve welcomed her into their shop, Sage was overwhelmed with the same disorderedness she grew up around and the more she got to know the personalities of her new bosses, the more she learned to appreciate them. coming into work felt more like home than the place she had lived in, with freshly baked pastries ready for her to munch on at her break or a story to listen to in between the busy times. the more they knew sage, the more they allowed her to express her feelings about daily frustrations, accepted her random spurts of energy and understood when she needed a day off or two, or more. soon enough, the moments when she wasn’t at work, she was spending on their couch, looking through their albums of children that had left their nests and simpler times, when all they had to worry about was their curfew. they weren’t soulmates but they were best friends and didn’t let destiny determine their life. Sage looked up to them like no other, comparing their life to the tragedy of her parents’, convincing herself that chasing after your Soulmate, whoever it may be, isn’t worth the chance of risk at all. After working there for 4 years, Sage became like family to the owners of the shop and for her 21st birthday, they decided to gift her with their offering of parenthood. Later that summer, the Hawke family became sages legal parents

❃ i will post some questionnaire later to clarify her personality a little more but it’ll all come through her dialogue .. u know who she reminds me of ??? sophia from girl boss??? or tiffany from silver linings playbook?? shes painfully observant and a huge overthinker. she doesn’t filter her speech and oftentimes, she says things she should not on impulse. she’s neurotic, she’s erratic, she will pick petty fights and blow things out of proportion when you catch her on the wrong day. its like that lyrics thoUGH ‘when im happy oh god im happy??’ you will see it from the way her eyes crinkle and the ways she can’t seem to relax her body. every emotion overwhelms her.. she loves and she protecc until her knuckles bleed and she’s stubborn, she’ll never let you win the argument unless she loves u and she understands that u are probably way wiser than she is. Shes a klutz, she’ll trip over her own feet taking out the trash and spill Literally everything that isnt left empty. She likes little moments in life, the profound ones like that one time her friend let her drive his car even through she didn’t have her driving license or that one time her friend opened up to her even though they never do. She remembers all of those profound moments very clearly and holds onto them for dear life because to her, they are what matters .. Please plot w me if u got to this point because ... DAMNNN :’) u really read all det..... 

❃ why the olive branch ??? its understood to be a symbol of peace .. reconciliation. maybe they met it felt like an ice pack on a bruise ?? maybe they met each other and it felt as though there’s been some kind of a mistake, that they were nothing what they expected their soulmate to be ? maybe they even considered removing their soulmark because it felt so wrong that two polar opposites were meant to make things work?? it almost felt unfair??? maybe even the fact that they can’t feel the emotions of their soulmate can be linked to that .. because u know it would be harder to learn to love, platonically or romantically, someone who you cant easily understand? in addition to that, sage is not an easy person to deal with .. she’s erratic, she’s a know-it-all .. she overthinks like no other, shes easily irritated and explosive and she has always been quite cynical about the idea of a soulmate and it shows with how unwilling she is to share all of herself with a stranger.. a part of her written in destiny. Something shes convinced is ... fickle?? So yeah... an olive branch. For all the profound moments when it feels just right. For when the uncertainty fades away :-)

[steves--starsandstripes]

Colors

Pairings: Robb Stark x Fem!Reader

Summary: Colors highlight significant points in your relationship with Robb

Warnings: None. PS: (Y/F/N) = your father’s name

Word Count: 2,085

Author’s Note: So I’ve seen some people do imagines where they do one significant color and how it has been a part of a ship’s relationship over its duration. But I didn’t want to just do one color, so I thought I would do several colors and their significance. Ps, sorry if the timing of winters/summers is off cuz idk when the seasons were/how long they lasted in the past. Also, I made up a holiday because lol I needed one for the feast.

***Gifs are not mine***

White. White was all you could see for miles as you and your father rode to Winterfell. It was your first time seeing snow, as you had been born during the summer. Plus, your home was hundreds of miles from the Stark keep.

Your father and Lord Eddard had fought together during Robert’s rebellion. Unbeknownst to your parents, they had conceived you right before your father left to fight. By the time your mother knew, he had been gone for weeks. Safe to say, your father was overjoyed (although very surprised) when he came home to find his first child, a beautiful baby girl, had been born.

At the time you and your father visited Winterfell, you were seven years old. Whispers of a betrothal had been exchanged, but both parties wanted to give you two a chance to meet before any plans were made. You knew you were to be gracious and ladylike as you had been raised. But for the time, you just stared at the snow in wonder.

Blue. Blue was the color of the eyes staring back into your own. He was taller than you, everyone was, so you had to crane your neck slightly to see them. But no height difference could dull the striking image of those Tully eyes.

Robb Stark was but a few months older than you. Yet, he was dressed like a little lord should be, and stood just as straight and tall as his mother and father. You too were dressed up, as a little lady from a noble house is expected to be. Without knowing it, you had worn a dress that nearly matched his eyes exactly. It was something your mother would do, after all, matching your dress with you possible-future-husband’s eyes. She was a hopeless romantic at heart. Despite your best efforts to seem tough, you wore your heart on your sleeve just as your mother did, and you couldn’t help blushing as this eldest Stark boy smiled at you when you met.

Green. Green was the color of the forests you spent hours running, skipping, and riding through. After you and Robb had clearly taken a liking to each other, your parents made the match official. You both knew, technically, but you didn’t really think about all it entailed in the long run. All you knew was that you were a ward of Winterfell now, and you really didn’t mind. Sure, you missed your family, but they came to visit you every-so-often, and sent letters to you at least once a week. Besides, this is quite literally what you were born to do. As a noble lady, you had been taught your whole life that one day you would go live somewhere else and be someone’s bride.

You were lucky. Some girls had to go live in horrible, foreign places with horrible, old husbands. You got to play in the woods with the Stark children, and grow up knowing that one day you would marry one of your best friends. You were all constantly together, joined since day one. Robb, Jon, Theon, and you would play in the lush trees of the wolfswood, sword fighting, tree climbing, and riding your horses. Sometimes you and Robb’s little sister, Sansa, would go down to the creek to do “little lady things” as the boys mockingly called it. Braiding your hair and chatting was rather girly you supposed, but you always were a balanced child. As the years went on you bonded with all of the Stark children, spending hours among those rich green groves. Sword fighting with little Arya, reading with Sansa, playing hide and seek with Bran and the littlest wolf, Rickon. But your favorite was always riding with the older boys, because it meant spending time with Robb. You grew up together in those woods, learning each other’s secrets and dreams, discovering that he loved the way you laughed, and (unknown to you) him admiring the way your hair shined in the golden sunlight that came through the green canopy above you.

Silver. Silver was the color of the dress you wore to the feast on the Night of Frost. Every season, as summer turns cold, the North celebrates the past summer, while preparing for the fact that winter is coming. All the Northern houses come together to eat, drink, and be merry. Most importantly though, they come to establish final plans for winter. Robb, as the heir to Winterfell and future Warden of the North, had sat in on meetings all day. Nevertheless, he had finally been released to enjoy himself, and he made his way to the banquet hall to join the feast. As he slipped in and made his way to the head table he froze. You were sat next to Sansa, chatting and laughing that familiar laugh that made Robb’s heart leap.

But it wasn’t your laugh that made him stand still. It was just you. He had never seen you look so beautiful, in your silver dress that fit you perfectly, and your hair pulled back in intricate braids with delicate silver flowers woven into it.

He had always seen you as one of his best friends, but this… this was something else. He saw you in a different way. You weren’t that little girl who had blushed when you met, you were so much more. He finally got it. You were his lady. You were going to be his, and he was going to be yours. And it was then, in that moment, that Robb realized he loved you. Sure, he had always had feelings for you, no one could deny that. But he loved you. He smiled to himself, his heart racing with excitement as he sat next to you. “One day I will put a ring around your finger”, he thought to himself, “and it’ll be beautiful and silver, just like you are now.”

