#it’s what brings us all together. the self inflicted pain of liking them

[ohitslen]

“And when I see you smile, the only natural thing for me to do is smile with you”

Dear diary, I think about two men, fictional at that, all day long to a medically concerning degree.

To be more specific, about how happy it makes me to see them being happy around each other’s presence.

I am also delusional.

[fans4wga]

26 July update from WGA's Chris Keyser

From the WGA: With SAG-AFTRA now on strike and new levels of solidarity across all Hollywood unions, we are witnessing the spectacular failure of the AMPTP’s negotiating strategy. In this video, WGA Negotiating Committee Co-Chair Chris Keyser lays out what this moment means and how we move forward. To learn more about the WGA strike, visit https://www.wgastrike.org.

FULL TRANSCRIPT:

Fellow members of the WGA East and West. It's been a while since our last video and quite a bit has happened in the meantime. So on behalf of the negotiating committee and leadership, I wanted to give you an update on where we are and what the near future at least is likely to bring.

We've been walking side by side on picket lines in New York and Los Angeles for a little over 12 weeks now. Only now we're joined by thousands upon thousands of members of SAG-AFTRA who, like us, have finally had enough.

This is the endpoint and the fruit of the AMPTP’s game plan. For 11 weeks, they negotiated with everyone but us. They claimed it was just practicality, that they could only do one thing at a time, which is not normally a point of pride. But events have made clear what we knew from the start: that not only was it a strategy, it was their only strategy. Negotiate a deal with a single guild and impose that deal on every other guild and union in Hollywood, whether it addresses the needs of those unions or not, all with the implicit threat: if you want more, strike for it.

Wow. It’s their 2007-8 playbook applied to 2023 as if nothing has changed, as if the accumulation of economic insults and injuries inflicted on us over the past decade would be borne in perpetual silence, as if the giant of labor had not awakened. But it has. And you only need to look as far as the front gates of every studio in LA and New York to see the evidence.

Two unions on strike willing to exercise their power, despite the pain, to ensure their members get the contract they deserve. For us, that means addressing the relentless mistreatment of screenwriters, which has only been exacerbated by the move to streaming; the continued denial of full MBA protection to comedy variety and other appendix A writers when they work in streaming; and the self-destructive unsustainable dismantling of the process by which episodic television is made and episodic television writers are paid.

It means addressing the existential threat of AI and the insufficiency of streaming residual formulas, including the need for transparency and a success-based component. All of these will need to be addressed for there to be a deal because in this strike it is our power and not their pattern that matters, not their strategy. Their strategy has failed them. Now they're in the midst of a streaming war with each other, an admittedly difficult transition. And as they face the future, their interests and business models could not be more different from Disney to Sony to Netflix to Amazon.

We root for their success, all of them. They root for each other's failure. We are the creative ammunition through which they will succeed. They are each other's apex predators. And yet, in a singular shared dedication to denying labor, they have shackled themselves together in what increasingly seems like a mutual suicide pact, as the 2023-24 broadcast season and the 2024-25 movie schedule and its streaming shows disappear, melt away week by week.

So what does this mean? What does it mean going forward? How do you play chess against an opponent who insists on screaming checkmate at every move regardless of how the board looks and the game is going?

You stay firm, you stay resolved, because our cause is no less existential than when we started and our leverage is increasing every day. Alone we withheld our labor with the support of our union siblings and the Teamsters and IATSE and the Crafts, we were able to delay the vast majority of production. Now with SAG-AFTRA on strike, those few studio projects that remained have also shut down. And it's not just the obvious delays. If this strike drags on, it's the actors with conflicting obligations and the directors and the double-booked studio facilities and release date chaos that the companies must now also contend with. Some of their most valuable product could well be delayed for years.

Add to that, no promotion of movies or television shows and famous faces on the picket lines and social media speaking directly to their customers. For the tech companies and the mega corporations, that should be their nightmare scenario: WGA and SAG-AFTRA side by side. Our bargaining agenda may not be identical, but our cause is the same. Our army of labor, defending labor has increased 17-fold in the past two weeks alone.

Even so, even with all this wind at our backs this negotiation won't happen overnight. It's not because the negotiations themselves are so complex. Once the companies fully engage, it could go very quickly, but because their strategy of many decades has just fallen apart and they didn't see it coming, and it's going to take them a minute to regroup, 'cause the companies have things to work out internally, and saying no to labor in unison is a lot easier than saying yes. So either together or separately, as their divergent interests might suggest, they will come back to us, despite their understandable concern about how they've navigated this transition to streaming, which is on their heads and not ours; and their worries about costs and their worries about Wall Street; despite this being a season of doom and gloom, none of them are walking away from the riches of this business, and certainly not over the equitable minimum compensation to writers.

They didn't get the deal they wanted; that's fine, it happens all the time. They're not taking their ball and going home over it. And since we know they come from union families themselves, and since they've denied that “even-in-Hollywood-you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me” ugliness of threatening to starve us out and leave us homeless (which we assume they understand also means making our children homeless,) they will come back to us. Although I will say they took a long time to deny that statement, longer than I would have had it been ascribed to me.

But what does it matter? You can starve a labor force slowly or quickly. The effect is the same. It's not like day rates for comedy variety writers and endless free drafts for screenwriters in exchange for a single paid one in four-week mini-rooms isn't cruelty. It's just cruelty written in contract language instead of a press quote.

So what can we expect from the companies as all of this plays itself out? They will try to convince Wall Street that taking a strike, prolonging it unnecessarily, losing their content stream in the process—that all of that is just smart business and no reason for investor concern. We will be talking to Wall Street too, and reminding them that for all these companies, all of 'em including Netflix, the bill, the price for making nothing, will eventually come due. And Wall Street is listening already. Here's Michael Pachter, managing director of equity research at Wedbush on Yahoo Finance the other day: “I think the studios are completely wrong on this one. Content is their lifeblood. They're feeling really foolish about this."

Wall Street isn't the only one listening. We've been talking to union pension funds too about the risks the companies are taking. We talked to CalPERS, the largest public pension plan in the country, talked about the loss of programming and the cost to the industry, and we heard strong support from its board for our struggle and the promise that the companies will be hearing from them, from CalPERS, and demanding answers on behalf of its 2 million members.

To us, of course, they will continue to plead temporary poverty, but we know the drill. These companies support billions into the streaming wars and taken short-term losses these past three years, because they know that to the winner will go the spoils. We're patient, will they share that with us when the time comes? What are the chances?

Since 2017, the last time the studios negotiated with us outside of COVID, the big six companies alone have made $150 billion in profits off our work, while they slashed our pay and degraded our working conditions. Maybe if they had shared a tiny piece of that then, made $1 billion or so less, this year wouldn't seem so costly. As it is, there is no iron law that these companies are entitled to record profits every year, and it isn't some great travesty if their shareholders or their CEOs get a slightly smaller slice of the massive profits we helped create if some balance is restored.

Look, no one denies that corporations exist to make a profit and no one wants our employers to be profitable more than we do, but the singular pursuit of corporate profits to the exclusion of their social and human cost is a real problem in this country—it’s a real problem. A corporation's bottom line is not the same as the world’s, and there is nothing in our studio's bottom lines today that accounts for the quality of our lives or for our dignity, for the comfort of our retirement or the security of our families. Their numbers have no conscience, but the people who report them as victories ought to.

In their refusal to recognize that, these companies have also extracted an awful price, which is laid at their feet and for which they are responsible. Losses to the economies of New York and Los Angeles and everywhere that film and television are made, terrible losses that mount every day, thousands of people out of work; not just us, all the crews, the crafts, the janitors, the drivers, the businesses that thrive when Hollywood thrives, the restaurants, the stores—for what? For nothing. So they could avoid coming to the table to negotiate the deal they will one day give us. Measured today that is the painfully mixed legacy of our employers, weighed against every beautiful piece of work we have made with them.

And if history is a guide, they have only temporary stewardship over a kind of national trust, which is Hollywood. Our story, our sometimes conscience, our public conversation, our diversion of the worst and best of times, our greatest export, the repository of our imagination. They have some obligation to more than just their shareholders to behave accordingly.

Unfortunately, it seems big tech, mega corporations, and some of the people who run them, as the saying goes know the price of everything and the value of nothing. So they have built a business model that no longer works for human beings who cannot be paid minimum for 10 to 20 weeks a year and make a career out of that, be paid for one draft of a screenplay that demands a year of labor, be paid a few episodic fees for a show about which to take years to decide be paid a daily rate.

And now we have a first glimpse of what they offered our actor colleagues. We are not 170,000 Willy Lomans to be used and then discarded. We know what the companies believe they have the power to do. We know what they think machines can do and do without any of us. Oh yeah, we've seen the writing on the wall and it's plagiarized.

The thing is this: the difference between what you CAN do and what you SHOULD do is the greatest single difference in the world. Knowing that is the only real protection we have against a dystopian future. And if the companies sometimes forget that, writers will do it for them.

I can't know exactly how long it will take this revolutionary moment, and you've heard again and again what is happening today has not happened in 63 years, but I know that's not always how it feels, revolutionary and defining, even though we celebrate that on picket lines together, which is the right thing to do. That's not always how it feels when you go home at night. I know how tough this is: to strike, to hold the line. I know it gets tougher every day even with SAG-AFTRA marching beside us, how hard it is to face the uncertainty of when it will end, when we'll get back to work, how we'll pay the bills. I know it's hardest for those who've just gotten started, for those for whom the world opens doors more reluctantly, battled their whole life just to get here; but hard too for those struggling to maintain their long careers, who find work tougher and tougher to come by, or those with families with children or parents to take care of.

These companies understand the cruelty of what they're doing. It's their plan to starve us just a little, to exact as much pain as they can so that we wish more for the pain to end than for the better life we dreamed up. That we're more afraid of the uncertainty of the present than the certain devastation of the future. It's societally acceptable economic torture inflicted by management on labor every day, then blamed on labor for daring to fight back, for refusing to be complicit in its own mistreatment.

Here's how I know that's not going to work. Not with us, not with the writers, because we haven't come all this way, fought to have these careers in the first place, all the adversity, and marched together for all these months, only to let it slip away on our watch—because there is no point in rushing back to jobs that may not be there in a year or two anyway. Because the business, as the companies have twisted it, is now untenable, unsurvivable for so many of us, because even success is not enough to keep going, because this guild is younger than it's ever been and more diverse. And this young diverse membership knows from hard personal experience the system is broken and that it will not be fixed unless they fix it. And those of us who came before them will not let them down, because we and the writer's guild are the beneficiaries of all those who came before us who gave up everything for us.

Like the writers of 1960, the year I was born, who struck for 22 weeks and who gave away all the TV residuals for all the movies they had ever written so that we could have a health insurance and pension plan and residuals from that date forward. $15 billion flowed to writers and their benefit plans because of that sacrifice. Because writers are brave, because now it's our turn.

So what's our job? Even as we welcome SAG-AFTRA to our side, we are still responsible for our own deal, and so we must remain focused and diligent. We must continue to march, picket signs in hand. But we should also remember this and with pride, that before there was SAG-AFTRA, before even the Teamsters and IATSE and the laborers and the electrical workers and the musicians and the plasterers came to our side, there was the writers. Alone then, we looked at the blank page and began to imagine the future. With no net but each other we typed the words, what if?

And then we took a step into the darkness and found that it was light. And then we were joined by the crews and the drivers and the actors. The actors got a bit more fanfare when they showed up, but that's okay, we wrote the script. The WGA, still small, not alone anymore after all these decades. Hollywood labor has finally linked arms and found its voice, and that voice says enough. There is no road to longterm prosperity that burns a path through your own workforce. We are not your enemies. We are not merely a cost to be borne. We are your partners and your greatest asset. And we are, as you acknowledge yourselves, irreplaceable, but by accident or design and it doesn't really matter anymore, the business you are running no longer works for those who work for you.

What is the point in continuing to deny that? Why deny it when everyone else in the business to a person tells you it's true? Do you think it's a coincidence that two unions are on strike against you for the first time since Eisenhower was president? You can't exactly accuse us of being quick on the trigger. The effect has a cause, it has a cause. And there is no profit in insisting on the answers to the past for the questions of the future.

But if you want instead to invest in something that will reap you fortunes, I have a tip. And if you are visionaries, envision a solution, not a stalemate. Because this isn't a war we're in, it's a negotiation, it's just a negotiation. There is no face-saving here for either side, because there is no winner or loser. It's just a deal. And when you come to remember that again we will be here as we have been here all along.

And at this point with 170,000 writers and actors aligned against your intransigence, that is as generous as I can be, as close to an olive branch as I can offer. But if you insist instead on the same threatening rhetoric, on saying you would rather starve us than pay us, I would remind you of this: You are fighting for a dollar, we are fighting for survival. We are fighting for our home: writing is where we live, and we will defend that home with a bravery and stamina and ferocity that you will come to understand someday, which is why you cannot break us. You cannot outlast us, you cannot.

And not just because we have the will, because we have power. Nothing in this business happens until we start to write. And we will not start to write until we are paid.

Union now. Union forever.

[run-little-hero]

“So your plan didn’t work out, obviously,” Villain prompts, an all too casual jab considering the circumstances. “Still thinking about killing me?”

“I haven’t ruled it out.”

Villain smirks, entertained. “If you kill me, who will keep you company now that you’re dead?”

Correction, Hero thinks. Should be dead. You’d think being caught in a massive explosion of metaphysical power would be enough to ensure destruction. Evidently, it wasn’t.

Hero wraps a layer of gauze around their aching forearm, scraped raw in the wreckage. “Not exactly dead.”

“But a ghost all the same.” Villain is lounging at the back of their stolen van. Hero is in the drivers seat.

As with most things, in Hero’s opinion, Villain is to blame for their present circumstances. They shielded them from the blast with a homemade forcefield generator, which received the brunt of the power discharge before collapsing. It saved their lives—cosmetic wounds at most. They’d both survived much worse.

But for the first time, Hero can’t convince themself the life of justice is worth living anymore. Not that they could go back alone. They’ve successfully helped their enemy escape. They murdered Supervillain. They’ve given up.

Hero tears the gauze and ties it off using their teeth. They glare at Villain. “I might be here with you now, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what you’ve done. I can’t ever forget.”

They turn away from Villain, reaching for a bottle of painkillers. Memories flood their mind of faces cut down by Villain. Innocent victims, Hero’s friends, Supervillain. They’re both haunted—it’s why they’re consistently drawn together.

Villain asks, “Why did you do it?”

The ‘it’ in question being Hero’s master plan to take them down together. Hero had partnered with Villain on order from the Agency to eliminate Supervillain once and for all. But it was never about Supervillain, Hero knows that. They had a chance and they took it. To fulfill the mission they’d been working towards half their life. Hero detonated Supervillain’s weapon.

‘Why did you do it?’ Any other Hero would’ve killed Villain without sacrificing themself.

‘Why did you do it?’ The answer alludes Hero. It’s like they’ve cast their line and got a bite, but can’t bring themself to reel it in.

Villain continues, “Couldn’t abide my dying alone? You had to bury your own guilt and make yourself a martyr in the process?”

Hero scoffs. “Please, I won’t be—“

“That’s how they’ll frame it.” Villain puts on their best news anchor impersonation. “‘Self-sacrificing hero presumably dead after defeating dastardly villain. Bodies yet to be recovered. Slaughtered supervillain left behind.’”

Hero frowns. “They won’t stop looking. Even if Superhero and the agency make that statement, they won’t rest until they have proof of our demise. They know better than that.”

“Unfortunately, I agree. We’re too much of a threat together.” Villain steps to the front of the van, sliding into the passenger seat. “But I’m less interested in them. I’m anxious to know what you’ll do next.”

Hero can’t look at them. They can’t reconcile that they’re alive and they’re together despite the pain they’ve inflicted on each other. On Supervillain. On everyone. They should’ve died in the explosion. Why couldn’t Villain let them have that?

“Why did you do it, Hero?”

“I had to.” A tear lands on the back of Hero’s hand.

“Tell me.”

“I wouldn’t face what we’d done. I couldn’t.” Hero can’t recall crying in front of Villain before. They can’t find it in themself to be ashamed anymore.

“Couldn’t admit you loved it?” Villain reaches towards Hero, putting a hand on their shoulder “Will you kill me then? Cut out the heart of your darkness? Go back to infuriating politeness and 30-hour weeks at a desk instead of in the field?”

You flatter yourself. But then again, they’ve become so twisted that Villain can read Hero better than anyone. Bringing back Villain’s head on a pike might be the only way to clear their name. If only they’d died when Hero intended, they wouldn’t have to grapple with such a choice.

It’s a terrifying type of awareness, being recognized my a monster. Hero can’t keep running.

Hero grips the steering wheel. “I think…you and I might benefit from some time away.”

They’re met with a smile. “I think we just might.”

—

snippet #11

[buckybabesonly]

As If It Was Really That Easy

Summary: There's nothing more painful than wondering what your love could have been.

Pairing: Bucky x Female!Avenger!reader, Bucky x Natasha, Steve x Female!reader

Genre: Angst

Warnings: Emotional infidelity (if you squint), love triangle. Sad ending - proceed with caution.

Word count: 8.2k

Being in love with someone who was already taken must have been a torture created by the Devil himself.

You hadn't planned on falling for him when you first met him. Then again, no one plans on falling in love. You thought that love was simultaneously the most beautiful and cruel phenomenon of all - it was capable of making you feel like you wanted to protect and care for him with all your heart, but also bring out the ugliest of emotions: jealousy, sorrow and misery, to name a few.

You thought you would get over it, eventually. And it had become easier, seeing Bucky and Natasha together, as time passed. A consolation for your unreciprocated love was the fact that you had found a new, adopted family within the Avengers, and that made you happier than ever.

You would do anything for them, to protect them. You fiercely reminded yourself of this whenever you found yourself looking at Bucky a little too long, or when your skin burned at his touches.

He's just the same as everyone else.

You teetered at the precipice of falling into an abyss that you wouldn’t be able to climb out of, feeling so frustratingly infatuated with someone you couldn’t have, and you were determined not to let yourself topple over the edge.

You didn't know how your platonic feelings for him had spiraled into something so much more, but if you could fall in love, you were certain you could fall back out.

Steve insisted on celebrating your one year 'anniversary' of joining the team, gifting you a small cupcake with red, white and blue sprinkles, ruffling your hair with a playful wink. You had no idea how time had elapsed so quickly, but there you were.

It was the start of a new calendar year, too - as you blew out the tiny candle Steve had stabbed into the cake, you promised yourself resolutely that this would be the year you would really made an effort to get over a certain, ruggedly handsome brunette. You didn't want to spend more time unhealthily pining over a man when you could find somebody who actually loved you, too.

Fantasizing about him was an unhealthy, self-inflicted torture. You were confident that he had no idea what your true feelings were, and you would never dream of telling him. You adored Natasha as much as anyone else, and the idea of stepping in-between the two of them was unfathomable.

However, your feelings for Bucky had no doubt wedged an invisible wall between yourself and Natasha, even if you didn't realize it. It meant that you were never quite able to be fully open with her, fearful that if she was able to read you like she was with everyone else, she would know that you were completely enamored with her boyfriend.

It was slightly hard to disguise your affection when you saw Bucky get hurt. To Natasha, it was a regular, everyday occurrence, unworthy of particular fuss - but when you saw him, you wanted so badly to ask him if he was okay.

Today was one of those days. You and Steve were in one of the common rooms - you had been spending a lot of alone time with him lately - when Bucky and Sam traipsed in.

"Hey," you said in greeting, raising your hand. Your eyes followed Bucky closely, noticing that he had a fresh wound on the bridge of his nose. You gnawed on your lower lip in discomfort.

Not your place, you reminded yourself brusquely. Stop staring.

“You guys okay?” he asked as he walked over, clasping a hand on yours and Steve’s backs simultaneously. He was in good spirits despite his slightly battered features, a charming smile playing on his lips.

“All good,” Steve said. “We were just talking about the Albania mission.”

“Ah.” Bucky paused, cocking his head at you. “First mission just the two of us. You nervous?” His smirk made you roll your eyes. Your heart thumped erratically, betraying you.

“Nervous about what?”

“All that time spent together, don’t want you falling in love with me,” he joked. Your throat tightened, your smile stretching wider as you let out a sarcastic laugh.

“Ha ha ha. Very funny,” you said dryly. Too close to home.

You missed the look of discomfort in Steve’s eyes. He pursed his lips, shifting his position in the chair so his knees bumped slightly against yours.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Steve asked seriously, making you frown.

“What?”

“Your leg injury,” he reminded you.

“Is fully healed,” you stated firmly, though you knew he was only concerned for you. “Don’t worry about me.”

Easier said than done, Steve wanted to say, his eyes lingering on you for just a second too long. Not that you noticed. You were looking at Bucky, an expression on your face that he couldn’t decipher. It frustrated him, sometimes, being unable to know what you were thinking.

“I’ll brief you both tomorrow morning,” Steve grunted, his hand squeezing your shoulder. “8am. Don’t be late.”

Bucky and you were very close friends. The friendship had ironically bloomed the more you forced your true feelings for him down, locking them away and refusing to let them come out. You went on missions together a lot, and would be working together even more once you were dispatched on your mission in Albania. One that was supposed to last for at least a month as you gathered intel on the latest enemy base.

But, you had enough practice, and you were confident that you would be able to control everything, your heart included. You were certain.

Bucky and you trained together almost every day, having very similar fighting styles, even though Bucky was far stronger than you. He seemed to notice that your gait was off, scowling as he tapped your thigh.

"You told Steve you were fine," he said, unaware of the shocks he was sending through you at the unexpected touch.

"I am," you insisted. At his disbelieving look, you relented. "Okay, fine. My knee isn't quite the same. But I'm fine - I can still fight. Go on, attack me right now, do it." Your voice was aggressive as you motioned for Bucky to tackle you.

"Calm down, kitten," he said, raising his hands in the air. Kitten. That was a first. "I'm not doubting your ability to fight. But Steve might strangle me if something happens to you."

"You're not my babysitter," you scowled.

"Funny, that's exactly what I said to him."

You rolled your eyes, deciding to call it quits for the day. You both took a seat on the side of the training room before you asked lightly, "Where's Natasha these days?"

Bucky shrugged, turning his face away from you slightly. Silence.

"What's going on?" you frowned, tilting your head and elbowing his bicep.

Bucky raked his fingers through his short hair, ruffling it up before he sighed.

"Just...going through a bit of a rough patch," he admitted. "It's nothing serious." He looked down at the floor, still avoiding your eyes.

"Oh. Right." You were concerned at the way Bucky was now looking slightly deflated. "You want to talk about it?"

Bucky gave you a thin smile, shaking his head.

"It's alright. I just want to focus on this mission. I don't know, maybe the time away will help us clear our heads," he said, referring to himself and Natasha.

You wanted to know more, but decided not to pry. He would share in good time. Hearing the fact that he was having relationship trouble with his girlfriend shouldn't have teased out a tendril of hope in you, but it did, and you felt awful. The guilt must've been clear on your face, as Bucky cocked his head at you.

"What?"

"Uh, nothing," you lied, sipping your bottle of water. "Let's get some rest. Got an early start tomorrow."

Saying goodbye to the compound was easy - you went on missions all the time. However, living solo with Bucky was a whole new experience.

Being together in a tiny shoe box apartment led to some situations which you definitely did not foresee. Those situations tested the limits of your ability to pretend not to be insanely attracted to Bucky.

It didn't matter how much you tried.

