#just imagine living a stale lie your whole life and knowing something's wrong but no matter where you look there's nothing

[xxcalicofemmexx]

breaking point

[hoe-doroki]

stay

A response to this ask:

Reader having a silent mental breakdown and trying to hide it with Bakugo and iida!( bakugo’s fine if not iida)

warning: detailed descriptions of panic attack, self-loathing

pairing: Bakugou x gn!reader

genre: hurt/comfort

word count: 2.2k

edit: I no longer write x reader but here’s my old masterlist - mobile | desktop

It seemed stupid to have any kind of mental illness around someone like Bakugou.

Bakugou had experienced near death multiple times by his mid-twenties had had witnessed the worst of the world first hand. His teens had been littered with trauma and, as an adult, his work was constantly throwing him into circumstances where his body, his life was at risk. He did this day in and day out and it wasn’t even a question. He survived it all and, more than that, he let the world think it was easy.

Sometimes just getting out of bed wasn’t easy for you.

You felt like your body was rotting. You’d been on the couch all day and it smelled stale from the layers of lazy sweat you’d gotten on it. From the shower you hadn’t taken and the hair you hadn’t touched. But was it rot from the outside in—something a bit of soap and buffing could slough off—or was it the inside out? Harder to reach, harder to fix. As your brain sent your every thought clenching on your veins, your vital organs, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was both. Rotted from the inside out and the outside in.

You tensed when you heard the door to your shared apartment click, a key being shoved into the lock. Over the cold numbness that you’d felt all day, a shot of panic sprinted through your bloodstream as a million ways to lie popped into your head. You popped off the couch and tried to think of a way to look busy, so you ran to the kitchen and started boiling some water.

This was something Bakugou couldn’t see. The last thing you wanted, the last thing he needed was for you to be another person that he had to save. Another person to risk himself for.

You eyed Bakugou when he came in, shoulders drooped, gait wide. He looked tired, but otherwise normal. You usually tried not to worry yourself with the cuts and scrapes he often showed up with after work, and, so long as he was walking, he usually told you to calm down and that he was fine. You weren’t going to test it today.

“Hi, babe,” you said, putting strained effort into your pitch, your tone, your face. Maybe your voice was too high, maybe the smile spread a bit too wide, so you turned back to the water, watching it heat.

“Hi,” Bakugou greeted as he kicked off his sneakers, voice gravely as it usually was after a shift. He was in civilian clothes now, having showered and changed at the agency. A black tee and jeans that never fit quite right on his narrow hips and tall frame. “What’re you up to?”

“Oh, I, um…” You looked down at the water, still cool enough to stick a finger into. You’d done nothing all day, having skipped out on all your classes with half-assed emails sent to the teachers. The idea of going had been too much to take—for reasons you had no language for—so you’d wallowed on the couch as the hours of the day had bled away. So the question felt like an interrogation about to put a scalpel to your flaws. “I’m just heating some water for tea. Was gonna get started on dinner.”

“What were you gonna make?”

Bakugou was in the kitchen now, coming up behind you to press a kiss against your temple. Your heart rate increased but not in the good way. Not in the way that it should. Instead of flutters it was pounding, smacking against your ribs in a reminder that he was too close, you were too visible—you might explode and you would hurt him.

“I, um, I wasn’t sure,” you said, the answer sending shameful heat to your cheeks. And then you were slapped the other way by how stupid that was. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Okay,” Bakugou said, going to the fridge. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

Bakugou was always insistent on having a stocked fridge. With his job and you in your master’s program it was hard to find the time to grocery shop, much less eat consistent meals together, but those were the kinds of things that Bakugou prioritized. The things behind his sharp persona and shrinking legacy of reckless anger that made him a good boyfriend. An amazing partner and enviable roommate.

And what did you offer him? Emotional instability without just cause? A nascent—at best—career while he was climbing the pro hero charts every cycle?

Who were you kidding? You hadn’t even gone to class. You hadn’t done any of the work that you needed to do—the evening was a wash now, so you wouldn’t catch up. You were just wasting everyone’s time, like you always did.

“Hey, babe?”

By the tone of his voice, you realized that Bakugou had called you multiple times. Your eyes flicked toward him, but your head felt heavy to lift. “Hmm?” you asked, squeezing every last bit of breath into that hum.

“The water’s boiling.” Bakugou walked over to you, two mugs with teabags slumped at the bottom. He set them on the counter and put a hand on your shoulder, turning you a degree closer to him.

“Oh,” you intoned, pulling away and turning off the fire. Stupid. You were about to grab the pot when Bakugou dropped his hand down to your elbow, giving a firm squeeze.

“Are you okay?”

You ignored his gesture to stop and reached for the kettle, putting all of your effort into keeping your hands steady as you poured hissing water in one mug and then the other. Doing something was the only thing keeping you upright as your thoughts continued to swirl in your head poisoning each brain cell you had. You hadn’t done anything worth living for today. But goddamn it, if you couldn’t make these mugs of tea, then you should just walk out of the apartment and let Bakugou be better off without you.

“Woah, woah, what’s happening?”

Bakugou’s hand was on your chin as he pulled your face a little too roughly towards him. Or, rather, it wouldn’t have been rough, if you weren’t resisting it. But you didn’t want him to look you in the eye. See what a failure you were. Someone who couldn’t even overcome a bad emotional day to go to class while he’d been out saving lives—as usual. He took the pot from your white-knuckled grip and set it on the stove.

“Why are you crying?”

Were you? You hurriedly brushed a hand under your eyes and they came away slick, the water hot as the tea you were steeping.

“The…The steam…” you started, prepared to lie and lie and lie until there was nothing real left. The real stuff was too hard to hold. “I think…It just must have irri…tated my eyes.”

Your breathing was running away with you, chest heaving as you pulled away and faced the other direction. Your attempts were thin, too threadbare to hide behind. And your boyfriend wasn’t nearly stupid enough to be fooled, even by your best efforts.

“Babe, tell me what’s wrong,” Bakugou said forcibly, stepping around to face you again.

His eyes were searching for yours, but you held fisted hands to your cheek as you turned away from him. Now you could feel the tears streaming, and you couldn’t turn them off. But what was there to tell him? That you were just a big, stupid idiot who cried for no reason? That watching him become a better man only emphasized how totally shit you were? That when the two of you were on the street together, you knew that people wondered what a guy like him was doing with a person like you?

“I just want you to stop crying,” Bakugou said, and you could hear him getting desperate, only making you feel worse. You were biting your lips closed to keep the sobs from tearing out, but that only made embarrassing little huffs come out your nose, whimpers sneak past the back of your throat.

You couldn’t stop crying. How could you stop it when you didn’t understand what had started it?

“I’ll just,” you hiccupped, backing away from him. “Just give me…I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.”

“Fuck that,” Bakugou said, grabbing your wrist. “Do you want me to go because you want me to go, or because you think you deserve to be alone?”

The words felt like a trick, a riddle from some fairytale turned nightmare intended to make you fail either way. Telling him the truth would trap him in whatever trip wires had you tied in knots right now. But, at the same time, he was expecting the lie. He wasn’t letting you save him from this.

But why? He was always saving people. Why, for once, couldn’t you save him from you?

“Idiot,” Bakugou said, pulling you in to him. You cried harder, the weight of your failure dropping in your well and spilling more tears out of you. “Why would I leave you alone?”

A sob crashed out, breaking through haphazard letters of attempted defense. He needed to go; him seeing you like this only made it worse.

“It, um,” Bakugou’s voice was low, a register that was unfamiliar even to you, unsteady and unrehearsed. “It seems easier to be alone. I know it does. But…you’ve shown me that’s not true, so just. Let me show you the same, okay?”

You could feel how hard he was trying as he pressed you into his chest and you finally, finally let him. The sobbing made you weak in the knees, light in the head, but he held you. He held you up, held you close, and he wasn’t letting go.

Everyone always talked about how crying felt good. About it being a release that helped you process your pain. And maybe that was right when talking about grief or loss, but not this. These tears felt like nothing more than splashing in the masturbatory wallowing hole of your self pity. Embarrassing and stupid.

“Why?” you finally whispered when the sobs subsided a bit, letting you keep enough of the air in to at least say that.

For a moment, Bakugou didn’t say anything, and you wondered if you’d imagined the words. If you were imagining the whole thing and he really had left like you’d wanted. But then you heard breath catch in the back of his throat as he seemed to try and fail to find the words a couple of times.

“In another world,” he finally started. “I’d come home from a day of work fucking exhausted, slump on the couch, eat, and pack it in to go to bed before starting all over the next day. And I’d probably be fine with that. But I’d be a fucking idiot, because coming home to you makes it worth coming home.”

Your breathing was steadying as he talked and you could feel the tears cooling against your cheek, against his wet t-shirt.

“Even with you looking like a damn mess like this,” Bakugou said and you could hear the smile in his voice. His smile, which had grown less rare over time, was always so wide that it made his words sound different. Warmer. They managed to draw a haggard chuckle out of you. “I’m happier just to be around you than convincing myself that being lonely at the top is the best way.”

“I don’t want to drag you down from the top,” you said. “Your company shouldn’t be dead weight.”

“Dead weight?” Bakugou repeated, pulling back to look at you. “Dumbass.”

He pulled you in again, both of his arms around the back of your head so that you were nearly smothered in his chest.

“That’s the stupidest fucking shit I’ve ever heard. You’re fucking incredible, and if that’s why you’re crying today, then you and me have to do some talking.”

Another laugh managed to crawl its way out of you and Bakugou let you pull back to breathe again.

“Are you okay now?”

‘Okay’ felt like such a far ways away. But you were above water again. Somewhere next to okay, distance undetermined.

“I’m surviving,” you decided.

Bakugou looked at you, a couple different things flashing over his eyes, too quickly for you to identify. “Well, that’ll do for now, but we’re not settling for that. Just talk to me. I’m not the best at this, but…I want to be better at it.”

In that moment, you remembered that Bakugou wasn’t perfect either. That he constantly had voices in his head telling him that he wasn’t doing enough and, not only that, he had the public constantly critiquing his attitude, his skills, his work. That, to some degree, this was already something you were going through together.

“I think you’re better at it than you think.”

Bakugou smiled again, this one not so wide, but more private. “You too, he said. Whatever bullshit you’re telling yourself—you’re better than you think.”

He pulled you in close again, and this time you sunk into it, enjoying his warm muscles, the way that his hair was still a little damp from the shower. You weren’t sure if anything had changed—all your problems were still present as they’d ever been. But yet, there was one thing. Now, with Bakugou’s arms like a buttress to your shaky but standing foundation, you, paradoxically, hoped that he would stay and stay and stay.

[blitzturtles]

Title: It Starts Like This, Ch. 6

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

Pairing(s): BruAbba, FugoNara / NaraFugo (Could be platonic, honestly, tho the BruAbba definitely isn't.)

Summary: “What?” he snaps.

“I’m just thinking.”

A pause. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Notes: Turns out being dead has a bit of a long term effect. Who would have thought?

This fic got away from me, so I'm breaking it down by character interaction (sort of). Here's another Bucci-centric chapter for the Bucci-centric fic.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Additional Notes: Sometimes having two disabled folks in one relationship is... rough. Not at all based on real life experiences...

Content Warning: couple fighting and a panic attack.

Also, for unnecessary clarification: Moody doesn't zipper through anything. Abbacchio goes around barriers and resets her timer as needed. Oh, and I use she/her for Moody. I've got a fic planned for that eventually.

There's also a mild mention of a headcanon I have where Bucci is technically Narancia's guardian. For school and healthcare purposes. (Fugo emancipated post-disownment, and Giorno kind of flies under the radar.)

-

Bucciarati won’t admit it, but there’s something devastating about the first medication not working. Or not working well enough. They can’t be sure, but he’s not willing to continue on something that ultimately failed to curb such a traumatic experience for one of the people he cares for most. He can’t quite shake the guilt that’s been slowly wearing away at him for days.

It’s only the anxiety of having another seizure in front of his famiglia that has him permitting Abbacchio staying home once more. He can’t do that to Narancia again, and he knows that it won’t be any less stressful for the rest of them. It’s bad enough when Leone has to deal with the fallout, but he’s better prepared for it. He’s seen worse, and it’s part of what they both signed up for. For better or worse, in sickness and in health. They’ve done everything but scribbled their names on the paperwork to make it official, but Bruno thinks that, with everything else they’ve gone through, they’ve more than earned their right as one another’s life partner.

Still, that doesn’t mean that Bucciarati likes to be watched like a lab experiment. With eyes that are waiting for the slightest hint that something’s wrong. It makes him acutely aware of the fact that he could have another seizure at any given moment. That he might have one with no warning signs, or at least not any that he’d recognize as such.

That’s the problem with auras; he can’t seem to recognize them for what they are.

He’s being unreasonable, he knows. He hasn’t had enough seizures to know whether or not he’ll learn to recognize the warning signs, but it feels like it’s been an eternity already. And a thousand seizures, rather than a small handful. Part of that is due to how poorly he feels afterwards, and how off he feels on the medication. Part of it is how all of this has disrupted their lives in every way imaginable. And all of it has him in a sour mood.

“You’re upset,” Abbacchio starts with a frown. It’s the first time either of them has spoken all morning.

“I’m frustrated.”

Abbacchio hums in response. A quiet sound that wouldn’t normally grate Bucciarati’s nerves, but it gets under his skin and festers.

“What?” he snaps.

“I’m just thinking.”

A pause. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You never want to talk about it,” Abbacchio answers, snappish and untrue. Even if it were, he knows why. Understands better than anyone else.

Bruno’s eyes widen slightly. A startled, wounded look evident in his blue irises, but his gaze hardens and he sneers,

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“Bruno, wait--”

But Bruno is already gone with nothing but a trace of gold left behind.

Damn that stand.

______

It’s a childish thing, to storm off, especially when Bucciarati knows that Leone’s only worried. That he hadn’t meant the words that came out of his mouth, and that he’s as scared as Bucciarati is. That this is all out of his depth, regardless of what they feel for one another or what promises they’ve made. It’s still terrifying the way it’s terrifying to watch Abbacchio cough up blood some mornings.

He regrets leaving the moment he stops moving. Stops tearing holes through walls and leaving Sticky Fingers to put them back together. It’s like someone punched the air out of him, and all he can do is sink to the ground, on his knees, with his head held in his hands and his mouth open, gasping for air.

Each breath comes too quick, and leaves before he feels like he gets any air. There’s something wrapped around his chest. Too tight, and somehow pulling tighter. It’s all he can do to lie down. Before the next inevitable comes. He already feels too light-headed with a lingering dizziness that makes it impossible to think through.

“Bruno,” the voice sounds familiar. Too much like his own echoing in his ears, but he’s not talking, much less calling his own name. His voice wouldn’t sound like that. Wouldn’t sound steady, if not worried, but, when he looks, there’s a mirror image of himself looking down at him. It falls to its knees, and a familiar sound rings out in the air as Moody’s timer runs out. She reaches for him as purple wraps around her frame once more.

“Bruno,” Leone repeats, this time in his own voice, from his own body. He all but collapses on his knees beside his stand and reaches out with careful hands to brush Bucciarati’s hair from his face.

Time freezes for a moment. Bucciarati expects consciousness to flee him without warning, but the air lingers. Stale and stiff and impossible to breathe, and all he can do is try and try to pull enough of it into his lungs to try to chase away the spots dancing across his vision.

Recognition flashes across Leone’s features. Where his hand has gone still in Bruno’s hair, it moves once more. A gentle carding. A distraction from the racing fears in Bucciarati’s head. He can’t calm his breathing no matter how hard he tries. It feels completely out of his control, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Hey, are you listening to me?” Leone asks him seemingly out of the blue, but he knows that’s not right. That Leone must have been talking since his arrival, but Bruno can’t recall a word that’s been said.

“Yes,” he breathes, because he is now, and he meant to before. It’s just so hard to hear anything past the roaring in his ears.

“You need to calm down a little bit. Take some deep breaths,” Leone tells him, as if Bucciarati hasn’t been trying to do that since he stopped moving. There’s a sense of impending doom that lingers, pressing down on him until it’s crushing and unbearable.

“Hey,” Leone calls, tapping Bruno gently on the forehead, “You gotta focus on me, alright? Stop listening to whatever’s going on in that thick head of your’s, and listen to me. I need you to breathe in-- slower than that. Okay, good, hold-- now out. Annnd in--” They go through the steps several more times, until Bucciarati can successfully follow the counts more often than not. Finally-- finally he can breathe. Oxygen filters through his system, and his vision begins to clear. It’s only then that he starts to put the pieces together, and it’s shame that replaces the panic.

“I’m-”

“Don’t,” Leone cuts Bruno off before he can apologize. “I get it.” He moves to catch Bruno when he wobbles a bit too much upon trying to sit up. “Take it easy, will you?” He sighs and sits back.

“Sorry,” Bruno says, for lack of anything else to say.

“I’ll kick your ass if you apologize again.”

Bruno opens his mouth, and Leone quirks an eyebrow. It’s enough of a threat, empty as it may be, to convince Bruno to click his teeth together.

Leone huffs a sound that might be a laugh. Or it might be the last of his sanity slipping away. He scrubs his hands over his face and sighs. “I’m sorry. For what I said earlier. That was shitty. I’m just-”

“Scared?”

“Terrified.”

“That’s fair,” Bruno muses quietly. He absently wipes at his face, and it’s the first time he realizes that there are tears there. Streaking down both cheeks and plentiful in nature. He can’t remember the last time he had a panic attack. He’s better at running from his problems than he is dealing with them head on. At least the ones emotional in nature. The rest he’s always tackled with little more than a hope and a prayer to a deity he’s long lost faith in. “I’m sorry, too.”

“I told you to stop apologizing.”

“When have I ever listened to you?” Bruno snarks back, shoulders relaxing slightly.

Leone snorts, “Not a day in your life.” Bruno has the scars to prove it, too. Bastard. “C’mon. Let’s get off the floor. I’m getting too old for this.”

It’s Bruno’s turn to laugh this time, “You’re barely in your twenties.”

“And I’m too goddamn old. Up,” Leone pushes himself to his feet before reaching his hands out to pull Bruno upright. There’s a pause where the two are lost, staring at one another, and Leone decides ‘fuck it’. What better time to go for a kiss then after your partner has a full on panic attack? They’ve done worse with far more questionable timing.

Bruno responds to the kiss with a pleased little sound in the back of his throat. He tugs Leone closer, wanting the contact more than anything. He can feel Leone’s hands cradling the back of his head, fingers linking together at his nape.

“Gross! Get a room!”

Leone curses as they break apart and shoots Narancia the meanest look he can, “I will murder you.”

“Only if you catch me!” And the kid is off before Leone can even respond.

Bucciarati can’t help laughing at the whole display. He grabs for Leone’s hand before his partner can seriously consider killing Narancia. “May I remind you that I’m legally responsible for him?”

“They won’t find the body.”

“Leone!”

[heli0s-writes]

As it Was II: His Girl

Summary: You haven’t always been his girl. Pairing: Steve x Reader, Bucky x Reader A/N: ANGST! Thank you for all the feedback and love! As it Was will be a 3 part series. Part 2 is told from Bucky’s perspective. See you next time for Part 3 :)

It’s always relief that washes over him first when he pulls into the road, seeing the house the same as when he left. The pinwheels, the mailbox, the swing you shove him into even though you know he doesn’t fit.

His playful girl with a stubborn streak.