Violet. Violet was the color of your most prized possession, your bow. On your seventeenth nameday, Robb had given you an incredible gift. “I had it crafted specially for you,” he beamed, handing you the elegant, purple bow. “The carpenters spent hours getting the wood just right. And I told them to make it violet, to match the wildflowers from your family’s home.” You blushed, not realizing before how much Robb took note of. How much he cared. “Robb it’s incredible! Thank you,” you said, throwing your arms around him, careful to keep the gift out of your tight embrace.

Later that afternoon, you and Robb took the bow out for the first time. You were an expert archer, as you had been trained since you could hold an arrow. Most places don’t teach girls to fight, but your house was known everywhere for its expertise in archery. By the age of four you could hit the bullseye nearly every time, and by six you could shoot from horseback. It was one of your favorite qualities about yourself, as it made you unique. Robb had never told you, but he felt the same way. He had always been impressed by your skill, even if he had teased you about it when he was younger. To be honest, he hadn’t been used to someone being better at fighting than him, as he was the oldest child, much less a girl being able to best him. But you had proven your skills to him your second day in Winterfell, and ever since you two had loved shooting together. You took your violet bow everywhere with you, a constant reminder of your family, and the one you had here in the North.

Orange. Orange was the color of the sky as the sun sank lower and lower, drawing in the dusk. You had been riding for a little while with Robb. To where, you had no idea. All he had told you was that he wanted to go for a ride. You didn’t know why you were riding, and you didn’t where you were heading, but it didn’t matter. It was Robb, and if he wanted to go for a ride then you were more than happy to join him. He slowed down as you reached the top of a large hill a few miles outside the walls of Winterfell. He helped you down from your horse, and took your hand in his, leading you to sit beside him on the grass.

You watched as colors streaked across the sky, vibrant pinks and deep oranges holding your gaze. “It’s beautiful, Robb” said quietly, careful not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. “Aye,” he answered, turning to face you, “but it can’t match the beauty sitting beside me now.” You blushed just like you always did when Robb showed his affections for you. “You’re too good to me, Robb,” you joked, a gentle smile spreading across your face. “I always try to be the best man I can for you,” he began, placing a hand on your cheek to gently lead your eyes to meet his. “And, if you’ll let me, I want to keep being a good man for you for the rest of my life.” You couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. You had known this day was coming, and yet you still found yourself struggling to answer. You composed yourself, and looked back into his gentle eyes once again. “I would love nothing more,” you grinned.

Letting out a small sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he was holding, Robb leaned in, kissing you for the first time. His lips were softer than you would have thought, and he was gentle, treating you with respect and care. It was just a short little moment, but it said more than enough. Evening was beginning to settle as you two rode back to the castle, the orange swept away by a dark, twinkling sky.

Red. Red were the leaves of the heart tree under which you and Robb said your vows. You made your way down through the woods, people smiling at you as you walked. You were draped in your maiden cloak, bearing the colors of your family’s house. It was a bittersweet moment, your father’s arm linked with yours, the colors of your house adorning you for the last time. You looked to your father, and you both understood the meaning in your eyes. You’ll always be a part of me. You then looked to Robb, a smile gracing his face, his eyes full of adoration. You and your father stopped a few feet in front of the tree. Lord Eddard stepped forward. “Who comes before the old gods this night?”

Your father answered. “(Y/N) of House (Y/L/N) comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Robb stepped forward, making eye contact with your father. “Robb of House Stark, heir to Winterfell and future Warden of the North. I claim her. Who gives her?”

Again, your father spoke. “(Y/F/N) of House (Y/L/N), father of the bride.”

Lord Eddard then turned to you, giving you a small smile before speaking. “Lady (Y/N), will you take this man?”

You smiled back. “I take this man.” Robb stepped forward, and took your hand. You looked back at your father for one last second, nodding to him before removing your arm from his. Then, you and Robb knelt before the heart tree, bowing before the old gods. Moments later you stood again, and Robb removed your maiden cloak, replacing it with a beautiful grey and white one adorned, of course, with a direwolf. It was official. You were man and wife, and you couldn’t be more thrilled. You leaned in, sealing the marriage with a kiss, and the crowd around you cheered. Robb leaned into you, whispering in your ear. “I am yours, and you are mine,” he said. You traded places with him, and repeated it; “I am yours, and you are mine.” It was a moment for just you two. And all felt just right. The red leaves rustled in the cool breeze, and you all made your way back to the hall. The night was just beginning, a feast waiting inside. One chapter ended, and another began. And as it had been for over a decade, and would be for the rest of your days, you were with the love of your life.

[boothanita]

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[type-a-nomad]

weekend feb 25

February 25 Sunday

Alright so this weekend has been crazy lazy.  Before I get into my lethargy and the justification for it, I want to address some of the information I forget to include in my general posts.  

One thing I keep forgetting to write down: THEY DONT USE TAPE HERE. My friend Sydney just came over and saw me writing and asked if I had written this down because she pointed this out last week and I totally freaked out.  Because THEY DONT.  It sounds small, but imagine if all of the tape in your life vanished.  WEIRD.  Super fûcking weird.  Instead of tape, they use this sticky white ticky-tac stuff to stick things to the walls.  Tape is better.   Another thing I forgot to write down: I extended and am now staying here until April 14th.  Yay! I came to this decision because the work here is meaningful, and the quality of life is high because I’m by the beach, the people are generally good, it’s a different culture that challenges me, and I am meeting new people almost every day because it’s a hostel so everyone comes and leaves at different times. ANOTHER THING. I talked to Shannon about what the crazy lady screamed at us on Thursday.  It turns out it wasn't all crazy.  The crazy woman mentioned people dying.  When I followed up, she was right.  I did not get a year for when this happened, but probably within the last five years, Shannon said that eight volunteers were walking in the street in the evening.  A drunk driver hit all of them.  Shannon was the first on the scene and one of the volunteers died in her arms.  Two others were in comas for several weeks, and all the others were injured but survived.  I did not press her further on the subject because, obviously, this is beyond a delicate topic.  I can’t imagine the kind of emotional experience that was for Shannon.  Also, she’s an amazing woman.   Shannon is only 28 and basically runs the volunteer program.  She has three adopted kids who she adopted WHEN SHE WAS 24.  Their mother was an alcoholic and a drug addict and I am not sure how Shannon was initially connected with them, but I think she met them all through the volunteer program and eventually interceded.  She is very connected to some of the families of the kids in the program, which I think is a great thing because we meet some resistance from the families sometimes and more communication helps.  It is easy to say that it’s crazy for families to be against their children being tutored, given attention, taught to swim, taken out to play organized sports, and taught to surf.  However, there’s more to the situation.  When you keep in mind the poverty these kids live in and the relatively luxurious lives the volunteers have just because we have couches, a fridge, running water, etc. I completely see why there would be resentment from somebody of that background playing with your kid after school.  Also, I’m sure there is some feeling of resistance against the idea of your kid being a charity case that rich white people use to feel like they're doing good things.  Some of the parents outright tell their kids they aren't allowed to go after school and play with us, that they want them to clean the house and babysit their siblings while their parents finish work.  These kids still come and sometimes they will mention “My mom told me I can’t be here, if she finds out….” and you can just tell that if the parents find out their child came to the program, they might face physical punishment.  That’s how much this program means to the kids.  And that’s how much somebody else offering privileges to your child that you cannot provide them upsets parents.   As for my weekend.  My weekend starts on Friday.  On Friday, it was only kind warm and I went out with Thora to the cafe we found and really like called Melissa’s.  After, I went with her to get her tattoo touched-up, which looked painful.  Then, I went surfing for about 3 hours. My ribs have been sore all weekend since.  I caught a lot of waves, but still haven't ridden any in.  I got the tiniest board and am not practiced enough to handle it.  Hopefully next time I’ll get a long board that isn't as hard to balance. That night, there was a Braai which was nice.  Coll made fantastic butternut squash with spanish and feta.  I almost always eat vegetarian here.  I went out with Thora after we had a bottle of wine with dinner and we checked out a cool bar I’ll probably go back to.   It’s called the boardhouse and it’s very beachy and very South African. Thora is trying to talk me into going vegan and I’m very morally conflicted.  I’ve been thinking a lot about global warming and how hard it is to not feel frustrated and stuck.  I want to just change everything.  I wish I had a billion dollars to buy the amazon rainforest, deploy a fleet of boats to clean the ocean, develop a way of fishing that doesn't destroy entire ecosystems, promote permaculture and make the entire mid-west quit mono cropping, change the meat industry and find more meat alternatives so people stop eating so many cows that pollute horribly, also invent electric airplanes.  I don’t know where to start.  Maybe I need to become God or something and just shake the world with my hands until everything goes back down and fixes itself, like a snow globe.  The permafrost is melting and I’m just sitting here in South Africa, so frustrated I want to scream.  On top of that I am ironically angry at people who just say they can’t do anything and its just too bad.  Like pick up a shovel and plant trees, go vegan, be a better human.  I should definitely lead by example.  I have a lot of ideas and need to start executing more.  I am eighteen and actually realizing my morals in my lifestyle is something that age isn't really an excuse for.  I know how to change things, I just want to change everything and just myself does not feel like enough.  My head is so full.  So is my heart.  