One day, you had gone out to the local market to pick up some supplies. When you returned to the apartment, you had almost dropped the paper bag of fruit and vegetables when Bucky emerged from the bathroom, clad in only a towel around his waist. Your eyes had involuntarily zeroed in on his chest, tracing the path of the water droplets which ran down the valley of his abdomen, past his hips and teasing at something more.

You could remember every defined plane of his naked, muscular torso, the scars decorating his skin, his blue eyes widening in shock at the sight of you.

He had blushed violently, mumbled something about forgetting his clothes in his room, and practically bolted in there.

It didn't matter how much you tried.

One night, you had a particularly horrific nightmare which caused you to wake up in the middle of the night screaming. You woke with sweat covering your face, your hands clenching the sheets.

Bucky ran into your room, wrenching the door open with such force that the handle was crushed in his fist. He found you curled up in a whimpering ball on your bed. That night, he had held your hand and comforted you, sleeping next to you on top of the covers.

It didn't matter how much you tried.

The day you had finally entered the enemy base. You had made your way down the maze of corridors together, but found Bucky practically shoving you inside a tiny store cupboard which definitely should not be accommodating two people, his hand on your mouth to mask any sound as the two armed men marched unexpectedly down the hallway.

You could still remember the feeling of Bucky pressed up against you, his eyes flickering between yours as you tried to stay as still as possible. His scent overwhelmed your nose, made you want to close your eyes and bask in it.

He had been slightly off that same evening, going to bed early before resuming his normal behaviors the next day.

You didn't know if you were imagining it, but something seemed to be changing.

It didn't matter how much you tried. You were definitely still in love with him.

One evening, Bucky found you sitting upright on your bed, squeezing your knee with one hand, a grimace on your face. He was walking past your open doorway and did a double take, his hand curling around the door frame as he peered in.

“My knee,” you explained. “Injury seems to be flaring up.”

Bucky tsked and disappeared momentarily, before he returned with an ice pack. He sat down on the edge of your bed, his weight causing the mattress to dip. He reached out for your leg without a moments hesitation. You were only clad in a sleep shirt and shorts, but that didn’t seem to bother him as he lifted your limb onto his lap.

He applied the ice pack against your skin, making you withdraw your leg instinctively. He held his hand around your ankle, firmly holding it in place.

“Better?” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah. I think so,” you said quietly.

You looked up, and your eyes met. You turned your face to stare at the wall, suddenly unable to hold the eye contact. In your peripheral, you could see he was still looking at you intensely, the way Sam always made fun of him for.

“What are you staring at?” you asked, forcing a teasing lilt in your voice, his hand suddenly feeling incredibly warm against your skin.

“Nothing,” he said after a long moment. His fingers seemed to tighten around your ankle, so briefly and so quickly that you weren't sure if you had imagined it, before he let go of you.

One month. You had expected to be in Albania for one month, tops, but that turned into almost two. It was nearly mid-March, day after day spent holed in the tiny apartment with Bucky, papers and photos and electronic equipment lying everywhere.

"Remind me why I'm here again?" Bucky asked, a frown on his face as he sat down on the couch. "Intel gathering isn't even my specialty. I thought we would be able to get in on some action, but we've literally just been spying on these guys for weeks."

"We've got some very valuable information already," you reminded him, eyes scanning the mess of documents all around you. "Just a little longer, then we can go home."

Bucky groaned. It was way past midnight, and you heard him open a bottle of whisky and the glug glug glug of a glass being filled. Another clink, another glug glug glug. Two glasses.

"Come," he said loudly, patting the space next to him. "We both need a break."

You sighed, standing up and stretching your limbs.

"Fine. One drink."

You crashed down next to him as your phone buzzed in quick succession. Lifting your phone, you saw the notifications of texts from Steve. Bucky inadvertently saw his name flash on the screen.

“Something going on with you and Steve?” Bucky asked without missing a beat, arching an eyebrow expectantly.

“Something?”

“Yeah, you know. Something."

"I have no idea what you mean," you said coolly, knocking your glass against his before taking a sip of alcohol.

"Can't hide this shit from me," Bucky said, leaning back and slinging his arm across the back of the couch. "He's my best friend. I can tell."

"Tell what, exactly?" you asked.

Bucky took a slug of whiskey. It was like the alcohol was enabling this impromptu heart to heart.

"He seems different around you.” His expression was neutral, but there was something else there which you could quite identify.

“Different how?” You were genuinely confused by Bucky’s words.

He looked off into the distance, a mulling expression on his face.

“He looks at you like he wants to be your personal soldier. Your knight.”

You snorted, the sound fading when you realized Bucky was being serious, his face devoid of humor.

“What? What are you talking about?” you asked, perplexed.

“You’ve seriously never noticed?”

“Steve and I are just friends,” you said firmly.

"Uh-huh. Is that why he messages you every day? And I know not all of it is mission related."

"I don't know. I guess we're close?" you said, becoming flustered. You took another sip of whiskey. “Besides, I…” You trailed off uncertaintly.

Bucky pounced on your falter like a cat.

“What?” he shuffled in his seat, turning towards you with a childish grin.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Either the alcohol was getting to your head already, or you were just feeling particularly brazen.

“I’m kind of into someone else.”

He seemed to stiffen as he observed you silently. The alcohol was making you feel warm and slightly fuzzy as you looked into his steel eyes, marveled at how his pupils appeared to pool and dilate. You held your breath, imagining him asking - "who?"

You.

In that moment, you suddenly imagined telling him how you felt. What a relief it would be. Being just the two of you for so long, it made you imagine sometimes that it was really just the pair of you against the world.

You wished you could be selfish. Wish you could just reach out and take what you wanted, tell him how you yearned for him. The way his handsome face looked now in the dim lights was so unfair, so teasing.

The silence was getting too long. Bucky seemed to lean closer, his body closing the gap between you inch by inch. His head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze moving to your left eye, then your right, before flickering down to your lips.

You wanted to kiss him. His lips looked so soft, and you wanted to know how they felt, how he tasted. Nothing else seemed real in that moment except the two of you.

Bucky moved forward again, his hand sliding along the couch. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple shifting.

You looked at his mouth. His tongue darted out to wet his lips -

The shrill vibration of your phone sliced the air.

He cleared his throat loudly, leaning back and taking a swill of his drink. You blinked, turning away from him and scrabbling for your phone, trying to get the image of his lips out of your mind.

You thought Bucky would acknowledge that moment. You half-expected (and feared) that you would have a confrontational conversation about it. But, that confrontation never came, and you returned to New York after Steve deemed that you’d gained enough information for them to make a move, but wanted to reconvene as a team first.

Bucky didn't bring it up on the way back to New York. He didn't bring it up on the car journey back to the compound. He didn't bring it up when you both walked into the common rooms and he embraced his girlfriend.

He and Natasha seemed to have put any relationship troubles to rest upon your return to the compound, the time apart apparently reigniting a spark of passion. She had been waiting on the landing pad, and they kissed wordlessly the moment they got close enough, the sight making your chest tighten.

You continued playing the role of the regular friend, and never brought up that almost-kiss again.

You were stubborn, in many ways. If he wasn't going to bring it up, then you could pretend it never happened. You were a great actress.

You wondered if you’d simply imagined that moment after all.

You’d missed New York a lot. The second he saw you at the compound after returning from Albania, he'd given Bucky a silent nod before pulling you into a tight embrace that almost lifted you off your feet.

Huh. Maybe Bucky was onto something.

After that, you found yourself spending even more and more time with him. Steve was the perfect gentleman, in many ways. He reminded you of an angel, sometimes, especially when his golden hair glowed in sunlight, the corners of his eyes creasing when he smiled.

He had a cherubic beauty. He was different to Bucky - they were like day and night. Both stunning in their own way, a complete force of nature, but with Steve, you felt like your vision was clearer. There was no second guessing - it seemed that he really did have feelings for you which were more than just friendly.

Bucky watched you and Steve from the other side of the Quinjet as you spoke in low voices, ready to dive into the next assignment. Steve was piloting, you crouched down next to him, his head leaning close towards yours.

Natasha was sat silently a few seats away from Bucky. She got in these moods, sometimes, where she wasn't particularly upset at anything Bucky had done, persay, but just wanted to shut herself off from everything.

Bucky didn't mind. He was twirling a knife between his fingers as he watched you with his best friend, a foreign feeling settling inside his chest.

Was it jealousy? Not of Steve, no. It couldn't be. Maybe he was just jealous of the way you smiled at each other, completely care-free and easy. Not like things were with Natasha - he couldn't remember the last time that he had shared an innocent moment like that with his girlfriend.

When he'd first returned from Albania, things had seemed good with her. But sometimes it felt shallow - like everything was just superficial without real grit or weighting to their emotions.

He was beginning to question a lot of the things he shared with Natasha. It felt like recently, a lot of the positive aspects of their relationship had simply run their course. Now, the time they spent together was either in silence, in arguments, or in semi-rage fueled sex.

Seeing you smile at Steve made him suddenly wish for something purer. Simpler.

His eyes traced the angles of your nose, the slender slope of your neck as you gazed up, the corners of your lips as you smiled.

He closed his eyes. He would have to stop thinking about you too much.

When you were fighting, you couldn't focus on anything else besides getting rid of the threat and protecting your team mates.

A blade flew past your face, barely avoiding glancing your skin before it was swiftly caught by Bucky, who launched it into the neck of the tall, bulky man who had been advancing towards you. He had been swinging a bat wrapped in barbed wire, an ugly smile on his face.

"That's a very creative weapon," you grunted, wrenching the bat from the man's hold as he crumbled to the ground from Bucky’s attack. You swung it into the face of a snarling, blonde haired woman who was coming for Natasha.

The sounds of fighting echoed loudly in the empty warehouse, cries of pain and screams sounding every few seconds as you fought off the increasing number of enemies who appeared in every direction.

You and Natasha stood almost back to back as you both aimed guns with expert precision into the rafters above you, your eyes spotting hidden snipers and firing before they could get you.

In moments like these, amidst the chaos, anything could go awry. You heard rather than saw the clatter of a grenade, your eyes widening in shock the second you registered what it was. You opened your mouth to warn Natasha, feeling a large wall of muscle crash into you and roll you away before you could even speak.

You were practically thrown off your feet, back thudding onto the ground like a doll. The explosion sounded in the distance - you realized that Sam had managed to intercept and toss the grenade into the air in those six seconds before it detonated, taking out a section of the warehouse wall, dust and debris raining onto you.

"You alright?" Bucky asked huskily, pulling you onto your feet.

You didn't have time to respond before he was turning away and diving into the fight again, Steve suddenly appearing by your side and tilting your chin to look at him.

"All good?"

"All good," you said affirmatively, watching as he gave you a grim smile before he too rejoined the battle.

Bucky's heart was roaring in his chest as he threw himself at yet another nameless man, driving his fist into his face to incapacitate him. The sudden realization was almost painful that in the appearance of a grenade, his first instinct had been to run towards you.

You found yourself shopping with Natasha one afternoon. In the life of an Avenger, getting the chance to do these mundane, every day things was exceptionally fun.

You were picking out decorations for Steve's birthday party. He had insisted that he didn't want one, but the team had ignored him, obviously. When there was so much doom and gloom, it was nice to have an excuse to just be normal and celebrate something.

"So, you and Steve, huh?" Natasha said suddenly as you both walked down the grocery store aisles.

You groaned internally. In recent weeks, it seemed like everyone had suddenly decided something was going on between the two of you.

"Not you too, Nat," you said, pretending to glower at her.

"I'm just saying," she smirked. "His crush on you is getting pretty obvious. You have to see it, too"

You shrugged, biting down on your lip.

"I don't know. Maybe?"

When it came to discussing Steve, the thought of Bucky also inevitably flitted across your mind. Okay, admittedly, you also had a crush on Steve - how could you not?

But your feelings for Bucky always overshadowed it. However, you hadn't seen a lot of him lately, and the drastic decrease in interactions between the two of you coupled with the many what if scenarios planted into your head by others regarding yourself and Steve, was starting to make you think.

It made you consider him, for sure. Steve was a good man. Not that you wanted to use him to make you get over your feelings for Bucky, but maybe it wouldn't be the worst idea to explore that avenue and see where it took you.

"I think you should make a move," Natasha said. "Life is too short."

You pursed your lips, entertaining the idea. Maybe she was right.

Bucky would never be yours. He would never return your feelings, and it was time you accepted it.

You didn't have to make the first move, after all.

The party was a small, private affair, the rooms in the compound decked out in patriotic decorations, music playing and giving the team a chance to actually wind down.

Towards the end of the night, you ended up sitting at the bar with Steve, the others outside watching the fireworks that had been set off by Tony.

"Can I try something?" Steve asked quietly out of the blue, his clear eyes flitting between yours. He raised his hands hesitantly, waiting for you to give him the green-light. They ghosted around your face, aching to touch you.

You thought of a dark haired super soldier, how he unknowingly pained your heart. All the fantasies you had of him which would never materialize.

"You can kiss me, Steve," you whispered.

That was all the encouragement he needed as he leaned closer and slotted his lips against yours. It was an unfamiliar, but not an unpleasant, sensation.

It was a gentleman's kiss. Short but sweet. He pulled away, his hands having found their way in your hair, and he seemed breathless.

"Woah. Am I interrupting something?"

You both jumped apart, Sam walking in with raised eyebrows and a Cheshire Cat grin.

"Is everyone around here getting laid except me?" Sam chuckled.

Bucky walked in next, his observant gaze taking in the scene in front of him. He had heard Sam's comment, seen your slightly tousled hair, took in Steve's slightly sheepish expression.

He didn't say a word.

You and Steve began...could you call it dating? You didn't exactly go out on dates - you were both too busy doing Avenger shit.

But nowadays, you spent almost all your spare time with him. He would hold your hand and steal kisses in private, away from prying eyes. You found yourself cultivating a growing affection for him, beginning to truly look forward to seeing him every day.

It was conflicting, when the object of your most raw affections was still there.

You didn't know if you were a bad person. Was it terrible, that you were letting yourself get involved with Steve when your heart's deepest desires all revolved around Bucky?

You were never going to act upon them, you rationalized. And having residual love for Bucky didn't mean you didn’t deserve some happiness with another man, right?

You wondered just how residual your love was when Bucky still managed to make you feel defenceless and totally at his mercy.

Once it became clear that you and Steve were no longer just friends, it seemed to shift the dynamic between yourself and Bucky even more. You spent less and less time together, and it didn't help that his mood was always perpetually affected by his rocky relationship with Natasha.

You had found him storming through the compound one day after he had no doubt had an argument with her. You had seen the rage coming off him in waves and stopped him without hesitating, asking him if everything was okay.

"Mind your own business," he had said curtly, the rudeness in his voice making your mouth fall open.

"Excuse me?" you spluttered, genuinely taken aback at the venom in his tone.

"Was I not clear? I said - mind your own business," he said, glowering at you in a manner that made you flinch. He continued on his way without a second look back at you, the animosity bringing frustrated tears to your eyes.

He had never spoken to you that way before. His apology came in the form of a small box of chocolates the next day, but after that incident, you told yourself you would not ask about his love life again.

Bucky was drinking by himself when you found him in the middle of the night, listening to music playing from a vintage record player. How old school.

"You gonna join me for a drink?" he asked, but you shook your head with a smile.

"I'm okay. I couldn't sleep," you said to explain your sudden appearance.

Bucky imagined you sleeping in your bed next to Steve. Except Steve was away from the compound for the rest of the week, so he knew you were alone. Maybe that was why you were so restless, he thought bitterly.

How nice it must be to rest next to someone you really loved. Unbeknownst to you, he and Natasha had been sleeping separately for weeks.

He wanted what you and Steve had.

(Or maybe he just wanted you?)

The music playing was unfamiliar to you, and Bucky said it was one of his favorites from back in the day. He suddenly grabbed your hand, and you could tell he had been drinking for some time, the smell of alcohol heavy on his tongue.

"Dance with me?"

You didn't have time to say anything before he was swaying you back and forth without rhythm, making you laugh out loud at the hilarity of it.

"I thought you were supposed to be a good dancer?" you teased. You had been walking on eggshells around Bucky for the longest time, but in this moment, it felt like old days.

"I am," he murmured. He suddenly adjusted his stance, his hand moving to your back, the other grabbing yours as he began properly leading you into a dance. Your fingers were interlaced when he pulled you close, and you began moving in tandem in a spontaneous waltz.

The music was soothing, and his body was warm. You felt comfortable and safe with him, feeling all the tension leave you.

He looked so unbearably handsome. You realized that you were staring at each other, unblinking.

This was strange. And yet you couldn't drag your gaze away from him as he tilted his head forward, resting his forehead on yours. Your breath hitched. His eyes closed with a flutter.

"I'm tired," he said quietly. "Let's just stay like this for a while."

Tony threw a small party - well, small by his standards. In his own words, everyone needed a night to "chill out and drink a lot of booze". You were chatting with Sam when you noticed Natasha and Bucky arrive at the party. Separately, pointedly avoiding each other.

Sam followed your inquisitive gaze and sucked in a breath.

“Trouble in paradise,” he said. It wasn’t a question - more like a statement, as if he was privy to something you didn’t know.

“Hm?”

Sam took a sip of his drink.

“Never mind. Don’t want no vibranium arm up my ass for running my mouth.”

“Now that would be some party trick,” you said, though you were now furtively watching Natasha and Bucky from over the rim of your drink.

They were definitely avoiding each other. They could not be stood farther apart, on opposite sides of the room. Bucky’s face looked slightly sullen whereas Natasha looked composed and cool.

Steve wrapped an arm around you, placing a kiss on the top of your head. Things had started off quite slow and light at first, but you were increasingly conscious of the fact that things seemed to be getting more intense between the two of you. He hadn't quite asked you to be his girlfriend, but you were starting to wonder if there was a silent understanding that you were.

You weren't good at this relationship stuff. And, frustratingly, you found yourself wondering more about the state of Bucky and Natasha's relationship than yours.

Your worries multiplied when he got so drunk by the end of the night that you offered to accompany him back to his room, Bucky's arm slung around your shoulders as you tried to support his weight.

"I know you can walk, Buck," you grunted as you made your way towards his bedroom. “Use your legs. You’re killing me here.”

He sighed loudly, patting your back. He seemed to sober up when you both stopped outside his room, and you stared him down with a serious look on your face.

"Are you okay? No bullshit.”

His eyes were glazed over when he looked at you. He had always found you to be beautiful. No wonder Steve fell for you, he thought.

"We broke up," he said quietly.

His words weren’t entirely a shock to you.

"Are you okay?" you asked gently.

Your voice was so kind. When he looked at you now, he really felt like he had somehow missed a chance to discover something great. You had been there all along. Why didn’t he see it?

Maybe he always knew. Even back in Albania, there had been a moment where he thought he would kiss you. The memory scared him. He hadn’t quite realized there was something in his heart that was more than just friendly until that night.

“No,” he said, but not for the reasons you thought. He hesitated. “Will you stay with me?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Stupid, Bucky scolded himself. He knew how you would interpret that - and somehow you wouldn't be wrong. God, no - what was he thinking? This wasn't him.

“Never mind. Sorry. That was dumb,” he said hoarsely. Guilt wracked his body - for you, for Steve. His best friend. “Goodnight.”

You didn't say anything for a second, but finally the words found their way out.

"Goodnight. I'll be here if you want to talk," you said as he pushed open his door.

Bucky surveyed you with a look that may have contained disappointment. You weren't sure, and you suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to stay, and yet you forced yourself to take a step back, away from him.

The door closed with a click.

The universe was playing a sick joke.

When Bucky first met Natasha, he thought he had found his life-partner. As time went on, he realized that it just wasn't meant to be.

Had he always loved you? No, maybe not at first. He had considered you almost like a little sister in the beginning, someone to take care of, someone to joke with, someone he cared a lot about.

Maybe he always told himself the love that brewed was just like the love one had for their family.

It was confusing and he was laden with guilt, the first time he found himself wondering what it would feel like to kiss you. He was still with Natasha, and he felt so awful when those thoughts breached his mind. Like he was betraying her.

When you got together with Steve, it was almost a relief. He thought that seeing you with his best friend would dampen down any flame that existed within him, any longing that he had for you.

He was wrong. Seeing you so happy with Steve made him jealous, but it wasn't because he wanted that happiness for himself and Natasha. No - it was because he just wanted you.

God, how he hated himself. Steve was his best friend, his most loyal friend, and he was lusting after you. The disappointment and hatred for himself manifested into a coldness towards you, eventually.

He found that the only way he would be able to get through this was to keep you at arms length. There was no way he was going to be able to see the relationship between you and Steve blossom without doing something he would regret.

He hated himself for the way he was treating you. He knew you could sense it, too, his hostility towards you reaching a crescendo one autumn afternoon when he found himself shouting at you aboard the empty Quinjet after the rest of the team had disembarked.

"You could have gotten the team injured," Bucky spat through gritted teeth as you stared at him in bewilderment.

"Are you kidding me? I knew what I was doing."

"Did you? Steve had to come and save -"

"He didn't have to save me," you sniped back, pre empting his words. "I had it under control."

"You were a liability," Bucky snarled. The moment he said it, he wanted to take it back, but he just couldn't. He was pissed off - not at anything you did, but at the way his heart was pounding uncontrollably at the mere sight of you. How did you render him so weak?

Your mouth opened and closed silently, and Bucky could identify the exact moment your eyes stung with tears, but he chose to say nothing. He stood to the spot like a cowardly statue as you stood stiffly and stalked off the jet.

Bucky was fighting a losing battle to keep his emotions at bay. With feelings so intense, he knew they couldn't be contained in a vessel. They were bound to explode.

There was a storm that night.

Bucky had sustained a deep knife wound to the side of his chest whilst out on the field. You walked into the medical bay as he was being bandaged up, startled by dark expression on his face. He was in a foul mood, you could tell.

"Is he going to be okay?" you asked.

He had been stabbed because of you. He had been hurt because he had pulled you out of the way of a rogue S.H.I.E.L.D agent just an hour ago, and your lip was bleeding from how you’d been chewing anxiously on it as Bucky was tended to.

"M'fine," he responded before the doctor could, pulling on his blood stained shirt and leather jacket.

"Actually, Sergeant Barnes, you need to - "

He stalked out of the medical bay, past you with such fury that you stared after him in shock before following him.

"What's gotten into you?" you asked.

"Nothing," he said curtly. He was marching so fast that you were struggling to keep up. He walked through the compound, right out of a set of doors and into the field outside, the rain pelting his face. It was ice cold and exactly what he wanted to make him feel nothing, to feel numb.

You were feeling sick of his attitude. For weeks, he had been acting awful to you. Blunt, brushing off your attempts at conversation, avoiding you. The rare times you did get him to speak to you, he was rude and brusque.

It hurt your feelings more than you’d care to admit, but now you were just angry at how he was acting like a petulant child.

"Come back inside!" you shouted over the rain. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Go back inside," he said, the frustration in his voice clear.

It riled you up even more, and you felt instantly indignant as his barking command.

"No, not until you tell me what's going on!"

Bucky continued walking, ignoring you.

“James Buchanan Barnes, you stop right now!” you shouted, your fury evident. That made him stop in his tracks, his back still facing you. Your annoyance finally tipped you over the edge. “You’re acting like an immature bastard! You’ve been an ass to me for weeks - do you want to fucking explain why?”

Bucky whirled around then, cursing and stalking up towards you. He lifted his hands like he wanted to grab you, but he stopped himself from touching you. The expression on his face startled you out of the red mist that clouded your brain - it was a combination of rage and sadness.

"Why are you here?" he exclaimed, looking tortured.