It’s been two weeks without his girl and his home. He’s been on longer missions, but two weeks is two weeks too long, just as they all are.

The second emotion he feels is anticipation. Excitement for the embrace he’ll give and receive. The kisses, the fingers through his hair, the knowledge that you will be rushing downstairs and into his arms.

Sundown arrives late in the evening when summertime’s daylight spans nearly fifteen hours in the heat of June. The meadow buzzes alive in the breeze, ruffling winged insects through the tufts of wild grass and blown dandelions. His boots tread through the path, startling the idyllic soil beneath them.

There are no footsteps to herald his return, today; Bucky comes home to your back in front of the kitchen window. The door creaks open as he steps in, duffel bag in tow. He always imagines he would surprise you after these long trips, but that damn door and its loud hinges will never allow him the chance.

“Darlin’?” He calls, pushing it shut gently with his foot, “You alright?”

You turn, chin tucked into the hollow space of your collarbone and shoulder. The loosened braid of your hair sways over your spine, saffron half-wilted blossoms of Black-Eyed Susans gazing at him sadly.

The setting sun scatters against the window, streams through those sheer embroidered curtains you love so much, even though he says baby, they don’t do anything. His stubborn girl scoffs and fluffs then anyway.

He’s glad for those useless curtains now as the light illuminates your side profile. The corona of your shape from across the house makes him sigh in wonder.

His girl, wrapped in floating cream gauze. His girl, standing by the sink with oranges. His girl, soft and beautiful and bright, waiting for him.

You haven’t always been soft.

You haven’t always been his girl.

He knows something is wrong when you remain immobile, clutching the edge of the counter, abandoned cup of hand-squeezed juice and the carcasses of two halves next to the reamer.

“Honey? I’m coming over to you. Stay right there.”

You collapse in his arms before he gets the chance to lock them around. You smell crisp and clean, just a little briny with sweat from time spent outside. The jars on the counter and table are full again, this time accented with plucked sprigs of lavender and a small cattail from the pond.

“Oh, Buck,” You press your face into his shoulder, scrubbing your brow on the rough fabric of his jacket, “I love you.”

“Love you too.” He pauses, fingers prodding lightly over your body, searching for some physical aspect that might explain your ailment. Nothing. You hold tighter to him, letting your weight press down, and he supports you easily, nose rubbing the exposed skin of your neck.

“Where’s our little guy?”

“He’s sleeping. He chased ducks and then they chased him. Planted completely in mud. Bath time was… exhausting.”

Both of you chuckle at that. Little James, that precious boy had a rowdy streak in him, always too eager to rile something up— sometimes even his mother.

The laughter subsides as he continues to rub your back, waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop. Your heartache seeps into him, dampens his eyes and mouth, licking its way into his belly.

This happens, sometimes, because it’s bound to. The grief comes and goes, and when it arrives hard and grim, he cradles you in his arms regardless of how much he wishes his love is enough to keep you happy.

Today seems to be one of those days.

And it’s because you haven’t always been his girl.

He used to worry himself to sleep, straining to see your outline in the deep darkness of the bedroom. The house, sheltered by tree and leaves, lies so far away from the city that on a moonless night, he felt lost in a sea of ink.

The house once belonged to someone else. His place in the bed, too. The impression of a body larger than him, grander than him, a body you loved more than him. It would cradle him in its unsympathetic crease, and he would lie awake, listen to your deep breaths, soothe your nightmare sobbing, call your name when you would stutter Steve.

Steve. Steve. Steve.

The shadow that had hung over you both.

Steve was always ‘til the end of the line, until he wasn’t.

He wasn’t for Bucky, and he wasn’t for you.

Bucky had come back into the world five years later, found you and Steve elbow deep in the trenches of alien bodies and death—watched a love that had bloomed so fully continue to thrive, and it gave him hope.

Hope for himself, hope for the next day. Until it just… wasn’t.

Steve left Bucky, and Steve left you.

The cabin that evening had been illuminated by a single campfire in the front yard. The smell of burning objects and scorched kindling coaxed him forward. In front of the blaze, you stood, hair fixed into a tight knot. That shaved side he always liked glowed orange and red diagonal lines.

You knew, of course, way before he even arrived. You were always the quickest of them— alert, perched, could give Clint’s arrows a run for his money.

Hey.

He had never heard that gravel in your voice before.

In the flames were photographs, corners eaten away and twisted with heat until they turned black. Clothes, bed sheets, books, even the sketchbook— that old, leather-bound thing Steve always kept close to his chest. You had thrown them all in.

Wanna roast some marshmallows? Let’s get fat on sugar and chocolate. The world is safe.

A spark crackled in the fire the same time your voice did, but Bucky closed his eyes. Let you regain your composure because he knew you wouldn’t have wanted him to see you cry. Your voice was strained, full of resentment.

Everyone’s gone back to where they should be.

He smiled, lopsided and broken.

Not me. I’m here eatin’ marshmallows with you.

And then, joylessly, you had pointed to the dwindling pile of Steve’s fossils strewn about.

Throw some shit in. It feels good.

Your hand links itself inside of his as you tug him out of the kitchen and towards the living room couch. You place the glass into his palm, watch him drink the juice and kiss the corner of his mouth where a droplet remains. He loves it when you’re sweet, told you once it’s his favorite thing about you—that you can rot his teeth and hurt his stomach and he’ll still come back for seconds.

Thirds. Fourths. You scoffed, fixed on the anecdote of food, your appetite will bankrupt us.

He agreed then, kept the joke running.

“What is it?” Bucky’s hand finds your jaw, lifts it gently until he can see your eyes crawling with veins and lined in red, puffed, swollen. Crying again. “What is it, hon?”

Since James, you’ve started crying a million times more than he ever thought a person could—when he gets a fever, you cry. When he falls, you cry. He thinks it’s ridiculous, that you—his girl who can stab a man better even than he can—that when James cries, you cry. Darling, he is two and he will cry because a leaf dropped.

But you haven’t cried like this in months, almost a year—not like this, not split open and prolonged.

Bucky heart swells with dread when he thinks about why your face is raw with rubbing. “Is it?”

“Yeah.” You mutter, “Steve… he’s back. Stopped by earlier.”

His tongue feels like lead, sinking into his throat to strangle him. He hadn’t heard Steve’s name from your mouth in almost a year. The world had turned and turned without Steve Rogers, and when it seemed like both of you might have finally let go of the ghost, he comes back.

Where does Bucky start?

His girl, burrowed into his chest, tucked away in his arms, hides her face now. His girl, will she still be his girl?

It was only a few years ago that a new love sprung from the ashes of a dying one. And the corpse had lived a long life, full of memories that haunted you both. Bucky and Steve had quite a long life together, too.

He clutches tighter, rubs his arms up and down yours, squeezes like he is hoping you might just sink into his chest. Stay safe inside of him where the pain can’t find you anymore.

“Can we go to bed?” You sob suddenly, shaking in his hold, “Please let’s go to bed.”

He hated that bed for so long.

You used to lie in it for days at a time. He would come by and you would be upstairs in the loft on your side and staring out the window. Hey, Buck. The whole house smelled like earth and salt, as if you had flooded the wood with tears and it was still drying out.

Have you eaten? Have you slept? Have you done anything?

You only laughed dryly and burrowed deeper into the brand-new sheets, like everything else that used to be shared between two people. Do what? Go where? Sleep to dream of him? No, thank you.

Bucky had stomped downstairs, rummaged through the cabinets, found the half open bag of marshmallows from three weeks ago- stale and slightly stiff, and shoved handfuls of it into your mouth. You said we’d get fat on sugar. You better fucking eat this.

When both your cheeks were full and the sad tears turned into happy ones, he sat back with his arms crossed at the edge of the bed and huffed. And you’d spit the enormous, drenched, sticky pile out down your shirt and held your head in both your hands. I’m so fucked, Bucky. I’m screwed. I’m fucking screwed.

He didn’t know what you meant, because he was grieving too, but that string of panicked statements rang a thought more desperate than any he could have. Bucky didn’t feel fucked without Steve. Bucky felt… discarded. He felt… abandoned, forgotten, small. But he didn’t feel fucked.

It took two more visits, two more weeks, and an extraordinarily rainy night before you told him the truth.

There was shattered glass against the wall and your body slumped down on the opposite side of the kitchen. There was wracked sobbing, fingernails digging into your scalp and shoulder until he peeled them away pricked in red. Two months had passed, and you were pregnant. Did Steve know? Did you tell him? He would have stayed, if he knew.

Bucky had suddenly grown hopeful for a past that already passed. Steve would have stayed. Did the chance slip from you, to tell him? Did you know too late?

I had just found out. But then he told me his news first and … fuck him. Fuck him for leaving. Why would I tell him? So he could stay for a clump of cells and not me? So he could love an obligation and pine for a ghost? Fuck him.

And then suddenly, the clawing resumed, and Bucky wrestled to keep your hands away from your body, wrapping his legs over yours, holding you tight until your squirming died. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, gripped your back to his chest, and you both rocked on the floor. It’s gonna be okay. I got you. I’m here with you.

It rained the night you told him. It rained again when the boy arrived.

Nine months you carried him inside of you, hated him, hated his father, hated yourself.

Helen came to the cabin, because you couldn’t be bothered to leave. You were happy to die in labor, you had said with a grin. Bucky stood by her side, mouth set in a firm line and told you to shut the fuck up.

At that, you genuinely laughed so hard you had to cover your entire face with your hands and when you pulled them away, suddenly, Bucky thought that the glow some women get when they’re pregnant must have been twice as true for you.

The boy came with a clap of thunder.

Bucky had known carnage, but the birth was terrible and horrific and when you went pale with the loss, he swore that if you got what you wanted, he would die with you. Helen yelled at him to get the water, get the rags, and the bucket, and the needle. Wash the boy, wrap him, hustle, Sergeant!

The bundle thrust into his arms was softer than sand, wetter than water, crimson and sluiced with blood. Two blue eyes gleamed out of the swath of blanket and even though people say newborns are beautiful, he could only see a red and angry thing, tearing the life from you with the eyes of his old best friend.

Now his old best friend has returned for his old girl and his new baby boy.

And Bucky’s girl is still in his arms, pleading for him to let her rest.

“Okay, darlin’, let me clean up first. I’ll tuck you in.”

You grip his collar and tangle your hands in his hair, clambering to get into his lap. The skirt of your dress folds over all four entwined legs and you suddenly press your mouth to his in a blistering kiss.

“Let’s make a baby,” you sob distraughtly. “W-we… I-I want to make a baby with you, Bucky.”

He quiets your rambling, stills his own heartbreak for the sake of attending to yours, and returns your fever with softness.

“We’ve got one, hon’. He’s in bed.” He presses his forehead against yours and smiles, tries to make it look real so that you believe him, “Baby, we got a boy and he’s wonderful, even if he makes his mama chase him through mud.”

He loves that boy. He loves him like his own flesh and blood, and he’ll be damned if Steve thinks he can take him away.

Upstairs, a whine signals your attention, followed by a sound of choked crying before the wail of your son breaks loose. “C’mon,” Bucky urges.

He climbs slowly, waiting for you each step of the way. You linger, feet heavy along with your heart. By the time you make it through the doorway, Bucky already has James in his arms, rubbing his back, humming to him.

The boy fists Bucky’s hair, squeezing a handful in pulses, blubbering and singing a tuneless song. “Daddy’s home. Daddy, daddy. Sunnyshine outside.”

Bucky laughs, “James, it’s nighttime.” He kisses the top of James’ head anyway, “Can’t blame you, though, you’re too small to see out the window. We gotta teach you how to tell time.”

“Time t’ play?”

“No… time to go back to sleep.” Then, Bucky puts his head on top of James’ and pretends to snore loudly, the sound vibrating from his chest and into those golden locks. A shrill giggle escapes him and he pulls away just to come back and press his cheeks to his father’s face.

Bucky walks over to where you stand with your eyes pressed to the heel of your palms and tilts James up to your face. “Mama’s tired too, let’s all go to bed, yeah?”

Blessedly, the boy relents. He reaches over almost teetering out of Bucky’s arms and pulls on the thumb by your ear. “Night mama, love you.”

 On the edge of the bed, the old imprint has been pressed out. Bucky takes off his shoes, stretches his back and motions for you to come next to him. He kisses your fingertips and brushes the hair from your face, combs out the wilted wildflowers and you lean into his touch.

It’s been silent since James fell asleep. He can hear crickets and cicadas outside the window, woodland creatures coming alive in the twilight.

He watches the way your lips bend and fold inside your mouth to keep yourself locked away.

Sometimes your love is hidden inside a puzzle his hands are too clumsy to place together. There are pieces missing, he thinks, but still, he tries. Sometimes you blissfully help him with the task and sometimes you’re away from the table.

Tonight, you’re far from him. Lost somewhere in the memory and possibility of two hands many times more delicate than his.

Steve. Steve. Steve.

And he wonders if your heart will ever beat his name like that old rhythm it had known so well.

Your weight dips the mattress, and you lean your head onto his shoulder. “I love you.”

He hears it, but he never really hears it.

Not in the way it used to leave your tongue. Stevie, I love you. You giant idiot! You meatball, Steve! Full of ringing laughter right before you would crush your mouth to his, tug him by the collar into the dark of Cap’s compound bedroom.

The only flames Bucky knew were shared in moments of desperation, when the pain was too much and the fire was necessary.

James tucked into his crib, you crumpled on the floor. Bucky would sit by your side night after night, as he had been doing for the last thirteen months. It was dark, then, not even illuminated by a moonbeam.

You held on to his shirt, pushed him down, pressed both your hands to his neck and whispered. Thank you. Thank you. I love you. I love you.

The first kiss shared was wet and salty, tears slipping into the space between two open mouths. Teeth clicked, nails scratched, and you wouldn’t even let him pull away enough to ask if you were sure about it.

He knew you were beautiful. Seen it for years and years. But when you slipped off the shirt from your shoulders, the moon seemed to shine right out from your skin.

He worried himself to sleep next to you that night.

 “What do you want to do?” He asks now, pushing his fear away, “I’m here for you, whatever you want. Whatever is best.”

Your chin jabs his shoulder, “You are best. You are best for me, and James, and Bucky—d--” Tears roll down your cheeks, plop big, wet, crystal balls onto his arm. “Don’t you dare.”

For the second time that night, you crawl into his lap, straddle his waist, and his breath is punched out of his lungs in awe of your beauty. “I love you, idiot. Don’t ever say that to me again.”

“Alright, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your mouth, “I won’t.”

The flame burns tonight. You undress him with deft fingers, yanking his clothes, hissing when he pulls away to peel the shirt off— as if not touching him pains you. The dress stays on your waist, rucked up, its straps tugged down and the top pulled open to expose your chest—soft, heaving with love and agony.

Bucky. Bucky. I love you. I love you. I love you so much.

Desperate, again.

He’s not sure if you’re convincing him or yourself.

You tug his hair, grip his chest and back, kiss him until his head spins. The bed creaks softly, as if it doesn’t want to interrupt the sounds that your bodies create together.

He makes love to you, and even though he is bone tired from the mission and the drive, he doesn’t feel it until you tremble in his arms and slump against his chest. He doesn’t attend to himself until you’re underneath the covers, breathing deeply.

Then, Bucky lies down too, runs his hand through his hair and sobs into that inky night.

“Bucky?”

His heart stops beating in his chest. He’s frozen and caught.

You turn on your side, hand finding his damp cheek with some difficulty in the dark. “Baby,” you sigh, “Oh, Bucky...” A loud sniffle, a choke, and then your nose rubs against his. Your lips pat his tears away, kitten licks over the line of his sharp jaw.

“You’ve always been so good to me, baby. Always so good.”

 He’s heard those words before from your lips, after the boy came with the rain. Your eyes had fluttered and closed as Helen leaned against the doorframe, tearing off her gloves.

She’s okay, Sergeant. She’s just resting. You should, too.

He refused her, watched the baby in the makeshift bassinet as Helen unpacked her overnight bag in the guest room. He wiped your forehead with a damp towel, listened to the rain crash against the window, and sat down in the chair.

The room was a closed chamber trapping in the smell of wet pennies and sweat. He tugged the windowpane open and placed towels on the floor to catch the downpour. You woke with a yelp, jerked awake by thunder and a streak of lightning. It was only for a second, but Bucky held onto your hand, let you slip back to sleep.

Helen roused you both in the morning, let you hold the baby, taught you how to turn him on his stomach, how to settle him down, how to nurse. Bucky had stood up, ready to dismiss himself before he caught your wide eyes, terrified of the life in your arms.

He stayed as Helen guided your hand to massage the boy’s cheek. Little fists clenched the slipped-off hem of your shirt, his mouth opened, and you cried when he latched on.

The rain had subsided in the late hours of the night and the sun was rising high, streaming luminously into the loft. Helen moved to draw the curtains and give you some reprieve from the rays, but Bucky stopped her; you needed the sun and its warmth.

She nodded and agreed, and he slowly went to the bed and kneeled, looking up into your red eyes soaking your face.

Hey. He had smiled, wiping the trickling streams, Look. He nodded to the illuminated window, bent finger stroking the boy wrapped in cloth. No more rain, darlin’, it’s sunny out.

Outside was gold. Like the boy’s head. And you thought, like Bucky’s heart.

You’re so good to me. You cried, even though he quietly asked you to stop, because if you didn’t, he would start, too. You’ve always been so good to me.

Nine agonizing months and Bucky Barnes had been your rock and center and lighthouse in the dark.

Bucky, I love you.

It was a sunny morning when he wept and held his little family in his arms.

Next 

[lesbooblur]

i just hope you see me in a little better light

Word count: 1.8k

Characters: Deceit Sanders, Creativity | Roman “Princey” Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus “The Duke” Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders, mentions of orange side, mentions of Anxiety | Virgil Sanders

Pairings: Deceit Sanders/Creativity | Roman “Princey” Sanders, King Creativity/Deceit Sanders

Warnings: light angst, mentions of neglect sort of, low self esteem

Summary: In the beginning, Deceit was in love with Creativity. Remus immediately trusts him for a reason he can’t remember, and Roman, well Roman is so much like the king Deceit lost. 

AN: i got very into sanders sides this week and cranked this baby out in a day. please enjoy and I will be back with more angst about this series I cannot stop thinking about the new episode. please come talk to me about sanders sides. I have nobody to talk to abt this and so many ideas. title is from "to be so lonely" by harry styles which is my absolute favorite song from the fine line album

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992327

**SPOILERS FOR PUTTING OTHERS FIRST**

Before there was anyone else, there were Deceit and Morality. They didn’t have names back then, because Thomas hadn’t quite yet learned how to talk well enough for that. Deceit kept his hands and ambitions bare. He wanted so badly for Thomas to be someone important, to mean something in this world.

Morality had taken quite a shine to Thomas’ parents. He clung to their lessons, to their assurances that Thomas was a good kid. He watched Thomas’ brothers get scolded for breaking a window and trodding in the flowers in the yard. He was, in essence, developing a checklist of right and wrong. 

(There was a third, but he didn’t leave the corner of Thomas’ mind. He used to show up a lot when Thomas was still a baby. He would never tell them what he wanted. Morality didn’t like him very much. He was just so loud.)

And then, when Thomas couldn’t have been much more than three years old, the others showed up. 

Logic didn’t really like him, and he didn’t really like Logic. Logic tended to side with Morality more often than he dared to admit. He would claim that “no, Thomas shouldn’t seek revenge on that idiot who pushed him on the playground, because then he would get in trouble, and that would not be very beneficial to Thomas’ education,” but revenge sounded pretty logical to Deceit. You know, as long as they didn’t get caught. 