Saturday, Thora was out with this guy named Ramis that she met at a festival.  Ironically, she went to that festival the weekend she got here with that guy who stole money from her.  We decided a good tactic to get over it was to distract herself and just have fun on her vacation, and this guy was nice and interested in being friends/ knew that she was there with somebody else.  Anyways, she was out with him at this really popular food market they have in Cape Town called the Old Biscuit Mill.  I could have done things, but it was cold and rainy and I didn't feel like it.  I ended up spending most of my day laying down and just talking, reading and thinking.  The talking part was first.  I got to call my wonderful boyfriend Mitchell and we talked from 8am-2pm.  You can do the math on that one.  After sitting in bed for that long, the back of my head hurt and I took that as a sign of a level of laziness that I probably shouldn't encourage in myself.  When he went to bed, I got up and ate some pickles and talked to Coll.  Then, I went on a little walk by myself just around a few blocks to stretch my lazy legs.  I got back and made toast with hummus and feta, carrots and hummus, and then Coll was an angel and gave me this amazing pretzel bun that she had bought at a nice market on her way into work.  She loves them and got a few.  She made tomato soup for dinner that night so we got to sample it while eating the obnoxiously large soft pretzels.  YUM.  I took two of these activated charcoal pills that my friend Whitney takes every morning and says they suck toxins out of your body.  Then, I sat in the hammock and read my book.  I am currently reading “A Little History of the World”, which is absolutely fabulous.  It just summarizes everything I’ve learned in history in the past 5 years of my life.  Totally fantastically unpretentious, interesting, and to the point.  10/10, highly recommend, 5 stars on Yelp!, all that.  I can’t say I’ve ever read a book as old as it and feel like I’m talking to somebody right now. I felt kinda weird all day Saturday, but I assumed that it was because I didn't really eat while I was on the phone with Mitchell so I didn't eat until way later in the day.  We had dinner, soup and bread, at 6 ish and after I went almost straight to bed because my tummy was nauseous.  I thought I could just sleep it off.  How I was wrong.  I sat in bed for around 2 hours.  The nausea was so bad that I couldn't sleep and after the first hour I started to think I might puke but fought hard against it.  Firstly, I hate throwing up.  Secondly, the toilets are all the way across the property, and I didn't want to walk all the way over there, puke, and then go back to bed.  Turns out, that’s exactly what happened and it was even worse because I had fought against it.  I ended up running out of my bed, holding my mouth and willing myself not to puke until I got to the bathroom, walking barefoot, past all the other partying residents of my hostel, to the bathroom.  Right before I closed the door to the bathroom, I started projectile vomiting.  All over the floor, doors, wall, toilet, everything.  I spent the next 10 minutes puking and the next hour sitting in my own vomit cleaning it up.  My clothes, face, and hair were entirely covered in puke. It was a lovely experience.  I walked backed to bed covered in vomit and shame.  Then I showered and changed and drank water.  Big mistake.  I got up again and vomited all my water out into the kitchen sink and then went back to bed.   Sunday has been weird because I have been recovering from puking all day.  I dragged Thora to the mini mart to buy ramen and soup-powder to try and trick my body into eating something.  I also got vitamin water and a lemon popsicle.  I sat in bed for most of the day, made some ramen.  Had a really nice and long conversation with one of the interns here named Matt.  He is from Norway and is here with his fiancé Kaia.  We talked about psychology and mental health and the consequences of the stigma surrounding it.  He was feeling sick too so we bonded over our misery.  Today, Thora left and a new girl from New Castle, England moved in.  Her name is Dani and she plays american football.  She’s a linebacker.  She’s very VERY English.  She says “innit”, and “proper” instead of “really” or “super”, and her accent is sometimes so strong it’s hard to understand.  I think she’s nice enough but I don’t think we are going to be that close.  She isn't interested school or news or politics, which isn't the actual problem it’s more of a symptom of how our minds are different.  I need to make some friends but don’t have the energy at the moment.  I want another really cool person to just kinda pop up, like Thora.  Or maybe I won’t.  Being alone is really not that bad of a thing, I just need to stop compensating for it by using technology.  Self-improvement is an ongoing battle.  My ramen was good but I am out of food and just ate my last stuff: half a jar of pickles.  Not sure what I am going to do for dinner, probably just eat my lemon popsicle and some ginger biscuits I also got at the market.  I also hear you can make scrambled eggs in the microwave.  The stove here doesn't work so I made my powdered soup with the water-boiling tea pot thing and can only make my eggs with the microwave.  I’ve seen it done, I just don’t know how I feel about it.  I’ll probably just go to bed.  I was invited to go out to Italian food with Linda, Whitney, and Coll, but I’m not sure if I feel up to all of that.  I’m really tired *yawns*.  I just wish I had some hot pesto pasta already made and my own bed.  Tomorrow I’m going on a wine tour with Thora which will be fun.  She’s staying in Muisenberg for a week and then going back home to Sydney.  It will also probably be good to change out of the PJs I’ve been wearing for about 24 hours now, including to the mini-mart this morning.  

Peace, Q

[lighthouseroleplay]

LETICIA ‘LETTY’ RAMIREZ

                          ( 22 ,  cis woman , she/her )

♪♫ currently listening  ⧸⧸  how long? by vampire weekend

bright colours and a bright smile, calloused fingers, an ever-present guitar pick. a bouquet of wildflowers, doodles in black ink along arms, the warmth of the sun on the summer’s hottest day. round sunglasses, adoring fans, quick hands flicking a pocketknife open and closed. torn jeans, the arch of an eyebrow, the burn of a cigarette. the muffled sound of music through a closed door, a flame burning ever-hotter.

    •  carter was the first person you’d ever met who loved art as much as you did. sure, they were more visual, you were more audio, but you were kindred spirits nonetheless. they designed your first tattoo, back in tenth grade, little doodles of a bonfire accompanied by sparks transforming over time, and you got it the day you turned 18. you weren’t inseparable — both of you had other friends, other groups, and class schedules that differed — but on days where you came together, it felt like no time had passed at all, and catching up on their life, as they were caught up on yours, was the easiest thing in the world.