"Why am I here?" you repeated, incredulous. "What are you - "

"You're always here," he spat through clenched jaws. "Always distracting me, always making me think of you. Why?"

Confusion marred your face. He continued, "I hate looking at you and knowing that I can't have you."

"What's going on?" you spluttered. "Are you mad that I got you stabbed?"

"No!" he shouted. "I'm mad that I love you when I want to feel nothing for you."

His words made you seize up, and your lips parted in shock. He was raging now, his whole body shaking as he stared at you.

"Did you have feelings for me?" he pressed, his voice desperate and urgent. "Did you?"

"I - "

"Don't lie," he warned, his face pained.

"Yes," you gasped finally. "I did."

He nodded as if he knew all along.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his tone accusatory.

"How could I tell you?" you retorted. "Why would I tell you?" You had no idea what he wanted from you, or where this was all coming from. It was so unexpected, to be having this conversation out here with him, today, but he seemed to want to wrangle the truth out of you.

"If you had told me, maybe - maybe I wouldn't be feeling this way." His voice broke, and your heart strained at the seams, guilt filling your chest.

The rain was getting heavier now, pelting the two of you. Your clothes felt so heavy on your skin, acid rising in your throat at Bucky's words. They infuriated you.

“Maybe things would’ve been different!” You were almost screaming over the sound of the rain and thunder. Your hair was sticking to your face, blinding you. “Maybe - maybe if you hadn’t been with Natasha in the first place. Maybe if we didn’t end up in Albania together. Maybe if Steve didn’t tell me his feelings for me.”

“Did you love me?” He was almost screaming too, his voice filled with frustration.

“I won’t answer that,” you said resolutely. “It doesn’t matter. You have no idea how I’ve been feeling, Bucky.” You wanted to grip the collar of his jacket, shake some sense into him. “I’ve felt like I’ve been in the shadows for so long, pining for you. Sitting on the bench, waiting for you to pick me.”

“I was with someone else -”

“And that’s fine!” you exclaimed honestly. “That’s fine, Bucky. I never wanted to break you up. But I just think - if it’s meant to be, I wouldn’t have had to wait for so long. No one wants to feel like the second choice.”

“It was never like that. You know that.”

“I know,” you said weakly. “I know all these things, and I know it’s just a way of life, relationships come and go and your relationship with Natasha doesn’t dilute the feelings you have for me now.” The words fell out in a rush, almost nonsensical. “But it was always so hard, Bucky. Feeling all this love for you and getting nothing in return. With Steve, it’s different. It’s easy.”

“So you gonna take the easy way out?” he snarled.

"Nothing about this has been easy!" you said angrily. "You have no right to take a knife for me, scream at me then tell me that you love me!"

The rain was rolling off his skin, his eyelashes thick as he narrowed his eyes at you. He wanted to kiss you so badly, to dismiss everything and ignore every possible consequence and just kiss you.

Instead, he took in the helplessness in your expression. Reminded himself of who his best friend was.

“Do you love him?” he asked softly. It wasn’t a rhetorical question - he genuinely needed to know, to hear the truth from your lips. It was conflicting - Steve was his brother, but at the same time, he was the man who had your heart whilst Bucky ached to capture it in his fingers, too. Every cell in his body told him he needed to be valiant and fight for you. But he knew that fighting for you wouldn’t be brave, it wouldn’t be courageous - it would only cause pain to those he loved.

“Yes,” you answered truthfully.

“Do you still love me?”

The question alarmed you. Bucky had always trod the boundary between you carefully, particularly since you and Steve had become a couple. You thought he would never do anything to disrespect that. You knew that if he had to ask, then he truly was a desperate man.

How could you ever tell him how you felt? How could you tell Bucky that sometimes, when you were with Steve, you thought about him? That the guilt was eating away at you, keeping you up at night? How could you describe how sick it made you feel when you looked into Steve’s eyes and felt a sweet affection for him, but which was just a fraction of the burning love you held for Bucky?

“That’s unfair,” you said, voice quivering. “You can’t ask that. Steve is your best friend.”

“And you’re my…” His voice began as a forceful protest before trailing off.

“Your what, Bucky?” you asked incredulously, eyes widening. “How does that sentence end?”

Bucky winced.

“I’m not your friend,” you said carefully. At this point, after all those questionable moments shared throughout the year, you were no longer just a friend, not really. “I’m not your lover. And this is why we can’t be having this conversation.”

“You’re my person,” Bucky said, his voice cracking. “I would never take you from Steve. I know that. But I just have to let you know.” Tears were gathering in his eyes, making your chest hurt.

You smiled a watery smile.

"I know."

You were two ships that passed in the night. Two people who could have had a beautiful story, but neither of you had time to open that chapter. The timing was never quite right, after all.

"I love you," he said finally. He seemed to sag as the words left his body, like they were a weight he had been carrying for a long time.

Those three words were ones which you had wanted to hear from him for so long. But now, hearing them hang in the air, they only made your pain worsen.

"It'll pass," you said finally. "One day, you will find someone that is the right person, right time."

You never thought you would find yourself in this position. That the man you loved so dearly would tell you he felt the same, and you would have to do everything in your power to stop yourself from running into his embrace.

You had to do the responsible thing. You couldn't hurt Steve.

“What do we do now?” Bucky asked. He needed your guidance. He felt like every fiber in his body was burning.

You were silent for the longest time. You realized you were holding your breath, because you were afraid that you would spontaneously burst into tears if you moved a single muscle.

“You and I...will not mention this again. We won’t think about what could have been, because we can’t.” Your voice broke on the final word despite your attempts to compose yourself.

Did you love Steve? The answer was yes. You did love him, honestly.

Did you love Bucky?

With your entire existence.

You didn't know if you could genuinely love two people at once. And, deep down, you knew that your feelings for Bucky would forever be ingrained in your heart - it was burned into you. But Steve was the one who stood by your side, who picked you without hesitation - you could not and would not hurt him. He was too good to you to deserve that.

Even if it meant letting go of the love that never was.

Bucky nodded once. He looked at your beautiful face, at the devastation in your eyes, but also the determination in your stance.

“Okay,” he said, a half-smile on his face. “I'm sorry."

For you, he would try. For Steve, he would try. If he had to make peace with the fact that he had lost out on something beautiful, he would try. Because he knew it was unfair - he had been late to the game, ignored the niggling feeling in his mind that you perhaps felt something special for him, told himself that you just viewed him as a friend.

For you, he would try not to love you anymore.

Destined to meet, but not destined to be together. Sometimes, people are meant to stay in your heart, but not in your life.

A/N: I don't expect many people to like this fic, but I wanted to write this one just for me, I guess? I have been in a very angsty mood recently and wanted to write a fic about love that doesn't have a happy ending, to reflect the reality that sometimes, you can love someone with your whole soul, but it just doesn't work out. I don't know if reader or Bucky made the 'correct' decisions here - that interpretation is up to you.

[farfromstrange]

just read ‘long distance’ and i was wondering if you could serve pain? jen walters was mentioned and reader exists, that means angst and maybe cheating (or even a hint of it?) please??? i love your fluff and smut pieces. also the angst (but i dont dwell too much since self harming is better left in the past for me) but i really like how you deliver pain. i hope this gets chosen and written, but no pressure ofc. thank you and may the spirit of creativity live within you.

Hi, nonnie! I'm sorry you had to wait so long. I wasn't sure if you wanted a part 2 or an entirely new fic, so I kind of used part of what I already mentioned in Long Distance and continued in this fic. I didn't do full-on cheating, but it's still angst, and well... there is no comfort. I hope you like it!

Burn | Matt Murdock x Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: Matt comes home after his work trip and tells you something that changes your life forever.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of Smut, cheating

Word Count: 2.7k

You’re not sure what happened. 

Matt spent a few weeks in Los Angeles to work on a case that would bring in some money. You didn’t mind; he does it sometimes. Since he, Foggy, and Karen opened the doors of their law firm again, work trips between the three have become more frequent. They’re making money now, and you would always support it.

You have also never been insecure about your relationship with him before. You and Matt have been together for years, even before the Blip, and you held onto each other when all of your friends disappeared. You thought you were happy. His job is going well; you are happy and don’t have to live paycheck by paycheck anymore. At least you thought so. 

While he was away, you talked over the phone regularly. He always seemed so relieved to hear your voice. You often talked for hours, and you texted him sweet nothings during the day. He told you he appreciated it. 

Every other night, you would retreat to your bedroom and he would guide you to orgasm after orgasm with the sound of his voice, and you would do the same. The toy he got you before he left for LA came in handy more than once since you could be connected over the distance now and still somehow control each other’s pleasure.

When he texted you he would be home earlier than expected, you were so excited, you took the day off, put on your best lingerie, and cooked dinner. You thought he would be happy to be with you again; he told you how much he missed you. He compared it very dramatically to a lack of air and that you were his oxygen, and you remember laughing at him. You have never loved a man as much as you love Matt Murdock, so it is only natural for you to get excited, right?

You talked about marriage before, maybe even kids. You planned a future together. Deep down, you’ve been waiting for him to pop the question. Foggy is an idiot and he let something slip one day, and ever since you have been vigilant. You thought that he might finally ask you after coming home from his trip. 

You thought. That seemed to be the common denominator. You always just believe and hope for the best; in the end, things don’t turn out how you want them to. 

You’re really not sure what happened, but something did happen because when Matt opens the door, he’s not even smiling at you. 

“Welcome back!” you greet him with the brightest smile you can offer. Maybe he’s just tired. 

But you know him and you know the difference between exhaustion and guilt; the man before you may be tired, but he is also struggling with the shame he inflicted upon himself, and it is not his duty as Daredevil this time. 

He drops his bag by the door. You lean in for a kiss. “How was your flight?” you ask.

You’re in denial. Something happened, but you don’t want to ruin it. You don’t want to ruin this. You keep telling yourself it’s going to be okay, but you just don’t know what happened to get you here–

He evades your lips, simply hugging you briefly before answering, “Good.”

Your body trembles. “Matt.”

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?” he retorts. He moves to the kitchen and grabs himself a bottle of beer. “I’m just tired.”

You frown. “Is that why you can’t even look at me?” you ask.

“Don’t be ridiculous, sweetheart–” the usually so endearing nickname sounds so bitter now. “You know I can’t see,” he says. 

“You know what I mean.” You cross your arms. “Something isn’t right.”

His expression is serious, and it sends a wave of unease crashing over you. You try to push away the worry that gnaws at your insides, but it's hard to ignore the change in his demeanor.

He avoids your gaze, his eyes flickering around the room as if searching for something, or perhaps, avoiding something. Silence hangs heavy in the air, stretching the seconds into eternity.

That’s when you know that something happened, and it affects you because if it didn’t, he wouldn’t be so distant toward you. You taught him to always be open with you about his struggles, and he has managed to learn how to voice his needs, so it confuses you when he does neither and treats you more like a stranger than his girlfriend. 

There was only one time in your relationship he acted this way and that was the day Elektra stepped back into his life, and with it, yours. 

Your stomach churns. The hope you had built up crumbles, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. “What happened?” you urge again. 

He leans against the kitchen counter, turning his head away from you. Tears are glistening in his eyes behind his red glasses. 

“Matthew, please,” you beg. “Talk to me. Tell me!”

The room feels heavy with tension. His shoulders slump, and for a moment, it seems like he's about to break, to let the words spill forth. But just as quickly, he straightens his posture and averts his gaze.

"I can't," he whispers. "I can't tell you."

You step forward, but he shies away as if being close to you is somehow toxic. It breaks your heart. He looks disgusted, and you wonder if it's because of you. Maybe you used the wrong body wash, but that would elicit a different reaction. You didn't do anything differently today, you're simply excited, that's all there is, but as you look at him, he seems to be the exact opposite. Stoic, empty, cold...

“We've always been honest with each other, Matt," you say, still walking up to him even as he recoils. "I cooked dinner for you, took a shower, got dressed... and now you won't even fucking try and look at me. You've been gone for weeks! Please, just... I deserve to know what's going on." You reach for him, but this time, he moves away wholly.

The distance between you becomes a void that you could easily slip in and drown. His body language is a storm, causing the waves to crash into the shore and choke up with their cruel claws. 

His grip tightens around the neck of the beer bottle, his knuckles turning white. You can see the faintest scars; you know he brought his suit with him, you just didn't think he would actually use it. "You deserve better," he says, more to himself than to you. There is the guilt you have been waiting for, but it still affects you because he is talking about you.

Your heart skips a beat. You have had this conversation many times in the past. "Better?" you ask. "Matt, what are you talking about? I don't want better, I want you." You laugh in disbelief, but he doesn't even smile. He's not trying to hide how much pain he is from the weight of his guilt, and it makes you scared for what's about to come.

His gaze flickers toward you, and his eyes reflect myriad emotions—sadness, regret, and something else you can't quite place. "You shouldn't want me," he loathes himself, “Not after... not after everything." 

"What?" You place a hand on his arm, forcing him to turn to you. "I love you," you say.

He shakes his head. He never shakes his head when you tell him you love him. It's like he's telling you the opposite, that you shouldn't love him or that he doesn't feel the same for you anymore; the feelings swirling in your chest are confusing, and you just don't understand. Your mind races, trying to connect the dots, desperate to make sense of his cryptic words. 

His grip on the bottle loosens, and he takes a shaky breath. "I- I fucked up."

Your heart sinks. The pain you had sensed, the distance between you, it all falls into place. The parallel between his behavior now and back when Elektra almost tore you apart. The pieces of the puzzle form a picture you never wanted to see find their way together.

"Did you... cheat on me?" you ask, the words catching in your throat. The mere thought feels like a knife twisting in your chest, but you don't cry, you simply stare at him, waiting for any kind of reaction. 

It's the thought you loathe the most, but you seem to hit the nail right on the head.

Matt's silence is confirmation enough. "Oh God," you breathe.

“It was just a kiss,” he whispers. 

“A– you kissed someone else?”

“Yeah.”

“Walters?”

He takes a shaky sip of his drink. 

“Oh, my God, Matthew!” The cork to your heart pops and you start bleeding out, it seems. “What?” you ask. “Please, tell me you’re just messing with me. Please!” You want to get on your knees and pray to God that he’s lying, but he’s so quiet and his face is so stern, you can’t help but believe him.

The one thing he promised you he would never do, he did. And that is something you once told him that if he ever did it, you wouldn’t be able to forgive him. 

The foundation of trust you had built with Matt feels shattered, and you struggle to comprehend how he could break his promise to you. Emotions swirl within you, colliding with one another, leaving you feeling lost and vulnerable.

He grabs your hand suddenly when you try to put some distance between you to sort your thoughts, his glasses now discarded, and he looks past you with so much pain in his eyes, you can feel your own tears near. He whispers your name. 

“No,” you say. “I can’t–”

“Please, listen to me. I can explain,” Matt says. “I can–”

“You can’t! You promised… I– wasn’t I good enough for you? What happened, Matthew? What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing! You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. Please, it was a stupid mistake.” 

“A mistake?”

He tugs at your arm again. When you don’t seem to budge, he sinks to his knees. Your throat tightens, your heart shattering on the floor next to him. He has torn it out with his bare hands, squeezed it too hard and now you’re nothing more than an empty shell, your very essence broken on the living room floor. 

“Please,” he begs. His hands rest on your hips and his unfocused eyes try to search for yours. 

The fact he only now thinks he has to fight for you instead of coming clear right away makes you angry, not just sad. You turned your back and that’s what prompted him to fight, even though he should have tried so much sooner. 

You loved him with all you had, and a foolish part of you still does, but hearing the words coming out of his mouth that he betrayed your trust in such a cruel way tears down the walls you have been seeing through rose-colored glasses and cut your love for him into pieces with a sharp dagger. 

Your best friend once told you that you should be careful, Matt would do anything to survive. Yet, you stayed around through the sleepless nights and the heartache. You worried about him every day and every night he went out as Daredevil to cleanse the streets, and you stitched him up without knowing what you were doing. You held him as he cried, offered him your endless support, and then some more, anything just to be loved by him, but he treated you so well. He gave you everything you needed, showed you a love no one has before and he was so dedicated, you felt at home with him. You trusted him with your life. You owe him your life, and yet, after everything you have been through together, one work trip to another State is all it takes for him to throw away years of history and kiss someone else? And Jennifer Walters, no less? 

You never thought you had to be worried about anyone catching Matt’s attention. You had been so confident before, but now? Now you just feel useless, imperfect, and like a damn fool. 

“Matt,” you whimper. 

He holds on even tighter. “Can we talk about this?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You look up, but the tears are flowing freely now. 

“I’m sorry. Please, I don’t want to lose you. I love you so fucking much, baby. Please! I can’t live without you. Don’t leave me. I can make it up to you, I promise, just… give me another chance.”

“Yeah?” It pains you to tear his hands from your body, but you have to. “If you didn’t want to lose me,” you say, “you should have thought about it before you decided to kiss someone else.”

He says your name, begging you once again to just stay. Talk this through. Stay. He is like a serpent in your ear, and you want nothing more than to give in, but when you reflect on your time together, you don’t know if you should even think about giving in. 

Matt has been obsessed with justice from the start. He chose it over you more than once, and it took you many nights and many fights for you to get him to stay even for a night or two to be with you, the person he claimed to love most of all. And now you are supposed to stay after he did what he did? It may be stupid to react this way if it was just a kiss, but he never once said it was accidental, and that means he has thought about cheating on you. He kissed someone else, someone who isn’t you, and he set your heart on fire the same way he has set your life together alight. 

Maybe he kissed her because she’s like him–maybe he kissed Jennifer Walters because she understands, and he has often accused you of not understanding. Maybe in her, he has found someone who won’t keep him from New York City just for one date night. Maybe in her, he has found someone who doesn’t break down crying when he comes home late because she thinks he died in a fight with a criminal. And maybe in her, he has found the woman he actually wants to marry. 

Marry. The word makes you choke up. 

As if he read your thoughts, he crawls toward you and stops you from walking away. He digs his fingers further into your hips, retrieving a small box from his pants, and God, do you want to punch him right now. 

You were right about the proposal, but he was planning to propose and still kissed someone else, and that is a betrayal on a whole new level. 

“The audacity,” you whisper to yourself. 

Tears are streaming down his face and he looks as if he thinks pulling out a ring after telling you he made out (no, kissed) with Jennifer Walters in Los Angeles is going to fix everything. 

“Please,” he begs, “I only want you. I wanted to ask you–”

“No,” you cut him off. “Don’t you fucking dare, Matthew!” You pull away. “This is… I’ve been waiting for you to do this for so long, but you… what the fuck? No! Especially not now!” Your body Wracks with a sob. “I need time, and I can’t do this right now. Kissing Walters is one thing, but telling me you bought a ring for me and still kissed someone else? It hurts,” you say.

It hurts too fucking much, you can’t breathe. He was your oxygen too, in a way, but he has cut off the supply and now you are dying a slow and agonizing death.

“I’m so sorry.” His arms drop to his sides in defeat, but he remains on his knees. “I never meant to hurt you,” Matt cries, “I promise! I just… I made a mistake.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“I–“

“I’m sorry for falling in love with you. That was my mistake.”

Ouch. Now you have taken his heart, pulled it out and shattered it with one twist of your wrist. But he deserves it.

Matt listens to the sound of your hasty movements as you pack some clothes. He listens to your tears, your sobs, and the shaking of your muscles as you shudder. He listens and stays right there on the floor, his head lowered as God’s judgment comes upon him. 

And within minutes, your heartbeat leaves his ears and you are gone. 

You left him, and he deserves every last ounce of pain it inflicts on him. 

He’s an Icarus who has flown too close to the sun, and you deserve better than him. 

It wasn’t Jennifer who brought him back to life, it was you and it will always be you, but he screwed that up, too, and he has to live with it now. Without you. 

The ring box slips from his hands and then, he allows himself to break down. 

Matt Murdock Angst Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @lina-mar @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @thychuvaluswife

[missskzbiased]

Inspired by a fellow Polin Stan, I must say this here.

A lot of things bothered me in Pt.2, but one of the things that bothered me the most was the fact that Show!Colin doesn't get a chance to show Penelope that despite being mad, he still loves her.

We, as an audience, can see his facial expressions while he is ALONE and kind of follow through his journey to understanding his feelings. But he doesn't communicate. And that's a real problem.

Yesterday, while thinking about it, I compared it to what we call "Metagaming" when we play RPG. As players, we hear things and we know things that our characters aren't supposed to know, and while interpreting our characters, they shouldn't know it just because we know it.

Pt.2 felt like a huge metagaming to me because Colin (and Eloise. I have many more complaints about her) only express what is important to people that aren't Penelope, and somehow Penelope still finds it in herself to be understanding. That's not how it works.

Colin was mean. Was he right to be so? Yes, I think so. Of course, he could have handled it better were he more mature, but he's 22 and he's a man in a society that gives him much credit only for it. So yeah, I'm not mad because he said some hurtful things. I'm not mad because he wanted his space. I'm mad because they didn't allow Penelope to react properly to it.

Colin goes to Cressida and says all that stuff about the letters. Great. He doesn't talk about it to Penelope.

Colin goes with a "It's not up to you" regarding a thing that relates to Penelope a 100%. He shuts her off, and instead of starting from "You're my wife, and I won't allow anyone to harm you" (which wouldn't be my go choice either, I'd prefer him to listen to her), he goes "No one will tarnish my family's name. Oh, and no one will blackmail my wife". It's almost a second thought.

"Missy, but she has his name, and he's considering it". Yeah, but the speech doesn't FEEL like it. It feels like he cares about his family (good) and his name (good) and his pride (name and not blackmailing HIS wife). They could at least have phrased it better, they could have showed more feelings as to Penelope hear him saying "I love you and I'll protect you" instead of "I love my family and your stuff won't bring us down".

Colin goes away when he discovers she's LW. He isn't concerned about her well-being at that moment, and THAT'S OKAY. HE WAS HURT, SAD, MAD. HE WANTED TO INFLICT PAIN. Again, that's not okay nor mature, but it's UNDERSTANDABLE. That's how flawed people act, and we're all flawed. Okay.

But then they could have him showing her that he cared at some point. When they meet before their marriage, instead of letting her go alone, he could have gone with her.

"But Missy she's been doing it for years. She doesn't need it. She says so. Her book self says so too"

YES, I KNOW SHE DOESN'T NEED IT. BUT LOVE MAKES US DUMB! SURPRISE, SURPRISE!

Not once we see Colin putting aside his anger to care for her, and loving is also caring while mad. It's not only about being well while everything is perfect. It's about caring even when you're awfully awful. In any way. It could have been a breakfast tray. It could have been listening to her. It could have been sharing something.

"Missy, but they dance together at the wedding and there's the nod"

Yeah, but that's before Pen goes "I'm Whistledown and you have to come to terms with it". Up to that point, it's like Colin assumes she'll give up on herself because of their marriage. And after she says she won't, he fails to show her how much he truly loves her. We see this at the final episode, when she goes "I understand if you want a divorce, I don't want to harm YOUR family". Because that's all he showed her. And then he gets confused, because in his head it's clear that he loves her so much and nothing should keep them apart, but he doesn't translate it to her throughout the episodes.

It turns out to feel like a "Tell, don't show" kind of thing. They didn't show her that he loved her. They told her, with a confession that I honestly hated. I don't want to hear Colin say "If my purpose is to love you, then be it", I want to hear him say "That's your purpose, and I understand fighting for one. You inspired me to fight for mine, I could never ask you to not do the same, and I want us to fight for our purpose together. I'll always be by your side"

I don't know. Do better. Just do better.

Also, Penelope didn't burst even once. I can't conceive it. But this will be for another rant, cuz this is too long already and no one will read it.