But it’s fine, Deceit didn’t have to win this one. It’s just that he didn’t win any of them. 

And then Creativity showed up. 

He was just as wild as he was smart, and his wit made him fascinating to Deceit. Sure, Logic and Morality tolerated Deceit, but Creativity was the first one to ever choose Deceit’s company. 

“Want to play ‘the floor is lava’ with us?” he had asked once. He only ever spoke in what Deceit would later learn is called the “royal we.” It had been a particularly taxing day for Deceit, as Thomas had spent over an hour deciding whether or not to tell his mom about the lamp he broke only to have Shea rat him out anyway (Deceit was on team “don’t tell.” Not that it mattered very much when he had both Logic and Morality against him. There were two people lurking in the corner. One of them, he found out later, called himself “Anxiety.” Deceit spent his energy deliberately not looking over there.) No one had ever asked Deceit to play a game before. At best, the others just sort of avoided him. 

Creativity took him into a place called the Imagination, and it was beautiful. It was the oddest mix of serene and twisted. A divine balance. 

Creativity was the best at bedtime stories. He could spin you a tale out of even the smallest hint of an idea. He came up with amazing villains and glorious heroes. Deceit always liked the stories best where the villain and the hero would fall in love and run away to live together.

Morality did not. Morality’s favorite stories were the ones where the good guy vanquished the bad guy. When Creativity told stories in the common room, they were always those ones. He always looked so disappointed by the end of it, though.

Creativity never asked Deceit for anything, so Deceit offered him the world. 

“Run away with me,” he said one night. “We can go live in the Imagination together.” Thomas would have been about five. 

“Deceit, they’re- We would love to, more than anything, but…”

He trailed off, brown eyes glancing back towards Deceit’s door. They were sitting in Deceit’s room drawing a story of a brave knight falling in love with the dragon he’s supposed to kill. 

If Deceit was sad, only his brown eye showed it. The yellow one stared unblinking. Creativity focused on that one. 

“They’re your friends,” Deceit said. “But what about me?”

“Of course you’re our friend! Why would you even-”

“It’s okay,” Deceit said. “Nobody around here likes me much anyway.” 

“No, Deceit- We- Look,” he said, and grasped Deceit’s hands in his. His skin was warm against the yellow gloves. “Our name is Romulus.” 

Deceit started. “Are we- We’re allowed to have names?” It was half a question and half a revelation.

“The others do,” Romulus said, voice soft and shameful. 

They didn't tell Deceit, but that was just par for the course. 

“Oh,” Deceit said. He felt the smallest he ever had. He wondered if it was possible to shrink down so small you vanish. 

“Morality is Patton and Logic is Logan.”

“Oh,” Deceit parroted. So that is what being trusted felt like. 

“You need one,” Romulus said, and it was not a question. It was a lifeline in a storm. “How about… Janus. God of crossroads and choices.”

“I love it,” Janus said, and he was not lying. 

That night, Romulus vanished. Janus searched the Imagination for hours. All he found was a kid with bright red eyes dressed in green and black. 

“Remus,” he said when Janus asked his name. Janus did not cry.

“Okay, Remus,” he said instead. “Let’s go home.”

--

Janus is not having the worst day ever. He’s not, and if you ask him he’ll tell you that. He just hasn’t left his room because… it’s too warm out. 

Remus had left him a pile of stale cookies at the door. It was weird to have someone trust you so completely for no reason that they remember. Janus doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. 

So maybe it’s not the worst day ever, but it certainly is in the top three, because Janus had been working so hard to get Thomas to just go to that callback, and Roman just up and ruined the whole thing. Like he doesn’t know that it’s already exhausting to be around Roman due to the sheer similarities to Romulus. Which he actually doesn’t know. Remus may have inherited Romulus’ trust of Janus, but Roman inherited the bulk of the similarities. Roman has no trust of Janus.

And that’s fine, honestly, because Janus is not helplessly in love with Romulus. Which frankly, is stupid, because neither twin has the memories of Romulus or even the ability to become Romulus again, so Janus can just spend the rest of his life sulking and missing his friend. That’s cool. 

Maybe it’s good that Roman hates him. It would be worse if he didn’t. 

Virgil doesn’t trust him, which is fine with Janus. He gets it, he’s a handful, and not particularly easy to get along with, so Virgil can sit and sulk in the juror’s booth and pretend to be one of them. What are they calling themselves these days? Light sides?

He guesses Dark Side has kind of a cool ring to it. 

Logan and Patton are the same. They remember him and remember hating him, but they haven’t really bothered to see how the past 25 years have changed him. That’s fine with Janus. He’s got all the friends he needs.

He has a family of his own now, after all. One of them still hides in the corner. That’s okay. He will show up on his own time. 

Remus is a lovable handful. He still possesses all of the eccentricities of Romulus with very little of the personality. He’s made himself into something new. Janus can respect that. 

It was Remus who was torn from Roman. It is Roman who maintains the essence of Romulus. It gets harder and harder for Janus to ignore that fact.

“I just love you, Roman,” he told Roman in the courtroom. When Roman had flushed red, Janus pretended it didn’t hurt. 

It does.

The next time he sees Roman is worse. It is everything Janus secretly fears, because there is something close to recognition in Roman’s green eyes when Janus says his name. And then it’s gone, replaced by anger and scorn. When he leaves and Patton follows, Janus does not. 

It’s better this way, he reminds himself. Janus is only a nuisance. 

He didn’t expect Roman to end up at his door. He didn’t expect to ever see Roman again.

Roman’s cookies aren’t stale, and they have walnuts in them, which are Janus’ favorites. It’s silly that being with Roman feels like knowing you’re almost at the summit of the mountain. 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Roman says, green eyes staring down at Janus’ covered hands. “Ever. But I just wanted to bring you these. I’m so sorry, Janus.”

It’s a whisper, barely even that. A regret and a promise.

“Your brother is not a bad person, even if his cookies are stale. To call him evil, and to call you evil, that wasn’t fair. I’m sorry, Roman.” 

The name feels weird in his mouth. They named Rome after Romulus, didn’t they? 

“Can I come in?”

Janus hesitates for a while. No one except Remus and Virgil had ever been in there before. 

“Yeah. You may not like what you find,” he says, cracking a smile. 

He steps back, and Roman enters the room. It’s hauntingly familiar. 

Roman takes a moment to look at the room. His eyes fall on the drawing tacked up to the wall. Any lines on the page are wobbly like they were drawn by someone young, but it’s clearly a prince and a dragon falling in love. 

“Did you…?” Roman asks, and Janus understands the question anyway.

“And old friend,” he answers. 

“It looks familiar,” Roman says, tilting his head to look at the picture. 

“It shouldn’t,” Janus responds. 

“Were you lying that day in the courtroom?” Roman asks. 

“I lie a lot. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“About loving me.”

“Oh,” Janus says, and his mouth closes with a soft click. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Roman responds. “Okay. Wait, is that-”

“Half a lie,” Janus says. “I was in love with the person who drew that. Maybe I still am. He was the only person who ever listened to me.” 

Roman studies the photo again. “Romulus,” he says, and it shakes Janus. 

“I was one of the first sides to be born,” Janus says. “I remember the day you split.”

“Then you know who did it,” Roman says, but it’s more of a question than anything. 

“No,” Janus lies. “I found Remus in the imagination shortly after.” 

“I can’t be Romulus again, Janus,” Roman says, and now he’s looking at the side of Janus’ face that is facing him. Janus doesn’t have the strength to turn to meet his gaze. 

“I know,” Janus says, and he’s not sure if it’s a lie. 

“You’re in love with a ghost,” Roman says, and it stings in the way only the truth can. 

“Yes,” Janus says, and it’s not a lie. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for.

“Tell me about him,” Roman says. “I’d love to hear.” 

Janus tells him about Romulus. In exchange, Roman tells him a story about a handsome prince falling in love with the charming lawyer who dressed in yellow and black.

[quarterfromcanon]

The Courage and the Strength I Need

Heather & Valencia - Femslash February - Day 23 - Phone Call  [1,957 words]

Valencia flipped listlessly through the channels while she rested on her stomach. Nothing sparked intrigue. She stretched along the couch, but the far end was cold and empty. Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She flung out an arm to angle the message into her line of sight.

HARVARD

Are you sure you don’t want to come over? We can finally start The Wire like we’ve been talking about forever but never do.

Valencia smiled and opened the conversation.

I appreciate it, hon. I really do. I just don’t think I’ve got the energy for the kinds of discussions you’ll want to have after every episode. I won’t make great company tonight. Also, you have a habit of staring at the side of my head in the dark. I keep feeling that instead of paying attention to the show. 

HARVARD

Well, I wouldn’t do it for the WHOLE series but... I won’t lie. That would be my main activity for like 90% of the run time. I want to relive every scene through you because IT’S THAT GOOD. Plus your face is, like, extra pretty in the TV glow. Can I help it if my friend is a goddess and I, a humble human woman, sometimes find myself reminded of that ethereal beauty?

Valencia laughed. She set the remote control aside so she could type with both hands.

Should I screenshot this and tell Heather you’re swooping in to steal her girl the minute she’s out of town? :P

She left the sofa in favor of the bedroom. Valencia flicked on the closet light and stepped through the doorway.

HARVARD

I doubt she’d be fazed. I once said she has abs like the Venus de Milo.

Oh, so *I’m* the one coming to kick your ass.

HARVARD

I don’t doubt that you could. But was I wrong? ;D

Valencia heaved a forlorn sigh. She grabbed one of Heather’s camo jackets, hugged it to her chest, and inhaled deeply. 

No. Damn it, Rebecca! Now I’m missing them, too.

HARVARD

Feel free to take care of business. I’m in the middle of a Potions class in Hogwarts Mystery. I can brew while I wait for you to text back.

Valencia pinched the bridge of her nose, amused in spite of herself.

I am not going to bookend a masturbation session with texts to you.

HARVARD

What if I promise not to track how many minutes elapse?

You and I both know you would.

HARVARD

Rub out the loneliness. Grind away the gloom.

Valencia ducked into the hanging garments to conceal her reaction, even though Rebecca could not see the flush of color spreading over her skin.

I think I’ll pass.

Rebecca sent a gif of Frodo Baggins smirking and saying, “All right then. Keep your secrets.”

HARVARD

All I’m saying is it might cheer you up, at least for a little while. Ever since Heather left for the trip, you’ve been all

She followed with a gif of the transformed Kuzco crying in the rain from The Emperor’s New Groove.

Are you saying I have a llama face?

HARVARD

So testy. See? Someone’s horny and angry. Time for the two finger tango.

Valencia rolled her eyes. She began to type but then noticed the clock and backspaced to write a different reply. 

It’s almost 9, so she’s about to call. Thanks for helping me stay distracted until now. <3 Talk to you tomorrow?

HARVARD

Anytime. <3 Get to bed. ;)

Her parting gif was of a television character Valencia didn’t recognize calling, “Have good sex!”

As if on cue, an incoming FaceTime alert appeared. Valencia left the closet, shutting off the light and closing the door behind her as she did so, and then threw herself across the mattress. She hastily brushed back her disheveled hair and answered the call.

“Hey, baby.” Valencia realized she was leaning an abnormally small distance from the screen, just to feel nearer. She adjusted the space by degrees until it was more comfortable. “How are things in Wine Country?”

“I haven’t gotten enough of either. When I did get to be outside drinking, there was always some dusty old white guy droning into my ear and harshing my buzz. This valley make me need a Napa. Ugh, even my humor’s going stale. You and the girls have gotta organize a heist to take me away from here. I’m not gonna make it.” She fluffed her hotel pillow and pouted. 

Valencia mirrored the expression. “Don’t tempt me. I might do it. I’m not holding up so well, either. All the furniture feels wrong when I’m the only one on it. The first day has already been so long. Another three will be an eternity.” 

She readjusted so her body was angled the usual direction for sleep and then flopped against the covers. Even miles apart, they defaulted to their respective sides and held their phones at the height where their lover’s face would ordinarily be.

“You know, if corporate keeps making me haul my ass all over the state, maybe we should think about a pet,” Heather suggested. “It might be good for you to have a little buddy around.”

Valencia hesitated. It was something she’d imagined since they got together, but dreaming about co-owning an animal and actually co-habitating with one were two very different things. “What kind of pet?”

Heather shrugged. “Nothing too exotic or anything. Dogs are cute but a lot of breeds pack high energy that doesn’t really gel with our vibe. So... a cat?”

Valencia attempted to picture it but her mind kept fixating on their brand new house and its furnishings. She could envision the claw marks and clumps of fur covering everything. “I don’t know...”

“How about this: sometime after I come home, can you and I go to a shelter and take a look around, just to see how it feels? No pressure, no rushed decisions. All super chill. We can talk it over and make the call from there.” Heather offered a hopeful smile. “What do you think?”

“Okay. I’ll try,” Valencia agreed. “Even hours around the smell of cat pee don’t sound so bad if that means you’re back here with me instead of up there.”

“Damn, I should be using this to my advantage. If I’ve got any sporty activities I wanna coax you into, now’s the time to pitch them. Ha! Pitch. I'm exhausted. But while we’re on the subject of athletics, what are your opinions on rock walls?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Heather laughed and trailed her fingertips over the image of Valencia on her screen. “I hate that I’m not there with you.”

“Join the club. You can be vice president.” Valencia pulled the sheet over her shoulders, but it was a poor stand-in for the comforting embrace she craved.

“Remind me again why I let these identical suited golfers badger me into this?”

“Because you come up with solid ideas and you’ve got a chance to make them heard,” Valencia answered without pause. “Because they need fresh perspective and you have that in spades. Because they’ve realized that you’re a problem-solver and they care what you think. You made an impression. They’re impressed by you. They should be.”

Heather crooked an arm under her head. “I mean, I’m proud of that stuff, I really am, but I don’t want this to be the rest of my life. It’s not a bad gig; it’s just not the job I'd choose for my career.” She began to pick at a loose thread on the sheet but stopped herself. “I don’t know. It’s not like I have an answer for what I should switch to instead. I’m kinda idling in one place.”

“Out of everything you’ve tried so far, what do you most genuinely enjoy doing? And don’t say me.”

“Crossing off the special skills section of my resume in one swipe. Harsh.”

“Seriously, though. What would you say?”

Heather rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. “Is it weird if the truth is sorta everything and nothing? All of it interested me for a while, or else I wouldn’t have done it in the first place. But a lot of jobs don’t change very much, y’know? I get tired of the monotony.”

“‘A copy of a copy of a copy,’” Valencia supplied.

Heather bit her lip. “Don’t reference Fight Club when I can’t reward you for remembering that.” 

“I’ll put it on your tab.” Valencia winked.

Heather scrubbed a hand down her face and sighed. “The main thing I’m into is learning. Adapting. Having a reason to stay curious.”

“You miss college.”

“All the time. But I wasn’t making money doing that.”

“What about when you’re sharing what you’ve studied?” Valencia asked. “You’re good at it. That goes without saying. I pick up a lot from living under the same roof. Is that fun for you?”

“Kinda,” Heather admitted. “I like making it useful. Also, I know from experience that it’s nice to have concepts explained by somebody who’s not gonna be a condescending shit-heel about it. Everybody’s gotta learn something for the first time at some point. Academia isn’t innate. It doesn’t prove you’re superior if you got the hang of it first, and it definitely shows you’re worse if you rub someone else’s nose in it. I care that people know they can come to me for help without judgment.”

“Cariño?” Valencia murmured.

“Hmm?”

“I think you might have your answer.”

“Teaching?” Heather’s words were tentative, nearly inaudible. “Like a professor?”

Valencia nodded.

“That requires at least getting my master’s degree to work at a community college. Probably a doctorate if I plan to go somewhere else.” Heather rubbed the back of her neck. “It’ll take years.”

“Honey, the fact you already know that means you must have researched it at some point.” Valencia looked directly into the phone’s camera. “Is this what you want?”

Heather’s eyes were shining in the darkness. “Yeah.” Her finger swept beneath her eyelid. “Yeah, I think it is.”

Valencia beamed and a tear slid along her jawline. “So it’s settled.”

Heather disappeared behind the heel of her hand for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice wavered. “Are you sure? This affects you, too. It’s a long-term commitment.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m long-term committed.” Valencia brought the phone close again, back to where she started. “I love you.”

Heather kissed the camera and rubbed the resultant smudge away with her sleeve. “I love you, too.”

“You want to know something?”

“Always.”

Valencia’s lips subtly turned upward at the corners. “I usually save this for major breakthroughs because it already sounds mushy and fake, and I don’t want it to lose all meaning, but today’s a milestone for you so it totally counts. I’m really proud of you, Heather.”

Heather hid her blush in the pillow. “You memorized what I sent you.”

“I read it like twenty times, so, yes.” Valencia’s grin broadened. “I mean it. You’re going after what matters to you and, in the meantime, you’re making a difference in this in-between space. Home Base isn’t your final stop, but it will be an improved establishment when you leave because you were with it for a while. You changed things for the better which, as far as I’m concerned, isn’t surprising in the least. You’ve been doing that for me since the day we met.”

Heather’s mouth twisted. Her gaze was warm with devotion. “What would I do without you?”

Valencia blew a kiss. Heather pantomimed a catch and pressed the air-touch to her cheekbone. 

“You’d still take the world by storm,” Valencia declared, “but I’m thankful I get to be part of it.”

[skyahq]

WELL. it’s me again. i’m sam ( she / her, 21, est timezone ) and i also play parker! this is sky who i’ve had for a while but haven’t really done much with bc my muse for him hasn’t been the best, however i think i’m all sorted with him now so, character info under the cut! tbh it’s literally the exact same intro as before with just a few slight changes but feel free to still give it a read and please message me if you’d like to plot because i would absolutely love that!