    •  auclair became a somewhat unlikely friend when he appeared in your class your junior year. you never expected to befriend the exchange student, much less one dripping with wealth and excess like he was, but something made you two click. you didn’t have much more than your music, but he never shied away from listening to a new song or following along on one of your adventures around town. he supported you in a way you never expected, and you soon found your place at his side. even when he returned to france in the summer, snapchat and whatsapp kept you together, with the occasional skype call in between, and while sometimes you half expected him to forget about you in the face of the luxury and popularity he had back home, he never did.

taken by sam  ⧸⧸   zaira gonzalez

The green and white house that sits at 10 Leforge Avenue looks unremarkable on the outside. On the front lawn, the grass is appropriately cropped (with the exception of the occasional dandelion that makes its presence sunnily known) and the vinyl siding is worn but functional. A basketball hoop hangs dutifully over the single car garage-- the mesh of the net has been missing for years now, but it’s been almost that long since anyone has played a game with it. The flowerbed that frames the cracked asphalt of the driveway is planted with perennials that make maintenance easy; echinacea and sage flower in the warm months, and the delicate white blooms of chamomile make the walk up to the front door smell sweet. It’s the curtains that nearly give it away; the flash of vibrant colour that catches the eye of passersby, the smallest glimpse of warmth within the unassuming exterior.

The Ramirez home had always been loud on the inside. The walls were painted as soon as they moved in (white is too depressing, her father declared, gazing around the austere space) and every inch that couldn’t be coated in bright paint was covered in art. Music flowed from one room to the next, voices carried up the stairs as heavy feet thundered down them. The home had four bedrooms, but housed nine people; the five Ramirez children, their parents, uncle José (whose inability to retain a job seemed to have him on their couch, more often than not) and great aunt Maria, whose expertise in creating the perfect tamale was worth room and board all on its own, Letty’s father insisted. Their family was larger than those just living in the home; there was great aunt Yolanda, who lived in Colorado, and her sons and daughters with their families. Two sets of grandparents still lived in Mexico with a handful of other aunts and uncles. The myriad of Ramirez cousins littered all the way up the West Coast. 

The last of five, Leticia was born three years after her youngest brother. Miguel was first, and he always took that role seriously. He had been seven when Letty was born; all of her memories surrounding him are sweet-- a big brother doting on his baby sister. Even as a boy, he’d been adult-like and mature, doling out justice where he saw fit, making decisions for the group. The twins were next, Nando and Rico, double trouble and five years senior. Responsible for half of the rumours about the family, the twins, (identical and both sly as foxes) took their share of beatings for bad behaviour but did so in stride, and continued to be just as wicked. Letty recalls how they’d tug on her hair and steal her toys, finding different ways to torment her for their own amusement. The last of the boys was Rafael, the most beautiful of them all, their mother’s angelito. Even as a child, his shyness had been crippling. It was the rest of the family that brought out his personality, wrangling laughter from the wells deep within him, listening to him speak even though he stammered. 

It was uncle José who taught her how to play the guitar. (He also taught her how to curse, wicked words in Spanish that she delighted in hurling at her brothers when they provoked her). He would spend warm afternoons on the back porch, perched on the railing, instructing Letty as she strummed the same four chords. That’s all you need, mija, the rest comes later, he’d say, and then warble along with some mangled lyrics as she clumsily performed renditions of Love Me Do and Sweet Caroline. It was the performances that really got her hooked: forcing the family to sit down at the table, while she balanced a guitar on her lap that was nearly bigger than she was, then belting out the words to the songs (and whenever she forgot them, simply whatever words came to mind). After she turned ten, her father gifted her a guitar of her own. She learned more, greedily consuming all of the sheet music that she could find, trying to train her fingers to be quick and nimble as they picked at the strings. Letty never actually learned how to read music properly; all her books of sheet music became scribbled over with letters to decode the mysterious symbols. 

She shared a room with her great aunt until she turned twelve and Miguel moved out (rather, he was shoved out in a desperate need to make space). His move shuffled around the whole household; Rafael moved his things in with the twins, leaving Letty the vastness of a room all to herself. The first few weeks were surprisingly lonely. When she slept, she was certain that she could hear her thoughts echoing; her dreams felt twice as vivid. Great aunt Maria said that this was a good thing, that a girl like her needed space for her imagination to grow in. She often said things like this, half-myth and half-truth, pinches of wisdom that were offered without prompting. You mustn’t sweep the house at night, or you’ll sweep away all of your good luck. You can’t make tamales when angry, they’ll never fluff up. La polilla negra means death. Leticia absorbed it all, marvelling at the ways that her family’s superstitions transferred into their ways of living. Her mother always spiced a pot in the shape of a cross. Her father retold every nightmare he had in great detail over the breakfast table, to ensure they never came true. 

It wasn’t hard, being the baby sister to the pack of dogs that were the Ramirez boys. In their youth, they’d achieved a sort of infamy on Leforge Street that made them feel like a gang. Gangly and long-limbed, their knees always skinned, they howled through Tenebrin Port, and might’ve been an ominous group had it not been for little Letty trailing behind them, often gripping Miguel’s lowered hand. As she grew older, she learned how to hold her own amongst them-- all it took was a hard-set jaw and a disinterested look in her eye, gazing at the scrubbed-clean boys and girls that lived in the nice part of town, and it was easy to lean into the Ramirez name. They’d never have the wealth that the kids growing up in Renfrew Heights did, but as they raced through other people’s backyards on the way to the Corner Mart and dominated the best loungers at the public pool, it became apparent that they didn’t want it. They weren’t above the rich, but they were apathetic to them; they were thriving in their own way.  

As her interest in music grew, her appetite for genres became voracious. When the tiny record store in town could no longer satisfy her need for new music, Letty began writing her own. An entire summer was spent getting devoured by mosquitos and letting her fingers grow raw, then calloused, as she tried out every combination of chords to create her own songs. They were truly terrible, at first. Her great aunt compared the sound to a group of tomcats yowling, but it was Letty’s voice that always earned her praise. When the evenings wound down, she would play something traditional for Aunt Maria. La Llorona was her aunt’s favourite; moved by the music, Maria would then retell the ghost story of the beautiful woman who had killed her children out of rage towards her disloyal husband. Drowned them, Aunt Maria would sigh mournfully, her voice quivering as she shook her head, and now she weeps in the night with regret. When Letty went to sleep after she first heard that story, she swore she could hear sobs coming from the waters of the distant ocean.

In school, she’d never been the most dedicated student. She was the girl who was too tall for her age, slumped in the back of the class. Her foot constantly tapped out a beat that her fingers itched to play; the insides of her notebooks were etched with lyrics that she wanted to try out against melodies that she invented during lectures. It was one day that she stretched over to the seat beside her and saw a student in a similar state of distraction; drawing pictures in place of notes. One ruby-painted nail tapped against their sheet. That’s cool, Letty had said, introducing herself shortly after. Thanks, they returned, smiling. I’m Carter. Friendship came quickly after that, steamrolled by a mutual fascination with one another. She asked them often to draw her things, and they never minded her constant need to listen to something. Letty let them design her guitar, turning the blank canvas of blonde wood into a sea of red roses and smiling, Sharpied skulls. Carter had a gift, but better than that-- they understood what it meant to be an artist, to feel possessed by the fervent need to create.

At thirteen, Letty smoked her first cigarette. By the first week of high school, she was smoking weed in her parent’s garage almost every day. Nando and Rico had finally moved out, and with just her and Rafael (and the ever-present extended family members) in the house, the cluttered space felt bigger, emptier, quieter. She considers these years to be the ones where she truly came into her own; the scowling mask of the token Ramirez girl no longer fit, not when she wanted to be seen so badly, not when her music was finally starting to make sense and her scribbled lyrics were becoming full songs. She was still the girl who wore scavenged hand-me-downs and had famously cut her long, glossy hair into blunt bangs with her mother’s fabric scissors, but now she toted her guitar on her back and practiced at school, gathering an audience of anyone who would listen. Her voice had the same smokey quality that she had always loved in her great aunt, but her style was her own. She borrowed from her favourites, The Strokes, St. Vincent, the Arctic Monkeys, and settled into something that fit like a glove. If she was to be anything, Letty knew it was her destiny to capitalize on her talent; she would become an indie rock darling.