[candied-boys]

Another - Rio x F! Reader Part 4

When Emma chooses another, Rio has to go home without her... But there's more awaiting him than just forgotten memories...

Themes: hurt and healing, facing the past, learning to love again, aka angst with a happy ending!

Notes: angst, Rio route spoilers, eventual smut, written from Rio's POV

Part 3

While the moonlight dances with the waves on your ceiling, your mind swirls with a tide of emotion. As the remorse ebbs the fear rises; will the rest of your life together flow on thus?

Your time — consumed with royal duties until you become king or, worse, never end as you slave away under one of your brothers for the people of your country?

Your marriage — loveless as you drift along until you no longer speak, so distant that you end up treating strangers with more courtesy than one another?

Your child — growing up out of sight, knowing little more of you than stories and paintings, until she is grown and gone, sacrificed into her own loveless marriage for the sake of politics?

The mere idea of a man as callous as your past self inflicting the same pain on your daughter as you have caused your wife horrifies you. Like a ship tossed in a storm you're hit with the violent realization that you are the only one capable of altering the course of this relationship.

Queasy and shaking, you stumble out of bed to the balcony, praying that the calm sea will quell your revulsion. One after another the waves roll in, lapping gently against the shoreline, until they have brought with them the rising tide of change.

Even if you never love your wife to the capacity you know your heart is capable of, you must try... If not for her, for yourself, for the man you have worked so hard to become.

At daybreak you inform your valet that you will no longer participate in any business or public affairs before breakfast and immediately head to the kitchen. You are reluctantly admitted after frightening the scullery maids half to death just by appearing in the servants’ quarters and having a territorial argument with the head cook in which you were forced to pull rank.

Much to the astonishment of the staff, you leave pushing a trolley of assorted dishes and pastries a few short hours later with plenty remaining for the servants to enjoy themselves.

While you busy yourself setting out all that has been whipped up, you wait nervously for the footman to bring back an answer.

Perhaps she's not up yet.

Perhaps she's busy tending to mother.

Perhaps she's not feeling well.

Perhaps… she's not interested…

“She will be here as soon as she can make herself presentable, Your Highness,” your valet relays with friendly reassurance, giving you permission to breathe for the first time since last night.

When you catch a glimpse of her blurred figure through the tall glass doors to the solarium you abandon the lilies that fill the room with their lush fragrance and move quickly to greet her. Peeking through the door as your valet opens it you see she looks very different.

Like you she's not yet dressed in her formal attire. Her dressing gown is silk, yet it's much simpler than what you've seen her wear up until now. Since you've arrived, you've only met her in the afternoons when more formal garb is required.

She's very charming with her hair unstyled and her clothes loose fitting…

Curtseying low and bowing her head she speaks, “You called, Your Highness?”

Offering her your arm you answer gently, “There's no need for such formalities. I'm your husband, not your lord. Please, just use my name.”

She relaxes visibly at the reply. At least until you lead her to the spread of dishes across the table.

“Is something the matter?” you ask as you feel her hand clench in your elbow.

“Are we to dine together?” she asks, blinking up at you in shock.

“If you'd allow me the honour, yes. Is something the matter?”

“Your Highness, have you forgotten court protocol? Men and women are always segregated at formal events such as banquets. We've only dined together at our wedding…”

“Ah… I seem to have forgotten even the simplest of things, haven't I? If I'm not mistaken though, there are no restrictions when there is no public present, correct?”

“Correct, Your Highness.”

“Please, Valerio will do.”

Even if I hate that name now…

“Yes, Prince Valerio.”

“Then would you grace me with your presence this morning, and if you may be so obliging, I'd like to take breakfast with you every day. Though I can never guarantee my availability in the evening, I can dedicate my mornings to my family.”

Stumbling through her words she almost whispers, “If… that is what you wish…”

“It is,” you assure her, smiling and pulling out her chair for her.

When you take the seat next to her, you answer her inquisitive gaze, “I made as many different dishes as I could because I couldn't remember your tastes… but I guess I never actually knew them…”

“Wait. You made this?” her voice is but a breath now.

“All of it.”

Turning in her chair to face you she asks, “Since when can you cook?” clearly taken aback.

With a helpless shrug you explain, “Since I had to live on my own in Rholodite. Now enough about me. What do you prefer, tea or coffee?”

Meekly she answers and you continue with, “Milk? Sugar?”

From the way she watches you with wide eyes when you move to pour her drink you only hope you won't end up scaring her away more than past you already has.

When that's settled you point to each platter and explain in detail, all the while inquiring about whether she prefers fruit or pastries or fruit pastries or neither, and so on until you fill her plate.

“What brought all this on, Valerio? You've been home nearly a month, but this still feels so abrupt…” she asks softly, the shock replaced with concern in her eyes.

“I don't want to return to my old self. I don't want our relationship to continue the way it did before…”

She studies you warily a moment before mumbling, “It's quite a change…”

Turning in your seat, you lay one arm over the back of her chair and tell her earnestly, “If not now, then when will I have the opportunity to be closer to you?”

“You want… that?”

“Yes. Very much. At least, I want to try…”

“Why the sudden interest after so many years… when you're still in love with another woman…?”

The pain in her eyes is as clear as the waters that ebb and flow at the castle’s shore. You hope sincerity is just as bright in yours.

“How will I ever let her go if I never give myself the chance? I won't be so cruel as to make empty declarations of passion, but as your husband I want to at least care for you. If you'll allow me, that is.”

Taking her smaller hand in yours you bring her fingers to your lips in a silent promise of devotion.

Part 5

🧡🫣🧡Tag list: @drachonia @outtayourmouth @maries-gallery @lamiefromage @tele86 @omkookie @queengiuliettafirstlady @altairring

[whiskeyworen]

Secrets of the Obscure: Lost Commander

Playing through the first sections of Secrets of the Obscure, it got me thinking.

The Commander is lost.

Since the beginning of the game, when we take hold of them, they've had some kind of mission, some kind of goal. It started out small; help out in Shaemoor when things go bad. Or end a nasty Inquest prank/assault by destroying their cube golem. Or help put down Lord Barradine's ghost (again). Or literally defend the Dream from the psychic marring the Nightmare Court are trying to inflict on it in the hopes of spoiling the Dream into the Nightmare. Or taking part in a celebratory hunt and taking down the biggest Ice wurm to date.

From there it just snowballed for them with the Personal story, leading up to joining an Order, meeting their mentor… losing their mentor… Creating the pact and eventually bringing down Zhaitan.

And it kept going from there. One crisis after another. One war after another. Friends gained. Friends lost. Enemies found. Enemies ended. World saved, again, and again, and again.

Finally, things are falling into a nominal peace. Oh there's skirmishes and stuff. There will always be strife. But the big stuff? The world is starting to slowly move past it.

Human and Charr not only have a tenuous peace treaty; the heads behind the resistance to that treaty are GONE. Almost every main legion is headed by someone ameniable to peace, to a new way of life.

The Nightmare Court, while not gone, doesn't seem to have the violence they used to. Oh they still tempt the new sprouts to join them, to indulge in pain and decadence and rebellion… but with Faolain dead, the guiding source for their brutality is gone. Maybe they'll be trouble in the future, but not nearly to the degree Faolain turned them into.

The Inquest have lost base after base, including a Rata. It's unknown what their command structure is like now, or where other bases are, but they seem to at least be keeping their heads down. And with the Arcane Eye taken down, they don't have anyone on the inside anymore, to cover up their misdeeds.

The White Mantle are dead or badly scattered, with no real hope of reforming.

The Svanir have lost their totem beast, if not their lives. If they still linger on, they're no longer the power they tried to be.

Even Joko is finally dead. One of the biggest damned threats to the world, someone who would have killed and turned everyone if given a chance, is now Elder Dragon burps.

The Gods are gone, never to return. The one that tried to is dead.

Through all this, the Commander struggled, trying to save as many as they could. Eventually rising to become the Symbol of the desire for peace and stability.

And it finally happened.

But what do we find? The Commander is… lost. Everyone they knew is either dead, retired, has moved on to positions where they can no longer 'go on adventures'. The threats that brought them all together are gone. Now it's just the wind-down. Fix broken things, find the lives they left behind to fight their fight.

Except the Commander.

They don't have anything else. Their whole existence for the last 10 years has been nigh-constant fighting, threat, intrigue, near-dying, and ACTUAL dying.

Everyone else has moved on. But the Commander can't. What can they do?

It's so terribly sad. I listened to my Commander, Cyrus. My own self-insert. Walking around Salma district. He was relieved that things were peaceful, but you could tell he didn't feel at home. He didn't feel at home, at HOME. Because it wasn't home anymore. It was just a place he protected for a long time.

When he was trying out Taimi's new phone system (I just think of it as the smartphone system), with each call, it was clear that everyone had moved on but him. They'd all found lives to life, new purposes, new loves…. old loves…

And here you have him, standing alone in the street, unnoticed by everyone but a nosey reporter from Cantha. At a loss for what to do with himself.

Going back a step, even the triple-'date' Taimi set up to help Rama was awkward as hell. It wasn't the Commander's idea; they got hijacked into it. Even had their date pretty much picked out for them. As pleasant as it was, and as relaxed as it made them in the end, it was an oddity in their life. When was the last time they'd had a date? Before the Personal Story, somewhere? Maybe never? Was that the FIRST date the Commander had ever had?

It just kinda made me sad that, they knew they were basically going through the motions of 'normal life', because it wasn't normal to THEM. Trying to fit in to a world that no longer needed them.

If it wasn't for accidentally stumbling onto the Astral Ward, I don't think they would have been able to settle into a normal life.

But it still doesn't end there; accidentally brought into association with the Ward, they run into perhaps the ONE other person who might understand that sense of emptiness, that loss of the sense of home. Zojja.

And in her usual faintly self-centered way, you find out she blames the Commander partly for not being there when she needed someone. The one person who not only would have been there if contacted, but ALSO needed someone to confide in, to take some of the weight off them…

It hurt to hear Cyrus very slowly say "We would have come. I know I would've." There was pain there. Like 'You really thought we'd abandon you, so you immediately discounted us.'

So here's Zojja, the last of the people he knew from being the Commander who hasn't yet disappeared… and she's telling him that if she Ascends to Wizard, she'll lose memories, or they'll be come dull and unimportant. That the Zojja that comes out the other side might not even view him as a friend anymore.

And the Commander, already knowing he's probably going to lose his last friend, can only offer an understanding, painful smile and tell her that no matter what, he'll support her, even if she doesn't recognize him anymore.

They'll call him Wayfinder in the Ward… but it's just a new war front. A new rank. A new title. And he'll have to start over again.

At least he'll have R'tchikk to remind him of a past that's already starting to fade away in Tyria.

Everyone in the Ward knows of the Commander; they've been watching through their crystal balls, wondering if the Commander was a big enough threat that they'd need to quietly eliminate them. But now that the Commander is right there, the Ward is going to use them as a new weapon.

And we all know the Commander is just going to accept that this is what they're gonna have to do because… what's the alternative? At least they know how to fight.

[bookreviewcoffee]

This book was read by me in November

Norwegian wood Haruki Murakami

I just finished reading “Norwegian Wood” by Murakami and would like to share my impressions and conclusions about this book. After reading it, it leaves a very melancholy but pleasant aftertaste; the author did a very good job in this and created a very addictive atmosphere. There is no sharp plot in this book; it tells about people, their daily lives, problems, and experiences, and more than once I caught myself thinking that the lives of the characters can often be similar to ours. Everyone openly talks about their problems and oddities, and on the one hand, it looks easy and simple, but on the other hand, it does not always help to cope with a difficult moral state, and this is very sad. Also, the theme of death and the value of human life and, in principle, each individual person constantly creeps in here. What's the thought? Every death does not pass by, and it leaves a deep imprint on the human soul, but at the same time, it always gives some lesson, and everyone decides for themselves how it will affect their future lives. About the value of people: each person is unique; everyone is crazy different and interesting in their own way.

There are no bad people; everyone just perceives the same person differently: for some he’s strange, for others he’s very cool, for others he’s talented and smart, and for others he’s a complete asshole who doesn’t care about others. If someone does not see your positive sides and perceives your uniqueness and individuality negatively, then the person is not yours. A book about a mysterious forest in which it is easy to get lost, lose your bearings, and never find the right path This forest is inside each of us. In it, you can find answers to all questions, explore every hidden corner of your soul, directly or through intermediaries, and constantly move towards the truth, even if it is very difficult. A book about the formation of personality, about pain, confusion of the soul, loneliness, and, of course, about the color and diversity of the Japanese soul.

Each person in the main character’s life is his way of self-healing. Healing the wounds inflicted by fate. Watanabe could not cope with the loss of his best friend Kizuki, could not help him, and did not know how to help himself. As he grew closer to Naoko, he tried desperately to pull her through, to help her cope, not realizing that he was struggling to heal his own wounds, to overcome loneliness and the fear of death.

All the people who meet him on the path of life are sick, broken, confused, and clutching at a fragile life with tenacious hands, and he furiously tries to help them with his last strength, imbued with everyone’s life, lives it, has compassion, and lets go. A wounded soul, like a tree trunk, tries to straighten up, blossom, and grow, striving for the sky no matter what. Every person he meets is experienced, accepted, and understood. The stormtrooper helped him discover purity in life and cleanse himself of dirty space and dirty thoughts. Nagasawa opened in him an understanding of the possibilities of the breadth of the world and the mind, as well as criticism of morality and unprincipled principles.

Over time, Watanabe stops tormenting himself and decides to start a new life. Having moved, he receives it, but at the same time, many experiences cover him like a wave covers a weak raft. Midori, the girl who lit the spark of life in him, turns away from him, doing this for educational reasons. She succeeds in this very well; she pulls him out of the world of the dead, in which he has already found himself with one foot. She brings him to his senses over and over again, thereby trying to help herself cope with loneliness and traumatic, destructive events.

So, together, they climb to a new life, to the sky and fresh wind, leaving the past behind.

At the end of the story, Watanabe helps another person, Reiko, indirectly helping herself. Pure, non-carnal, platonic love.

And Watanabe begins to understand that the stem of his life has become strong enough to try to be happy. Of course, this journey has just begun and will never end. This truly amazing resistance to death and the natural desire for light cause the power of life to awaken in everyone.

I was quite surprised by this book, because in fact, nothing extraordinary or unusual happens here, but nevertheless it grabs you and doesn’t let you go, because ordinary life is described here, and the problems of the characters can often be close to the reader. A fluid and smooth description of everyday life, surroundings, small everyday events that in their own way influence the subsequent lives of the characters and their moral state, growth or fall, stories from the past... all this really hooked me. The book is definitely worth reading. She teaches us to cherish every moment, like watching wildflowers in a vase, because they fade so quickly... they remain forever in our memory, because our life consists of them.

[marudeinusa]

Hi Clari! Do you still have your slow damage essay/post? I've been meaning to reread it because I really loved your analysis of the subject

Yesss!!! Here it is under the cut, I edited it a little bit!

Slow Damage is a story about the cyclic nature of abuse and its consequences. Abuse sticks its claws into you and rakes down, leaving behind four ditches - orderly in some cases, and more chaotic in others. Either way, even as the skin and flesh heal, there is now a generous amount of empty space in you, and Slow Damage poses a question - what will you fill it up with?

I went into this VN knowing only that Towa enjoys rather extreme forms of self-harm, and I have to admit that this was precisely what captivated my attention at first - the promise of a severely damaged protagonist, and the hope that he is more than a run-of-the-mill masochist. I was not disappointed.

The extent to which Towa relates injury to sex and pain to pleasure immediately made me suspect the sort of trauma he must have endured in the past. For a moment, I thought: Isn't the solution to this mystery a little too obvious? Looking back at the lack of subtlety, though, I don't think that Towa being a CSA victim was supposed to be some kind of a grand reveal. The point wasn't in cracking the mystery, in understanding motivations and getting concrete answers - the point was observing one case of the consequences of abuse that will tell us - no, ASK us - something about all of them. How does the thing that happened to Towa keep happening over and over, and in silence too? What mechanisms allow it to happen, and to stay hidden? What all sorts of people, some of them generally good and kind, participate in these mechanisms?

Let us retrace our steps.

Maya forced her own son into violent prostitution from a very young age, all the while teaching him how to use charms to his advantage, how to manipulate people and fulfill their desires in order to gain control over them. The way she taught those things methodically seems to insinuate that this was something she herself had been taught at a young age and passed on; the art of assuming the exact persona you need to prod into people's insides. This isn't to say that her actions classify as excusable - in fact, isn't the fact that she's putting her child through the horrors she experienced herself even more disgusting? I wonder if her lessons in human psychology were all for the self-obsessed purpose of turning her son into a copy of herself... or was she, in a twisted way, thinking it would help him endure and rise the way that she had? I am going to let that question hang in the air - after all, the point of Surodame isn't to review individual motivations, but to ask questions about the grander scheme of things. That is precisely why I cried together with Towa upon reading the strangely frail account of Maya's diary: I just can't make [parenthood] work... realizing that the slow-growing disease had spread beyond that mother-son duo, beyond the walls of Euphoria, beyond Shinkoumi... in every corner of the world, there are hundreds of Mayas and Towas, and millions upon millions of Silent Takus wondering what they could have done differently.

For starters, I want to focus on Towa himself. When I think about him, the first phrase that comes to mind is 'a void filled with the dregs of abuse'. Though he himself doesn't remember his abuse throughout the first three routes, his every move is a reflection of it: every sexual encounter both a self-inflicted wound and an attempt to affirm: IT'S ME WHO CHOSE TO DO THIS TO MYSELF, which is why Towa's breakdown upon realizing that not even his scars belong to himself was especially painful. I like the choice of stating that Maya did not like nor understand art. She couldn’t bring herself to understand it. Though the penchant for uncovering people's dark desires and the ability to read them were all influenced by Maya, the instinct to paint those is Towa's. The art that almost died together with him was the one thing that belonged to him alone - and yet, there is comfort in the fact that the true route ends with him saying that he doesn't know whether he'll paint anymore or not. What matters is that he quit performing euphoric episodes, closed the cycle of abuse and perpetuating Maya's ideals. The sight of the atelier in the main menu all clean and bright upon Towa's vision returning to normal made me strangely emotional; the reveal that the chosen painting was never dark and muddy, that the atelier was never all that dark and scary... the final tour around Shinkoumi with everyone telling Towa that he looks like something good had happened to him... at the end of a very painful road, Towa still found some comfort in existing.

But what of Fujieda? Of Madarame, of Rei, Taku? For a BLVN, isn't it strange to go 6 paragraphs deep without mentioning any of the love interests?

I will preface this by saying that, to me, the very point of Surodame lies in the fact that none of them are ultimately good boyfriends to Towa. I really wanted to interpret the actions of the three sans Madarame more charitably than I do now, but in reasoning with myself, I failed at every single attempt. They are, to varying degrees and each in their own way, a dead end.

Let's go route by route.

Murase Takuma is a kind man in a way Towa is not - this is driven into our heads from the start. He is a doctor. He cares for children, workers and the elderly. He even lends an ear to them outside of his responsibilities as their physician, overworking himself to the brink of death. His role as the caretaker of a hopeless, bleak person like Towa, an addict who is destructive towards both himself and others, can certainly be perceived as saintly. Even his actions of keeping Towa's past from him, burning letters and throwing away packages, were all for the sake of preserving Towa's sanity! However, though Taku's intentions are pure, I can't read them as benign. Well - he is probably the most benign of the four men Towa involves himself with, being the only one who never physically lashed out at him. Neither abuser nor victim, Taku is a third thing entirely - an observer. A hider, a savior, a carer... and at his core, though not intentionally, an enabler. I do agree that there was nothing Taku could have done to save Towa as a child. There just wasn't a way to take Towa away from Euphoria while Maya lived. I do believe that he did the best he could, patching Towa up time after time... staying throughout the years, changing the bedding, throwing out the liquor bottles. Eat something, Towa. Smoke less, Towa. Once Towa got a lot older, Taku grew to love him romantically. Though I find it unsavory, Towa is over twenty-five at this point so it's not really some big deal. The much more dreadful power imbalance than that in age is the fact that Taku is holding the entirety of Towa's past, his abuse, and his identity over his head. Once again, I'm not calling Taku out as a gaslighter here - not in this route, at least, since Towa had no interest in his true identity at this point anyway. But you can't deny that their happy ending - embracing under the cherry blossoms with a calmer, more mature looking Towa, his hair a clean black, an orderly cardigan billowing behind him - is a sort of a quiet misery. Taku loves the man he saved (raised?), the man who presumably quit painful sex for his sake… but Towa doesn't even know what it is that he's being saved from. Towa is a hole. I really might not have interpreted this ending so negatively if it wasn't for the scene of Taku showing Towa a photograph of him as a little child in a restaurant with his mother. This smiling child prostitute in an orderly little boys' getup, dining with his pimp mother and his future lover. It felt to me like a means of truly driving into our brains the extent of Taku's helplessness, delusion, failure, and LIES. The photograph is a fabricated reality, a fabricated happy past that he feeds to Towa. In this route, this is what Towa filled the ditch with - a daydream, and sweet gentle sex that doesn't scratch his itch. I can't give them more than five years before Towa falls back into his old habits. The end.

Now we get to Rei. Rei is also a sort of a carer to Towa, though a more casual one and closer to him in age. Let us review Rei's situation with gender - due to his toxic, abusive father (who was also a child sex trafficker, might I add!) degrading him for his homosexuality and saying it made him less of a man, Rei developed an aversion to masculinity, speaking in onee-kotoba and growing out his hair and such. At some point he attempted to cut off his own penis in Towa's presence, but ended up hesitating and not going through. All in all, he decided to drop all things associated with traditional masculinity other than street fighting, which he uses to vent out his frustration. This is the key word here – FRUSTRATION, which all of Rei’s pretenses fail to rid him of. Rei's frustration grows to hundred percent when he is forced to enter to-the-death matches to get his deadbeat father out of debt. Killing opponent after opponent, Rei grows more frustrated and less and less like his friendly effeminate self. I think the key solution to the question of 'how is the writing of rei's gender handled?' Is the fact that Rei rediscovered his masculinity through violence. And Slow Damage is not a game that... likes violence, encourages it, or overall relates it to anything remotely positive. I don't think that Rei reconnected to his masculinity in a healthy way, and I don't think it's meant to be read as a cool arc about finding the lost self. Most of all, it's not his or Towa's happy ending. Speaking of Towa... the thing is that Rei only realized a sexual attraction to Towa once the amount of violence in his life amplified to the max. As his level of 'manliness' grew. Their sex scene is very frank about this - after he and Towa beat each other into bloody pulp, he says something along the lines of 'I'm a man and I want to fuck you.' I think it drives the point further that he was the only virginal love interest to that point - when he perceived himself as a woman, he had no violent sexual appetites, or at least didn't see a way towards realizing them. Once he 'reverted' into a man though, he could fuck Towa. He could claim his prize - who has no objections, given that it feeds perfectly into his own penchant that I described at the start. And their ending, showing us a casually manly Rei biking with Towa? We have no proof that he's in any way abusive, nor that they're unhappy, but... this 'new gender' of his, he built it up with bricks made of blood, some of it Towa's. I don't think Rei reached a happy ending. I think Rei is a feminine person, or at the very least a gender nonconforming man who retreated back into the closet within the violent festival that his father brought upon him... many will disagree, but this is how I read it - a manhood built up on violence equals unhapiness for two. I think Towa and Rei might stay together longer than Towa and Taku would, but it won't bring either of them any healing. The end.