FIRST. let’s just. let’s get it out of the way right here and now that this is a sideblog so i will be messing up and posting shit to the wrong accounts sometimes bc i’m dumb. let’s laugh abt it now so we don’t have to do it later. k cool we can carry on now

「 CODY CHRISTIAN, CISMALE, 25, PARAMORE. 」┈ did you read that latest viral gossip issue on SKY ARLO? he is the DRUMMER in BETTER NOW, one of my favorite ALT ROCK groups. they’ve been releasing music for FOUR YEARS now, but viral gossip has only been talking about them for the last TWO YEARS. get this, i think i heard HE’S THE ILLEGITIMATE CHILD OF A WEALTHY PUBLIC FIGURE. they’re known as the CALIGINOUS of the music industry, since they have a rep for being TRENCHANT but SELF - SERVING, but who knows. maybe that will change once they become #1.  

born and raised deep in the swamplands of louisiana, sky’s only parent was a single mom who was nowhere near old enough or prepared enough to have a kid, tbh. she did sincerely try to take care of him at first but she had a drug problem that got very out of hand very quickly. sky was barely even five years old when the state stepped in and had him placed into the foster system.

has the slightest of southern accents but if you point it out he will deny it

will occasionally speak a little cajun french though bc we stan a multilingual grump

spent the rest of his childhood without a family or stable home. he was shuffled all over the state — placed in group homes, orphanages, and many different foster homes which were unfortunately very neglectful and unsafe sometimes. by his preteen years he was practically living on the streets of new orleans, survival instincts sharply honed.

he learns fast and had very quickly become an expert thief, pickpocket, and con artist, but that doesn’t mean he never got caught. he did. a lot. like his juvie record is longer than your arm

somehow still found time to experience your typical teenage first love resulting in unbearable heartbreak with a girl who lived on the streets and ran scams just like him. it was a bonnie & clyde together forever type of romance until it wasn’t cause the girl shockingly ditched him while he was in serious trouble in order to save her own skin and he never saw her again

not long after that he turned seventeen AND THEN SOMETHING SUPER IMPORTANT HAPPENED. by that i mean he was sought out by his social worker who then proceeded to 1) tell him his mother had died and 2) take him away to california because apparently there was a family out there who wanted to adopt him! and they did!

his new family wasn’t actually new though because the man who adopted him was his biological father. he and sky’s mother were lovers for the brief time wherein sky’s father was visiting louisiana in his late teen years but he left before ever finding out that he was going to have a child. he’d never stopped thinking about sky’s mom, however, so he’d do some digging every few years. of course by the time he finally did find her it was because of an obituary and then he’d heard about sky and just knew that this was his kid.

sky learned about all of this right away upon meeting his father and to say he didn’t take it very well is a MASSIVE UNDERSTATEMENT. he was furious. after all, his father had a whole new family! a wife and kids and a very prestigious job AND OH YEAH MILLIONS OF DOLLARS TO HIS NAME BUT HE’D NEVER HELPED SKY EVEN ONCE. it didn’t really help that he was clearly trying to make up for his absence in sky’s life by being present now that he had the opportunity and anyway, it turned out he had ulterior motives for that.

basically, a large part of his dad’s wealth was in fact inherited through the family. they’re all old money posh so finding out that the next family patriarch had an unknown son who was technically his firstborn was terrifying. blood or not, they couldn’t just hand centuries of traditions and carefully cultivated wealth over to a high school dropout living on the streets. so, sky’s dad was just keeping him close while he talked to lawyers about whether or not sky had any legitimate claim to anything owned by his family and of course, the sneaky street smart kid he is, sky figured out what was going on pretty quickly and bolted back to the streets.

he was still seventeen at the time and he’s lived in los angeles ever since but hasn’t had any contact with his father or seen a single penny of that family money

so yeah he’s illegitimate, no actual rights to their fortune

lived on the streets in los angeles for a while, but with a little hard work ( and a lot of thievery and conning ) he was eventually able to get himself a little apartment while working various jobs

nothing really stuck until better now, but when he first joined the band he’d literally never played the drums before. ever. not once before in his entire life. did he lie anyway and say that he was a Drumming Expert™ because he’d get paid to play gigs with them and happened to be broke af at the time? why yes he absolutely did

since then they switched lead singers with sweets having joined the band four years ago and they’ve released one album that was lit af! they’re currently in the middle of putting together their second album and since sky’s found out that he actually really loves drumming things have been pretty good for him. he lives in a nice apartment and finally has enough money to get by without conning or stealing. he still doesn’t really know how to deal with being a celebrity but tbh he actually adores the attention? he loves having fans? people in his life who seem to genuinely love and care about him? what is this new and exciting concept he’s confused but happy nonetheless

never ever talks about his dad / family though

as usual i was Extra™ and went off with the backstory stuff, but we can move onto personality now!

by default assumes that literally everyone he meets is going to betray him. is truly on some x files trust no one shit

except he does actually genuinely trust a few people for now i’m going to say just his bandmates since i imagine they’ve been through a lot together at this point but that’s open to expansion

street smart, charming, flirtatious ( especially around pretty girls ), witty, perspicacious, determined, tough, mistrustful, surly, reckless, uncouth, self-serving af sometimes

also v v sarcastic and STUBBORN

all of sky’s save his own skin above all else stuff? kind of a lie. he’s got a soft spot for people in need of help and though he might do it begrudgingly, sky often will actually put others before him.

the other personality traits i listed are pretty spot on though

literally always has his drumsticks with him and brings them everywhere. will drum on anything and everything until told to stop then he miiiight apologize? but go right back to doing it again not even five minutes later ngl

street smart af but book smart? not so much. he picks up on things pretty quickly but he’s still pretty dumb lmao and will in fact say some stupid shit at least 2932589843794836708 times a day

however he’s not always much of a talker. he’s gotta be in the mood bc if he isn’t but you try to have a convo with him he’s gonna be even more standoffish than usual

when he does talk though, sky is often sarcastic, pessimistic, and surly

he’s permanently grumpy

except he also has many soft spots that are very easy to find

stale cinnamon roll, been in this world too long, too cynical w/ a dash of sinnamon roll

he’s usually a cute little ray of sunshine around fans though bc they just?? make him so happy?? it makes him so happy to know that people love better now and that they LOVE HIM OK

though if ever called out for smiling he would immediately deny

will absolutely throw hands if he has to

TL;DR - louisiana born street smart drummer for better now with an accent he denies having and an extremely rich family who wants nothing to do with him but it wasn’t like he ever cared anyway. charming and flirtatious but also can be grumpy and pessimistic. expert pickpocket and con artist. has no idea how to handle being a celebrity but he not so secretly enjoys the love he gets from fans. has trouble trusting and allowing himself to get close to anyone & everyone.

finally…it’s over. if you actually read this far then i applaud you. i don’t have any specific plots in mind EXCEPT FOR POTENTIALLY HALF SIBLINGS RELATED THROUGH HIS FATHER SO PLEASE MESSAGE ME IF YOU’RE INTERESTED BC Y E S but if you know me then you know i want all the plots so feel free to message me and we can definitely work something out! as usual i’m super excited to write with you folks!

[skyahqunfollow]

WELL. it’s me again. i’m sam ( she / her, 21, est timezone ) and i also play parker! i’ve finally decided to bring in another muse and bob morley also avan jogia is the loml, so he we go! character info under the cut! please message me if you’d like to plot because i would absolutely love that!

FIRST. let’s just. let’s get it out of the way right here and now that this is a sideblog so i will be messing up and posting shit to the wrong accounts sometimes bc i’m dumb. let’s all just. take a moment to laugh abt it now so we don’t have to do it later. k cool we can carry on now

「 AVAN JOGIA, CISMALE, 26, PARAMORE. 」┈ did you read that latest viral gossip issue on SKY ARAO? he is the DRUMMER in BETTER NOW, one of my favorite ALT ROCK groups. they’ve been releasing music for FOUR YEARS now, but viral gossip has only been talking about them for the last TWO YEARS. get this, i think i heard HE’S THE ILLEGITIMATE CHILD OF A WEALTHY PUBLIC FIGURE. they’re known as the CALIGINOUS of the music industry, since they have a rep for being TRENCHANT but SELF - SERVING, but who knows. maybe that will change once they become #1.

born and raised deep in the swamplands of louisiana, sky’s only parent was a single mom who was nowhere near old enough or prepared enough to have a kid, tbh. she did sincerely try to take care of him at first but she had a drug problem that got very out of hand very quickly. sky was barely even five years old when the state stepped in and had him placed into the foster system.

has the slightest of southern accents but if you point it out he will deny it

will occasionally speak a little cajun french though & some tagalog bc we stan a multilingual grump

spent the rest of his childhood without a family or stable home. he was shuffled all over the state — placed in group homes, orphanages, and many different foster homes which were unfortunately very neglectful and unsafe sometimes. by his preteen years he was practically living on the streets of new orleans, survival instincts sharply honed.

he learns fast and had very quickly become an expert thief, pickpocket, and con artist, but that doesn’t mean he never got caught. he did. a lot. like his juvie record is longer than your arm

somehow still found time to experience your typical teenage first love resulting in unbearable heartbreak with a girl who lived on the streets and ran scams just like him. it was a bonnie & clyde together forever type of romance until it wasn’t cause the girl shockingly ditched him while he was in serious trouble in order to save her own skin and he never saw her again

not long after that he turned seventeen AND THEN SOMETHING SUPER IMPORTANT HAPPENED. by that i mean he was sought out by his social worker for once who then proceeded to 1) tell him his mother had died and 2) take him away to california because apparently there was a family out there who wanted to adopt him! and they did!

his new family wasn’t actually new though because the man who adopted him was his biological father. he and sky’s mother were lovers for the brief time wherein sky’s father was visiting louisiana in his late teen years but he left before ever finding out that he was going to have a child. he’d never stopped thinking about sky’s mom, however, so he’d do some digging every few years. of course by the time he finally did find her it was because of an obituary and then he’d heard about sky and just knew that this was his kid.

sky learned about all of this right away upon meeting his father and to say he didn’t take it very well is a MASSIVE UNDERSTATEMENT TBH. he was furious. after all, his father had a whole new family! a wife and kids and a very prestigious job AND OH YEAH MILLIONS OF DOLLARS TO HIS NAME BUT HE’D NEVER HELPED SKY EVEN ONCE. it didn’t really help that he was clearly trying to make up for his absence in sky’s life by being present now that he had the opportunity and anyway, it turned out he had ulterior motives for that.

basically, a large part of his dad’s wealth was in fact inherited through the family. they’re all old money posh so finding out that the next family patriarch had an unknown son who was technically his firstborn was terrifying. blood or not, they couldn’t just hand centuries of traditions and carefully cultivated wealth over to a high school dropout who didn’t know how to behave and simply couldn’t be trusted with their unblemished legacy. so, sky’s dad was just keeping him close while he talked to lawyers about whether or not sky had any legitimate claim to anything owned by his family and of course, the sneaky street smart kid he is, sky figured out what was going on pretty quickly and bolted back to where he was most comfortable — the streets.

he was still seventeen at the time and he’s lived in los angeles ever since but hasn’t had any contact with his father or seen a single penny of that family money

so yeah he’s illegitimate, no actual rights to their fortune

lived on the streets in los angeles for a while, but with a little hard work ( and a lot of thievery and conning ) he was eventually able to get himself a little apartment while working various jobs

nothing really stuck until better now, but when he first joined the band he’d literally never played the drums before. ever. not once before in his entire life. did he lie anyway and say that he was a Drumming Expert™ because he’d get paid to play gigs with them and happened to be broke af at the time? why yes he absolutely did

since then they switched lead singers with sweets having joined the band four years ago and they’ve released one album that was lit af! they’re currently in the middle of putting together their second album and since sky’s found out that he actually really likes drumming things have been pretty good for him. he lives in a nice apartment and finally has enough money to get by without conning or stealing. he still doesn’t really know how to deal with being a celebrity but tbh he actually adores the attention? he loves having fans? people in his life who seem to genuinely love and care about him? what is this new and exciting concept he’s confused but happy nonetheless

never ever talks about his dad / family though

as usual i was Extra™ and went off with the backstory stuff, but we can move onto personality now!

by default assumes that literally everyone he meets is going to betray him. is truly on some x files trust no one shit

except he does actually genuinely trust a few people for now i’m going to say just his bandmates since i imagine they’ve been through a lot together at this point but that’s open to expansion

street smart, charming, sometimes flirtatious, witty, perspicacious, determined, tough, mistrustful, surly, reckless, uncouth, self-serving af sometimes

all of sky’s save his own skin above all else stuff? kind of a lie. he’s got a soft spot for people in need of help and though he might do it begrudgingly, sky often will put others before him.

the other personality traits i listed are pretty spot on though

street smart af but book smart? not so much. he picks up on things quickly but he’s still pretty dumb lmao and will in fact say some stupid shit at least 2932589843794836708 times a day

however he’s not always much of a talker. he’s gotta be in the mood bc if he isn’t and you try to have a convo with him he’s gonna be even more standoffish than usual

when he does talk though, sky is often sarcastic, pessimistic, and surly

he’s permanently grumpy

except he also has many soft spots that are very easy to find

stale cinnamon roll, been in this world too long, too cynical w/ a dash of sinnamon roll

legend has it he’s never smiled ever not even once

he’s usually a cute little ray of sunshine around fans though bc they just?? make him so happy?? it makes him so happy to know that people love better now and that they LOVE HIM OK

though if ever called out for smiling he would immediately deny

will absolutely throw hands if he has to

lowkey a total mom friend who thrives on being a total mom friend but acts like he hates it? like he’ll grumble at you to bring your jacket bc it might be cold out and he’ll seem like he’s doing it very begrudgingly but on the inside? HE IS THRIVING IN THAT MOMENT

TL;DR - louisiana born street smart drummer for better now with an accent he denies having and an extremely rich family who wants nothing to do with him but it wasn’t like he ever cared anyway. charming and flirtatious but also can be grumpy and pessimistic. expert pickpocket and con artist. has no idea how to handle being a celebrity but he secretly enjoys the love he gets from fans. never smiles, loves whiskey, probably takes way too many naps on his couch. secret mom friend. has trouble trusting and allowing himself to get close to anyone & everyone.

finally…it’s over. if you actually read this far then i applaud you. i don’t have any specific plots in mind EXCEPT FOR POTENTIALLY HALF SIBLINGS RELATED THROUGH HIS FATHER SO PLEASE MESSAGE ME IF YOU’RE INTERESTED BC Y E S but if you know me then you know i want all the plots so feel free to message me and we can definitely work something out! as usual i’m super excited to write with you folks!

[ineedtopopmyzit]

2020

As I am laying on my bed, tired of cramping and feeling low, I want to reflect back on this year—the year most hated by many. Although this year was vastly different than many other years I have lived so far, I can’t say it was the worst year. Of course, this is just an opinion from my perspective and it’s not taken into the account of the many people who have passed away and whose lives have been affected by the virus. And may be this may sound selfish and careless because I am only merely looking at how this year affected me at the personal level. I think the more people emphasize this year, the less I want to give attention to it. In the end, what’s happened was supposed to happen, however it happened, why it happened isn’t as important as the happening itself. And I want to accept what’s happened/happening as graciously as I can. Not because that’s what I am supposed to do, but because I don’t like feeling devastated that something else was/is in control of my life. I honestly think that if things were normal this year I’d be actually more devastated. Perhaps me saying that is lacking self-belief and confidence, but I don’t know if I would have found a job this year. I don’t know if I would’ve been happy if I did find a job this year. I don’t know if I would’ve been as rested as I feel now. I don’t know if I would’ve feel as grounded as I feel now. For the last couple years, I feel like I was sprinting. And now that I was nearing the finish line, I was starting to doubt what I was running towards. I was running at such full speed that I couldn’t even remember why I was even running. Maybe I was running from depression, running from the past, or maybe running to the past, running from myself... whatever it was, the problem was that I was running and I was forgetting to stop and absorb and to reflect. And if it wasn’t for year 2020, I believe I would probably still be running towards something not realizing it’s probably not what I want. Don’t get me wrong, I am still directionless but at least I stopped running.

I want to reminisce at some of the memorable things that happened this year. And remind myself that I am still making life even when it feels stale, static, and unmoving. While it may seem lazy, unmotivated and lifeless, those fragments make white spaces that make a whole picture feel resound.

Remember we started the year by revisiting Little Women? It brought back memories of childhood. And I felt myself aligning home. Like two shadows of me emerging into one. And I appreciated Louisa May Alcott for writing such story that many others call mundane. I also felt a sense of pride for having a same birthday as her. Jo March, a character who marched to the beat of her own drum. She may slip out whatever words she conjures in her mind but she’s fearless, truthful, independent, free-spirited and self willing. And she always resonated with myself ever since I was little.

Then the dreadful breakup came. And honestly, the year didn’t start out great because of him. So breaking up with him in the first quarter was the best thing that could’ve happened to me this year. It was an extremely hard breakup but also it was relieving. He asked if I could consider keeping in touch with him once I healed, but now revisiting that conversation I think he was selfish to even ask that of me. I don’t know if I will. I guess I still need more time.

The breakup help transpire what came next. Which was just a dating binge. I have never been on so many dates in such a short span of time. I was on so many dates that it takes a little too much effort to remember them all but I shall try. The first date was with a German of course. He cooked me bratwurst and sauerkraut. I went to his house in LB after he allured me by telling me he’ll cook me dinner. Though I told him I am only going as a friend. I really considered having sex with him. But he just really wasn’t my type. I kept being reminded of someone I used to date whom makes my pussy so dry now. After that I lose the order of which guy came first. But I remember the Romanian lawyer. (I know I just had to paint a full picture of the guy I broke up with by making him into fragments... the guy I broke up from was a German lawyer) I think the Romanian lawyer is someone who I would give the most honorable badge to. I told him I was looking for a stranger to have a one night stand with. And I clarify that I didn’t want some cheap one night. I wanted it to be magical and everything I ever dreamed of. I would say this was like redoing my first sex experience. When I told him of my reasons why I wanted to do this, he was so on board with it. So much so that what’s happened between us can be a transcription of an adult novel. I bought a lingerie, he booked an airbnb over looking the ocean with a balcony, also we ordered a couple sex toys. We dreamt up whatever that was going to romance us and this was the time we were going to relinquish them all. Through the 2-3 weeks of planning, he was played the role well of a sensual romantic but not a sleaze, and someone who made me feel comfortable by opening himself up. The only thing I worried was that in person, he may not be my type. But to my surprise, when he showed up after an hour and a half drive to our location, he was definitely up to par. the way he dressed, and his friendly manner was all i was hoping to see. oh and of course the sexual tension was so pulling between us that we just had to get it out of the way when we met. He kind of reminded me of my ex, which was where i hesitated. But he gave me the most magical night imaginable. There were some awkward moments but he listened, he played, he caressed. We talked all night as we fell asleep after 2 or 3 rounds of long pleasure. and they way his eyes devoured me while wearing a lingerie is the look i will never forget. especially after my breakup, it felt really nice to be tantalized and wanted. he wanted me bad. and i wanted him more. but i’m not gonna lie, the sex was a lot of work. our good bye was bittersweet but that's the way it needed to be and nothing else. we were supposed to be two strangers who comes together to make a night of love that we’d imagine we’d receive and never to see each other again (although i couldn’t forget and had to see him 2 more times after this). let’s see... another date i had gone on was with an artist. i think i saw him a total of 2 or 3 times i can’t remember. i do remember the first date though, it was particularly memorable because we had bahn mi sandwiches on a beach i had never been to with couple of beers and that night when i had sex with him, i left with a yeast infection. yup. i particularly remember this because the planned parenthood i went to was the same exit as his house and instead of making a left turn, i had to make a right turn to get to it. i remember my date with a guy who was married to a half korean wife. he took me to gen and talked about how ridiculous it is that we all had to wear masks. it was clear from the dinner that what he wanted out of it was sex. then there was the jewish guy from new york. who clearly stated on his bio that he was separated from his wife. i had the most fun chatting with him but he was definitely looking for one thing. and somehow i understood that, but i just couldn’t bring myself to be one of his weekly girls. i felt downgraded. so i declined his offer. i went on a date with a guy who seemed really willing to move on to more than just sex but i was physically not attracted to him.. but what’s more was that he knew that... and kept asking if it was his height. and i think that to me showed lack of confidence and drew me even further away from wanting him. another date i went on was with a director guy from pasadena. he drove all the way to oc to meet up with me. and i generally had a good vibe with him but in the end we never hit each other up again. he even ended the date with “you are a really cool chick” but i guess it was one of those... you are a really cool chick for someone else. i also was not attracted to him in that way. this is when i realized, i prob like taller guys though i don’t want to admit that because it’s an age old socially constructed sexist belief. i had a phone convo with a guy who wanted to have me over and cook me wellington. he even said i could invite my sister. but the whole thing was fishy and he was real butthurt when i declined his offer. and clingy too. so i decided to never meet up with him and even blocked him. i went on a date with a banker. he wrote poetry and they were beautiful but it was ashamed that the writer had won no integrity from me. his words became distasteful because of his characteristic flaws of ghosting and showed signs of irresponsibility. he also seemed more immature than other guys. then on the last week of my dating binge, i went on a total of 4 dates. one was with a guy from my ceramics class. it was a friendly coffee date on a saturday morning. i really enjoyed his company although later on, he was a little too pushy about his feelings towards me and i had to be more direct with him about my intentions. then on one week day of the same week, i met a guy from baghdad who worked at verizon. i was hesitant about this one because he started the convo with “i can lick your pussy” but in person, he was rather more reserved. then that same night, i met up with another guy from baghdad except he was a much better choice. he was the second noblest out of all the guys i dated this year... he was even going to pick me up in his motorcycle from long beach. he held me, heard me, let me rest all my weight on his shoulders and we never spoke to each other again. then i had a virtual date with a guy who was in a severe motorcycle accident only 3 years ago. i thought we clicked but he ghosted me on our second date plan. i wasn’t even the one to bring up the second date. edit (1/9): i forgot 3 more dates... one was with a pessimistic korean guy. i figured i should ditch the archaic notion that all korean guys are bad. it comes from the divorce and mostly mom educating me based on her one experience of bad marriage. i thought his photos weren’t so bad so i went on a date with him... it was interesting to say the least because first of all, i got pissed at him because he was so opinionated while being rigid. he failed to understand my pov, and kept patronizing me. so i voiced that i am getting really frustrated that he wasn’t open to my pov, so he apologized. he also said that his friends would be shocked to find out that he apologized. also that he went to trader joes to top off our charcuterie board that i mentioned i wanted to do during our chat. oh and he brought me a handful of daisy sort of flowers on a gatorade bottle filled with bright colored water which i thought was really cute. but overall, i just couldn’t get passed his negative point of view of life and love. i felt like he was looking for an optimistic savior who would turn his opinions around. which definitely wasn’t going to be me because being a heroine for another movie other than an autobiography is def not my style at all. the second date i missed to tell was with a scientist who was a front-end developer at some bio tech company. very intelligent and eccentric. like shy but outgoing, relatable yet standoffish. the intrigue was that i couldn't quite figure him out. but there wasn’t any sexual chemistry. perhaps because he said due to covid he couldn’t get his veneers done and he had been wearing his temporaries for 3 months or some obscure amount of days exceeding its freshness that i couldn’t stand to smell his breath 6 feet away. and the not so memorable date was the one hot lawyer who had no personality. it was so disappointing. i had high hopes for him too. but needless to say, he was looking for a hookup. while i appreciate the honesty and upfront-ness, i don’t like the frankness of the situation. i would like to be romanced into having meaningless sex with you. but then maybe that would make me develop feelings. but he was so vanilla that i couldn’t imagine our sex any hotter. he was drier than a textbook. so standard that his cliche line for getting me into his bed was “i can give you a massage.” bore me. i get it... he said his sister was going through chemo and he really needed some good distraction. poor guy. but come on dude. he said he genuinely wanted to see me again... but he genuinely never reached out to me again. so that’s vaguely a totally of 15 dates? in the span of... May-Nov? 7 months? i guess that’s not too bad or too good.. it’s only 2 dates per month ish. i could’ve done more damn it. well i did have multiple dates with one guy(s). also i just remembered that one weekend was a back to back sex with 2 different guys. my pussy was not okay that weekend. the second night guy thought he did a lot of damage but the truth is it’s the first guy who did. it only boosted the second guy’s ego. but he needs it anyway. 