She was hotboxing her car the first time that she saw Auclair. The car was a piece of shit-- it had been uncle Jose’s before he sold it to Miguel for five hundred bucks, then he to the twins for half that. They’d rattled the poor thing until it misfired basically every four hundred metres, but it got her to school most of the time, and when it didn’t, it gave her an excuse for being late. Rafael had turned his nose up at inheriting it, so they’d given it to Letty for free. It was the guy’s jacket that caught her eye at first, then the chest-out, confident walk-- she’d sneered as she exhaled, look at that posh motherfucker. He’d been in her class when she’d finally slid into her seat at the back, and she sat behind him, in that beautiful (probably didn’t even have to buy it second hand) leather jacket. When he turned around, she met his gaze with a dark look from under her bangs. What’re you listening to? When he gestured to the earbuds that seemed to be a permanent fixture of her every-day aesthetic, she popped one out, offering it to him. It was when he took it, and immediately grinned at Julian Casablancas’ hoarse vocals, that she decided: they were going to be friends.

Letty remembers the week of Andrea’s death as though it were frozen in time, like something preserved in a drop of amber. She’d stayed up late on Thursday and done a gig in Seattle. The crowd had eaten her up; she’d been swallowed whole by their applause, and milked the adoration for all it was worth with a couple of encores. She’d driven home, buzzing from head to toe, and let her head hit the pillow just as the sun was coming up. It felt surreal, to have her future feel so tangible. Her dream was almost synonymous with reality. When she awoke, the house was silent in mid-afternoon. Her cell phone trilled with a handful of texts from Auclair, then an incoming call as well. Groaning, as she stretched to grab it; Letty pressed it to her ear, grumbling a string of curses about how summertime sleep hours were supposed to be respected. It was his tone that made her sit up, brow creasing. Something’s up with Andy, she’s going to Alderman’s. Come with, I’m worried. She agreed, and dressed quickly, hair still in a cowlick from the way she’d slept on it, pulling on her jeans at the same time that she shot off a text to Jasper, asking them to come as well: if anything was wrong, they’d be the one to talk anyone out of trouble. 

As she hopped around on one foot trying to get her sneakers on (why were high top Converse so challenging in a crisis?), she saw it. A black moth, bold against the scarred floorboards of the Ramirez home’s front entrance. Letty’s head tilted as she tried to recall the name for it in Spanish-- great aunt Maria would’ve known it on sight. Her phone blitzed again with another text from Auclair; she sighed. No time to be humane. Using the free shoe in her hand, she smacked it hard against the floor. She saw black wings, like crumpled velvet, and some dark residue on the bottom of her shoe; feeling strangely queasy, she darted out to her car.

Her car didn’t lock anymore-- a visit home from Rico meant that the door was busted, but today it started on the first try and in minutes, she headed to Alderman’s point. A small crowd had gathered when she arrived. Some faces she knew well; Carter was white as a sheet, Auclair waved her over with a strange look in his eye that she’d never seen before. At the very edge, far out where the lighthouse stood over the surf, there was Andy. Beautiful Andrea, she with a flair for the dramatics. Her hair streamed behind her like a dark banner in the wind. Letty slipped her fingers into Auclair’s, gripping tight. The lightning that tore from the clouds took them all by surprise-- in retrospect, she’s sure that she shrieked-- and then they were all watching, mute and motionless, as the other girl jumped into the water. It was only as she fought, swimming hard against a current that seemed determined to drag her down, that the word came to Letty’s mind. The black moth. La polilla negra. Death. Andrea Clare disappeared under the inky surface, the water frothing in her wake. 

Letty got a tattoo to remind her of the day. It was her way of processing, and making it permanent-- the tattoo sits on her thigh, on the same leg where the bonfire Carter had drawn was inked into her ankle. Andy got a moth, all black, an omen. A warning she had not heeded. She hadn’t really known Andy; Letty tried to rationalize the girl’s death to make it less than it was, but there was still a strange feeling of grief she couldn’t get rid of, simply from having been so close to death, from seeing it up close like that. Tenebrin Port grew solemn and grim in the aftermath. At the funeral, Letty sang Cielito Lindo and the bandage on her fresh tattoo peeked out from under the hem of a too-short black dress (it was all that she had in the appropriate colour). 

Her senior year of highschool was a throw-away year; Letty trained her focus on her craft instead of her studies. The heaviness of Andrea’s death was not easily shrugged off, and senioritis could be triggered by random students crying in the halls just as easily as it was triggered by the futility of trying to grasp Algebra II. There were too many reminders around, too many memorial art-projects done in Andy’s honour still keeping that day fresh. A lot of her last year of highschool was spent smoking weed in her car, listening to CDs. Her parents seemed to leave her alone for the most part. This was something that she had to get through on her own, they figured-- and like a fish swimming upstream, Letty fought through, and scraped towards graduation with grades just barely making the cut. The shackles of high school finally lifted. She was free now to pursue the things she actually wanted. Her parents’ only insistence-- revealing the worry they’d been secretly been harbouring, watching as she cut classes on Fridays to get to gigs, and stumbled home late almost every school night-- was that she still had to go to college. Letty protested this; that had not been a requirement for all the Ramirez children. Miguel had graduated the year before from a technical school, and he was now engaged and working as a craftsman-- almost ready to start his own life. The twins had opted out of education altogether, going into construction immediately after high school; shocking everyone, they were good at what they did, and had started their own company in just a few years time-- they had real employees and everything. Rafael was working hard, studying Spanish. It was his dream to become a translator, but years speaking the language without actually learning grammar had stunted his ability to write it. She looked at her brothers’ experiences, successes, and felt a particular disinterest. She had a good thing going, she argued to her parents-- the gigs were starting to pay more and more, the bookings were coming steadily, her name wasn’t recognizable yet but it would be, soon. But in the end, an obligation to the people who raised her, and the shame that would come with disappointing them, won out. 

Letty applied only to colleges in the state of Washington, all of them relatively nearby, and was accepted to a sparse few (each non-rejection letter was a miracle, given the downward trend of her grades). Whitman became her next chapter. Her first year there, she was an undeclared major; that state of indecision seemed to define her entire college experience from the start. There was nothing grounding her in the vast lecture halls that she slowly stopped showing up to. There was no spark of interest making her care about Critical Thinking 101. She was going through the motions in an institution that seemed indifferent to her, and feeling unspecial, unmoored, Letty felt restless and lost and increasingly desperate for recognition. She became a staple at parties, howling into the microphone on karaoke nights, earning herself a reputation as the girl who was willing to try anything once. Fearless, always smiling that daredevil smile, she leapt into things without ever looking first-- relationships, hook-ups, new drugs, bad ideas that seemed like good ones at 2 a.m., dares to vandalize school property that almost backfired, badly. It garnered respect from those around her, or perhaps a collective curiosity. Leticia Ramirez was a wild woman; Leticia Ramirez faced life like a bullfighter in the ring, or a lion-fighter in a cage. No fear. She was going to be a star one day-- she even gave out her autograph at parties, sealed with the imprint of red lipstick, and promised, one day, that’ll go for thousands on Ebay.

She much preferred carrying her guitar over carrying books, and began to recognize this time away from home as a launchpad for her career, rather than an opportunity to learn. Portland and Seattle were only four hours away from campus; she often made the drive for the weekend, crashing on couches and performing for cash to crowds that were sometimes a little rowdy and drunk, but always loved her material. “She sounds like early Karen O, of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs,” someone said once, as they left the venue, and Letty took that overheard comparison as the largest compliment, but she wanted to be her own thing too. Instead of studying, she wrote new songs, better songs. She wrote about Andy, about the town with the lighthouse where death could show up in the form of moths on your doorstep, using the folkloric traditions passed down from her great aunt to pay tribute to her heritage, her crooning voice eliciting the feeling of a crackling fire and the stories people told around it. She developed her brand. She hadn’t even completed her first year at Whitman by the time she decided it was time to go-- college had helped her find members for a band, similar-minded people who believed she was good enough to hitch their wagon to, and she’d accumulated enough experiences to have a solid bed of song-writing material. With each gig raking in a little more money than her part-time job at a local coffee shop, her mind was set. Kissing her roommate goodbye on both cheeks, Letty took off for Portland to record an EP.