Madarame's route is the simplest, since Madarame does not hide himself behind any masks. He is a violent, shameless rapist who gladly continues paving the road of self-destruction that Maya had left off half-finished. I think that placing this ending behind Taku and Rei's serves as a bit of a wake-up call to those who felt pacified by the former two - um, hey, hello? Did you forget? This is not a 'happy story'. For some three hours you watch Madarame break Towa psychologically, repeatedly rape and torture him - only to release him back to Taku and Rei for Towa to find that he can't truly fit in among them anymore. What purpose does it serve? Well, I think it just shows us that there never was any long-term happiness waiting for Towa with either of those men. I think the purpose of the Madarame route, beyond preparing us for the true route, is to totally nullify the effect of the first two. A 'forget what you thought you knew' type of detail. Broken into obedience, a wild blond Towa kissed Madarame after a boxing match. The end.

Fujieda.

He perplexes me the most, and I'm still not entirely certain in the answer I arrived at. Why would the author who penned this painfully real story about abuse have Towa end up with a man who - midway through the route - raped him? I tried to work wonders to explain this to myself, try to interpret it differently, but the truth is concrete. Fujieda raped Towa in a fit of rage, and then with a sober mind continued acting like everything was normal between them. Why would this be in a 'painfully real story about abuse?'

...precisely because it's painfully real. It happened to Towa. It happened to a million others. It might happen to you. When you hit your knee, do your fingers not venture to fondle the bruise, press down for a small reminder of what the pain felt like? The fingers are usually kind, but once in a while, they press down.

And again - Fujieda does not consistently abuse Towa. In fact, he gives him his first taste of truly pleasurable sex in a scene that pushed me to the brink of tears in its sad honesty. When Fujieda has a good day, he gently washes the remnants of assault out of Towa. But when he had an extremely bad way, he was the perpetrator of the assault. I think it's 'painfully real' for Towa to end up with such a man. After coming to terms with his past, this was the best he could do. This was as much as he could save himself. The VN ends on such a note - don't be too happy for him, and don't be too sad. I do believe that Fujieda brought Towa some comfort and clarity, but I can't say that this isn't a dead end, too. Just a more peaceful one in the light. In the ocean.

What's the point then, if Towa ends up stranded no matter what choices you make? Let's return to the beginning, to the ditch abuse made in you. Sometimes you fill it in with fantasies, sometimes with violence, sometimes with the 'next best thing', a 'he's a good man you know, he's only rough when he drinks' type of marriage... no matter what, fact is that all abused kids seek to fill it in with something familiar. Something they know and recognize. It yearns to be filled, it aches for it - whatever you're ready to dish out, just put it in! I think this merry-go-round of victims and perpetrators is what Surodame is trying to turn our eyes towards, or at least force us to stop averting them. So that you may not scorn the Towa in your life, so that if you are a Towa yourself, you may find comfort in knowing that someone somewhere dreamed you up, empathized with you and lead your hand along the path. Why, then, do we not see our Towa free?

Well, the future is long. He was in an ocean. Maybe he walked out.

[astragreenwoode]

The Spitfire Curse - Chapter Six

Previous: Chapter Five • Next: Chapter Seven • Masterlist • AO3 Version 

Rating: Explicit(18+ ONLY)

Pairings:  Billy Hargrove x Fem!OC, Steve Harrington x Fem!OC, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Non-specified Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Drug Use, Hypersexuality, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Genre: Adventure, Thriller, Horror, Slow-Burn Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort. Smut, Fluff, Slight Canon-Divergence, Fix-it fic

And a special thanks to my beta-reader @take-everything-you-can! Thank you so much for all your feedback and ideas, love!

Chapter Six: Red Means "I Love You"

Word Count: 12,861

Chapter Warnings: Sexual Assault, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Non-Consensual Drugging, Disembodied Voices, Self-Deprecating Talk, Hypersexual Behaviors and Thoughts, Language, Confusion, Hallucinations, General Angst

Chapter Summary: Billy had been Maeven's classmate since Middle School but only got to know her at a party at the end of their sophomore year. As treasured as that night was to them both, the current state of their relationship isn't as pretty.

THERE'S A HUGE SHIFT IN TONE IN THE STORY FROM HERE ON OUT. REMEMBER TO TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES. IF ANY OF THE WARNINGS CONTAIN TOPICS THAT ARE TRIGGERING FOR YOU, PROCEED WITH CAUTION OR FEEL FREE TO NOT READ PAST THIS SYMBOL: !*!*!

I feel super nervous publishing this, as it's one of the darkest things I've ever written. This fic is my main outlet for processing all my trauma, so I hope others can understand and appreciate that. Remember to be kind to yourself and do what you need for self-care.

*Originally posted on AO3 on December 20th, 2023

May 1983

The love Billy Hargrove felt for Maeven Mayfield bordered on obsessive.

Growing up, he didn’t exactly have the best example of what real love looks like. One could barely even list his parents as an example. He knew how much his dad loved his mom, even if the way he showed it confused him from time to time. He had pieced it together in his mind that his mom left because she couldn’t handle Dad’s beatings anymore. Neil drove her away from them. It wasn’t Billy’s fault, it was Neil’s.

He wasn’t sure if this made it better or worse, but he sometimes pretended that his mother never loved him at all. At least then, he would have a simple answer for why she left him behind. Knowing how much she cared for him meant she left her little boy with a despicable man, but just didn’t care enough to bring him with her. And he suddenly understood why his dad grabbed women and pulled them back to him; to make them stay.

Eventually, Billy learned to grieve and cope the same way his dad did. He had taken enough beatings from his old man in his short life that the anger and pain that grew inside him only went away when he was inflicting it upon others. He passed his father’s abuse through his heart and soul before forcing that pain upon someone else. And even though Neil refused to show it, Billy knew he missed her as much as he did. Over time, his demeanor grew more cocky and his sense of humor dimmed darker. But he never dared to bring up his mother, lest he get another black eye from his dad that he’d be forced to blame on a sports accident once he stepped inside the school.

Like most High School jocks, sports was a way for Billy to channel all his aggression in a way that no one questioned. Each game played is fueled by rage, aggression, and excitement from both players and spectators. It gave him an excuse; a way out of being seen as a bully. He was well aware that he was a bully, of course. If he could be a different person, he would. But these were the cards he was dealt with by whatever bullshit, narcissistic higher power was in charge. He couldn’t just trade them in for something new. Billy knew he was tainted; born broken. There was no cure for what he was.

And then, Maeven walked into his life, with her long, fiery hair and adorable gap-toothed smile. Billy had seen her around before, of course. She made an impression by being one of the most intelligent kids in their grade once she entered middle school. There were even whispers that she would go on to become Valedictorian once they all entered High School together. But she was also that weird girl who collected animal bones and drew patterns on her arms with sparkly gel pens in class. She was a smartass and a showoff, always the first to volunteer to help the teachers; a goody-two-shoes, someone Billy would never hang out with in a million years. Until she suddenly became a badass out of nowhere. 

In June of 1982, before school was let out for the year, rumors spread that Maeven was arrested for beating the ever-loving shit out of her now ex-boyfriend, Jordan Bernard. Billy wasn’t surprised by this. Jordan always talked big in the locker room about how tight he had two girls wrapped around his fingers, and sometimes his cock. Of course, he stayed quiet about the whole thing, not wanting to admit to his teammates that his broken nose was from a 5’4 freshman girl. But he also seemed ashamed that the situation happened at all, and ended up convincing the police and his father to drop all the charges against her. 

Neither he nor Maeven spoke a word about it, leaving Emily Bernard, his sister,  to spill the beans. Not only did the peace-and-love preaching hippie freak punch someone, but she was arrested as a result.

So maybe Maeven wasn’t a complete nerd or loser like Billy initially thought. That didn’t mean he liked her now. She’d get a free pass from him, sure; maybe even a compliment or two if he happened to catch her in a fight. She ended up getting noticed for being the most aggressive player on the girl’s soccer team, but that was really it. He never thought he’d have to care about her until Susan somehow wandered her way into his dad’s heart.

The following October, after starting his Sophomore Year, Billy noticed his dad was acting differently. Normally, he wouldn’t give a shit about Neil or how he was doing as long as he left him alone and kept the beatings to a minimum. But he seemed suspiciously pleasant when he came home from his job as a security guard at a bank in downtown San Diego. Billy could’ve also sworn he saw him smile, something he had to sit down and process for a moment. He still didn’t dare to ask him what had him so damn happy all of a sudden, as he knew he would probably receive a “mind your own damn business, boy” as a result.

Billy’s only real option to get answers without fueling the fire of his father’s rage was to investigate himself. He drove by the bank, dressed in sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a jacket he otherwise wouldn’t be caught dead in. His dad wasn’t by the front doors like he was supposed to be, but instead chatting up an older redhead woman behind the counter. At first, Billy didn’t really care. His dad fucked around with a different woman every other week, so it wasn’t a surprise to see him sweetening up his next meal before he would eventually toss out the leftovers.

But this was different than all the other women. Neil seemed constantly fixed on her, acting too sweet and sappy for this to just be another booty call. A month after catching a glimpse of her, he came home late one Friday night to see another car parked in the driveway next to his dad’s station wagon. Billy had to park on the street that night as he crashed into his bed, trying his best to drown out the cringe-worthy sex noises coming from the other room.

The next morning, he found himself face-to-face with Susan Mayfield making his dad breakfast, as she awkwardly introduced herself to him. Billy paid her no mind except a quick nod before going back to eat the eggs and bacon he begrudgingly took from her. He didn’t have it in him to admit that her cooking was actually delicious.

For three months, Billy avoided his father and his new shtup like the plague. Neil didn’t ask much of his son, just to acknowledge Susan when she hung out there and not mention her outside of their house. Billy was okay with that. In fact, he could care less. Until he spotted her outside of the regular booty calls and secret date nights with his dad, that is. The worst part? It was at school. Three months after their first, awkward meeting in his kitchen, he finally knew why Susan seemed so familiar. He had seen that shade of red hair on a particular strange classmate of his.

It was only then that Billy took a sudden interest in Maeven. He took a moment to wrap his head around the mere idea that Susan the Buzzkill and Maeven the Freak were mother and daughter. But the more he thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. Both Mayfield women shared the same annoyingly bubbly personality and stubbornness. 

He considered telling her about her mom’s little affair; how the seemingly perfect housewife with the perfect family was sneaking with his revolting carpet stain of a father. Before he got the chance, rumors circulated in school that Mr. and Mrs. Mayfield were getting divorced. Maeven was visibly sour for weeks that the entire grade now knew the details and circumstances of her family drama.

It pissed him off a little bit, sure. Billy would’ve liked to play a part in shattering Susan’s life after she had the nerve to crawl into his. It didn’t matter, though. Somehow, she managed to shatter her life and her marriage without any help. And he had to admit, it made Maeven more interesting. He tried all different flavors of girls; smart, dense, pretty, sporty, bad, good, sluts, and virgins. But nothing caught Billy Hargrove’s attention quite like a good girl gone bad. 

She had always stood out among their peers, of course. Maeven was constantly fidgeting in her seat, drawing on whatever surface she could find, and using every chance she got to talk about animals. She was in waaayy too many after-school clubs, always raised her hand first in class, and was way too proud of herself. Maeven was always such a show-off, a try-hard, a good girl. 

All these years, she was just a familiar stranger. Billy noticed her around and heard about her, but now that he’s seen her in a different light, a flattering light, it was like he was properly noticing her for the first time. He hadn’t expected someone so nerdy and dorky to suddenly be so naturally pretty, as well. The night he formally introduced himself to her ended up being one of the best nights of Billy’s life. And she didn’t know it yet, but it would end up being one of Maeven’s, too.

Melody Chandler always threw the best parties. Her parents were never home; sort of rich nomads, always on trips for both business and pleasure. They just never bothered to include their daughter in any of them. Every week, they’d have her aunt come in and check on her, but for the most part, Melody had free reign to do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted to do it. It was a monthly ritual amongst the Newport Student Body to drown themselves in their drink or drug of choice at Melody’s place. It was the place to be.

In the months following her parents’ separation, Maeven had gained a reputation as quite the fox. Billy wasn’t that surprised that she grew up to be a horny little freak, something he discovered she and her mother had in common. He still remembers when she the hottest topic for weeks in seventh grade after their class trip to the aquarium. That night was still so vivid in his head. He wasn’t sure he could forget about it even if he wanted to. 

The night of the field trip, Maeven went to sleep earlier than their other classmates, tired after a day of running around and telling everyone random facts about the fish and aquatic animals. He remembered that her favorite was the sea otter. When the rest of the grade returned to the auditorium to sleep, everyone was shell-shocked to find her humping the stuffed otter she had gotten that day at the gift shop while in her sleep. She was so mortified she ended up crying herself to sleep in front of the fish tanks with her gang of girlfriends who joined to comfort her. While Billy felt incredibly bad seeing her embarrassed like that, he couldn’t deny that the whole experience left him walking away with something new awakened in him. He still thought about it from time to time; remembering that he had never blushed so hard in his life than he did watching her accidentally humiliating herself. Maybe he liked Maeven for longer than he wanted to admit. He wondered f she still had that otter, and if she still used it the same way she had that night.

Melody’s parties eventually became her favorite place to hunt for people to play with. According to most of the jocks, she was a tease; she liked playing with her food and rarely ever took a bite. She enjoyed taking control, pleasing them with her hands and mouth, often leaving them desperate for her to touch them again. If they were really lucky, she’d grind her clothed sex on their laps until they begged her to stop. Only maybe two or three of them could claim that she let them inside her, including Jordan Bernard.

Apparently, she liked messing around with girls, too, but no girl in school was brave enough to admit that. So the rumor remained unconfirmed. That didn’t stop boys from trying to convince her into a threesome with her and their girlfriends. Most of these attempts were followed by a surprise groping of her ass and ended with her throwing them against the lockers and collapsing their urethras when she kicked them where it hurt most. Maeven the science nerd was now bolder, stronger, sluttier, but definitely not as easy as some of the boys she hooked up with claimed.

All this and more were the reasons that Billy now understood why she gained so many nicknames for herself; Iron Maeven, Metal Maeven, Spitfire. That last one was his personal favorite, as it was criminally underused. It was what her Dad called her, something Billy discovered while spying on Susan.

The second to last of Melody Chandler’s monthly parties for their sophomore year ended up being memorable, indeed. After humiliating yet another sleazeball who tried to grab her without her permission, Maeven retired to the poolside lounge chair where she lit up a freshly-rolled joint she got from Madison Gray. You could always tell when it was hers because of how lush and thick they were.

Most people partied inside towards the second half of the night, the wallflowers chilling outside in the quiet of the night by the now calm pool. Melody’s place wasn’t isolated, per se. It was, however, far away enough from town that the stars could be viewed in all their glory. Maeven even caught a glimpse of the Milky Way, naming the constellations the way her dad used to do with her and Max on clear summer nights just like this.

She missed all the tiny beautiful moments that made up the love she shared with her family. Living without it as a constant reminder every day left her feeling hollow. It may not have been the healthiest coping mechanism, but the only things that made her feel whole again were weed and random makeout sessions. Maeven couldn’t just bury herself in her clubs and projects the way she used to. Of course, she still went on regular hiking trips to sketch the flora and fauna of California and find more animal bones, but it just wasn’t doing the trick, anymore.

Occasionally, Maeven would get this feeling whenever she was sad, scared, or worried, that made her feel like gravity no longer applied to her body and that she was being pulled away from the safety of the planet and drifting off into the abyss. It worsened when her parents started fighting, and only grew and grew after their divorce. But the night she finally lit up one of Madison’s legendary blunts, she finally felt safe in her own head, her own body for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

As she inhaled another hit from the blunt, Maeven sunk back into the lounge chair. The warm bliss delightfully fogged up her senses and grounded her to the earth. Everything felt so warm and fluffy, and it still tasted like Heaven despite the grassy, sour flavor of the weed. She giggled to herself.

“Maybe space isn’t so big and scary, after all,” the voice said to her. Maeven silently agreed. It was nice when they found neutral ground even if those times were hard to come by. She furrowed her eyebrows in curiosity and found herself raising her hand.

“What if we could touch it? It’s worth a try.”

Her eyesight blurred the bright constellations and clusters in the sky, almost the same way a blob in a lava lamp would. She wanted to dip her fingers into the Milky Way and use it to paint. But alas, she could only do that once she inquired Madison for some psychedelics. So, Maeven settled for tracing the patterns amongst the stars. Some were the real kind her dad showed to her and Max one night last summer. The others popped into her head with no warning or prompt as her mind wondered if there was more hidden between all the lines that the ancient astronomers already charted.

“Hey there, Iron Maeve-”

Startled by Billy’s sudden appearance, Maeven’s heart nearly leapt out of her chest as she tumbled off the lounge chair.

“AAAH! What the fuck, man?!” she exclaimed, brushing her hair out of her face as she put her half-finished blunt in the ashtray. “You can’t just sneak up on somebody like that!”

“Awww. Are you scared of me, Mayfield?” Billy fake-pouted as he mocked her, leaning down to face her with his hands on his knees. Maeven gracelessly pulled herself back to her feet as she snarled back at him.

“I don’t know. Should I be?”

“. . .maybe,” Billy answered. He honestly had no clue. That all depended on her and how the rest of the night went. Maeven looked him up and down. She wasn’t sure if it was just her or the effects of the weed, but, Goddamnit, was he better looking up close.

“Eh, I think I can handle it.” she shrugged, taking her joint from the ashtray before walking over to the bar by the pool to raid the snacks, thinking the conversation had ended. Billy trailed behind her, observing and sizing her up like a predator as she foraged around the table for leftovers.

“You seem awfully confident for someone getting high at a party alone,” he noticed aloud. By then, Maeven had grabbed the last piece of large, double chocolate cake and ate it shamelessly. Whenever she had the munchies, chocolate was always her go-to snack. As she gulped down another bite, her eyes threateningly narrowed, gently pressing the sharp end of her silver fork right below Billy’s collarbone. Now, he was the one a little bit afraid.

“Do I come over to you while you’re having fun with your keg boys and shame you for the way you choose to party?” she blankly asked, playfully tapping it each time she emphasized her words.

“No?” he laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood while his breath hitched in his throat. God, this girl really was a fucking unreadable freak. But maybe Billy liked that. He wasn’t completely sure, yet.

“Yeah, well, I’d appreciate it if you did the same,” Maeven pulled her fork back, returning to her slice of cake as if what just happened didn’t at all.

Billy relaxed once he no longer felt the metal against his skin, letting the air back into his lungs. Although he knew he could’ve smacked her hand away at any time, he didn’t want to. He enjoyed the thrill in his body he got from her empty threats. It all felt so dangerous, so hot; maybe he had finally met his match.

“Now that that’s established, will you at least let me introduce myself?” Billy asked as if he was doing her a kindness by waiting for her permission.

“Alright, then, Pretty Boy. What’s your name?” Maeven laughed as she shrugged, taking a seat at the pool bar.

“It’s Billy. Billy Hargrove,” he answered, holding out his hand for her to shake as he sat on the bar stool next to hers.

She hesitated before cautiously reaching for his hand as she tilted her head to the side, her brain still foggy and warm from her buzz. A gasp caught in her throat as Billy tugged on her wrist to brush a soft kiss against the back of her hand, followed by his trademark smile and sly wink. His sudden forwardness sent an electric shock through Maeven’s bones and tickled her spine. Again, was this guy actually coming on to her, or was she too under the influence of Madison’s blunt that reality began to blend with her mind? She hadn’t been properly asked out on a date since Jordan broke up with her.

It took a moment for both her body and mind to catch up when Maeven realized she had been too silent and too still for too long. She still had a role to play. If she jumped in too fast and this guy turned out too good to be true, she’d regret it later. Re-masking herself, she playfully wiped the back of her hand on her dress, faking repulsion before she continued.

“Margaret. I mean Maeven. Mayfield,” she stumbled on her words, her hands moving in many different directions as she talked.. “Well, 'Margaret' is my first name, but I go by my middle name because I'm named after my aunt and two Maggies are confusing. So, I go by 'Maeven.' 'Mayfield' is my last name,”

“Yeah. I know who you are, Iron Maeven,” Billy chuckled.

“Oh. . .okay. . .” she awkwardly trailed off at the sound of her other nickname, going back to her slice of cake as her mind wandered. She didn’t hate the name. On the contrary, it was actually quite an improvement after years of being called a nerd or teacher’s pet. However, it originated from her breakup with Jordan. Every time it was used, she couldn’t help but be haunted by the awful memories that day left her with.

Billy noticed Maeven’s face drop when he used it, Maybe she didn’t like being called that? He didn’t understand why. It was good; it was badass. She always seemed to like it when people called her that when she got into a fight or scored a goal in soccer.

“How’d you get a name like ‘Maeven’ anyway?” he commented, just now realizing that he didn’t really know her; he just knew the version of herself she presented to the world. Billy wanted to know Maeven; her secrets, the parts of her no one else knew about. He had to know exactly why just the thought of her was driving him insane.

“‘Makes it sound like you’re some. . .mythical creature, or whatever the fuck. . .” he trailed off, catching her attention with just a few weird words.

The last hit she took was a while ago, but Maeven could’ve sworn the world had suddenly gone crazy. Never in her wildest dreams could she imagine a jock like Billy using the term ‘mythical creature.’ But she rolled with it. Her mind could never really stay on topic for too long, anyway.

“My dad picked it, initially. It kinda. . .has multiple meanings for both him and my mom,” she told him, grabbing the blunt that rested on her plate. She felt she was going to need it if she was going to survive a long conversation with a jock that hopefully didn’t end in a fight. . .this time.

“Oh, really? Care to explain?”

Maeven inhaled, tilting her head up to the sky as she breathed out the cannabis through her nose and mouth. As she opened her eyes, the stars in the sky brightened up like a black light poster amidst her cannabis and chocolate-drunk vision. Her hand tilted to the side, offering the blunt to Billy, which he accepted gratefully.

“My dad was raised Celtic Pagan and my mom’s Scottish Catholic. In the bible, in Hebrew, it means ‘one who understands.’ But in Irish Gaelic, it means ‘sage.’ Which, of course, means the plant, but it also means someone who is a spiritual expert or just very smart in general. And. . .” she trailed off, taking a few seconds to get her train of thought back to its main rail. “. . .it comes from the Gaelic word ‘Meave,’ meaning ‘she who rules,’ or ‘intoxicating.’ In Irish Mythology, Mebh is the Goddess of Love and Desire.”

It took her a while until Maeven realized it was completely silent. Did he leave? She turned her head to the side where Billy was, still sitting as his face twisted to a half-confused, half-curious combo. By now, he had taken another hit. Maeven felt her cheeks light up once it dawned on her that this jock probably didn’t want to listen to her ramble, and the voice crept back in behind her.

“Oh, shit. Oh, shit. You talked too much. He even had to take another hit to process all your stupid and insane words. That’s it. This is the end of your social life, Maeven. Get ready, because this guy is about to ruin everything once another rumor starts. You should just kill yourself. Right here, right now. You can use the fork! Go on! Do it!”

Once her brain was no longer attacking itself, she broke the silence.

“Sorry. I’m a bit talkative when I get high. I’ll shut up now.” she fake-laughed, turning away to shove the last few bites of cake in her mouth as if it would finally keep her from talking.

Billy laughed, knowing too well that she was talkative even when she wasn’t high. It wasn’t exactly a secret amongst the other kids in their grade that she was the one who participated the most. 

“Holy shit, Mayfield,” he coughed out. “I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

“Really? That’s your takeaway?” Maeven laughed.