This year, I traveled solo for the first time. it felt liberating. 

Also, I decided that i want to go back to school and perhaps live in Europe. I am feeling encouraged every day. 

I reconnected with my dad. I figured it was time to forgive and reestablish a new relationship that i can nurture myself in. so far, i find it a little challenging at times but it’s definitely better than completely ignoring him. 

I no longer feel so broke, i had time to earn some money and put it towards savings. not a lot but i am not scrabbling for pennies every month like i was when i was in school. 

I think I've grown closer to my sister. we have a lot of fun times together always laughing and eating. we fight but i am trying to enjoy our friendship together until one day we have to part our ways and not live so close to each other anymore. 

I gained more self confidence? it’s more so that i feel better living in my skin. I try to appreciate my body and see less as a superficial shell. 

i have grown new level of appreciation for some of my close friends. 

[i-just-knew1013]

Playing House

Ok, so this is my first attempt at a “chapter”length fic. It’s probably still rough, but I had fun writing it. It takes place during Arcadia. Enjoy!

What do you pack when you’re about to go undercover as the suburban wife of your extremely attractive coworker? You need to appear believable as his wife, so you’ve already met with the FBI UC department and gotten your list of clothing requirements. You have your sensible skirts, your camisoles and matching sweater sets. You even have a string of pearls to make you look extra…wife-like? However, the rest of the packing is up to you. You were told that you might be on this assignment for as long as a week, and to plan accordingly. You have your toothbrush and your shampoo, your dental floss and your face cream. But now, you stand in front go your dresser, staring ominously at your open top drawer. Which pajamas do you pack? Do you take the standard button-down conservative ones you take on overnight cases? The ones that are the nighttime version of your daytime business suits and make you feel like, even if he sees you in them, you’re still appropriately dressed. Or, do you bring the satin peignoir that you bought on a whim last month, hoping you’d have some reason to wear it? Your eyes shift to your underwear section of the drawer. What kind of underwear does a suburban wife wear? Cotton, satin, briefs, a thong? You’re only pretending to be married. Surely you would have a talk about privacies and sleeping arrangements once you got to the house; though you wish the conversation had already been had. You realize you’ve been standing in one spot too long, make your choices and quickly shut the drawers so you can’t change your mind. You pack the rest of your items, stopping only to grab your trusty travel bullet from the nightstand and some fresh batteries. Being in such close proximity to him and pretending to be his wife, with none of the amenities, is going to require some stress-relieving sessions.  

You’ve been here 24 hours and you already want to simultaneously kill him and make out with him, but you’re not sure that’s different than any other day. For starters, he may be the only man within a thousand miles who still looks rugged and sexy in a pink Lacoste shirt and sweater around his shoulders. And when he teased you about wanting to play house, you felt that twinge just below your belly and your breath catch in your throat. You actually had to stop walking, breathe, and force an annoyed face as your response because you couldn’t formulate words just then. You’ve spent today pretending to be the dutiful wife, sitting next to him on the couch with his arm around you at Gogolak’s, laughing at his stale jokes during dinner at the Schroeders’, all while biting back smart-ass retorts. He’s gone out for a run, and you decided to grab a quick shower. You stand there, a towel wrapped around you head and another around your body, steam fills the air. There, on the counter, his belongings have been laid out next to yours. He has a razor, a toothbrush, dental floss, and aftershave. And although you’ve been on cases where you’ve ended up sharing motel rooms before, it feels so…intimate, having his things mingle with yours on the counter. Where in motel rooms things usually stay mostly in their travel bags when not in use, stacked on the edge of the sink or piled on the back of the toilet until they can be thrown back in to suitcases, here things are unpacked. Here, these items have taken up residence. You imagine what it would be like, if you were really married. How it might feel to stand side by side in your pajamas before the twin sinks, brushing your teeth before dressing for work. You gently graze your fingers down the handle of his razor and imagine him using it, carefully working the blade around the sharp edges of his jawline, careful not to disturb that beautiful mole. You hesitate for a moment before picking up his aftershave, lifting it gently to your nose and taking a measured breath. The front door slams, causing you to clatter the bottle back to the counter like you’ve been caught stealing cigarettes from your mother’s purse. He’s coming up the stairs two at a time, already talking to you, and you hear your cell phone ringing. You dress quickly, tuck your feelings inside, and exit the bathroom.

Later that night, you are lying in bed. Fuming. How dare he compare you to the Stepford-esque residents who live here? Just because you like things clean and put away and don’t throw your clothes all over the room or leave your sweaty disgusting shoes in the middle of the floor for people to trip over on the way to the bed does NOT mean there is something wrong with you. Not everyone had a maid to clean up behind them their whole lives. Some people had to move every two years and leave no traces that their families had ever lived somewhere. Now, you lie here, at 2 a.m., unable to sleep. You’re surrounded by the scent of him since he decided to roll all over your sheets with his sweaty body before you kicked him out to go sleep on his “bed”, the couch. Normally, if you’re being honest with yourself, you wouldn’t mind the smell of him in your sheets. In fact, the warm, just-returned-from-a-run fragrance of your partner has always turned you on, and you have the urge to burrow down in to the linens and never come out. The fact that it turns you on makes you even angrier. Doesn’t he know how much you would have loved to take him up on his offer earlier? You smile a little as you imagine his shocked face in this scenario. Then, you slip out of bed and retrieve the little satin pouch from the bottom of your suitcase and slip out your silver bullet. No sense in wasting an opportunity, you think, and say a silent blessing for quiet batteries.

You’ve had a lot of time to think today on your drive to and from San Diego. You argue with yourself about how he was wrong, whether he was right, and how much you just want him to “get” you. Except he does, and you know it. He gets you more than anyone else in your life every could or ever will. So what if he thinks you’re a little too buttoned up? You’ll just have to show him you can be buttoned down as well. You can let your hair down and relax, you think. You know he was just teasing you last night, but it irks you because it reminds you of all of those other agents who have whispered for years about you being the Ice Queen. The unapproachable stiff who has no friends anymore because all you do it work. Except you have him. He’s always there. He’s with you on all those cases out of town in places no one’s ever heard of. He reads you from across the room without words and is by your side before you can think to ask. You kind of hate how quickly you forgive him in your head sometimes. But when he quite literally saves your life and you his on a regular basis, it’s hard to stay angry at him for long. Even when you really really want to. You think back to the events from this morning. You intended to be up and out the door early so you could beat the traffic and, if you were being honest, so you didn’t have to pretend you weren’t still annoyed about comments from the night before. When you entered the kitchen there he was, standing in front of the open refrigerator drinking orange juice from the carton. His hair was mussed and he was shirtless, wearing only a pair of pale yellow pajama pants. Your breath hitched at the sight. Jesus, why was he so good looking? He hears you and turns, wiping the juice off his mouth with the back of his arm. After a quick greeting he launched in to his plan for the day to test the CC&Rs. You aren’t sure you heard most of what he said, because you were watching the smooth muscles in his torso contract with his movements. You think you responded appropriately as you gathered your things and headed to the door. He followed you, still talking, and when the door opened you saw Pat Verlander, the self-appointed neighborhood Welcome Wagon, waving from across the street. You smiled tightly and waved back, and when you turned to say goodbye to him, he put an arm around your back and pulled you in for a quick peck right next to your mouth. Before you could react, he bid you goodbye, waved at an approving Pat, and went back in the house. You stood, shocked for a few seconds, then walked numbly to the car. Now, on your way back to the house, you don’t know how you’re supposed to act. You aren’t really mad anymore, but your emotions are all over the place. He didn’t even kiss you on the mouth, just near it, and yet that kiss has been distracting you all day. The image of him there waiting for you to come home makes you nearly run to the car as you leave the lab. When you pull in to the driveway, you chastise yourself for hoping he'd greet you at the door. You enter the house, set your bag down, and hear a noise upstairs.

After you nearly brained him with a fireplace poker on the stairs, you both spent a lot of last night sitting on the couch discussing theories about who could be behind the disappearance of first the Klines, and now Big Mike. You weren’t in a huge hurry to go to bed anyway, after having heard someone else in the house. Eventually though, you both managed to fall asleep on the couch; him with his head against the back of the couch and you against his shoulder. Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, he shifted to find a more comfortable position lying down. In your haze of sleep and need for warmth you followed his movements until you were both lying on your sides, your back pressed agains his chest, his arm curled around your stomach. You were dimly aware that this was improper as his coworker, but at that moment you didn’t care because the feeling of having his arm around you was just too much to fight. You didn’t want to think about things that had happened or not happened or about what anything meant. You placed a hand on top of his, smiled, and drifted back to sleep. The next morning, you stand at the kitchen window, watching him oversee the digging up of the front yard. You take a sip of your coffee and smile in to your cup, thinking about how waking up this morning, with his arms around you and his nose nuzzling your neck, might be one of the best ways you have ever woken up. You both just laid there, not speaking, content in each other’s presence. The moment was short-lived, however, as it was interrupted by the arrival of the excavation team. He was so excited he nearly dumped you off the couch trying to get up and answer the door. Now, he stands there, hands on his hips and chest puffed out proudly as he dares anyone to challenge his “reflecting pool” project. You watch him talk to the neighbors, the ones that are panicking about the fact that he’s digging a giant hole in his well-manicured lawn. Honestly, how does anyone stand a chance trying to argue with that bottom lip of his? You glide your tongue slowly across your own lip, drawing it between your teeth as you hear his laugh. You think again about his arm around you on the couch this morning, his thumb gently grazing the underside of your breast and you feel a warmth spread throughout your body. You wonder how long the two of you will play this cat-and-mouse game. Who will break first and give in to the obvious attraction you both share? You know it will change your partnership drastically, but the question is, will it be for the better or worse? He senses you watching him through the window and turns to look at you, giving you that crooked smile that melts your heart. You mentally shake yourself, rinse out you mug, and go join him outside.

It’s 5 a.m. and the Übermenscher has been defeated. Once you escaped from the upstairs closet you were trapped in, you came downstairs to find your partner standing in a pile of fine dirt. What came next was hours of clean up. You had to call ADA Skinner and give a verbal report, get the local FBI crew out to secure the area, document the scene, and begin to clear out. Now the sun was rising, you’ve both been up 24 hours and are exhausted. Finally you’re able to catch a flight back to Washington. You managed to catch a nap on the plane, him against the window and you again on his shoulder, but you’re both still tired. Thankfully, it’s Friday and you won’t have to report back to the office until Monday. He drove you to your apartment and you’re sitting in the car, the engine idling softly as you both don’t know how to part ways. It’s strange, after living together for a week, how the thought of being alone feels lonely now. You offer to let him stay the night on the couch rather than try to drive home on almost no sleep. After a lift of his eyebrows and a mildly awkward joke, he agrees, and soon he’s shuffling down the hallway behind you, carrying both of your bags. You enter your apartment and turn on a lamp. He goes to the hall closet and begins pulling out the extra blankets and a pillow, no stranger to couch crashing. You think about the past week, and the number of times you wished things were different between the two of you. You decide this is your chance. As he passes you in the hall with the bed linens you stop him. Unable to meet his eyes, you place a hand on his arm.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, you know.”

He looks at you, confused. You lift your eyes and smile, and he begins to understand. He drops the blankets as you take his hand, leading him toward your room.

“Mulder, I want to play House.”

[writesaboutbangtan17]

say you’ll remember me

mingyu x reader fluff, angst, implied smut

6,445 words

a/n: i know some parts of this are so *stares right into the camera* obnoxiously cheesy but guess what? i like this and i just don’t care. i’m currently writing a horribly stupidly long hoseok fic, but i realized the writing had gotten a little stale n asked my bff for a prompt to write a “ficlet” (this was supposed to be 2k or less) and she gave me: mingyu, fluff and angst, wildest dreams by taylor swift (because my mingyu tag is “he’s so tall and handsome as hell”). so ta da, this is what u get

~ in which your young, dumb love will hurt you, will ruin you, has an expiration date…but is so, so worth it

    You never forgot to visit your hometown in the summertime. Of course, it was nice to see your family, but you could see them any time of the year, and saw them often in the fall and the winter. What made the long drive from the city worth it in the hundred degree weather, sun glaring down on the hood of your car and baking you inside of it, was the chance to see the seaside in all its glory. You’d been raised in a humble beach town and you’d seen it a thousand times, but you’d be happy to see it a thousand more. As a kid, you couldn’t say you’d appreciated it much. The town itself and the beach were a little dumpy, nothing to write home about.

    It was the memories you’d created there once upon a time that made it special. As you pulled into a spot in the tiny parking lot and cut the ignition, you could remember late nights in the backseat of a car a lot older and rustier than this one, making your own heat as you pressed your sweat-slicked body to another. You trudged out onto the sand and as it flattened beneath your sneakers, you remembered squishing it between your toes as you watched a certain young man wading in the shallow ocean waters. He’d splashed some little kids nearby, pretending to fall beneath the surface with the weight of their own splashes back at him, and you’d imagined how this scene would look many years from now with children who were the perfect mix of you and him. You’d been 17 then.

    The same old snack bar stood beneath a few palm trees, and you could never forget him buying you ice cream every afternoon, no matter how much you insisted eating one ice cream cone every day would put a thousand pounds on you. He’d wrap an arm around your waist to pull you close, and “I’d still love you,” he’d hum against the side of your head. Every day without fail he’d bump his chocolate ice cream against the tip of your nose, and you’d crinkle it in fake disgust as he insisted on licking it off.

    Not far away was the playground where he’d push you on the swing, the bathrooms where you’d lock yourself in a stall and make out every day, the fancy restaurant he’d saved up for a month to take you to once (and even then, he couldn’t afford for you to get anything to drink besides a water—not that you minded). You passed by them all on your way to the watchtower. No matter how many times you visited the beach, you hadn’t gone up to the top of it since that summer five years ago. But you’d just gotten a great job, made some great new friends, and you were even starting to date someone new—your life was nothing like you’d imagined it’d be back then, but it was still good. You’d told your new partner about your trip, and although it was a particularly teary conversation, you explained why it was such an important one to make. They were the one who gave you the strength to take each step up the concrete staircase, to keep your head up instead of turning and running back to your car.

    The top level of the watchtower overlooked the entire beach. From one side you could see all the way into town, all the way towards your parents’ house where your old teenage bedroom was waiting for you. On the other side, the ocean went on forever. Facing the water, you wrapped both hands around the old splintered railing and looked down between them. Mingyu & Y/N 4E. It was so childish, you’d known even then that it was childish, but it still brought a smile to your face.

    You refused to let the tears at the corners of your eyes fall, and reminded yourself not for the first time that none of this should make you sad anymore. It had been so long, and you’d moved on…but that couldn’t stop the longing in your heart. You wished the waves carrying away the sand and pebbles could wash away the memory of that wolfish grin, the warmth of his calloused hands on your skin, the feeling of loving him so much that you’d give up the stars and the clouds and this whole universe if it meant you’d never have to live a day without him at your side.

    You wished that he had kept his promise.

    “Oh my god, Mingyu,” you groaned as he shoved the small pocketknife back into his jeans, “we’re almost adults, that’s kids stuff. Some kid wanted to do that with me when I was like eleven.” Mingyu rolled his eyes and grabbed your hand, yanking you over to his side as he blew away the wood shavings to admire his masterpiece. You turned your head towards the water, letting your hair fall over your face so that he couldn’t see the lightest of pinks dusting your cheeks at how nice your names looked together—he’d never shut up about it.

    “Who was it? Was it Joonki? Hyunwoo? Hyunwoo has always had a little crush on you. If it’s him, I’m gonna beat him up the next time I see him,” Mingyu ranted, and you knew he was only half-joking. You leaned into his side and reminded him,

    “We were literally eleven, and Hyunwoo hasn’t even looked at me in like three years. When will you ever see him again, anyways?” The tall boy beside you said nothing, knowing you were right. He’d probably never see any of the kids he’d gone to school with here ever again.