Five tracks, all original pieces. She’d named it The Seamstress. It was a celebration of her life so far, she explained, twenty, fresh-faced and beaming in her first interview, her bangs framing her face more neatly now that she’d gotten the hang of cutting them. Her mother made money fixing other people’s garments; there wasn’t a time in her life that a prom dress hadn’t sat on the kitchen table, awaiting alterations, or a pair of trousers draped over the chair with the hems pinned up. There was one track called the Lighthouse, a dark, moody ballad with lyrics that she had pulled from fragments of dreams, but she never spoke about what it meant. The EP achieved moderate success-- calls to Auclair confirmed that he’d played it for almost everyone he knew back home, and the first time she heard one of her songs on local radio, Letty rolled down her windows and let it play as loud as her stereo would go, screaming along with the words.

She made a website, got a van, and learned the power of a contract after two of her bassists left her for another up-and-coming singer. This was making it; this was the uphill scramble, fighting for her place in an industry that was already saturated. Letty bore every set-back and defeat with her chin raised, clinging to her victories defiantly, showing up at dingy dive-bars and opening for acts in the backwoods of the Pacific Northwest, performing anywhere that would have her. She made merch, people bought it. She grinned and swapped her old, faded T-shirts with their stretched-out collars and constellations of holes for pristine vintage ones. Her leather jackets were real now, just like the one she’d envied on Auclair the first day they’d met. For the first time in a long time, the calls that she got from her parents weren’t worried; she could finally talk to them about her success, her adventures on tour, and they could hear in her voice how happy she was.

It was right after she found management in Chicago that the dreams started. Inexplicably, her music had resonated more in the Windy City than it did back home. She had a real fanbase there, almost halfway across the country, so she’d stayed there longer than most other stops on her tour, and then never left at all. She didn’t mind packing everything up to make the move permanent; she’d basically been a nomad since college, but it was good to take a break from living out of a van. Still, her arrival in Chicago felt strange for a reason that eluded her, like something constantly slipping out of the periphery, until she remembered Andrea Clare. She was supposed to be here-- the one time she’d gotten cornered into a conversation about colleges while coming over to see Auclair, the other girl had talked on and on about her early acceptance and how excited she was. She’d never made it, though. Letty sat with this thought as she pulled up to her new apartment. Andrea had never gotten this far. Her new place was small, a little drippy where the ceiling met the wall in the bathroom, but it was authentic, and it was hers. Art really thrives in this city, her manager said. New York’s too congested these days. Her first night was kicked-off with a sold-out performance and a few too many celebratory drinks, plus a bump of something her drummer promised was good shit. When she finally fell back against the bare mattress on her apartment floor, closing her eyes to find herself on a dizzying carnival ride, the nightmare came swiftly and blotted out everything else.

Great aunt Maria always said that your dreams couldn’t hurt you as long as they were said aloud. With no friends to be had in a strange new city, she recorded them on her phone. She wasn’t unaccustomed to strange dreams; chaotic sleep patterns had become as normal to her in college as the handful of substance issues she’d picked up along the way. But the dreams felt prophetic. It was upon listening to them again that Letty realized, night after night, in the hazy dim of half-sleep, she was having the same dream. Andrea, Tenebrin Port, her piercing scream. Never one to swallow down a hard gut feeling, she booked a flight back home. Something felt wrong; she’d ignored an omen before, and grief and suffering had followed. To make that mistake again, she’d have to be a fool. 

[lillianfromaccounting]

A Kiss to Remember

author: lillianfromaccounting characters: Steve x Lorraine, AU Jake x reader word count: 2081 warnings: fluff, some angst, Battle of New York, flower shop AU

Summary: After the Battle of New York, your aunt recounts one of her favorite memories of the war.

A/N: This is for @emilyevanston‘s anniversary and 2K Cards Against Humanity celebration. Congrats again and I hope you like this!

The prompt was “the moist demanding chasm of his mouth.” The Battle of New York happened on Friday, May 4, 2012.

Thanks to @katiekeysburg for the beta.

May 3, 2012

“Do you think it’s pink enough? My niece had a baby girl.” You rolled your eyes at the customer at the register. Luckily, she was facing away from you. You had planned to make a quick stop in and out of your usual flower shop, but the customer before you was not making it easy. At least the guy working there was eye candy.

“Ma’am, I assure you,” the florist said calmly, “these are the pinkest items we have in the store.”

You begged to differ. Even though the wide smile he flashed wasn’t meant for you, you couldn’t help but stare at his juicy, plump lips, set smack middle of a trimmed, dark beard. You watched his big, sturdy hands delicately wrap up the flowers. As he rolled the bouquet in a plastic sheet, his forearms tensed and relaxed with each turn, accentuating his veins. He repeated the motions with a roll of decorative paper. His fingers gently tucked in some of the petals threatening to fall out of the package.

As the woman in front of you reached for her wallet, your eyes met with the florist’s. The intensity of his gaze struck something in your core. For a brief moment, your surroundings faded away and you wondered if what you felt was considered an out-of-body experience.

“You have been so lovely. Thank you!” The shrill voice of the other customer brought you back. You inhaled deeply, realizing you had been holding your breath the entire time you stared at him.

“You’re very welcome. I aim to please,” he replied, looking back at her. There was a sweet sincerity in his voice. Most of the time, people who work customer service say these things because it’s part of their job. You could tell this man meant every word and genuinely enjoyed helping her.

As the woman departed, you walked up to the counter, trying to peek at the selection of flowers through the glass case.

“Hi,” he flashed another megawatt smile. “Your usual dozen red roses?”

“Not today.” You couldn’t help but notice how his wide shoulders blocked your view. The form fitting t-shirt featured Petunias written across it and left nothing to the imagination, the sleeves barely containing his biceps.

He cleared his throat, which forced you to make eye contact with him again.

“Are you looking for anything in particular? Celebrating any special occasion? Birthday, graduation?” His hands splayed on the counter and he bit his lower lip. “Or perhaps an anniversary?” He leaned forward towards you.

“Oh, no, nothing fancy like that,” you replied with a chuckle. “I just want something seasonal and colorful. They’re for my aunt. Great-aunt, actually.”

He turned and started pulling some green stems out of the case. “Tell me more about this great aunt of yours. Is she the stern aunt that scolds you to tuck your shirt in, or is she the fun aunt that spoils you with treats?”

“Definitely the fun aunt,” you smiled, recalling all the adventures she brought you on when you were younger. “She served in World War Two,” you continued. “She’s told me countless stories of being on the front line.”

“Does she like to wear bold colors? Accessorize?” he asked, his back still toward you.

“Hmm,” you thought aloud. “She’s quite fashionable, even for being in her nineties. For Halloween last year, she rocked platform boots.”

“She sounds like a badass.” He was busy gathering up flowers. You couldn’t quite see which ones he was picking until he finally turned around and presented you with a bright arrangement. “She sounds like a firecracker. So I went with bright, fiery colors, the reds, oranges, yellows. There’s a few touches of purple, green, and just a hint of pink to balance it out.”

“It’s gorgeous,” you said. “I think she’ll love it.”

“Did you want to include a card or note?” He slid a small white card and a pen across the counter to you.

“Uh, sure.” You jotted down a short message and placed it in the small envelope, sealing it as he finished wrapping the bouquet for you.

“Oh--” He looked at the sealed card in your hand and bit his lower lip. “I was going to--” He fumbled around the counter and grabbed some fancy stationery. “Going to transcribe your note to this other card.”