“No offense, but that's. . .a lot of information to process in 30 seconds, dollface.” he joked, unsure if it would be a compliment or an insult in her eyes. She just smiled as she rolled her eyes, leaning over to give him a playful shove.

“You signed up for this, Billy. You asked me about my name and I delivered, didn’t I?” Maeven pointed out, swiping back her joint and taking another hit.

“That you did. It’s definitely a lot better than ‘Margaret,’ that’s for sure,” he observed, not bothering to hide the way he was looking her up and down, anymore. It was a good name; it suited her.

“So. . .I was right, then?” he asked.

Maeven rapidly blinked, bringing herself back from zoning out before taking a sip from her bottle of coke.

“About what?”

“About you being a mythical creature,” Billy clarified. “I feel like you just pitched me a fantasy movie or the back cover of that Tocain book or some shit.”

Maeven narrowed her eyes and tilted her head as she almost choked on her soda. She definitely couldn’t recall seeing that name in the Dewey decimal system or any of her English classes.

“What the fuck’s a ‘tocain?’”

“Y’know, that. . .the guy that. . .wrote the books about magic rings and shit. . .”

It took a moment for the gears to turn in Maeven’s head before she finally connected the dots. She couldn’t help but start laughing.

“Oh, my God. . .are you trying to say ‘Tolkien?’”

“Don’t patronize me, Mayfield! I’m not the fucking nerd, here!”

Maeven started laughing harder, holding her head in her hands as she balanced herself with her elbows on the counter.

“Oh, please! If anyone’s a nerd, it’s the guy who doesn’t know how to pronounce the name of one of the most popular writers of our generation!”

Billy would’ve been offended if anyone else had said that to him. But for some reason, it was different with Maeven. Maybe it was because of how endearing and contagious her laugh was.

“I’m not a nerd, you little freak!” he audaciously chuckled as he jokingly shoved her shoulder, not caring who might be listening for once. “Everyone wants to fuck me ‘cause I know nothing about this Tolkein dude you’re so obsessed with!”

“And yet, I’m the one with the slutty reputation?” Maeven pointed at herself, finally getting a chance to catch her breath as she rubbed the tears of laughter from her eyes.

“There’s just no winning with you, is there, Maeven?” Billy rolled his eyes.

“Oh? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we were playing,” she laughed, letting gravity take over her body as she melted off the chair and onto the ground. Her legs felt like jelly. At this point in her high, Maeven couldn’t find it in herself to care. Billy, however, practically jumped from his bar stool to grab her arm.

“Woah there, hey. You doing okay?” he asked, not noticing until now how fast his heartbeat was racing. The last time he saw a woman fall like that, it was his mother. Neil had gotten her way too drunk, resulting in her slipping out of her chair and leaving her with her head bleeding on the kitchen tile.

But Maeven wasn’t passed out and bleeding. She was fine, just drunk. Or high? At this point, Billy was certain it was both. She may have fallen to her knees on the stone flooring, but she didn’t seem too upset about it. She was giggling, and her skin was warm. She was fine; everything was fine. Billy needed to remind himself of that.

“You wanna go lie down or something?”

Maeven softly nodded, leaning against the pole of the pavilion covering the pool bar. She spread her legs apart to keep herself balanced in her black leather boots, drowsily grabbing onto the pole like she was hugging it, catching her breath.

Billy almost let his intrusive thoughts win but resisted the urge to grab her butt. Even if she looked a bit ridiculous right now, accidentally displaying herself like she was ready to be taken from behind, she was drunk. Billy was just glad he was here with her instead of some other dirtbag guy who would’ve probably taken what he wanted from her while she was drunk.

For what was probably the first time ever, Billy ignored the primal instincts to seek sex from this girl. She deserved better than that. He approached her slowly, putting a hand on her shoulder just to let her know he was there. Before he could lead her back to the lounge chair where he originally found her, Maeven stumbled back to the bar to grab her blunt from the edge of her now-empty plate.

Rolling his eyes at her vivacious nature, Billy made sure she had regained her balance before leading her by her wrist.

“Get that pretty ass back in that chair before you hurt yourself, you little animal,” he impishly asserted, prepared to have her lean on him in support if she needed. Surprisingly, Maeven didn’t waste a second flopping back down into the longue chair as if her body melted.

“No arguments here,” she groaned, unpromptedly stretching her body; she stretched her back by keeping her shoulder on the chair and shamelessly lifting her hips up as far as they could go. She also couldn’t deny the fluttering feeling in her stomach at the word ‘pretty.’

Did she seriously not notice how lewd she was being right now? Maybe the weed gave her the extra courage? Billy couldn’t tell anymore. All he could really do was lay down in the chair next to her, cross his legs, and try to conceal how aroused she was making him.

“Isn’t sage that weird plant that witches use in potions or some shit like that?” he asked, suddenly remembering one of the many meanings of her name. If only he could remember math equations this easily, maybe Neil would finally get off his ass about it.

It was quiet for a moment. Maeven had to silently process Billy’s question as she continued to zone out looking at the night sky.

“What? Oh. No. We burn it. For cleansing rituals and to clear the air,” she clarified.

“Like weed?” he questioned, tilting his head to the side. Maeven rolled her eyes as she scoffed.

“No, dipshit. Not like weed,” she laughed, thinking of the right way to explain this to him without sounding like a total freak. “ More just. . .like, to smell good. Like a candle. You can’t get high off it. . .or maybe you can? I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it,” Maeven wondered aloud. Maybe that was something she and Madison could try experimenting with. Would that even work? Either way, there was only one way to find out.

Billy, meanwhile, didn’t feel like he got a definitive answer.  She already seemed pretty damn magical.“So. . .you are a witch?”

Maeven just shrugged, taking another hit of her blunt.

“That’s what people are saying,” she replied, offering her blunt to Billy, which he willingly accepted. This was her favorite aspect of these parties; playing with her food. But tonight, she didn’t want to stop. Maeven couldn’t remember the last time she had such a casual conversation with someone. Even if she was always on edge and suspicious of the guys she met at parties, Billy was the first one in a while that didn’t seem. . .malicious.

“They’re saying other things, y’know?” he breathed out, recalling the many rumors he heard through the Newport High Grapevine. He turned his head to Maeven, handing her blunt back to her as he eyed her up and down “That you go around seducing guys with your magic touch and mysterious powers.”

There it was. Maybe she had gotten her hopes up about this guy too quickly.

Maeven tilted her head to the side and playfully raised her eyebrows, still refusing to give him a definitive answer.“I can neither confirm nor deny any of these rumors, Billy.”

“They also say that you beat the shit out of Jordan Bernard last year. He still denies it to this day,” he mentioned, remembering the day everyone in the locker room teased Jordan for his black eye.

Maeven’s eyes widened as she fought herself from laughing. She knew that their breakup wasn’t exactly a secret, but to say she ‘beat the shit out of him’ was a little much. However, she was pleasantly surprised that Billy seemed to drop the subject once she refused to answer his questions about her. . .body count.

“Oh, no. That’s definitely true,” she laughed, not seeing the point in being in denying any more questions. “I have the burn to prove it.”

“Burn?” Billy cocked his head to the side in confusion.

Maeven tilted her arm and rolled her short sleeve up her arm to expose her shoulder, leaning in to give Billy a closer look. Even if it was coming close to a year of healing, it was still noticeable. The burn mark was about the size of a baseball, maybe even the size of his fist. It was way pinker than the rest of her skin, but it was recovering fairly well; freckles had even started to come back.

“Asshole thought it was a good idea to throw a log from his fire pit at me,” Maeven explained.

When he was younger, Neil often threatened to put out his cigars on his son’s skin. His mother always ended up taking it in his place.  Billy had lost count of how many times his Dad left lash marks from his belt on his back, but he had yet to experience a burn. He was hoping it would stay that way. But he had never met someone else who also had evidence on their body like that until now.

“Shit,” he laughed in disbelief. “Bet you gave his ass the beating it deserved, right?”

Maeven looked back at Billy, noticing the supposed fascination his eyes held, before looking back at her scar. Billy Hargrove was the first boy she met who wasn’t repulsed by the mark when she let it show. He really was full of surprises. She pulled her sleeve back down before getting comfortable in the longue chair again, turning her attention back to the night sky as she continued the conversation.

“I don’t know about that,” Maeven sighed. “It was really just a. . .’heat-of-the-moment’ rash impulse I didn’t think through. I guess I was just. . .mad at him,” she shrugged, tracing the constellations with her fingers again.

“As you should be,” Billy agreed. He had yet to be cheated on. If he was anything like his father, he would be the first one to cheat. He prayed he wouldn’t end up like him, but the whole concept always lingered in his head.

“We both said and did some things that day we regret. But. . .he does seem really sorry, y’know? That he hurt me like that,” Maeven observed, turning to lay down her head toward Billy. She hadn’t had a real conversation with Jordan since their breakup; she didn’t know what to say to him. Every time she tried, nothing came out. All Jordan had to say was how sorry he was and she was sick of it. The memory haunted her every day when they crossed paths in the hallway at school

“You thinking about forgiving him?” he asked her, more curious than anything. Still, he crossed his fingers and hoped she wouldn’t. She was too good for Jordan Bernard, anyway.

“Kinda? Sorta? I dunno,” Maeven shrugged, moving around in the longue so that she was curled up on her side, now fully facing Billy before taking another hit. “Maybe he just feels guilty? Is that really the same thing as being sorry?”

“I don’t think so. Guilt isn’t the same as remorse,” he replied.

Billy Hargrove witnessed the difference between the two in his own parents. His Dad wasn’t sorry that he cheated; he was sorry that he was caught. If he was really sorry, he wouldn’t have cheated, punched, and driven his mother away in the first place.

“I’d forget about him if I were you. Cheaters are the worst. They don’t deserve to be forgiven. . .they don’t deserve love,” he said suddenly, taking Maeven by surprise. She wondered what happened to make Billy so passionate about this, handing out her blunt once more as her way of saying ‘Chill Out, Dude.’

“If I’m being honest?” she trailed off, her buzz making the stars brighter and more mesmerizing than they were before.“Even if I did forgive him, I wouldn’t wanna get back together with him. Not a chance.”

Billy took that as a good sign for himself. He swiped away her blunt from between her fingers for another hit. Maeven didn’t even flinch, too high and too talkative to notice; in her own little world.

“He’s a bit of a douche, anyway. Even if he has changed, you shouldn’t waste your time on him.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I had a good time with him and he, uhmm. . .he taught me a lot. But he’s just. . .not my person.”

All Maeven wanted was to not feel terrible every time she saw him again. Maybe they could even go back to being friends again. Was that really too much to ask?

“Well. . .you’re a pretty interesting person, Iron Maeven. I’m sure you’ll find someone good enough for you.”

“My aunt Maggie said being interesting is all you really need in life.”

Billy always wondered if she was just so self-centered that she liked to hear the sound of her own voice. But watching how she froze up in embarrassment once she realized she was rambling about her name gave Billy a new perspective. Maeven Mayfield had so much going on in her head. She had no choice but to talk until it was no longer crowded in there.

“She’s not wrong,” he laughed along with her as her high was clearly starting to grow to its peak. Billy had to admit that the way she giggled was downright adorable. Seeing the infamous Iron Maeven zone out from her joint was a sight he never thought he’d see, much less enjoy. In all honesty, all the things he found annoying about her suddenly turned adorable.

There was something about Maeven’s voice that suddenly made him want to keep on listening to her ramble. He suddenly realized that her voice sounded so much better when she was high. Melodic and Beautiful.

“When you do find the right person, make sure to hold them real tight and never let them go. You got that?” He was surprised he held her attention for this long with her being so easily distracted. It felt almost like he had hypnotized her or something. Or maybe she was the one who hypnotized him.

Billy became absolutely obsessed with the way she was looking at him, unsure if it was from the high or something else. He had completely forgotten all about the stars at that moment. Maybe she was some sort of mythical creature after all. He was almost mesmerized by it. He hadn’t ever been this distracted by someone before. “Okay. I promise.”

. . .

By the time the sisters had finished unpacking all of Maeven’s books, the sun was now setting over the western horizon. The girls stretched as they stepped out of her room and made their way to the bathroom to brush their teeth.

“Thanks for helping me unpack Squirt,” Maeven said after spitting out her toothpaste and rinsing her mouth. “We can start yours tomorrow,” she promised, patting Max on her head. As she yawned and rubbed her eyes walking out of the bathroom, her little sister pulled her arm to stop her.

“By the way, here’s your night light,” she said, handing her big sister a bundled-up bath towel. “It was in the trash in the bathroom.”

Maeven took the towel from Max, unwrapping it to find her beloved token from her childhood now shattered to bits. It was in the shape of the sun surrounded by a couple of clouds. Susan and Neil made it together when they first found out they were pregnant with Maeven.

“What?” she asked allowed. It didn’t make any sense. Even if she was sleepwalking, why would she throw it away?

“That’s where I found it,” Max clarified, just as confused as her sister. “Did you sleepwalk again last night?” she asked.

Maeven debated on lying, but that wouldn’t help anything. Max would eventually find out, anyway, if she did.

“Yeah. I blacked out,” she softly admitted, trying to hold back her tears. 

Max said nothing back, only walking forward to wrap her sister in a hug. No words were needed to describe how either of them felt about the situation.

“G’Night, Sis.”

“Goodnight, Max.”

As she watched her little sister turn the corner of the hallway to her room, Maeven’s smile dropped before she walked back into her room and shut the door behind her. She collapsed backward onto her bed with a bounce and stared blankly up at the ceiling as her heartbeat quickened.

“Fuck,” she breathed out, shaky and laced with panic. 

Maeven silently cursed herself for leaving Nutmeg behind so easily. Whenever she felt herself panicking at home, she would immediately come sprinting over from whatever room she was in to crawl into her lap. She’d often stand on her hind legs and lean herself into her person’s chest. The sense of deep pressure she applied usually calmed her down. She was their kitty, both to Maeven and Max. Every night as they went to bed, Nutmeg would curl up on top of the blankets with either of the sisters.

Max was insistent that she was safer with Dad in California. The incident where Billy nearly caused a fire after he burnt a stray cat’s corpse played a big factor in that decision. Maeven didn’t blame her in the least. She would be lying if she said witnessing Billy showing no remorse as he set the decaying dead body aflame didn’t put her on edge. Most importantly, Nutmeg would be safe from her.

“You can’t be trusted with another life, anyway. You should call that woman from the store and tell her you’re too insane to watch her son.”

Maeven abruptly sat up, her legs shaking as her toes curled in a rapid wave of spine-chilling, fear-fueled pain. She pressed the heel of her palms against her ears in an attempt to drown out how loud the world became all of a sudden. Her sharp nails sat atop her head and pulled at the roots of her hair, threatening to dig them into her scalp as they pulsed with a terrifying bloodlust to tear into her flesh; maybe if she could do it, she could finally stop overthinking.

“Please. . .don’t ruin this for me,” she begged the dark voice.

“I don’t need to. You’ll ruin it all by yourself,” it laughed at her.

Maeven slapped her own cheek to silence it, even if just for a minute. As she found her bearings and looked around her room, her eye caught the now-shattered night light atop her desk. She could faintly identify splatters of dried blood; an explanation for her bandaged palm.

“Billy was right. You did throw it away,” the voice said as it returned to her side.

“Yeah. . .I guess I did,” Maeven still hesitated, even if the evidence was right in front of her face. It was so hard to look at it. She thought she was getting better. Billy wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t do that. She really did black out and sleepwalk last night. And that only meant one thing; she was getting bad again.

“Too bad it’s broken. Just like you.”

“No, I’m not,” she shook her head, reaching for her water bottle on her table and gulping down half of the sugary strawberry-flavored water that Billy mixed for her. It had more to do with the act somehow calming her anxiety than it did with being thirsty.

“Yeah. . .you just keep telling yourself that.”

Maeven groaned in annoyance as she flopped down aggressively onto her bed. Underneath the soft glow of the Indiana sun, she curiously examined her own hands the way a newborn would. As she fiddled around, running her fingers over the calluses and scratches and weaving her digits together, she didn’t feel like a person at that moment. She sinks down into her mattress as she starts feeling numb. It was as if nothing else existed outside her room painted in the soft glow of the sun.

Maeven eyed her nails, growing just barely past her fingertips. She liked to file them down to make them pointed and sharp, like an animal’s claws. It was another one of those little things that helped her feel safer. She also made sure never to let them grow too long, lest she end up hurting herself when rubbing out an orgasm. The other downside was when she would clench her fists in frustration or anxiety, they would literally cut into the palms of her hands. Having people ask why she was wearing bandages on her palms was an incredibly awkward conversation.

She liked to imagine what it would be like to use claws. She often pictured herself using her sharp nails to cut into herself; to reach deep inside her body, turn herself inside out, and become something else. Something better. It didn’t matter what she would find in there. All that mattered to Maeven was that she was no longer herself, and life would suddenly be so much easier. She wouldn’t mind being a monster, even; anything to be relieved from the pain she endured from just existing, from being human.

This feeling wasn’t new. It started in childhood and only grew the more she ignored it. And this feeling only grew in the last nine months. She wouldn’t admit this to herself, but it made her feel good. The foreboding need to brutally destroy those who hurt her made the pain disappear, even if only for a moment. At the same time, she was scared; she was terrified of losing her mind even further than she already did, and what exactly that meant for her in the not-so-distant future.

As Maeven’s breath started to quicken, she could feel her body getting warmer; it began as a soft flame below her belly, slowly heating up her body so deliciously. It made her squeeze her thighs together for relief, as she curled up on her side and began rolling her hips. The warmth manifested from her womb and spread like wildfire blissfully throughout her torso and limbs. 

On instinct, as if her body was being controlled, Maeven crawled underneath her covers in a blissful haze. Peaking her head out to feel the chilling breeze from the open window, she grabbed her extra pillow from the other side of the bed and shoved it in between her legs as she squeezed it with her plush thighs. The way the skin of her inner legs stuck and touched together always bothered her, but she couldn’t properly say why.

It was a weird occurrence, as she felt as relaxed and dazed whenever she smoked a joint before bed. But she hadn’t even gotten the chance to do it, yet. Maybe she was just tired. That was it. Between checking out her new school, meeting some of her new classmates, having to check in with the Chief of Police, and being berated by her mom at the store, Maeven had a busy day. Then again, if her body was winding down naturally without the extra assistance of drugs, recreational or otherwise, who was she to complain? 

She closed her eyes and willed her brain to sleep, afraid her busy mind would blink it way if she didn’t. After a few moments of fidgeting as she curled up like an animal underneath the oasis of comfort and warmth of her blankets, Maeven’s mind finally allowed her body to lose all feeling and sink deeper into her mattress without a care in the world; slowly, and then all at once. Everything was warm and quiet for her first few minutes of rest, the dark nothingness cradling her in it’s embrace. More often than she’d like to admit, she found herself never wanting to wake up. It was just something to add to the list of things to tell the school counselor. Said list was locked away in her head, and seemed to get longer and longer each day.

“Go on. Do it. You deserve it,” the voice came up from behind her, now turning sultry and inviting. Maeven felt a familiar pulse of arousal between her legs as her cheeks tinted red.

“Mmm-hmm. . .” she whined, subconsciously burying her face into the sheets as she rolled her body to lay on her stomach with her hips elevated by the extra pillow between her legs. She preferred having Oscar the Otter, her favorite toy to “play” with, as opposed to a pillow. But Oscar was still in a box and Maeven's body was so comfortably numb. The pillow would have to do for the night.

“That’s right. Get into your favorite position, you little nympho,” it continued to encourage her.

The feeling of the blankets on Maeven’s bare, sensitive flesh imitated the feeling of a warm hug from behind her from what she could only describe as a monster. It was something she could never tell if it was really there or not; another frustrating side effect of her damaged psyche. But this was one of the only times she welcomed the voice with open arms. 

It wasn’t scary during the intimate moments she shared with herself in the dark of her room. It became seductive and comforting; something that she never really understood, but always relied on at the end of a long, hard day. And when she was asleep, she found that having orgasms came to her easier.  Her record was having five different orgasms throughout the night wash over her with little to no effort.

“So. . .that guy you and Billy met, today? Steve?” the voice reminded Maeven, who felt its looming, heavy presence press its weight against her back.

“Yes?” she suddenly gasped

“He was pretty cute, right?” it purred in her ear, “Tall. I bet he has soft hands. The guy looks like he takes care of himself.”

Steve reminded Maeven of Jordan Bernard before he turned on her; sassy and confident, while also somehow being awkward and shy depending on the day. She noticed the two boys even shared the same eye color. Her hips began slowly grinding against her pillow.

“He was asking you all kinds of questions. He’s totally into you,” the voice teased her, but Maeven wasn’t so easily persuaded tonight. Nancy was also very pretty. Too pretty not to notice. She didn’t have bags under her eyes or bite her lips to the point of bleeding. A girl like Nancy was perfect for a guy like Steve, unlike Maeven.

“It doesn’t matter. He has a girlfriend. And even if he didn’t, he still wouldn’t fuck me,” she said, verbally fighting off the beast’s words before it spoke again.

“You don’t know that,” it argued, not willing to drop it and determined to get Maeven warmer and wetter. “He probably would if you gave him the chance.”

Maeven would be lying if she said she hadn’t been thinking about Steve roughly taking her against the locker-lined halls of Hawkins High School. The beast on her back constantly reminded her for the rest of the tour.

“Billy would get too jealous,” she ventured a guess. He tended to be possessive, the reason behind all the bites and bruises she accumulated after they started dating.

“Don’t be so sure, Maeven. You two have fucked around with other people before. You like being passed around, don’t you?”

Maeven quivered at the mere idea of being used as a toy, rolling her hips faster against her pillow and adding fuel to the fire soaking beneath the thin cotton of her underwear. There must’ve been something seriously wrong with her to be into having her body used like that, especially after everything she went through. But that didn’t stop her from fantasizing about it.

“Aw. . .fuck. . .” Maeven gasped out as she rolled her hips, the blood rushing down and sending ever-building waves of pleasure to her clit.

“What about that other guy you saw today? The one coming out of detention?”

“The guy who sells drugs behind the school?” Her breathing was heavy now, whining in frustration as she attempted to visualize. It did have a point; that Munson guy, she thinks that’s right, was pretty fucking gorgeous. Anyone who would dare to say otherwise was dead wrong.

“Yeah. That guy’s definitely into some kinky shit. He had a pair of handcuffs for a belt.”

“He’s a metalhead. It’s part of the fashion.”

“Maybe. But did you see that black bandana in his pocket?”

“Either way, I think he’d definitely be into tying you up,” The beast laughed wickedly, seductively, bringing her deeper into her fantasy and sending her body on autopilot as her brain continued to drift. Again, this was something she absolutely shouldn’t get drenched from. She was disgusted with herself that her mind and body ached for the things she should be afraid of. Nevertheless, she leaned into it; she always did.

“Oh, God, fuck. That’s it. . .that’s it,” she whined out, finally able to paint the perfect picture in her head as she continued shamelessly grinding her clit against her pillow.

“I bet if you let him hit you raw, he’d give you free weed.”

. . .

!*!*!

It had been about an hour since Billy had refilled Maeven’s water bottle. And if he planned the timing and the dosage correctly, which he always did, she should be under her covers humping a pillow or a stuffed animal by now. He wouldn’t dare make the same mistake twice. To be fair, he didn’t think he’d still be doing this almost a year after he first thought of it. Now, it had just become a part of his normal routine. 