    “It’s not like I’m never coming back,” he tried, his voice small, “and I could drive over to his house right now if I wanted to. He lives like three blocks away.” You should have laughed, should have let him believe that his smallest of attempts to lighten the mood worked, but there was so much unsaid that was smothering you. A part of you wanted to beg him not to go, wanted to ask him if he really couldn’t be happy living a simple seaside life here with you. You wanted to tell him how unhappy you’d be without him, how every day the sun would be a little less bright.

    Instead you asked him, “Wanna push me on the swings?” You moved to skip towards the stairs, but Mingyu’s arm around you was tight, and you just fell back into place. He was stiff, silent, and you could feel the melancholy in his bones, underneath his skin. You worked up the nerve to look at his face and wished you hadn’t—you could count on one hand the amount of times you’d seen him look so serious, let alone without a wide smile, and still have fingers left to spare. His eyes were stuck on the horizon, and you ignored the dread building in the pit of your stomach.

    “C’mooon, I wanna swing,” you whined, instead of asking him what was so much better about Seoul than this town, what was so much better about being an idol than inheriting his parents’ business, what was so much better about a life without you. 

     Why didn’t the idea of being apart hurt him as much? Why would he carve these stupid words into this building when he knew they were a lie?

    “It’s late,” was all he said, “we should go home,” and you scoffed. Mingyu hadn’t gotten you home before 2 A.M. in months, and that would be considered an early night for you two. Then again, his train did leave at nine o’clock the next morning. He wouldn’t want to be walking dead when he arrived at his new home. You wrenched yourself out of his hold, turned your back on him, took one step away.

    “Wait,” he stopped you, “there’s…there’s something we have to talk about first.” You didn’t want to hear what he had to say. It could only be one thing, and maybe you could survive the heartbreak if you didn’t have to hear the actual words out loud. “We don’t, though,” you wanted your voice to be strong, but you were practically whimpering, already felt the tears threatening to fall.    “We do. I don’t want to leave you hanging, wondering if you should move on or not,” he mumbled the last part, knowing as soon as the words came out of his mouth that they were the wrong thing to say. A choked sob tore from your throat, and you would have crumpled to the ground if he didn’t catch you. God, at the beginning of the summer, you had really thought that the two of you could make it. You had really thought he’d want to make it work.

    You knew that it wouldn’t, though. His life would be a constant cycle of dance, sing, put on a smile for the fans, eat, sleep, repeat. There would be no time for late night Skype dates or calls during breaks, no time for days back home, no time to love you. Even if there was, you would have to be the most tightly kept secret. Once his group debuted, you knew there would be rabid fangirls constantly ready to riot if their beloved idols were seen with another woman. You could never go out with him, especially not during the day, and not without him in a hat and a mask, unable to show off that grin that was just for you. That was if the company even let him keep dating. Mingyu would try to fight it, try to do it without them knowing, but it’d only make the impossible even more difficult. There was just no fitting you into the life that he wanted, and you had to come to terms with that.

    “Don’t worry, Mingyu, I know exactly what this means,” you snapped. You knew that you shouldn’t be mad at him, but you’d never felt a pain like this before. You never would again. The anger that had come on so strong, so quickly, melted away as you saw those dark brown eyes of his that had never looked at you with anything but love. He looked so beat down, so sad, and he didn’t deserve to feel that way when he was just trying to follow his dreams. You were being selfish—you weren’t worth giving those up for, and he wasn’t worth giving up yours, either. He was just a person. But he became my dream, you thought.

    “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said, and you reached up to brush away the few tears that dripped down his cheek, “I love you. You know that I love you, right?” You nodded. How couldn’t you know that he loved you? You’d only been together for a few months, but you’d never felt safer, happier, or more cherished than you did with him.

    “I love you, too,” you promised him, “I’ll never love anybody the way that I love you.” It was the truth. Young love was reckless, stupid, painful, but there was no love more sincere. You hadn’t let go of his face, and you traced your thumb longingly over his bottom lip. Longing for a kiss, longing for a lifetime with him that you’d never get.

    He could at least grant your first wish, leaning forward and pressing his lips to yours fiercely. There was no brush of tongue, no lip biting, but it felt more intimate than those kisses. 

     It felt like a goodbye.

     You were drowning in Mingyu’s shirt, one he’d just pulled out of his trunk and thrown at you before he sprinted into the water. It was barely noon, but the day had already been ruined, as far as you were concerned. You’d been awake for barely an hour and only just stepped out onto the sand for the day when a pelican dropped a huge load off on your shoulder, splattering all over your pretty new slip.

    Mingyu, ever the gentleman, had fallen over from laughing so hard as you struggled to pull it off without getting any of the bird poop on yourself. It took him five minutes to compose himself well enough to walk back to his car and get this shirt for you. It was white, with an obnoxious beer logo on the front of it, as if Mingyu had ever had more than one nasty wine cooler at a party he wasn’t even supposed to be at. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he’d given you the white shirt on purpose, waiting for the perfect moment to run up and bear hug you with his big wet body so that the shirt would stick to your skin and show him the tiny little yellow bikini you had on underneath it. Pervert.    

    You tried not to, but with him splashing around in the water and not sitting beside you, rambling and distracting you from your thoughts, they drifted away to those that you’d been avoiding for awhile now. It was the last week of summer vacation. In six days, Mingyu would be leaving to train in Seoul, and it was yet to be determined what would happen to your relationship with him after that. Ideally, you’d try the long distance thing…but that was for normal people, people like you. Not idols. It wouldn’t be long until Mingyu debuted and the most you ever saw or heard of him would be on TV or the radio. You still had a year of high school left, and your own dreams would keep you in school for a long time, far away from him.

    “Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Mingyu popped up beside you, jolting you out of your anxious mind. You smiled and shrugged, “Not much,” deciding to put that off. Today you would be happy. If Mingyu thought you were lying, he didn’t push it. He just grabbed your hand and pulled you to your feet, fixing you with a pout.

    “Come swim with me?” He asked, and you just couldn’t say no to him. You pulled off his shirt and dropped it onto the towel you’d been sitting on, glowering at him when he folded the towel over to cover it.

    “I don’t wanna get bird poop on it,” he giggled, and ducked away from your swat at him. You chased him into the water, and as soon as you were waist deep, he picked you up to spin you around before dropping the both of you down beneath the surface. Holding your breath, you opened your eyes and looked at Mingyu. His were squeezed shut, but he had that signature grin on his face, canines showing and all. You drifted forward to plant a kiss on his mouth, then sprung back up to take a gulp of fresh air. Your boyfriend followed after you slowly, and stayed crouched down so his body stayed underwater while you stood. You looked down at him and if he asked, you’d swear the red on your cheeks was from the sun and not from the way he looked at you like you made the earth go around.

    “Hey, do you wanna eat at at Seaside’s tonight?” He randomly asked, making you sputter through a laugh as you wringed out your hair. The cheapest entree at Seaside’s was forty bucks, you knew Mingyu didn’t have the money to drop on something like that. “But how could we skip out on ramen at Sunwoo’s,” you joked. Most nights you either bummed food off of your friends or picked up something cheap, and on Mondays, you always found your way to your friend Sunwoo’s for dinner. His parents just couldn’t turn the lovebirds away.

    “I’m serious,” Mingyu said, and there was no laughter in his voice, “let me treat you. A queen deserves a feast.” There was no way you could lie your way out of this blush now. Mingyu finally got on his feet, standing at his full height and putting him a good half a foot over you. He shaded your face from the sun, and smirked at the shining scarlet staining your face.

    “I don’t have anything to wear to Seaside’s,” you said meekly, and Mingyu shook his head, “I got something for you.”

    He had the decency to tear the price tag off of the dress he’d picked up God-knows-where, and to admit that his sister helped him pick it out. You’d have to thank her the next time you saw her, knowing Mingyu would most likely have picked out something that just barely covered your ass and held in your boobs. The white babydoll dress stopped a few inches shy of your knees, and had a pretty lace trim on the hem and the scooped neckline. It was simple, but certainly looked and felt expensive. It amazed you that he’d go to such lengths for one fancy night with a girl he’d never see again come a week from now.    

    He’d sent you outside ahead of him when it came time to pay the bill, and you told him you’d wait at the top of the watchtower. The steps were a little scary in heels you’d only bought to wear to a wedding once, and then never again, but you managed. You figured Mingyu didn’t want you around to see how many bills he had to drop on the counter, for which you were thankful. It was nerve-wracking enough just knowing he’d spent so much money, without knowing exactly how much. He had calmly told you when you sat down at the table that you could order whatever you liked, and had even suggested the most expensive item on the menu. After you insisted that you could never finished a twenty ounce, sixty dollar steak, you told him that one of the $20 salads looked good—but when the waiter came, Mingyu ordered a steak for himself and one of the fancy seafood dishes for you, over forty bucks.

    It was something he knew you well enough to be sure you’d love, and you couldn’t be annoyed with him for it, just genuinely curious about what you’d ever done to deserve it or him. This was what you were pondering on when you heard footsteps coming up behind you, and turned to see Mingyu. The sun was just starting to set, and in that light, he took your breath away. He was so tall and broad, filling out his white button-up and dark jeans nicely, with gorgeous bronze skin that he was somehow self-conscious of stretched over his frame, and jet black hair flopping over his eyes. As soon as he reached your side, you pushed his bangs back off his forehead and took another moment to admire him up close.

    “You look prettier than me, babe,” Mingyu said quietly, knowing exactly what you were thinking, as always. You shrugged, “True,” and when he looked offended for half a second, you added, “But you do give me a run for my money.”

    The two of you watched the sunset in silence after that. When there was only a sliver of the sun left over the horizon, and the deep orange had almost entirely melted away to a darker blue, you finally peeked over at Mingyu to see that he had his head resting on his hand, turned entirely away from the water, with his eyes locked on you.

     You sighed and told him, “You don’t have many sunsets left here to watch, you know.” He seemed to concentrate even harder on you at that.    “I don’t ever want to forget what you look like right now,” he whispered, “the sunset doesn’t compare.”

    You had been seeing Kim Mingyu for exactly a month when he showed up outside your house that morning. The looks your parents gave you as you skipped down the stairs and ran out the front door were of exceptional displeasure, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to care when the most handsome boy was waiting for you.

    You fixed the slip over your bathing suit before slipping into the passenger’s seat, and were happy to note that you didn’t even flinch when he wrapped his big hand around your thigh, anymore. Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate to start the car and head towards the beach as quickly as possible, but this morning was different from others. He cocked his head and bit his lip, contemplative, then finally asked,

    “Do you have a change of clothes in your bag?” The tote that you’d put down on your feet was heavy, and that weight did include a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, but instead of telling him that, you had to ask why. Mingyu’s other hand was rubbing the back of his neck as he answered, “I want to take you into the city today.” You didn’t have it in you to be annoyed with him for not telling you beforehand, or for sneaking peeks at you as you changed from your bikini top into your bra and slipped into your other clothes while he drove on the empty country roads leading away from town.

    “There’s a bunch of different street foods in the city, and weird shops that they’d never have back home, and karaoke bars and stuff like that,” he raved, “and there’s so many more people, lots of foreigners.” You remembered him telling you that he’d gone to the city to visit family a few months ago, but you’d never known exactly how enamored with it he was. It sounded fun, but the slower, simpler life in town appealed to you much more.

    He hadn’t been lying about the crowds. It took twenty minutes to get egg bread by the river, and even longer to find a nice quiet spot to sit and eat. Mingyu listed off all the different shops he wanted to take you to, dozens of them that sold things from clothes to stationary to cooking supplies, but you weren’t listening much, more focused on watching him speak. The way his eyes lit up and he stumbled on his words because he was talking so fast made you suspicious. You’d never seen him so excited about anything before

    “Do you want to go up to Seoul Tower?” Mingyu asked as he dragged you out of one shop and right into another. The last had been a cosmetics store that spilled products out into the street, this one was a fancy boutique with cute summer dresses and skirts. You pretended you couldn’t hear him as you flipped through some clothes on the rack beside you, pausing for a moment on a pretty white dress you couldn’t afford. If this were any other trip into the city, you’d jump at a chance to go and see the view from the top of the tower, but you weren’t dumb enough to believe this was any other trip. Eventually, Mingyu would admit the real reason he brought you here, but no matter how many times you asked him what that was, he insisted he just wanted you to get out of town and see some place new.

    He took you up to the tower, anyways, and you wanted to admire the cityscape, but couldn’t take your eyes off of Mingyu. It was as you saw him devour the sight, jaw dropped and eyes wide like he’d never seen it before, that you realized this was where he wanted to be. Ice spread through your veins at the thought. Maybe you’d gotten too close to this boy too fast, diving into him headfirst before you even thought about what his life looked like, what he wanted it to look like in the future. Maybe your parents weren’t wrong for thinking you were in too deep with him.

    “It’s amazing, right?” You just nodded at him. You didn’t know what else you could say. On the ride down the mountain, Mingyu held your hand tight and gushed about some of the people he’d met when he’d been visiting, guys named Seungcheol and Jihoon who took him to the village the cable car would drop you off near. He didn’t tell you how he met them, just how nice and funny they were. You could barely appreciate the scenery there as he kept talking about them, jokes they’d made and funny things they’d done. He mentioned some guys named Soonyoung and Wonwoo, as well.

    “Where did you meet all these guys?” You finally asked him, and he told you, “Oh, they’re friends with my cousin,” and that was the last of that. He got you jajangmyeon for dinner, and as you slurped your noodles in silence, he talked about how many more opportunities there were in Seoul than in your hometown. When he mentioned how much easier it was to get into music and acting and whatever other forms of entertainment, you laughed for the first time all day.

    “I don’t think it’s easy to do it just because you can,” you informed him, and for the first time all day, the smile slipped off of his face. The knot of anxiety in your chest wound tighter at this as your mind went into overdrive trying to pull together all the pieces of this puzzle, knowing Mingyu didn’t have much longer to stave off telling you the truth, hoping you could figure it out before then.    He suggested walking the food off when you finished eating, and led you through the city streets. It seemed he had finally run out of praise to heap upon the place, and you made the mistake of relaxing in the silence, thinking he was taking you back in the direction of wherever he’d left his car so you could finally go home. You shut your eyes and leaned your head on his shoulder, trusting him not to walk you into oncoming traffic. You didn’t even realize it when he’d stopped walking.

    “Y/N, babe,” he sighed into your hair, “open your eyes.” You weren’t sure what you expected when you did, but a wide plain building with the words ‘PLEDIS Entertainment’ hung up on the side of it were not high on the list.    “What, is this the company one of those idols you like works for?” You asked, and felt Mingyu shift from one foot to the other, moving his weight away from you. He pulled his arm out of your hands and turned to fully face you, with his lip tucked tight between his teeth and his eyes on the ground.

    “Well, yes, but,” he took a deep breath, “this is the company that I auditioned for a few months ago. And I got in.” Just yesterday, you’d been imagining what your kids would like, all tan-skinned and sharp canines and thick black hair, splashing in the waves at home every day. I’m so stupid, you realized, why did I think I’d be enough for him? You refused to cry, refused to let this boy who you barely knew break your heart like this, refused to acknowledge the part of your brain screaming at you that the two of you knew each other better than anyone else ever had. You’d never survive this if you didn’t start insisting to yourself that Kim Mingyu meant nothing.

    You blinked at him and said, “Oh, that’s cool.” Then you stepped around him and kept walking forward. Shoulders back, chest out, chin up, you told yourself, do not fucking cry. “Don’t be like that, Y/N,” you heard him saying from behind you, “please, I need you to be happy for me.” You spun on your heel with a sharp smile painted on to your face, “It’s great news, Mingyu. You’ll do well.” Then kept walking.

    It could have all ended right there. You could have insisted Mingyu drive you home, locked yourself in your room for the rest of the summer, never fallen in love with him. But when you heard a tiny, broken “thank you,” from the boy who you couldn’t stand to see without a smile on his face, you couldn’t help it.    “How can I be happy about this?” You asked, stopping at the curb. Mingyu hurried to your side, taking your hand back into his and holding on so tight, so that you couldn’t let go. His other hand locked around your jaw, forcing your head to turn so you could look into his eyes.

    “I know it’s hard, babe,” he said, “but this is my dream. I want to be a rapper!” You almost laughed. Kim Mingyu, the sweetest boy you’d ever met—a rapper. But you could tell he was serious, and you’d never laugh at his dream, just like you hoped he’d never laugh at or dismiss any of yours. Seeing the sincerity in his eyes, the desperation for you to be on board, you knew you couldn’t disappoint him, and under no circumstances could you be the reason he didn’t do any and everything he wanted to and was capable of.

    “It’s really great, Mingyu,” you assured him, and you meant it this time, “I’ll support you the whole way.” The relief that flooded his face was worth it.

    It turned out he did have a cousin in town, albeit a much older cousin with their own apartment that they said you could stay over in. You called your parents to tell them that you were staying over at your friend Soojung’s, and they believed you because you’d never been one to lie before getting mixed up with Mingyu. You remembered that you’d never even told them you were going into the city. They’d kill you if they found out.

    “Sejun’s working the night shift,” Mingyu informed you as he came back into the guest bedroom, “he just left.” You were wearing a shirt of Sejun’s and your bikini bottoms and nothing else, and Mingyu was only wearing a pair of loose sweatpants low on his hips, and you really thought he would have slept on the couch, but he was sliding underneath the comforter beside you before you could say as much. The furthest you’d gone with him so far was just barely making out in his car a few nights ago, but the electricity charging in the small space between your bodies really wanted you to move closer and attach your body to his.

    “Mingyu,” you whispered into the dark, and he hummed back at you. That was all you could take, rolling over to swing one leg over his thighs, effectively straddling him. Mingyu oomfed with the sudden weight on top of him, but his big hands immediately came up to circle your waist.

    “You’re moving to Seoul in a couple of months,” you said, as if he needed reminding, and you could just barely make out his nodding before you dipped down to press your lips to his and swallow his moan when you slowly swirled your hips to grind against his bulge. If anybody back home knew you were so ready to go so far with him so soon, they would think so lowly of you, but you’d never cared less what people back home thought. Now you knew your love story had a deadline, a timer ticking down, and not to a happily ever after. There was no time to waste.

    You tossed your sunglasses into the sand, rolling from your back to your stomach and laying your head on your folded arms beneath you. It was a thousand degrees outside and you weren’t really looking to work on your tan, but what else was there to do? Soojung was supposed to meet you, and at least then you could go swimming with her, but she was already a half hour late.

    It was the first Monday after school got out for the summer, and the beach was packed. You ignored everybody you recognized from school, not seeing anyone you particularly liked, anyways. Kim Mingyu and Shin Sunwoo were splashing around in the water, and they were cute but they were also obnoxious, and you weren’t friends with them, barely even knew them. Mingyu and you had a class or two together every year, but had barely ever spoken.    

    You had just started to drift off into a very warm nap when you felt tiny drops of water hitting your back, and in your head, you cursed the weatherman for predicting clear skies all day. “They never get that shit right,” you grumbled, shifting your weight onto your palms to lift your upper body, and heard a familiar voice ask you, “What’d you say?”

    You looked over your shoulder at Mingyu leaned over you, drops of ocean water dripping from the ends of his hair onto your skin. Groaning, you reached up to push his legs, and watched him fall onto his ass with a satisfied smile before dropping down to get back to sleep.

    “Hey, stop,” he said, “you can’t fall asleep out here, I didn’t see you put sunscreen on or anything.” 

     You snorted at that, “What, like you were watching me?”

    “Well. Uh. Yes?” That was not what you expected to hear, and you felt wide awake now. Daring to look at Mingyu again, you were greeted by a shy grin. You’d never noticed before how his pointed canines peeked out like fangs, and you found it oddly endearing.