“That won’t be necessary.” You shook your head. “You’ve done so much already and I need to catch a train. How much will it be?”

He grimaced, scratching his forehead before ringing you up.

You handed him some bills and he meticulously counted out your change.

“It was a pleasure, as always. Here, take my card. You can always call ahead to place an order. Ask for Jake. That’s me,” he flashed that toothy grin again. “Oh! Did you want to sign up for our mailing list? We send coupons out occasionally.” He slid a clipboard with a sign-up sheet and a pen towards you.

You balked at the idea of more unwanted emails, so you ripped off a corner of the paper and wrote your name and number on it.

“I’ll be out of town for a few days, but we should do coffee when I get back.” You bit back a smile as you turned to leave the store.

May 4, 2012

You were in the backyard of your grandparents’ house when you first heard the news. Aliens had attacked New York City. You watched with your aunt as the news coverage flashed across the television screen. In the end, Earth was safe, but a looming sense of loss still hung over you.

May 6, 2012

“I’m really glad you got out of the city when you did,” your aunt said, pouring out two cups of coffee.

“I’m still in shock. Aliens?” You opened the Sunday paper and pulled out the comics, sliding the rest of the paper across the kitchen table and grabbing one of the breakfast danishes.

“I’ve seen and read some incredible things over the years, so I’m not really sur--” Your aunt gasped at the front page. “Steve?”

You followed her gaze to a headline that read “Captain America Joins Iron-Man in Out of This World Battle.”

“Is that the Captain America? I thought he died in the war?” you said.

“His plane went into the water,” your aunt’s voice broke. “I can’t believe they found him after all these years. And of course he would join forces with Tony Stark. It’s just like it was with Howard.”

“Did you know Captain America? From the war?” you asked.

Your aunt looked up at you with a sly half smile. “Know him? I kissed him.”

“Get out! You’ve never told me this story before!” you leaned towards her.

“I haven’t told anyone. It was so long ago and after he was gone, it just didn’t seem right to share it. I guess I didn’t want to think about what could have been,” she sighed. “Not between me and him. Just--what he could have done for the country, if he had been still alive. He was--is a very brave fellow.”

You hung on her every word. “Well?” you encouraged, “the kiss?”

She took a sip of her coffee and arched an eyebrow. “We had just had some victories on the front lines. It was all over the newspapers. Captain America saves four hundred POWs. He had come by my desk, looking for Howard Stark. At first, I thought he was just some other soldier, but then I looked up and recognized him right away. The pictures in the papers did not do him justice. I had only seen him a few times in passing around the facility and in the mess hall. His eyes were the color of a spring sky. He was so humble too. I mentioned his heroic feats and he tried to dismiss it, saying he was just doing what needed to be done. I decided then and there that I was going to kiss him. Really I wanted more, but that’s neither here nor there now.”

“Aunt Lorraine!” You feigned shock but couldn’t contain your laughter.

“Don’t act so stunned. Did you forget who taught you all about your body and sex when your parents couldn’t even talk to you about sanitary napkins?” she asked.

“You were telling me about the kiss,” you reminded her.

“Right. Oh he was such a deer, deer in headlights, that is,” she continued. “I walked up to him and called him a hero, told him that the women of America owed him their thanks.”

“Smooth,” you quipped in between bites of cheese danish.

“I grabbed him by his tie and pulled him towards me. We went behind some shelves so that we were somewhat hidden,” she laughed. “I said since the women of America weren’t there on the base in London to thank him, I pulled him by his uniform and planted a wet one on him.” Lorraine took a bite of her pastry and chewed quietly.

“Well?” you goaded her.

“Well what?” she smirked.

“Don’t leave me hanging! What was it like? It must have been good, right? He’s Captain America!” you tried to maintain a level voice.

“I took him by surprise, so he was hesitant at first, but I wasn’t about to let go. He caressed my arms before wrapping his hands around my waist. He was such a gentleman. I remember how sturdy his hands were. Big strong hands around me, yet so gentle at the same time. Those were hands you felt safe in. And his lips.” She closed her eyes. “His lips were so soft, yet firm. The taste of stale coffee lingered on his lips. Once he relaxed into the kiss, he was hungry for more. I slipped him some tongue and the moist demanding chasm of his mouth practically devoured me.” Lorraine opened her eyes to look at you. “Then we were rudely interrupted by that pesky Agent Carter.”

“That was it?” disappointment filled your voice.

“It was amazing. That memory has gotten me through some tough times,” she said. “Life’s too short to live with regrets. Trust me.” She ran a hand over the picture of Captain America.

May 15, 2012

Due to the massive destruction of Manhattan, it took a few more days to get back to your apartment than you had originally planned. Taking Aunt Lorraine’s words to heart, you had tried reaching out to Jake, but there was no response even after several days. You walked along your usual route and the flower shop was gone. Wisps of smoke rose from the chunks of concrete and brick that remained where the building once stood. Abandoned vehicles littered the street. You had little hope that you’d run into him again, fearing the worst for his well being.

The city was filled with a sense of loss and confusion. The damage was not only physical, but existential.  Everything humanity thought they knew about the world had been challenged. You overheard random conversations describing space armies and the Avengers. You were grateful that there were still some things that remained unchanged; your usual coffee spot was still there.

The scent of roasted beans assaulted your nose right as you walked in. The quaint shop was busy, with two lines at the register and a small group huddled by the counter where people waited for their drinks.

“It depends on the girl, but you could never go wrong with red roses,” a familiar voice behind you made you turn.

“Jake?” you squealed, rushing towards him.

“Hey!” His eyes widened and his open arms pulled you in for a bear hug.

The warmth of his embrace shut out the rest of the world. All you heard was the steady beating of his heart and you felt a sense of serenity wash over you. For the first time since the Incident, you felt that things will be alright.

“I lost my phone during the--and when I got a new one they couldn’t get my old contacts. So I lost your number.” He stepped back and took a good look at you, holding your hands in his. “I’m really happy that you’re ok,” he finally said.

“I’m glad that you’re ok too,” you replied, giving his hands a squeeze.

He chewed on his lower lip. “Are you in a rush? Did you want to sit down and catch up?” he asked.

“I’d love to,” you replied.

[passitonandon]

The purpose of keeping this private to ONE DAY SAY “I am a writer” and “an artist” and why was this so hard.  THE DENIA of safety means everything is questioned & why I make choices based on what I’ve learned.  

The past is beautiful again : TY #words

This being to relevant to everything, I’m going to make a connection fortify a new ring, circle, hoop, a record sings on replay, grateful now my mind words this way statements I can recall easily that have much more meaning, are the links to make the strongest bonds, the ones done covalently so taking this post with knowledge of writing it for the purpose over there, finding times I have to hold two thoughts, edit in my brain, push keys, stand still, have to think up words, like poof, in air!  Getting my voice is not done easily, going to try and explain this, easy 1, 2, 3 and it also quells the panic growing up in my, from he tingles in my face and spine, it’s like a solid rod I can’t define, if my butt starts to spasm I’ll lose my mind so put it over there & now go back SAFELY, go ahead, you can do it, push rewind.

Write a intro for the feeling “ in the moment” noting physical sensations starting with strongest felt (sharp, acute, burning) to less so (numbness, sensitivity to touch) and then good spots (often my legs feels sturdy)

Read what was written making editing comments : minimize to things you want to recall for later that can help e.g. emotional flared up, body pain became noteworthy, feel free to delete anything that is not relevant to right now or future or is readable or “clear” and has a purpose in keeping. 

Recall other moments when making choices were successful & try to connect something to make both memories stick so that you’re habitually feeling capable (this is the connection made to another dimension while manually doing it while conscious to see if it kicks more anxiety to the curb?” note: ever since someone said anxiety & ptsd are not related, I became terrified.  There is simply not enough knowledge on topics that big decisions are being made affecting lives.  Those making decisions seem to have the least empathy & if not sure if it matters, it does to lil lives every day in mini societies called schools.