Of course, it was no secret that Maeven Mayfield was a horny little spazz. Hell, Billy was living evidence of that; they both wore the bruises and love bites to prove it. But if he thought she was spastic without these drugs mixed into her drinks, he was in for the ride of his life. And this wasn’t just for his benefit. It was for Maeven’s, too.

Maeven didn’t always know what was best for her. As much as she loved making precise plans and carefully following lists of steps, she was equally impulsive and stubborn. In the months following what happened to her last New Year’s, it was like she was a completely different person; angry, self-loathing, irrational. And Billy knew he was partially to blame for that. He over-indulged and enabled her during those months. 

It was fun at first. He thought taking her out to parties and encouraging her reckless behavior helped her grieve what she lost that night. He now knew that if he enabled her any further, it would most likely end in her death. Billy was just glad he was able to stop her and that she got the proper professional help she needed before it was too late.

Who knows? Maybe if he had measured the dose correctly that night, none of this would have happened. Billy wouldn’t have had to put her back together again. He wouldn’t have to slip drugs into her water multiple times a week just to keep her calm. She wouldn’t be a shell of her former self. They would still be in California. Maeven would still be on the honor roll and not expelled. She wouldn’t have to repeat her Junior Year. 

Would his dad and her mom still have gotten married? Maybe if those guys hadn’t been so rough with her, Jordan would still be alive. Maeven wouldn’t have to live with the extreme guilt he knew haunted her every day. She wouldn’t be crippled by the pain of her injuries. But none of that mattered now, anyway. At least one silver lining came out of that horrible night; it brought Billy and Maeven together again, and closer than they had ever been.

As he approached her bedroom, he could already hear her hushed gasps for air and needy whines. Silently pushing the door open, Billy palmed himself through his sweatpants in anticipation. Just as he had planned, Maeven was already under her comforter, blissfully unaware of her surroundings as she ground her hips against her extra pillow. He loved it when he was right.

. . .

In her mind’s eye, Maeven was back in Hawkins High School, being carried like a freshly hunted animal. Steve was holding her wrists so tightly in his grasp that they hurt. Munson held her ankles together as they both carried her down the hallway. Maeven twisted and struggled her body in protest with all the strength she could gather from within, but their hold never loosened. Walking backward, Steve opened the lever handle on the door to the Janitor’s closet with his elbow. Once they were all inside, the boys let the door slam shut. They were planning on letting it stay that way for a while.

Steve was now holding Maeven’s wrists together with just one hand, sliding the other down her body to grope at her breasts through her sweater. She liked to imagine that Steve had strong hands like Billy’s, but possibly had softer palms than him. Nothing about Steve Harrington was threatening. He was definitely intimidating in terms of his size and muscle mass, but his eyes held a sense of vulnerability and tenderness. He’d never touch a girl in anger, unlike others. She could tell.

“What do you think she’s hiding underneath all those layers, Harrington?” Munson laughed, tugging at Maeven’s long skirt as he continued holding her ankles together.

“Only one way to find out,” Steve slyly replied, pointing to the set of handcuffs weaved through the metalhead’s belt loops. “Gimme those.”

Munson didn’t need to be told twice, immediately dropping Maeven’s ankles and hastily removing his makeshift belt. Seeing an opportunity to fight back, she started clumsily kicking into the air as she tried to catch her balance. Steve then forced her down on her knees onto the cold floor, sending a sharp pain through her legs. He firmly, yet gently, trapped her in his arms, pinning hers to the sides of her torso and not giving her a chance to struggle.

Once Munson successfully removed the cuffs, he playfully swung them around in a circular motion, signaling Steve to bring Maeven over. Her continuing struggle did nothing to draw the boys off course; they were on a mission and nothing could get in their way. Steve picked her up like she weighed nothing, forcing his arms underneath hers to raise them up high. Once they were able to cuff one wrist, Munson through the other end up, looping it over a large pipe above them before cuffing her other wrist.

The cold metal bit at Maeven’s skin, forcing her up so that the tips of her boots were just barely touching the floor. Her raised arms made her sweater ride up her stomach and left her freckle-kissed hips and navel bare to them; a sneak peek of what they were in for. Maeven grunted as she dangled from the ceiling, unable to regain her footing as her face flushed an even darker shade of red if that was even possible. The best she could do to fight this was clench her thighs together.

“There we go. All bound up the way you belong,” Billy’s sultry voice echoed throughout the closet as he emerged from the shadows, sending a shiver down her spine.

. . .

After over a year of knowing someone up close and personally, you tend to pick up on a few things. You start to notice the little things in their behavior that make them who they are. If you pay close enough attention, you notice the physical changes in their body when their mood changes. Whenever Maeven became anxious, her shoulders would tense up as she crossed her arms to hug herself. She would curl into herself and keep her head held low instead of tall and proud the way she used to; these mannerisms had become more common since she was released from that treatment center, to be fair.

Seeing these little changes in her demeanor throughout the day, Billy knew Maeven could benefit from an orgasm or two after a long hard, day; and he wouldn’t mind taking at least one for himself. She had practically been begging for him all day with the way she moved her body as she walked. And she also should’ve known by now that he couldn’t exactly control himself whenever a girl wore fishnets.

Time and time again, she kept proving him to be correct. The drugs Billy slipped into her water bottle may have. . .enhanced Maeven’s libido, but it simply revealed to him what he already knew she kept hidden inside. These days, she was anxious all the time; shaking like a leaf at the smallest things. He was helping her; that’s what he told himself. Eventually, he believed it without question.

Stepping inside Maeven’s bedroom, he shut the door slowly to not wake up Susan or Neil. Leaning his hand on the surface of her desk, he quickly pulled it back at the sharpness piercing his palm. Looking down, Billy recognized the remnants of what he threw away last night; Maeven’s nightlight. It didn’t stay that way, obviously. Damn Maxine. She was too old to still have something like that, anyway. Besides, she didn’t deserve it after defying him last night; those cuts he gave her weren’t enough. He’d deal with it later. This wasn’t what he came for.

Focusing his attention back to the task at hand, Billy tiptoed to Maeven’s bed, spreading his weight out to make sure it wouldn’t creak too loudly. Eyeing her figure under the covers up and down, he gently tugged the comforter to reveal her bare flesh, hot to the touch from her arousal and constant movement. She squeezed the pillow tightly between her legs as she continued to roll her hips, already soaking down the pillowcase and dripping onto the sheets.

Maeven was still in her lucid state, unaware of what was happening in the world outside her dreams. Billy always wondered what sort of dreams she had when she was on the aphrodisiacs. Then again, it didn’t matter. As long as he could take what he needed from her and she was lubed up and submissive enough, he didn’t care what went on in there. Still, Billy wanted to pick her brain; dissect her beautiful, crazed mind, and discover her deepest secrets like an archeologist unearthing a treasure. And each time he slipped another dosage into her water bottle, he came closer and closer to the whole truth.

Positioning himself behind her and pulling her waist into his lap, Billy picked up the pace and guided Maeven to rub her soaking heat away from her wrinkled pillow and against his clothed cock, tenderly massaging her ass. She let out a hushed gasp at the soft sensation of her pillow being replaced with something harder.

. . .

Back inside her head, Maeven shivered in suspense as the boys tore her long skirt off her waist. She stumbled in place as she squeezed her net-covered legs together. Steve came up behind her, one hand squeezing her ass while the other softly danced its fingers along her thigh, attempting to find her ticklish spot and coax her legs open.

“So, what kind of girl hides her legs all day, but wears fishnets?” he laughed in her ear, delivering a sharp slap to her butt, causing her to shriek and flinch away. But Steve held her in place, continuing his torment on the sensitive flesh below her waist.

Munson walked over, helping Steve try and pry her legs open. Maeven let out weak whimpers of protest, quickly turning into whines of desperation when the metalhead forcefully shoved his hand between her thighs. He laughed at the way she somehow got even more hot and bothered by the way he rubbed his ringed fingers against her heatsource covered by the soaked fabric of her panties.

“I knew I saw these, earlier,” he smirked, snapping the fishnet stocking against her thigh before fishing a pocket knife from behind his back.“She’s just a little freak, isn’t she?”

Maeven eyes widened in fear at the sight of the knife, her blood racing as she tried to wriggle from their grasp. Steve shoved his fingers inside her mouth before any more cries could escape.

“You have no idea, Munson,” Billy practically cackled, walking closer to help the boys keep her legs steady as he pulled at the waistband of her black panties before letting it snap.

“C’mon, let’s get these off her. You don’t need them, anyway. Do you, Maeven?” he asked, grabbing her by her cheeks and forcing her to look straight at him.

Swallowing her pride to keep herself safe, Maeven agreed, shaking her head. From the look at that knife, she had no choice. At least she put up a good fight until the end. It was only when she agreed did Steve take away his fingers, causing her to choke and gasp for air as she prepared herself for what was to come.

Munson’s one hand kept her legs steady as he dragged the cold metal across her skin, the mixture of fear and arousal growing as he brought it closer to her heat. He continued to leave her in anticipation, letting her guess when and where he would cut before carefully slicing the net atop her panties. Her heart was beating so fast she felt like it would burst out of her chest as the evidence of her lust dripped onto the blade. This was so wrong. So why did it feel so hot?

Tired of the teasing, Munson slid the knife beneath the drenched fabric, carefully pressing the metal against her wet lips which made her whine and shiver before cutting through the cloth of the crotch and accidentally knicking her thigh.

“Be a good girl and spread your legs, dollface,” Billy purred in her ear, tearing her stockings from her legs with no effort. “I told them what a cute little cunt you have. You don’t wanna disappoint them, do you? So. . .are you gonna be a good girl for us?”

. . .

“Ahhh, fuck, yeah. . .just like that,” Billy moaned out, grabbing Maeven’s hips tighter as she matched his pace on her own. He bit his lip to keep his volume down as his cock twitched beneath his thin sweatpants, reacting to her needy pussy already soaking through her panties.

Whatever was happening in Maeven’s dream must’ve been hot, because the way she was writhing against Billy made him wonder if he was the one dreaming. It didn’t matter how many times they had fucked beforehand; every new time was better than the last. Her body always left him crawling back and wanting her again and again. 

There were many good things about this girl, but Billy still couldn’t figure out what it was. Maybe she really was a witch who lured guys to her bed, and he was just really lucky that she decided he was worth keeping. Even when she called it off, she didn’t mean it. He knew that she didn’t. Did she? His memory was fuzzy. Regardless, Billy got what he wanted, what he craved, needed; Maeven by his side. Maeven Mayfield was much more addictive than any cigarette, drink or drug Billy Hargrove could ever find and he never wanted to sober up.

Tired of teasing both her and himself, he roughly tugged her hips to meet his, always mesmerized how her needy little pussy swallowed his fingers. She now lay flat on her mattress, her back arched as she buried her face in the pillow she was previously writhing against, too powerless to stop his love-drunk-disguised assault.

. . .

Maeven said nothing as Billy held her face tightly in his hand, the adrenaline in her body and the intense anticipation causing her eyes to water. She silently nodded with a look in her eyes that told Billy, “I’ll be Good.”

Steve wasted no time using his now saliva-soaked fingers to test the waters, experimentally massaging the lips of her pussy perfectly framed by soft ginger fuzz. Maeven imagined that he’d take his time warming up a girl, passionate and gentle like he was; taking his time to learn about his partner’s body instead of just diving head-first into the deep end like other guys.

“Nancy’s one lucky girl. . .” Maeven’s inner voice echoing inside her head.

“Holy. . .shit. . .” Steve quietly exclaimed, pleasantly surprised that she did his job for him. She didn’t need any warming up

Munson roughly nudged Harrington to the sidelines like an excited kid cutting the line to get the first pick of the candy bowl on Halloween, aggressively spreading Maeven’s legs. He hooked her left one back to wrap around his hips. She was definitely more flexible than she appeared. Munson snaked his hand around her and cruelly trailed from her navel down to her pelvis, eager to finally discover her nooks and crannies.

“What the fuck? She’s already soaking wet!” he laughed in disbelief.

Maeven shrieked again at the contrast from the cold metal of his rings against her painfully desperate pussy. She could see Munson being a generous lover; something about his abundant amount of energy allowed her to picture him reducing a girl, or maybe another guy, to tears with his aggressive tongue and hands.

“Yeah, that’s the thing about little Maeven, here; she’s always turned on,” Billy growled in her ear, watching eagerly as the bound girl’s whines and moans became more frequent. He could watch her fall apart forever. Munson kept relentlessly thrusting his fingers in and out of Maeven’s aching heat-source as he teased her clit with his other hand. 

“Always waiting for her pussy to be filled like the greedy little whore she is,” Billy finished.

. . .

Maeven could feel herself getting closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy when her heart suddenly dropped into her stomach. The mystery presence she usually seeked comfort in had twisted into something sinister that aggressively trapped her body in it’s invisible grip, crushing her underneath it’s weight. It felt so familiar, but also so. . .foreign. 

This wasn’t right.

What was this feeling? Why did Maeven recognize it? What was happening to her body? Why couldn’t she stop herself? Why couldn’t she move anymore?

The heavy breathing and moans against the back of her neck accompanied with the hot weight on top of her was enough to bring her somewhat out of her haze. If it were possible for her heart to drop any deeper, it would’ve, because she knew that musky scent.

“Billy?” she gasped out, her heart immediately starting to race so fast it hurt.

“Shhh, babydoll. ‘Gotta be quiet, remember?” He said it as if it was the most casual situation in the world. What the hell was happening?

“What’re you doing. . .aah!” Maeven choked on a silent scream as Billy wrapped his bicep around her neck to shut her up, cutting off both her voice and her air before he slipped his fingers inside her quivering cunt.

“Just be still and keep your mouth, Maeven. Be a good girl and let me take care of you,” he whispered, biting her earlobe following his last words as he removed his bicep from around her throat and kneeled straight up. Once Maeven briefly celebrated with a long inhale of air, she then involuntarily clenched her pussy around Billy’s thick fingers as he violently massaged her moist walls and prepared her for what would come next. Drawing them from her core, he delivered a sharp slap against her aching pussy before lining himself up.

Why couldn’t she move? Why was she so wet? Had it really come down to this; her own body betraying her?

Her mind became even more fuzzy from the lack of air, the veil between the fantasy inside her head and the world outside it where she was supposed to be sleeping had blended until she couldn’t tell which was which, anymore. And when something so passionately aggressive was shoved deep inside her without warning, Maeven couldn’t even comprehend the difference between unbearable pain and mind-numbing pleasure. She had cried from both before, but the tears falling from her now was something entirely new, and she didn’t like it.

“Fuuuuck, you feel so good. . .” Billy shamelessly moaned out, ramming all of himself into Maeven, from the tip to the base in one thrust. Pressing his chest against her back as her buried his face in her hair and inhaled her scent like his life depended on it, Billy’s sharp thrusts continued. He never wanted to let her go. He couldn’t let her leave him like his Mother did. Maeven was the only ray of light he had left.

“Billy, please wait,” she sobbed out, finally regaining control of her limbs as she attempted to fight her way out from under him. “Let’s just-”

“Shh, we’re just having a little fun. That’s all. We’ll go nice and slow, okay?” he promised, his thrusts then turning harder and quicker as he succumbed to how heavenly Maeven felt around him.

“You don’t want me to reopen that cut, do you, dollface?” Billy took his bicep off from around her throat and trailed his fingers down beneath her to pinch her swollen clit. His other hand traced along the bandaged cuts along her arms and chest; his fresh handiwork from the night before. 

The sudden harsh rubs on her clit forced Maeven’s back to arch, giving Billy the perfect opportunity to grab her hair. She stopped breathing and her world stood still as she realized how close he was bringing her to the edge. Maeven panicked. She didn’t want to cum. Not like this, at least. It was fine when it was only her and the vivid scenes she around played with in her head. But she didn’t ask for this. Billy’s pace picked up and Maeven could tell he was close by the way he was growling; desperately hungry for release. 

Images of the night her life was ruined then intruded her mind; the party and the woods, and what they did to her. How betrayed she felt. How much the knife carving into her flesh hurt. The knife in her hands and how monstrous and free it made her feel. Her blood-drenched, naked body shining underneath the glow of the winter moon.

Maeven squeezed her eyes shut and tried to will all these bad feelings away, attempting to ground herself by focusing on how nice the cold autumn wind felt in contrast to how heated her cheeks were. She wanted to go back to that fantasy. She was safe in there, so that’s where she went.

Billy chuckled to himself as Maeven drifted away once again, knowing that by the next morning, she wouldn’t remember a thing.

. . .

Stay Wild and Safe, my dears!

A/N: ♫♫ I'm sorry I was gone, but look, I made you some content!♫♫

♫ Mommy made you your favorite! Open Wide!♫

♫♫ Here comes the content!♫♫

♫It's a beautiful day to stay inside!♫

Also, Happy Birthday to Me!! I turned 23 on the Solstice! Working my full-time retail job has left me burnt out without any time or energy to create, and my huge family is going through some hardships right now. I'm grateful that I was able to get family leave and it's going to last until February! Hopefully, that'll give me time to rest and put my life together while my family and I heal.

It felt really weird but somehow fitting that I finished this chapter on my last day being 22. Despite the Angst and Heartbreak this held, I really hope you enjoyed this one. I ran into a few roadblocks trying to get it just right. It's my longest one yet. A lot of you wanted some lore dumps and I hope I delivered well. As always, please let me know your thoughts and theories; they really help motivate me.

The Spitifre Curse Taglist:

@yaidothat

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Game Over (Cedric) - Part 1

Nuisance

Look at that! Santa brought a dead dove :)

Warnings: Gore, including hand gore and impalement, torture/violence/beating, restraints, homophobia, misogyny, all kinds of crude language, major character death, public execution (hanging), self inflicted injuries to get out of restraints and do a little murder

It’s a reply to this ask game, which has been sent for Cedric over 5 months ago by @verkja​. As such, please direct all criticism directly to him! :D This seems like a splendid moment to mention that in canon, everyone will live happily ever after *gulp* Plsdon’tkillme.

It can be a short description or a short drabble.

Woops, wrote a short 7k words drabble 🤷 Guess I’ll be splitting it in 3, I hate reading too long things on Tumblr myself.

Masterlist | Next

A rivulet of crimson blood made its way across the polished wood of the floorboards—seeping into the cracks, congealing at the edges, a puddle ending just in front of Cedric’s face. The red was all he could see with his head pressed against the floor, a hand on his temple and a knee on his back holding him down. More hands tied his wrists together, rough rope scratching his skin as it was pulled tight. He screamed as the movement jostled the blade sticking in his right shoulder, sending a wave of icy chill down his spine. 

“Shut the fuck up.”

Someone kicked his side, driving the air out of him. Cedric writhed on the ground, trying to relieve the pressure on his shoulders. Every gasping breath he drew tasted of blood, while failing to deliver enough air. It made him feel sick. The cold in his shoulder crept deeper, grasping his lung and wrapping around his heart. The latter seemed to skip a beat ever so often, hammering in frantic panic against the loss of blood and the touch of morlit alike.

“Get up.”

They grabbed his arms, pulling him to his knees. The dagger in his shoulder wobbled and twisted, sending a fresh wave of pain through his body as his stomach plummeted. The mere touch of morlit was painful to him, and feeling it inside him was a kind of agony he had never experienced before. He would have torn his own skin and flesh apart to get it out, but he had no chance of reaching it.

“Make sure it sticks until they bring the shackles.”

Before he was fully kneeling, someone grabbed the handle of the dagger, pushing it further in. The world slipped out from under Cedric. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a scream—hear himself scream. He almost welcomed the darkness trying to drag him down, but the pull wasn’t strong enough. Breathing heavily, hanging in the grip of the guards, Cedric had no choice but to wait for the pain to ebb.

His vision returned slowly, blurry, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. It allowed him to take in the absolute destruction that was his living room for the first time. Blood glistened on the floor and the walls, some splatters even as high as the ceiling. Furniture was turned over or broken apart. Shattered glass and stone were scattered all over the place, crunching under the soles of the guards moving around. 

Cedric had used his magic to fight, as hopeless as it had been, while Yvan had grabbed the fire poker as a makeshift weapon. Three guards had found their deaths before they had managed to gain the upper hand and overpower them. One with his skull split by the fire poker, the dead body now a crumpled heap in a pool of blood and brain matter. Two more massacred by slivers of gemstone; breaking out of the display cases, cutting into flesh, slicing arteries, piercing lungs.

A string of pleading curses made Cedric raise his head. He couldn’t see much, the grip of the hands around his arms too strong for him to turn fully. What he saw was enough. Two guards got up from where they had been hunched over the motionless body of another. One of them left the room with hurried steps, a hand pressed in front of his mouth. The other kicked a nearby sideboard.

Four killed, then.

And still, it hadn’t been enough. The fight had been lost from the moment it had started. There had been too many guards, and they had been prepared. Not well prepared—otherwise, he shouldn’t have been able to kill any of them—but well enough. One of them had managed to sneak up on him, to ram the morlit blade into his shoulder. Cut off from his magic, with his defense and offense crumbling, it had been a matter of mere seconds before he was on the ground. Yvan had followed him a moment later.

Someone must have betrayed them. It had always been a possibility, of course. Just like a ship could sink, a mine could collapse. They had all been aware of it. That didn’t make it any easier for Cedric to raise his gaze, to finally look at his husband. 

Yvan lay where he had fallen, his throat slit, a pool of crimson around him. His once so warm green eyes stared at nothing, dull and lifeless. His soft, golden hair was drenched in blood, clinging to his head and to the stained floor. The lips Cedric had kissed so often, that had whispered cute names and sweet promises into his ear, were already pale and bloodless.

He should feel something. Sorrow. Anger. Dread. All he felt was emptiness. He would never again feel the gentle touch of calloused hands, or the embrace of strong arms. The kiss half an hour ago was the last one they had ever shared. With alcohol heavy on their breaths, mixing with the familiar smell of the forge on Yvan’s skin and in his hair. Interrupted by a quiet giggle, and the promise of later. A later that would never come now.

The emptiness kept its grip on Cedric as someone stepped behind him, snapping morlit shackles around his wrists to replace the rope that bound him. They were even tighter, pulling his arms further back. He had to fight the rising bile as something in his shoulder ground against the blade. They kept it in until they were absolutely sure he was bound securely—then someone grabbed the handle and ripped the dagger out, twisting it in the process.

Cedric might have blacked out for a second. When he became aware of his surroundings again, he was hanging limply in the grip of two guards. Blood ran lazily down his back, soaking his shirt, making it cling to his skin. Something was wrong with his arm. He tried to move it, to see if he still could, but the shackles were too tight for it to be successful.

“Not so brave now, are we? Let’s go.”

He didn’t bother to reply, or acknowledge the words in any way. He also didn’t react as they started to pull him to his feet, but quickly considered otherwise as someone kicked his heels and the back of his legs. Trying to stand worked, if barely, but he couldn’t walk right. The moment he put weight onto his right foot, he faltered. The guards didn’t care, hauling him off even as his feet dragged over the ground.

As he was brought out of the room, Cedric craned his neck, trying to look at Yvan for as long as he could. Something started to fill the emptiness in his chest. Something just as cold as the touch of morlit. He wished this didn’t have to be the last memory of his husband, the image that would burn itself into his mind—but not looking at him, not clinging to every last second, was worse.

Then Yvan was gone, the door frame blocking the view. When Cedric automatically stopped, the guard following him shoved his back. 

“Move,” he grunted. 

Cedric moved. He closed his eyes, trying to set one foot in front of the other as well as he could. His right one was unable to carry most of his weight, but even that was better than letting himself be carried and putting all of his weight on his ruined shoulder.