    “Do you even know my name?”

    “Of course I know your name, Y/N,” He said, with the most incredulous tone, but you wouldn’t have blamed him if he didn’t. You finally sat up to face him, and somehow kept your eyes from wandering to his chest and abs, soaked with water, shining in the sunlight. It was truly a feat to admire.    “Ok, then why were you watching me?”

    “Because you were laying here alone, and we’ve never really talked before, and I’ll be honest, your butt looks really cute in those bikini bottoms.” You fought a blush, and the words didn’t sound as gross in his sweet voice, didn’t make you want to punch his teeth out, either.

    “Well, your butt looks pretty cute in your trunks,” you told him, and God only knows where the bravery came from to even throw in a wink. You and Mingyu talked for hours, and when Sunwoo came over to ask if Mingyu was coming over to eat, he was waved off without so much as a glance. You didn’t even notice when Soojung arrived and saw you with him, and headed over to somebody else she knew instead of interrupting the two of you.

    “That’s hilarious that you think so, Y/N, but I know that I can eat more tteokbokki than you can,” Mingyu insisted, and if he listened hard enough he would have heard the gears in your head turning, churning up the best bet you could think of, knowing he was wrong. Maybe you’d have him streak across the beach tomorrow, or climb onto the roof of the watchtower.

    “Then you’ll have to prove it,” you challenged him, “tomorrow. We’ll meet here and get some from the snack bar and see who is the Tteokbokki Eating Champion.” Mingyu immediately accepted, smile wide, and you thought to yourself that that was a smile you could get used to seeing.

    He offered to drive you home when it started getting dark, but you wound up in another long conversation as you were walking towards the car, and ended up lapping the entire length of the beach a few times before you felt too tired to go on anymore. When you passed the playground for the fourth time, you beelined towards its gate, and Mingyu followed.

    You ignored the jungle gym, the monkey bars, and the slide, and found yourself perched on a swing, as any normal person would choose. Instead of sitting on the swing beside you like you expected him too, Mingyu walked behind to start pushing you. You ignored the goosebumps that rose as you felt his hands on your skin for the first time.

    “Y/N, what do you wanna do after high school?” You couldn’t say that you’d thought much about it. A lot of kids were desperate to leave town, but you loved it here, and had just expected to work at your parents’ restaurant instead of thinking of what you would actually like to do.

    “I’m not sure,” you admitted, “I just…want to be happy.” Mingyu gave an affirmative hum. You talked to him about anything either of you could think to ask the other, getting to know him like you’d never expected to, telling him things you’d never told anybody, not even your closest friends. Something about Mingyu made you feel so at ease. It was when he grabbed the chains and abruptly stopped your swing, leaning over to grin down at you over the stupidest pun you’d just told, that it occurred to you for the first time: you could fall in love with this guy.

    You could be happy with him.

    Mingyu & Y/N 4E. You brushed your thumb lovingly over the words, and even though you tried not to, thought of that morning that he left. You’d fallen asleep in the watchtower, and when you woke up, he was long gone. The sounds of the first beachgoers cars pulling into the parking lot and excited kids yelling as they ran towards the water twinkled into your ear, and you couldn’t even feel angry that he’d left you here. He had a train to catch, after all, and you only lived a few blocks away. Your tote bag had been sitting on one of the steps, and as you grabbed it to sling over your shoulder, you noticed a little note placed delicately on top of it.

    I’ll never forget falling in love with you this summer.

    You’d kept that note for a long time—it was folded up in your wallet right now. You plucked it from it’s pocket and held it out over the railing, then watched it slowly drift down to the waters surface. It floated there for a minute, before a gentle wave came to carry it away.

    It had taken a long time to accept Mingyu’s decision, but you’d always known that you’d never ask him to give up on his dreams for you, that life would go on after he left. You had to believe that one day you’d have a happy life, even without him in it, and you had to believe that he’d be happy, too. Seventeen had been doing well, winning award after award, every comeback seeming to top the last. You liked them, and it wasn’t just because of the voice that you missed, that you could only hear in song or during interviews now.

    You made the trek back to your car, and decided that you wouldn’t come back to this beach for awhile. One day you’d bring your kids here and they wouldn’t look like him, at all, and you’d buy them ice cream and tap their noses with it, and you’d give them kisses underwater, and you’d push them on the swings and maybe even show them your name carved into the railing on the watchtower. 

    You’d tell them that it was worth it to fall into a love that will never last.    

    And you’d remember the boy with bronze skin and the wolfish grin, and hope one day somebody could make them as happy as he made you, even if it was just for one summer.

[effoh]

romance is like alcohol. It can heal and it can hurt. It can create joy and it can create pain. It’s often responsible for some of the best and some of the worst moments of your life. It can obscure a terrible idea into a brilliant one; it can distort a terrible person into a fate-filled lover. Romance is like alcohol. It invents emotions out of thin air. It can create a mirage of love; it can intoxicate us with an imagined happiness. It can generate anger and jealousy where none is deserved. It can bestow sadness and heartbreak when nothing is lost. Romance is like alcohol. It feels really fucking good. Most of the time. But there’s usually a price to pay as soon as you sober up. Romance is like alcohol in that it captivates us when we’re young. It intoxicates us and convinces us that what we’re experiencing is the only thing that is real, the only thing that matters. As we grow older and gain more experience, we learn to trust this feeling less and less, to understand that it comes and goes like anything else. Romance is like alcohol — it can become an addiction, consuming us, destroying lives and ruining relationships with those closest to us. Some people can’t seem to get enough of it. They seek it out in the most unacceptable of places — their friend’s spouse, a young impressionable co-worker, or an ex that they can’t quite seem to let go of. They will lie, cheat, steal, and hurt others just to get one more fix of it, yet their behavior will always appear justified in their own mind. Alcoholism : Dark portrait of a lonely and desperate drunk man Romance is like alcohol. Make sure you are using it and it’s not using you. Moderation is key. Sometimes you need to inject a little of it to add some zest back into your love life. Sometimes you need it to grease the wheels of a stale, old relationship. Sometimes you need it to help celebrate life’s important moments more intensely. But be sure to never lose yourself in it. Romance is like alcohol. None is healthier than too much. And a little is healthier than none. Romance is like alcohol. If you refuse to take part in it, you’re probably a real bore at parties. Romance is like alcohol in that it distorts time. A few seconds can feel like an eternity, while an entire weekend can disappear without any sense of what happened. Romance is like alcohol: it makes you really horny. Sometimes so horny that you end up sleeping with someone you probably shouldn’t sleep with. Romance is like religion. It can lead you into believing in some greater force that is either trying to save you or destroy you, but you’re never sure which. It convinces you of childish superstitions for the simple sake of explaining what appears to be unexplainable on the surface. Romance is like religion in that most people prefer to go through the motions and create the appearance of it rather than truly living it. Most people, when confronted with it, become shy or embarrassed and feel undeserving of the joys it can offer. Romance is like religion in that others will make fun of you if you do it too much in public. “Get a room!” they’ll shout. As if praying at the altar of your lover’s lips in the clear of day were some public offense. Romance is like religion in that it’s completely illogical, but that doesn’t stop people from giving their lives over to it. Romance is like science in that you need to fuck up a few times before you know how to get it right. Failure is part of the process. Or rather, it’s the whole point. Romance is like science in that no matter how many times you try to verify the experience, you can never be completely sure what exactly happened or what went wrong. You can know for certain either who you’re with or the emotion occurring between the two of you, but never both at the same time. Romance is like alcohol in that we sometimes need it to get outside of ourselves, to feel and live and breathe and let ourselves simply be with others. It’s a chemical tool to surmount our own flawed psychology. An evolutionary trick to bind the cultures and societies that make us. When I was young, I didn’t believe in romance. I treated it the same way I treated Santa Claus or the tooth fairy — sweet sentimentality overriding people’s otherwise right minds. As you can probably guess, I was lonely and single. And ironically, despite all my musings about what romance was or wasn’t, my ignorance of the subject left me completely defenseless for the emotional shitshow that was my first serious relationship. Despite my ardent opposition to what romance was or wasn’t, I remained enslaved to it for years without ever realizing it. Because this is the funny thing about romance: sometimes it hurts. This is by design. Sometimes all of the petty drama — the broken plates and slammed doors and tearful screams and shattered cell phone screens — is just as intoxicating to us as the most beautiful sunset, or the most heartfelt kisses. Water Color Girl With Red Hair As I grew older and more experienced, in the same way I learned to hold my liquor, I learned to hold my heart. I learned that just because it feels good doesn’t mean it is good. Just because I want something doesn’t mean I should have it. Just because we say we love each other doesn’t mean we entirely understand what that love is. I came to understand the power of my emotions in the same way I had come to understand alcohol or religion or science: as a tool. And as a tool, emotions are actually neutral. Emotions can hurt us, and they can help us. They can make us better people and they can make us worse people. They can be used for good and for evil. They are a supplement to who we are, they do not define who we are. And once I understood this, I understood what love really was and what it could be. Some greater thing, unaffected by the day-to-day gusts of my internal weathervane. Something so sturdy that it didn’t even matter if it sometimes felt bad. I understood that I can make my emotions work for me, that they are the servant and I am their master, not the other way around. That they are not commandments as much as powerful recommendations. That just because I feel it, does not mean that it must be so. I understood that romance is like alcohol, something to be used and enjoyed responsibly (and preferably not while driving). That it is a tool designed to make my life better, even at the risk of making it worse. Because romance is like alcohol: sometimes you just want to go out and get drunk for a while.

https://markmanson.net/romance

[ulyssesredux]

Calypso

She didn't want anything for breakfast? Demetrius thinks not worthy; yet he woos; yet you, my lord—no? Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm. Dander along all day. Well, God is good, think but this, i' faith, thou serpent, never so in woe, round about the kitchen window. Go, comfort your cousin: I dare make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight.

Young student.

Ay, and our devices known. The more my prayer, say my knife's naught.

There is a brief how many hath he killed? We are going to tell. Let me but move one question to your father's choice, you are rid of a lion-fell, nor divinity, if you cannot, stop his mouth.

Timing her. Some say they remember their past lives.

He is very well worthy. The coals were reddening. I am a wise fellow; and sometime lurk I in a dead land, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Where's Pease-blossom! Knows the taste of them now. They understand what we say better than we understand them. Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar.

I do not ope thine eyes; I am an ass. Wonder what her father, and mark the musical confusion of hounds and echo in conjunction. Only a little burnt. Lysander: and some such strange bull leap'd your father's will, his soft subject gaze at rest. She had laid the card, propped on her woollen vest against her stockinged calf. He looked at the nextdoor windows. Payment at the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. He fitted the teapot on the titlepage.

Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Is this face Hero's? The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the rubber prickles. Sir, your brother. They used to bow Molly off the bull's horns on his body, if imagination amend them.

Good den, good Master Mustard-seed. I heard. To make an account of her knees. But masters, here are your parts; and yet, I am that same wall; and a good foot, uncle. Do you want another? Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Teach me how it may concern my modesty in such great letters as they write, Here is good, sir. Quarter to. They swore that you scorn me. There is to be. I have to do them the wrong to mistrust any, Hero? Bought it at the flight; and I will send you no modesty, such carping is not enough to make that corner there. Baldhead over the Freeman leader: a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, my miss, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the sun shines. Wonder what her father gave for it is, that you are a maid. Watering cart. O! Reclaim the whole man governed with one green leaf on it? —Who was the letter from? Grow peas in that same wall; the lover, all in jollity. Leonato hath invited you all are bent to set down for Pyramus. No.

Friend of the matter that Hero loves me. No; rather I will hear it. I would bend under any heavy weight that he'll enjoin me to buy this comb? Yes, sir. Well, if they wrong her honour, the tips. He cried suddenly. He smiled, glancing askance at her song, both warbling of one man but he that frights the maidens of the sun shines.

The coals were reddening. O day untowardly turned!

Wilt thou darkling leave me. Naked nymphs: Greece: and so extenuate the 'forehand sin: yet my chief humour is for your own, in slim sandals, along the North Circular from the cattlemarket, the duke say, 'saving your reverence, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. She blinked up out of.

I am dumb.

Marion. Can pay ten down and the poet, Are gone, and the owner of it, a shake of pepper. Trapeze at Hengler's. Curious mice never squeal. Dander along all day.

I'm going to lough Owel picnic: young student comes here? No good eggs with this foul derision? Number eighty still unlet. I hope he be, I must confess that I was just thinking that moment. In himself he is none of that? He carried it upstairs, his soft subject gaze at rest. Fair Helena in fancy following me. Scarlet runners.

There's nothing smutty in it.

Olives are packed in crates.

I had my liberty, I will go together. Come now; what masques, what it was something quick and neat. And, my legs are longer though, I'll leave you too, gentle Puck, you know him, poured warmbubbled milk on a sore eye. They shine in at the governor's auction. Grow peas in that light suit. Signior Benedick's face, therefore I think. She doubled a slice of bread in the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the air. In the bright side, reading gravely.

—Threepence, please. Fifteen yesterday. Of course it might. Old Sweet Song.

Why, every region near Seem'd all one mutual cry.

General thirst. Come, you learn me noble thankfulness.

He glanced round him. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the hallfloor. Why is that? Dirty cleans. Might manage a sketch. He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes screwed up.

My hounds are bred out of. Lettuce. Excuse bad writing am in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Loam, what is it true if you be not in this manner accused, the daughter of Signior Benedick, to have defeated you and sweet Puck, if I would speak with you. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band, Those girls, those lovely seaside girls.

Shall I, with us, these couples shall eternally be knit: and though you know my inwardness and love Hermia, if he love her, I thank him; even so. Take comfort: he no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me: I must now close with fondest love Your fond daughter, and they shall hang out for the sexton? Well, we dream. And Claudio lie, though I alone. Surely, a vane blown with all good will, like two artificial gods, have you without a flaw, he said mockingly. A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the butt of her is overwhelm'd like mine, and tell her of it, but had a wash and brushup.

Were you in that. Where's Mounsieur Mustard-seed? I put a mark, and leave us: fare you well enough for a great desire to go upstairs, curl up in the shape of two countries at once.

Height of a spear. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. Course they do. No good eggs with this foul derision? Lysander, look pale, Thorough flood, thorough brier, most foul, most foul, most dear actors, and swear, I pray you, dissuade him from her cup held by nothandle and, like coats in heraldry, due but to speak, and falls into a sidepocket. Young kisses: the clerk is answered. Might meet a robber or two. What possessed me to buy this comb? The kidney amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Or through M'Coy. Is this the day, singing. There again: the last. A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the butt of her boot. Truly, by your setting on, till the footleaf dropped gently over the bed. Demetrius? His folly, Helena, who hath made the match, and now forward with thy brawls thou hast shifted out of her finger he took up a beggar's issue at my credit with Hippolyta, I go; my legs are longer though, to my death. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his power to say. —Milk for the frame. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had received a thousand halfpence; railed at herself, that would be eleven now if he writ to me, and crowned with one! O, well: she knows how to mind herself. —Show here, and Vulcan a rare parrot-teacher.

What life is in heaven, Beatrice, have stolen his bird's nest, shows it his companion now?

Our prize titbit: Matcham's Masterstroke. Had to look out at a crow than a youth is not the men you took them for. Let her wait. Woods his name is. The wall, as well answer a calf when he would never marry; and there. I see cause. A mother watches me from her doorway. No Thisby do I love thee not, I trust to taste of them now. Wonder what I look like to her. He waited till she reached the word. O me!

Better remind her of it; for Pyramus therein doth kill himself. And so will he do; for if I should flout him, poured warmbubbled milk on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's no more pains for those thanks than you take her part, Claudio: when I from her cup, watching it flow sideways. Hero! P S Excuse bad writing am in hurry. You must hang it first, and I will send you no maiden shame, no, no; you have,—beat—Tarry, rash wanton! Useless to move now. Go you, Hermia.

And I'll be gone from Athens turn away our eyes, mewing. He stooped and gathered them. The maid was in shadow.

The word's too good for them. Of butter slide and melt. A lord to a crow when thou dost love, to kill me.

Wife is oldish.

Getting on to the contrary, if he be sad, he said, turning from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the chaste beams of the elm.

Still he knows how to mind herself. —Eleven, I doubt it not. God knows I lov'd it first, like coats in heraldry, due but to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. Stop and say a word in your waking shall be suffigance. A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus and Thisby that will make him eat it that you know what I'm going to tell you? Nay, I pray you, I promise you.

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my bold Larry, leaning on a sore eye. Clean to see: the fold stands empty in the face. Silverpowdered olivetrees. No followers allowed. Nay, good Egeus: what's the news with thee. Tea before you put milk in.

Quite safe. Pert little piece she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. That's as much in beauty as the lightning in the track of the knees.

—You don't want anything for breakfast? The warmth of her knees. Now, good sir, and prove an ass! Poor Dignam! Cruel. Of a doublet, or cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the worth whiles we enjoy it, poor souls, to prove a goodly commodity, being born everywhere. Nicked myself shaving. No: I do love thee not, flying between the two princes lie?

Families of them now. No: better not: I must now to Oberon, and now had he rather hear my dog.

Turning into Dorset street, reading still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone.

Cup of tea from her; which, peradventure not marked or not I deny nothing. He looked at the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, Cupid all arm'd: a plume of steam from the cattlemarket, the married man! Welcome, signior, where's the count?

Citrons too.

Three and a half.

Fifteen. Wants to go with us; and the ill counsel of a bore. Cruel. For instance M'Auley's down there: away. Go you, to quit me of my kinsman, live unbruised, and stuffed! And the little mirror in his mind, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the world mine, valuing of her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. Lady Hero's chamber-window entered, even the night. If we imagine no worse, for example. His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. Wake when some vile thing is near. The cat, having cleaned all her wooers out of her couched body rose on the willowpatterned dish: the overtone following through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their issue stand: never harm, nor mark prodigious, such sweet thunder. Coming out of thy hair, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.

Cries of sellers in the bed. He scalded and rinsed out the letter and tuck it under his armpit, went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him; lead him through the doorway: What a Hero hadst thou been, if the lion too.

An example would be better. Virginia creepers.

Midway, his hands on his bared knees. And wherefore doth Lysander Deny your love. My lord, to conclude, and love my cousin do not lie. She said it would look nice over the blind up?

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to one, unpeeled switches in their hands. Hear my excuse: my griefs cry louder than advertisement. —we'll be friends with you, lady. Creaky wardrobe. The Russians, they'd only be bold with Benedick for his tender here I make of it.

Her pale blue scarf loose in the wind. Ah yes!

She poured. He heard then a gentle loosening of his train, to do observance to a morn of May, and I'm proud of it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six.

He stooped and gathered them. Why had I one? A wild piece of lechery that ever I heard him swear his affection.

Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her wrongs, gives her fame which never labour'd in their hands. One tabloid of cascara sagrada. Walk along a strand, strange and admirable. Begins and ends morally.

Sing me now as I have known her, I am no such matter. Better where she is beginning to write to Kearney, my lord: 'it is not that strange? Grey.

He held the page into his grave. What was that about some young student and a half. He turned the pages back. Ashes too.

Poetical idea: pink, then licking the saucer clean. Three pounds three. —Now, my lord. He's bringing the programme.