The Past

When you feel like you have nothing, are nothing or unsure what meaning is, you can still offer kindness & beauty & you can start right now!  It cost nothing & effort is minimal.  We all require attention, care & concern.  Those most in need do see & feel the subtleties when others turn away, are talked about.  I know because to a disorganized/anxious/depressed mind, words are confusing & meaning’s felt first having been both advocate & patient--split between two worlds & at a time found myself somewhere in-between listening & watching the sh&#iest behavior unfurl.  I’m so glad that’s not me [I got out!].  More than putdowns & contradictions, but a topsy-turvy belief systems under the guise of protection and support.  Stating those words here is a strategy, to put it out there, let the body experience it, react & then one day, attack it hard--say what I want, knowing full well this is the direction to take--follow the triggers.  In my experience where students could not imagine themselves capable, smart or social, a little investigating revealed why skills would not stick & it isn’t that they were “low”--shhh, not being taught--when you see how ‘lil collaboration there is, you find yourself in your imagination, a lot thinking of ways to ensure self-advocacy sticks.  In some ways, doing this, living out loud (my ideas are private) is super easy in comparison!  Children [with or without special needs], the elderly, victims of abuse, homeless & the mentally ill rarely expect generosity, kindness & beauty, so with very ‘lil effort--a smile, a word, gifts in all shapes & sizes, deeds that SHOW protection, what’s the harm in helping them feel safe, emotionally/physically--oh yes, my experiences continues to shape me & the appreciation felt, a cycle of giving like no else, truly anything you can spare.  It will mean the world to them in ways that help self-motivate, increase self-reflections, a step in the right direction that being independent thinking & living, a life model that’s more give than take and less dependence on others & systems, too.  We ALL want to be seen for who we are, not taken care of, to me that sounds like someone is going to murder you.  (Oops, just showed a fear...)  That’s right, put them here & dampen the motherfu%ers out.

The content of what you say, how you say it, first impressions, effort & saying hello and goodbye still [or should] matter.  Words & emotions held in a delicate balance between what’s inside & that image, the outside, if not in line, a lack of harmony, peace cannot exist--how do I know?  Just listen & use your eyes (duh), you’ll see it.  Stress & deviousness.  Beauty is only skin deep?  It penetrates every part of me!  I know when I’ve been “unclean.”  It’s natural to make assumptions, our brains predictive, consciously & subconsciously processing information through the senses as we navigate our world---that place where my fears culminate, a combo of caustic experiences that happened “out there” or “in this environment,” the world is where people are.  Functioning has been altered in ways I cannot fully understand, nor describe, but that is life.  No boo hoo, in fact, I’ve learned so much about OT/PT/Vestibular & Vertigo, that I see exactly what my students meant, going back in the past, part of therapy to really identify these fears [make ‘em all real], so like any good teacher I made detailed notes.  Thank goodness I did.  It’s reminded me of the writer I was & why all their words--I can’t concentrate, my body hurts, my eyes don’t work!--makes sense & where stigma & judgement collide into an invisible stew that’s hard to stomach, but I’ll keep ingesting it.  That being a systematic approach (thank you Special Ed) 1/2 exposing myself to what’s most harrowing in my mind & causes the greatest physical reactions, 1/2 dreaming the biggest motherfu%ing dreams ever--getting through & over this--is what’s healing & since I am/was a teacher when you learn something new that can help, you share, and singe I don’t know what’s appropriate, I’ll use tech to do it, had to learn it, was way suspect since my privacy is everything, someone out there knew this/used this to CREATE more fear & shame.  The proof, I’m “on” it and it’s true, you can dampen ev-er-y-thing.

One thing I did that many people cannot is leave the country.  A safe place where they speak my language, but also familiar to me.  It’s where Poetry, Literature, Art & History come together & I rebuilt trust in a city setting, Chicago not that for me.  Triggers of these past years are ev-er-y-where--oh, when I share...I just want to make sure it feels good, right, doesn’t make the night come in, see, you must feel in control & no one can control anything except their own misery.  Memories are amazing-Wow!-brings me back there--walking through the Tate Museum I come across these wonderful words that concisely says what I feel, affects how I hear since it’s clearer, a model, a way to get these stuck thoughts out.  Take a photo.  Remind myself of that moment.  Revel in the sense of safety.  This is real validation, another theme having been around the “phony kind.”  This connection gave me back time because when you share an idea with someone whether you know it or not, you have participated in a moment that will never happen again.  A true connection that does not lie to my mind & body, a perfect fit that my senses, endocrine & nervous systems can’t argue with.

The Topic I can’t Wrap My Head Around Comes Out in Ebbs & Floe`

So many thoughts that used to comfortably roll & slide in my mind, now collide, events send me spiraling in either direction, too high/too low, the goal I’m told is to be made whole--how about just be safe and prevent more harms from happening?  I accept accidents do happen, giving those who made decisions & acted on them the biggest benefit of the doubt that they did not intend, but when you keep doing it, are you really going to ask me to pretend?  Learn from tragedy please, that’s the point of ED & it’s practical, so for the next time.  At the very least, what happened to me won’t happen again, but then I see, it’s the continual scheming, repeated lying to one’s face, a boundary I didn’t think [some] people could cross, those being the ones who make choices to say “I protect,” we’re a “family.”  Good grief!  These words/themes are everywhere in life, in stories, on TV, shopping, in loops, and then all the memories of being a “team” player, ok ok, yes you must do things to sure the greater good, just make sure the goal is fully understood by all since that’s when lies are cerated, my parents always told me eventually you won’t be believed & now with memory, I don’t have a need (what am I trying to say?) it’s storage, the capacity, the rule being, whatever comes up comes out.  To say it, finally, having listened to myself for over 2 years with these fragmented sounds/words/noises, to just get it out is why I have to scream & shout now--How [some] people can never re-structure after trauma with so many re-triggers & why this task seems insurmountable but I never shied away from a challenge.  Those who really know me know that very well.  

The way I see the world is different, a combination of Music, Poetry, Science, Education, History, Philosophy, Art, pieces or shards, some painful, some not.  I trust my feelings finally, they will dictate everything.  The decisions I make, not able to trust a mind that’s been jostled a little too hard lately & why I am thankful for my philosophies, the ones in place from long ago.  If don’t have a way to be moral, that part of decision-making you should figure it out fast (you never know) when a tap on the head, punch/kick to the face is going to change all the rules--a displacement of past tools.  For me, it’s simple.  Go back to Nature.  Go back to School!  Morality & Mythology, Stories show us how to live, the benefit is we get to do it vicariously & the past, where there were REAL fears.  Living every day in darkness, death, daily tears, suffering to body, mind, spirt, no rights, no luxuries, then I walk these streets & see things that will never be okay with me. 

Your body will tell you exactly what you need & if given the opportunity try the benefits of offering yourself to another through beauty & kindness, to anyone, really.  How did we lose our imagination?  Was it back in school when that teacher told us we couldn’t do whatever it was we were putting our minds to?  A parent who put us down, left town, growing up doesn’t mean you stop showing up.  A relationship who treated us a little too rough?  Embarrassment, shame & fear are powerful weapons for some & if you are stuck in loops or using strategies that you know aren’t the right ones, there’s a way to stop.  It’s a deliberate mindfu*k, you have to prove to yourself you’re greater than what you’ve been forced to put on that shelf.  See, to me, if you do not, you could be missing some great adventures or discovery that such close-minded thinking prevents any possibility for curiosity to spring, it’s all about the seeds you sow and that is unacceptable.  Keep writing, keep striving, keep thriving in the ways that work for your unique special heart.  Sing, dance, play, draw, make goals, eat well, love much, whatever you choose to do, never..stop...making...art, never stop being in-touch.

source:  The Village Voice;  Edge.org;  Oprah.com;  USLegal.com