When he was shoved into a waiting carriage, Cedric stumbled and fell, unable to catch himself. His knees crashed onto the floor, and his shoulder against the bench, but at least he didn’t hit his head. Two guards entered with him, sitting down on the bench, not bothering to help him up. Cedric couldn’t get up on his own, so he resigned himself to remaining on the floor, pulling his legs close.

As the carriage started to move, Cedric tried to replace the image of Yvan with one of happier days. Wearing a pink, frilly apron and baking cookies, or cuddling with him on the sofa after a long day. His kisses soft and gentle, passionate and hungry, and everything in between. With his eyes full of life and his heart full of love and his voice full of laughter. 

At least there was one thing for certain: It wouldn’t be long before Cedric followed him.

[ID: The banner shows a broken window, outside which the sun sets behind an iron fence. The sky is bright yellow and orange. The title nuisance is written across it in scribbled looking letters with a orange to yellow to orange gradient. All other images are purely ornamental lines. End ID.]

[nicklloydnow]

“The classical liberal or libertarian emphasis on individual rights can only be transferred to the realm of international relations with great difficulty. One might be tempted to analogize states to individuals. Just as an individual can do whatever he wants until he intrudes on the rights or interests of others, countries should be left alone as long as they mind their own business. But states are often run by leaders who achieve and maintain power by violating the rights of others. Maybe there is a practical or utilitarian case for applying the principle of sovereign equality to a state like North Korea and declaring Kim Jung Un the ultimate representative of the people he imprisons and starves, but there certainly isn’t a straightforward deontological case for it.

In the area of geopolitics, then, I find myself falling back to utilitarianism, and dispensing with talk of rights all together. All states are inherently suspect as moral entities, with some being better or worse than others. And individuals generally have zero control over what policies their governments adopt, making the doctrine of collective responsibility just as pernicious here as it is in the frameworks of wokes and Marxists.

That brings us to the Israeli-Palestinian dispute. Some will talk of the “right” of Israel to defend itself, or the “right” of Palestinian self-determination. But Israel’s right to defend itself means killing a lot of innocent people. And the Palestinian right to self-determination is just a fancy way of saying men with guns telling other people what to do because of where they happen to live, which given the record of Arabs I’m sure they would screw up much more than most other states have.

With utilitarianism, we might at least hope to make some progress, unlike what tends to happen when we engage in endless debates about who has the right to do what.

(…)

What seems certain is that there is no decent future for the people of the territory as long as the current leadership is in charge. Hamas will not only continually attack Israel, but keep its own citizens poor, repressed, and subject to reprisals. The question of what to do about this seems like a classic dilemma in which we have to ask ourselves whether we want to inflict short term pain for a greater long term good.

Israel controls the flow of food and electricity into Gaza. It should leverage that, along with air and bombing campaigns, in order to achieve a different kind of government. Kicking many of the Palestinians out and finding new homes for them would probably be the best of all worlds, as no matter how much trouble they might cause in Europe or Egypt, it won’t be as bad as them staying in Gaza. Israel making life so unlivable that they leave, while working with the US to pressure other countries to open up their borders, seems like sound policy. The population of Gaza is 2.5 million. Whatever the outflow is, it should be manageable if it is treated as a global problem. Turkey alone currently hosts 3.7 million refugees.

Anti-war types will make the argument that repression hasn’t worked up to this point. Yet given the power disparity between the two sides, Israel has been remarkably restrained. The 2008-2009 Gaza War, for example, led to 1,000-1,500 combatant and civilian deaths, a tiny fraction of the population. We can analogize this to the struggle against crime in El Salvador, which I’ve previously written about. People for a long time said you can’t just arrest your way out of the problem. Then Bukele came along, went much further than everyone else while ignoring the human rights crowd, and suddenly the murder rate plummeted.

It’s obvious that a real siege of Gaza, where food, medicine, and electricity are cut off indefinitely, would harm a lot of civilians. But it would hopefully build pressure to encourage other countries to let many Palestinians leave. Of those who stayed, the situation would eventually become so dire that something would have to change. Israel would be wise to extract at the very least a demand for recognition before it lifts the siege. Direct governance is probably impossible, but they could eventually perhaps hope for their own Kadyrov, which could in the best case scenario be the first step towards something better down the line once the death cult of Palestinian resistance is extinguished.”

“Top Israeli officials said they intend to retain security control of Gaza for an indefinite period to prevent new militant groups forming once Israel finishes its war with Hamas, but said they have little interest in administering Gaza the way the U.S. sought to govern Iraq two decades ago.

Israeli Foreign Minister Eli Cohen, in his first interview with a foreign media outlet since the start of the war on Oct. 7, said Israel has no desire to impose a civilian administration on Gaza. Once Hamas is toppled, Israel is looking at turning over responsibility for governing the territory to an international coalition, including the U.S., the European Union and Muslim majority countries, or to local political leaders in Gaza, he said.

“We don’t want to govern Gaza. We don’t want to run their lives. We just want to protect our people,” Cohen said.

That may include keeping soldiers in Gaza if Israel deems it necessary, along with tight controls on what goes in and out. “We will need to verify that weapons will not enter Gaza from any border,” including from Egypt, “and we’ll retain our right to work against any terrorists who want to build bases there,” he said.

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu expressed the same sentiment. “I think Israel for an indefinite period will have the overall security responsibility, because we’ve seen what happens when we don’t have it,” Netanyahu said, in an interview with ABC News on Monday evening.

Cohen and Netanyahu were careful not to describe Israel’s future role in Gaza as a military occupation, suggesting the details of the postwar security arrangements are still in flux. They also left unanswered many important questions, including whether the Israeli military plans to control the whole strip or just a portion of it.

(…)

Advising Israel to avoid a similar course, Washington has said the Palestinian Authority—the Western-backed government that governs most Palestinians in the occupied West Bank—should take control of Gaza once Hamas’s rule is ended. Hamas violently pushed the Palestinian Authority out of Gaza in 2007.

Netanyahu’s government has an antagonistic relationship with the Palestinian Authority, however. Senior members of his government oppose its existence in the West Bank, let alone in Gaza, blaming it for inciting radicalism against Israel through its school system and compensation payments to families of Palestinians who are killed or arrested while attacking Israelis.

(…)

As long as Israel controls security in Gaza, it also will be difficult to persuade the Palestinian Authority to resume civilian control of Gaza, as it did before Hamas pushed it out. Nor will Arab governments or even the United Nations be likely to step in to underwrite a temporary civilian administration if Israel is continuing to attack pockets of Hamas cells still operating in the densely populated areas of Gaza City and other areas of the strip, analysts and former Israeli officials said.

“Nobody wants to come in—that’s the situation we are facing,” said Tzipi Livni, a former Israeli foreign minister and deputy prime minister. At the same time, “it’s not in Israel’s interest to stay in Gaza long term.”

(…)

For Israel, there are few good options about what to do with Gaza in the long term, say current and former Israeli officials. In the past, Israel didn’t push for decisive control of the strip, instead tolerating Hamas as a necessary evil on its southern border to prevent more militant groups taking root there. The Oct. 7 attacks changed that paradigm.

Even if Israel can secure Gaza and exit relatively quickly, it may need to keep substantial forces there or on the perimeter of the strip with the option to go back in, in order to prevent Hamas or a successor militant group from regenerating, analysts said.

(…)

With Hamas’s civilian administration gone, the task of providing food and shelter to its displaced residents would fall at least partly on Israel if its troops occupy Gaza, but Israel itself has shown little interest in assuming responsibility for governing Gaza once the conflict is over.

“I really don’t think that is our job,” said Shimrit Meir, a former Israeli foreign policy official, referring to the calls for Israel to answer how it plans to administer Gaza after the war. “If the international community is worried about Gaza, it should take care of Gaza.”

(…)

Cohen said Israel would reject any pause in the fighting until Hamas releases the some 240 hostages it and other militants took on Oct 7. “For us there is only one we will agree to a humanitarian pause—the release of hostages,” he said.

The U.S. also has been exploring options for the future of the Gaza Strip, including the possibility of a multinational force that may involve an international peacekeeping component that would come in if Israel succeeds in defeating Hamas. Along with seeing the Palestinian Authority re-establish control over the strip, U.S. officials say one of the aims of the war should be to revitalize negotiations on creating a Palestinian state in the West Bank and Gaza, alongside Israel.

“At some point, what would make the most sense is for an effective and revitalized Palestinian Authority to have governance and ultimately security responsibility for Gaza,” Secretary of State Antony Blinken told the Senate Appropriations Committee last week.

Many analysts consider that scenario unlikely, noting that the Palestinian Authority, weakened by corruption and headed by an aging leadership, has at best a tenuous hold even on Palestinian areas of the West Bank.

(…)

Netanyahu’s prediction of a continuing military presence suggests he and his commanders are now worried about exiting Gaza too quickly—or that limiting the duration of the military campaign to pave the way for the eventual return of the Palestinian Authority, as the U.S. wants, could backfire.

But staying too long in Gaza brings its own risks for Israel’s forces, including the risk that their presence could fuel an insurgency among Hamas’s remaining fighters and other militants, much as the U.S. faced in Iraq.”

[katiemparks]

Letters I'll Never Send

Dear The Boy,

I don't know why but for years you have been an invisible passenger in my head. I say passenger because most of the time you show up is when I am driving around our home town (which we both still live in) alone listening to songs that somehow remind me of you even when I don't want them to.

I don't know why you're still here. I know i've thought about you a lot over the years and the thought of you and the talking through things with imaginary you has helped me learn a lot. Like... you triggered something dark in me. I though it was all your fault but the truth is that the darkness had always been there, but you made me feel so much, so deeply, that it brought it all to the surface. I know that now. I know it's not really your fault that I was crying every night, even though it was over you, I know you're not at fault for the self harm I inflicted upon myself all those years in high school.

I can see now after all these years removed that you were fighting that same darkness. I can see why you were hurtful to me sometimes. I can see now you probably thought you were saving me when you told me we could no longer be friends and to forget about you on graduation day. I can see your side but can you see mine?

Did you ever notice just how in love with you I was? Did you ever notice that you broke my heart more than once. You broke my heart so thoroughly when you said that on graduation day, right before the ceremony, in that music room, which was my safe place, in that soft voice. I didn't realize what had happened until it was over and you were gone. I had told myself I wouldn't cry over you again. I still did after that moment. I was happy. I was in a good, healthy relationship with the man I would eventually marry and love more deeply than I could have known in that moment. I had told myself that we were never meant to have that kind of relationship and that I was learning so much about life because of you even in that weird almost a thing but never a thing situationship we had. All of that is true.

I learned a lot about life, love, loss, relationships, myself, and more through those years and experiences you put me through. I don't regret them. I wouldn't take them back. Did it hurt? Like hell. Would I willingly bring that pain back into my life. Hell no. Would I do it again if I was magically transported back into my younger self with my memories still intact? Probably a bit differently, but yeah I'd live through it again. It made me who I am and I like who I am. It started me down a path that lead to the life I have now and I like the life I have now. I met my husband and true love of my life because my friend was worried about me, because of you, and got me away from you for a day and I met someone new and made a friend that has never broken my heart and has been a constant supportive love for me from that day on.

So, I wanted to say thank you for being a part of my life. Some parts of me still wish you were willing to be my friend. I want to show you I care. I want to show you that I still have a love for you that means I will always hope for the best for you. I want you to know that yes you broke me and my heart but I am ok now. I forgive you.

I think that is why you are my invisible passenger. This is a way I can show you i'm doing ok. The damage wasn't so severe that I can't move on. I'm not stuck in the past. I'm not stuck in the pain. This is a way I can safely show you my concern. This is a way I can safely show you my platonic love. This is a way we can coexist together as friends.

However, I do think it is time for you to move out. That moment we shared at our class reunion wasn't much. Just silently looking at each other for a few uninterrupted seconds. However, It helped me see that we had both moved on and this was the new normal. You've become somebody that I used to be friends with. You've slid all the way into that territory. I didn't fully accept that fact even though I was at peace with it. Now it is time.

This is a farewell to the invisible passenger. I want to move you out of my head to the state of being some guy I may write to when I feel like it.

Farewell Trevor. I am saying goodbye because it is time to move on and grow up. It is time to let the teenage moments that have long since healed move on so I can find my adult form. I've healed the inner child, I've healed my inner teenager. I want to step into the rest of my life as an adult.

Saying goodby makes me nervous. I worry that the moment I leave you alone you will fade from me forever, you tried that once already in the real world and it scared the crap out of me. Not the time you left me at graduation... the time you tried to leave the earth permanently and luckily your mother found you. I worry you will go through life thinking I hate you. I don't.

I remember a time when we were still close, maybe a bit too close. we were outside at a social gathering and talking about shooting stars. I had never seen one, you had seen loads that summer. We were laying on the ground hoping to see one. I was so happy in that moment. I felt a true connection and deep love for you. You were describing all the times you had seen these wonderful stars and I just listened. I loved the fact that most of all you would talk to me about something you loved. I loved that you listened to me. All those times in class when we should have been working but weren't because we were sitting across from each other and just wanted to talk. Those times we almost went deaf sitting in from of the drum set in the band section at football games and just creating nonsense conversations. I do not remember what we talked about other than Dr. Pepper, Oreos, our friends... but I will always remember how when you were focused on me I felt special.

You taught me so much. I know I said this before but I can not thank you enough. You taught me about love when I was so young I didn't even know what I was feeling. You taught me about pain before I had to experience the worst pain of my life. That was a benefit to me. I had some skills that kept me functioning in that time of loss because I had already practiced them with the loss of your friendship. You taught me about my inner darkness and how it lashes out sometimes and sometimes it reaches deep inside of me. I can manage it better now with the help of your memory and my fandoms.

With those lessons you helped me realize how lucky I am to have gone through so much so young. If I didn't have you, The Boy before The Husband, I probably wouldn't have trusted myself enough to be sure what I felt for him was love and if I hadn't married him I wouldn't be as happy as I am now because I wouldn't have a spouse who would have known my father and how great he was. I needed someone who would understand the level of grief I feel every day at losing such a powerful influence and source of light and love in my life. I needed him and you gave him to me and you gave me the confidence to know it was a true and good love I felt because I had loved you for so long so young. You helped me get the life and love I need. You helped me recognize it and not be afraid of it.

Something I want you to know, Lavon, is if you ever want to switch territories and become a friend again I will allow it and welcome you back with open arms and only love and understanding. I will respect your boundaries and stay out of your way, but if you find this... and you miss our friendship... just know I still love you, platonically, I still miss you. I do not hate you. I forgive you. I hope only the best for you. You deserve goodness and love and comfort. You have been through a lot, too much, and I understand that. Just know you are loved. Just know you deserve so much out of life and I hope you don't let your darkness and your cynicism of this world rob you from pure joy and love. Let those who love you love you. Let yourself love them in return. Don't be afraid to show those kinder emotions. You have a good heart. You have a kind spirit. You have a sweet smile. Let yourself be happy. Even when it is hard let yourself want love and joy and happiness. Be the best version of yourself. Be happy. Be content. Be yourself.

I will always remember our time together, the good and the bad, and everything that came from it. I will always remember you as you were in a happy light. I will remember Trevor and respect Lavon.

With love and hope,

-"Katie" M.....

[thedailytao]

Passage 74

If you do not fear death, then how can it intimidate you? If you aren’t afraid of dying, there is nothing you cannot do.

Those who harm others are like inexperienced boys trying to take the place of a great lumberjack. Trying to fill his shoes will only get them seriously hurt.

There’s a purpose in putting these two ideas together: the idea that you, personally, shouldn’t be afraid of dying; the idea that it is a great evil to bring harm to someone else. If death is nothing to fear, then why is it so bad if someone else dies because of me? It’s almost defiant, placing them side-by-side, saying, “I see your argument, and I insist both of these things are true at the same time.”

Taoism tells us not to fear death, but it also tells us not to embrace it. Our lives are precious things loaned to us for a short while, and so we are meant to appreciate them and enjoy them to the fullest extent we are able. Therefore, for someone to lose their life is for them to lose the ability to appreciate their gift. There is also a presumption that we, as human beings, are not qualified to mete out death. This is the metaphor of the child playing lumberjack. Nature takes people’s lives all the time. That is part of the Tao, part of the way things are meant to be. Human decisions, intellectualized and self-serving as they often are, are not considered to be part of nature. When the Tao takes a life, it’s because it is the natural time for that life to end. When we take a life, it is probably out of selfishness.

I think the other key point is in the infliction of harm. Imagine you are a Taoist master. Imagine you are completely at ease with death. You don’t crave it, but you are ready to accept it when it comes to you. Imagine you have come to accept all people as beloved parts of reality, held in the same esteem as yourself and your most beloved friends, thought of like you are two cells in the same body. Now imagine that one of those other beloved humans stabs you in the heart.

You don’t need to fear death or injury to feel hurt when another person hurts you. The betrayal and cruelty on their own, knowing that they existed in that moment, are enough to cause us pain.

I truly believe that people don’t hurt others unless they have first been unjustly injured or deprived themselves. The National Institute for Play has conducted childhood assessment surveys of convicted murderers and found that the deprivation of unstructured play is rampant in that population. Children not allowed to play! Again and again, psychologists find that violence comes from trauma.

That is why I don’t (or aspire not to) despise the thought of death by a virus or cancer or old age. Because that is what viruses and cancers and old age do. I do despise the idea of my life being taken by another person, because I don’t believe, in my heart of hearts, that it’s something people naturally do.

[sarahfeliciam]

The Ultimatum Ch 55

Chapter 55

The day of the moon dragged on for quite some time, which surprised Emeline. 

They’d spent the day occupying themselves as best they could with games of Gobstones and plenty of variations of chocolate items, insisted upon by Remus. 

It certainly lifted the mood, and in turn, ended up being quite some time before Emeline began to feel an uncomfortable uncertainty in the pit of her stomach. 

She glanced over at Remus who was already looking at her lovingly. She watched him take a silent, deep breath and hold it before releasing it with a small nod, encouraging her to do the same. 

I don’t feel right 

He felt the frantic spirit running wild in her soul. 

She felt like she needed to claw her way out of her own skin and as she glanced at the clock, her hands felt shaky and her stomach weak. 

Before she knew it, she felt her father rest a hand on her shoulder and extend his other hand to help her stand from her spot on the living room floor. Tonks and Sirius looked at them sadly but tried to offer encouraging smiles, failing quite dismally. 

There was something painfully eerie about the two of them enduring this together.

Sirius felt his throat tighten as emotion waved over him. He’d watched Remus suffer for many years now. 

Seeing him prepare his little girl for it was something entirely different. 

He felt somewhat ill himself. 

Remus was only fixated on his daughter, ignoring the pitying glances and his own emotion lurking about, he smiled warmly as he pulled her to stand fully. 

“Why don’t we grab a few things to bring down with us and get situated, hmm?”

She looked to Tonks for a moment, her hair a dirty blonde now. 

It matched the lightest flecks in her father’s hair. 

Tonks smiled at her and nodded and Emeline sighed. 

“Alright.” She relented, following Remus to his bedroom. She reached to scratch at her arm as they walked.

“Try to keep your composure beforehand, darling. It will do you a world of good to be able to keep your wit about you for as long as possible.”

She nodded quickly, glancing around the room. Her eyes felt sharper, her head felt loose and swirling. Her stomach flipped.

“Emma, look at me.”

Her eyes rested on his but she was elsewhere completely. He sighed. 

As a few more moments passed, he left Emeline to her own devices: all of her senses heightened and begging to be listened to. 

Her brain felt fuzzy and like she couldn’t focus on one specific thing, yet sensory overload was flooding through her. 

Finally, Remus stood in front of her once more, the quilt she loved and an oversized tshirt of his with her favorite pajama bottoms hung over his arm. 

“Come on, pup.” 

She followed behind him without another word, Tonks and Sirius trailing behind them when they walked by to get to the cellar.

The dynamic of what was happening was practically more than Remus could handle. 

In the regard of Tonks, he felt… embarrassed? He had to remind himself many times already that he’d cast a silencing charm on the cellar and that his Wolfsbane was coursing through him. He hoped it was enough to avoid a ghastly display of self-inflicted wounds in the morning.

As for Emeline, he had tried to suppress all of the emotions vying for his attention until this very moment. It exploded altogether in his mind, dragging his heart to such darkness at the thought of his daughter preparing to feel this agonizing pain. 

She would never be the same again.

He suddenly wanted to run off, somewhere he could hide from the fear and despair of it all; somewhere he could vomit, better yet. 

“Dad?” His daughter’s quiet inquiry gained his attention. His heart broke at her tone. 

Oh, how he missed her bold voice and quick-witted banter. She was more like him everyday- it was a bittersweet shift. 

All eyes were on him as he moved to set the armful of items on Emeline’s mattress on her side of the cellar. 

“Okay,” he exhaled slow, choosing his words carefully. “I think, maybe,” he glanced around the room, wringing his hands together and closing his eyes. 

Get it together he willed himself.

“Emma, I’ll lock your side once you’re comfortable. Sirius, you lock mine. Tonks,” he turned to her despondently. He should have never allowed her to stay. “I’m sorry.” 

His words even surprised him, but it is all that fell from his tongue. 

“Remus.” She shook her head sadly, rushing forward and wrapping her arms around his neck.  

He pulled back slightly and couldn’t hold his own desires any longer. His lips crashed against hers and Emeline’s jaw dropped to the floor as she stumbled to sit back on her mattress. She looked past the display of affection, to Sirius standing behind them, and he fake gagged.

For the first time that day, Emeline let out a soft chuckle, which pulled the lovers apart.

Both blushing profusely, they fumbled over their words as the air in the cellar changed.

Emeline gripped the edge of the mattress as a throbbing in her head mounted so strong that she was beginning to be unable to see straight. 

Remus was much better at keeping the very start of the transformation at bay, thanks to years of practice and an adequate week of Wolfsbane. 

He stumbled slightly to get to her door and bent down with a grimace to kiss the top of her head before latching her lock and bolting for his space. Sirius slammed the cellar behind him and flipped the latch quickly. 

“Please go.” Remus groaned, falling backwards into the wall as the moon rose menacingly to its apex position. 

Tonks and Sirius obeyed quickly after giving each door a tug to ensure its security and shut the basement door itself behind them as they re-entered the living room. 

Tears were swimming in Tonks’ eyes and Sirius pulled her close silently, as they prayed the evening pass quickly and uneventfully behind closed doors.

•

Pup?

It was easier for Remus to keep his thoughts flowing than attempt to speak. 

He found comfort in knowing they could communicate this way so easily through the night and hoped that would be peaceful for Emeline, too.

He garnered no response for awhile, enduring the shrieking and groaning coming from his daughter’s space in the cellar. His eyes were filled with tears as his own body transformed. 

As he felt the ripping of muscle and flesh; felt the snapping of bones, and his body igniting with burning pain, the emotion of his heart was nearly the most miserable.

His little girl felt the same way, inches apart from him. He threw himself against the wall between them, clawing at the stone as he sensed his child.

Emeline felt like she couldn’t breathe. 

Her lungs were burning and she felt outside of herself, somehow.

Trapped. Need to get out 

Her crying was low, pained growls. She was terrified of the change she had endured; terrified as she paced the four small walls, throwing herself onto the other side of the stone as Remus had. 

Breathe.

A low howl escaped her lips in her attempt to continue to cry. Fresh claws ripped at her side that had still never fully healed and she whined in pain, digging into flesh in a variety of places as she tried to break free. 

She felt torn between two worlds.

Make it stop. Her usual voice rang loud and clear in Remus’ head.

They spent the rest of the night this way: him trying desperately to claw his way to her as she cried out, begging her father to make it end.