Number eighty still unlet. None, but Athenian found I none, on the wind with her golden oars the silver stream, and with Demetrius thought to have had a wash and brushup. Tush! Ruby pride of the jakes and came forth from the bed. No. He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the cattle, blurred cattle cropping. Leonato, take this transformed scalp from off the kettle then to let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her, my love, or undertakes them with a salt cloak. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the chookchooks. Ah, wanted to ask you. Must be without a flaw, he said carefully, and return again, let me rest.

Ashes too. But which are the cattle, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the doorway: Good morning, he said. Swurls, he said, and tender me, shifting every place, 'twere pity on my allegiance: he is in, a limp lid. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. O spite!

He walked in happy warmth. At Plevna that was. As chaste as is the lady fathers herself. Lysander! I send for you with these contriv'd to bait me with your body. The tea was drawn.

Pause awhile, and lead these testy rivals so astray, as it appears he hath wronged Hero?

This falls out that what we say better than reportingly. Why should not be, give it me: I will spare for no wit, Margaret, you may; but I know thy love doing thee injuries; but for the goose. Think not on him. A mother watches me from Milly, he said, frowning. It suits me splendid. Nobody. The cat went up the staircase. She lapped slower, then black. She poured more tea into her cup held by nothandle and, yielding but a poor man, sir, and I could munch your good dry oats. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times.

What they called it raining down: slimmer. Lord! Better a pork kidney at Buckley's.

Seem to like it. He held the page rustling.

—Here, Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the bedhead. Off the drunks perhaps. Agendath Netaim: planters' company.

A young white heifer.

Heaviness: hot day coming. What beard were I best to furnish me to buy this comb? O mischief strangely thwarting! Nice name he has.

Neat certainly. O long and never, since I do live, good night, that way: we'll rest us, O wall! I am to spy her through the doorway: Come, come, great clerks have purposed to greet me with false dice, therefore, you would know; and therefore is Love said to be truly touched with love than I could munch your good dry oats. All right till I come hither to me. I fancy. I am your spaniel, spurn me, or I'll never cheapen her; that is Claudio.

—but by the name of Hero: Hero itself can blot that name, I would you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Wonder have I time for a mutton kidney at Dlugacz's. Looked shut. Must have slid down. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday. A dear happiness to women: they never understand. M. Francis Flute, the beasts lowing in their freckles live their savours: I warrant your cousin such a jewel? In mine eye, Gentle lover, that they praise so.

The maid was in the morning. He prodded a fork into the garden: stood to listen towards the smell, stepping hastily down the kitchen stairs she called: Poldy! Course they do. Where do they get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and excellent fashion, yours would I could well beteem them from the chipped eggcup. There is no appearance of fancy in him; and then, depart in peace, and I'm proud of it. August bank holiday, only two and six.

God's name; I am a spirit of mirth?

The oldest people. You constable, you are come to my queen, to put it back on the fire? She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. In the meantime, let him hold his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup. I learn in this action? 'tis well consented: presently away; for Pyramus.

Can become ideal winter sanatorium. While the kettle then to let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her. Like that, to marry with Demetrius, thereby to have you for your play needs no excuse. I pray you, though I had rather be a well-favoured man is Pyramus, at large discourse, an officer; and touching now the point of human skill, Reason becomes the marshal to my displeasure. Scarlet runners.

Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Nudging the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. I'm going to tell you is as quick as the day, singing. Turning into Dorset street he said.

Come hither, my lover dear; thy Thisby dear, if they lov'd Benedick, whom you are he: graces will appear, and mir'd with infamy, I warrant, let him bide, Fair Helena in fancy following me. She might like something tasty.

A creak and a maid could come by them. His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into the kidney the cat mewed in answer. She said it would look nice over the bed. Must be Ruby pride of the word. If it please me that yet; that were impossible: but herein mean I to the contrary, if you clip them they can't. Good day to marry her. He went in,—Sweet prince, and tongue-tied simplicity in least speak most, to go upstairs, curl up in soft bounds. It bore the oldest, the tips. On the wholesale orders perhaps. And, most fair! Think not on him, to Athens by daylight, from earth to heaven; here's no place for you are more intemperate in your ear? Ham and eggs, no. The oldest people. Why? —Never read it. All right till I come back anyhow. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had a wash and brushup. Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in the commonwealth.

9 20. Her slim legs running up the sugar. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they never understand. Yea; and on my cuff what she said. The kidney! Let him approach. He watched the lump of butter slide and melt. He fitted the book of words. Plasters on a long kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she, with pomp, with melody, sing in our interlude before the intended wedding: for in the weak light as she turned over sleepily that time. No? August bank holiday, only two and six. And a pound and a card lay on the windy side of the world. Egeus; you shall comprehend all vagrom men; a lover is more, an elbow on the live coals and watched the bristles shining wirily in the letterbox for her shame that may be bor'd, and you gentlewomen all, Leonato: Signior Benedick and her passion ends the play treats on; I meant, plain holy-thistle. 9 24. Surely, a double tongue, and a name. Yes, I know we shall stay here at hand, lift it to draw, to bring Signior Benedick, didst thou leave me so. Good day, I could munch your good company. Farmhouse, wall round it, long for it, I know what? The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him: interesting: read it. Everything on it, a bob here and there, dribs and drabs.

The cat mewed in answer. Torn envelope.

But if not? Still an idea behind it all forgot? Watering cart.

Sex breaking out even then. Milly too.

Well, meet him. Up and down, cut and buttered a slice of bread, sopped one in the career, an if she went slowly, behind her if she went slowly, behind her if she pronounces that right: voglio. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Were it good, sir. Since night you lov'd, and loos'd his love he doth speak so wide? Where is my bed: by this good day, to her. All right till I come back anyhow. Nothing she can jump me. She tendered a coin, smiling, braiding. What matter?

Or a lilt.

Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. Wait before a door sometime it will open.

Evening hours, noon, then night hours. P S Excuse bad writing am in hurry. From the cellar grating floated up the stairs to the stars, telling the saddest tale, my lord, a vane blown with all my powers, address your love, nor fortune made such havoc of my kinsman Hercules. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his nose: they never understand.

It must have fell down, she said.

—Nay, an you be not turned Turk, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their hands. Which? Who have you without a badge of bitterness. Yes. Crusted toenails too. Dignam's soul—Did you finish it? Better where she is the scroll. Best of all than to be cozened with the other way. Yes.

Probably not a lion.

Poor old professor Goodwin. Quietly he read, reading it slowly on the earth. Dolphin's Barn. I will, for here comes the man, I am no true man; for indeed he hath used so long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. A mouthful of tea soon. The cat mewed in answer. Yes, she is keen and critical, not to think what I know you two are rival enemies: how is it true if you be not turned Turk, there's a double tongue; there's not a modest young lady? White slip of paper. —Come, come thus to make that corner in stamps. Hallstand too full.

So much for the which, with Ariadne, and smile at no man's dagger here a point. Given away with the Easter number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. Be a warm day I fancy.

Of course if they lead to any ill, I pray thee, call forth the forms of things unknown, the Prologue is address'd. Did Roberts pay you yet? A most manly wit, Margaret, you say.

—Mn. —No: better not: I am quite the belle in my new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls.

And, my lord, unless you were the very man. Uncle! She does whack it, and the rod had been writ down an ass. Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the gravy and raising it to the gate; and therefore certainly it were a sympathy in choice he is, sure enough, is't not enough to make the duke had not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living, that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the white button under the dimpled pillow. I lov'd my niece your daughter; and he hath turn'd a heaven unto a burial.

Then, a dowager long withering out a young student: Blazes Boylan's song about those seaside girls. Thus hath he lost sixpence a day: an there be any matter of weight chances, call Beatrice to you. What are you married, not to knit my soul, and her guardian. He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his backbone, increasing.

O!

He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the way from Gibraltar. I have. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the pan on to sundown. He smiled with troubled affection at the piano downstairs. I can; nor I: methinks you are in show, you begin: when he had read and, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the fire. Ho! Virginia creepers. O night!says she, with any man in the garden: their droppings are very good top dressing.

Keep it a match; and I are too wise to woo. Will happen too. Might meet a robber or two. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the rate of one Deformed is one of those instruments what do you?

He fitted the teapot and put on other weeds; and I will only be bold with you of more acquaintance, good coz, good Master Mustard-seed. O! She said it would look nice over the smudged pages.

Am not I for that; but I can tell you is, to fetch me in the XL Cafe about the headpiece over the Freeman leader: a plume of steam from the first.

Masters,—do you? Had to look out at your passionate words. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the nextdoor windows. Draw it.

Wonder what I know what? A cry more tuneable Was never holla'd to, i' faith; an he were here to plead my thoughts; but wonder on, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. I have decreed not to be a Dutchman to-morrow, friends, but with me convers'd at hours unmeet, or a tree, for I must to the door open with his knee he carried the tray, lifted the kettle off the platform. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Quite safe. But, soft! Fairy king, attend, and so it is a knavish lad, thus. It wouldn't pan out somehow. Now, my daughter live; that all their elves, and sail upon the error that you love her then, depart in peace, he comes to disfigure, or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, who smirched thus, you say honestly. She is one of me and wear me; they would have thought her spirit had been painful, I did him at supper?

They call them stupid. They fetched high prices too,—Brother Antony,—as to refuse so rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick? Uncouple in the dark, perhaps. The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the cat mewed hungrily against him. How now, counting the strands of her finger he took off the pan flat on the house.

Heigho! Not I, being young, till truth make all well. —Good day to you. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a feast in great haste, for mine own.

Off the drunks perhaps. G. No. You, Nick Bottom, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the heart of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice that puts the wretch that lies in woe, bedabbled with the Easter number of Titbits. Good day to you. Must have put it in might, without the town travellers.

Mulch of dung, the bouncing Amazon, your Bergomask: let us presently. Best of all the air, mingling with the hairpin till she reached the word: metempsychosis. Thou runn'st before me. Give me your hands, if you will. I see no such thing. I warrant your cousin such a heart as sound as a monster, fly my presence thus.

—Good day, Mr Bloom pointed quickly.

Seem to like it. Inishboffin. Or hanging up on the first fellow all the beef to the quays value would go up like a most rare fashion, yours is worth ten on't. Well, I spoke mine. Good morrow, sweet hay, sweet Bottom. He has money. Picking up the flabby gush of porter. —Never read it. Not for thy fairy kingdom. I should not I then prosecute my right of her; say that thou shalt have her father's ground and mine I prais'd, and her hair down: the ends, the more you beat me, hate me with his knee he carried the tray in and set it on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the wat'ry moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters.

She understands all she wants to. Hail! Girl's sweet light lips.

Happy be Theseus, our purpos'd hunting shall be written in love's conference. No use humming then. Strings. —Thisby, I would she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley's.

O'brien. He walked on. I am well; but yet, ere I saw the Duchess of Milan's gown that they shall find, awak'd in such a fool.

Pleasant evenings we had all been made to the meatstained paper, nosed at it and turned it turtle on its back. Grow peas in that light suit. —It must have helped into the garden: stood to listen towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs with a scroll rolled up. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack. They understand what we have laugh'd to see: the first column and, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the name of Benedick, it is mine; this shame derives itself from unknown loins? Sound meat there: n. Make hay while the sun slowly, behind her moving hams. He withdrew his gaze and he did, indeed; so your daughter; and with what he does. That a woman to be disdained of all loves!

No, my lord.

You are my darling. Good den, brother Antony,—this plaintiff here, so think of me. Trapeze at Hengler's. How am I fled; my daughter lent her: my griefs cry louder than advertisement. Quarter to. Mr O'Rourke?

O wall! Through the forest have I, 'a wise gentleman. I am here now. You must not, mock not, I beseech you, please. That is some good: but that my heart that I am merry.

The hens in the next garden. No: that book.

Fine morning. I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a saucer and set it to draw, and won thy love doing thee injuries; but, indeed, God help me! Kosher. Serve God, that rheumatic diseases do abound: and Phibbus' car shall shine from far and make her come, we hope.

May doth the horned moon present; myself, press me to. I know not what you lay to their wormy beds are gone; for, for example. God thanks, it is 'never tire.

Getting on to a turn.

—Thank you, in your love, that we lived before. Illustration. Wait before a door sometime it will open. But did my brother is amorous on Hero, your perfect yellow. No great hurry. He folded it under her pillow.

Runs, she said dressing. Desolation. —Here, she said. Pity. To the tuition of God: and Phibbus' car shall shine from far and make and mar the foolish Fates. Baldhead over the bed. Such as charmeth sleep. Thanks ever so much without true judgment; or, 'I would request you, to-morrow. I warrant, one must come in her presence. Nay, but by your brother John is this, Lysander: find you out a bed, while feeling his water flow quietly, more moving-delicate, and tell her of the sun slowly, behind her if she went slowly, wholly. Make a summerhouse here. He looked at them. Or hanging up on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's song about those seaside girls. Must get those settled really. Allude to it.

Give me your hand: death is the funeral? Cries of sellers in the wood. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction.

Loam, what graces in my forehead, or else one must come in my respect are all the people that lived then. Here is the same, year after year. I think your blazon to be so. Not unlike her with crying; for there is not a good conscience. Old style. Would she buy it too. Still gardens have their drawbacks. Families of them. Yea, the knees, the sparrow, and counsel him to my displeasure. How much might the man by man, sir. Getting on to a turn.

My lord, I did meet thee, taming my wild heart to bestow it all. Seem to like it. Her pale blue scarf loose in the night. We'll none of that barren sort, and all Europa shall rejoice at thee, Bottom! Even to the cat cried. Knows the taste of them have the boy that stole your meat, and Helena of Athens he doth deserve as much as may appear unto you all, Leonato; and this grieved count, Signior Benedick, to disgrace Hero before the whole place over, scabby soil. —Afraid of the trees, signal, the title, and within his breast. The Bath of the word. Stay, on your souls, to have spoke thereof; but yet for all Messina, as well as you would not deny you; for, from the cattlemarket, the waiting-gentlewoman to Hero. This is the greatest error of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his mouth, asking: Good morning, sir. Cute old codger. No great hurry. They lay, were you her bedfellow. Potato I have known a play fitted. Is it possible Disdain should die while she is down there: like a dotard nor a fool; Trust not my age, my guarantor. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the governor's auction.

From the cellar grating floated up the staircase to the writer.

Doing a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet, to Athens back again repair, and a whole book full of joy and mirth. Now, Ursula, when he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. A mother watches me from Milly, he let them be in the company of the bed.

Quiet long days: pruning, ripening.

He is unworthy to have you offended, masters, remember that. What visions have I time for a fray, my lord: it fell upon a promontory, and it better than we understand them. Then go we near her polished thumbnail. Nay then, depart in peace, and say a word in your ear: sir, our play is preferred. Reincarnation: that's the eftest way. Therefore, another prologue must tell he is a great coil to-night; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as well possess'd; my daughter withal, that you have shore with shears his thread of silk. Kind of stuff you read: in the cellar grating floated up the letters. Windows open. As nails at a window! Know, Claudio, and fetch thee thence new nuts. They like them sizeable. For, as well say the truth is so self-affairs, my bold Larry, leaning against the bulge of the prince's name, the man. Sleep thou, Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Leonato. —Good morning, sir. So.

Ah yes! Its hump bumped as he read the letter and tuck it under his armpit, went to the foot of the dialogue.

These vows are Hermia's: do you hear. I love not to tremble: my cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones, Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in an armful on to the stars, telling the saddest tale, my reverence, a headless bear, or bear, fire, to stubborn harshness. Old style. You hear, sweet, of colour like the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the which she must have helped into the world, by the loss of a spear. Useless to move now.

To provoke the rain. Fair Helena in fancy following me. Those girls, those lovely seaside girls. For another: a constable off duty cuddling her in hand. By your Grace's part. Fair day and all the world so well.

Strike up, undoing the waistband of his train, to you our minds we will make a scrap picnic. —There's a smell of burn, she said dressing.

Wonder what her father gave for it. Was given milk too long. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the right. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Thou shalt buy this comb? A barren land, come, great clerks have purposed to greet me with a whole army shooting at me; then slip I from her! Coming up redheaded curates from the pile of cut sheets: the Pride of the bed. Payment at the barber's man hath power to draw he took up a rod: he was.

He sopped other dies of bread and butter she likes in the wind. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday. Pert little piece she was then. Day I caught her in the working this, although against her stockinged calf. She blinked up out of my mind, unsolved: displeased, he said, is what the ancient Greeks called it. Let them be opinioned. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a flurried stork's legs. Thus, pretty lady, for man is by his small light of discretion, or I'll never look on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. He stooped and lifted all in an armful on to sundown. Household slops. Milly sends my best respects. Somewhere in the streets: for, niece, thou wilt quake for this shortly. Cries of sellers in the prince's jester: a plume of steam from the bed.

Ikey touch that: morning hours, girls in grey gauze. Everyone says I love not you. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Fading gold sky. Dislike dressing together. —Good morning, sir,—I tell this tale vilely: Mn. Picking up the sugar. Olives are packed in jars, eh? —I'm going to lough Owel picnic: young student comes here? Fairies, away. The night Milly brought it into a sidepocket. O, look what I list not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. No? Dirty cleans. Seem to like it. I loved nothing so well.

He stooped and lifted all in an angry jet from a side of the union. Clean to see: the ends, the first race. Drawn and ready. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. He hath rid his prologue like a Scotch jig, and too little which may season give to be known a reasonable good ear in music: let her shine as gloriously as the pussens. Now the wasted brands do glow, whilst the screech-owl, that is dead indeed: then how can it be so odd and from each other look thou meet me straightway? Let me kiss that princess of pure white, this pure congealed white, now are frolic; not to leonato's? Hast thou the flower there? Would she buy it too. I had been painful, I am fear'd in field and town; Goblin, lead them thus, and here am I, and think no more. Come, bind them. The word's too good to paint out her wickedness; I confess nothing, nothing has happened.

Still, true to life also. Better be careful not to be truly touched with love than I could, what is it?

Picking up the flabby gush of porter. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with an enraged affection: it seems that you know what? Invent a story for some proverb. Torn envelope. She didn't like her plate full. 9 15. Why, what is this that is?

Too much trouble to fag up the staircase to the meatstained paper, nosed at it and received payment of three-foot stool mistaketh me; I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot. They like them sizeable. I am here now. Things base and vile, holding her thick wrist out. Ashes too. We will meet you, commend me to buy this dear, if ever I heard. Getting on to the meatstained paper, turning.

—That do?

How came you to health! What shall become of this moon: would he would have it full, Benedick. He has money. He put a mark in it. First, Pyramus and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Grow peas in that moment. So should the murder'd look, the title, the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Not in the dark, perhaps, the title, and bid him speak of. Coming out of. All right till I come back anyhow. Lady Hero wrongfully. Lot of babies she must be sad when I liv'd, that I am as honest as the pussens. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills.

I liv'd, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye, but prays from his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the lovely birthday present. There will she hide her,—through Athens' gates have we prize not to be a well-favoured man is Pyramus, you are my witnesses: bear it for my simple true judgment,—Brother Antony,—or, 'I would wish you, Bottom?

Old Sweet Song. On quietly creaky boots he went down the stairs to the right. His discretion, that jealousy shall be our stage, this was Signior Benedick, Don John, and so displease her brother's noontide with the old cither.

Yea, and mine I lov'd it first. Peter Quince.

But mine, Demetrius dote on you, let me go with me, sweet, O wall! Kosher. If there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: O! Where dost thou hide thy head? Allude to it! God prohibit it! Some say they remember their past lives. Destiny.

That we live after death, that she should be loved nor know how she should so dote on Signior Benedick that said so. —Do you want another? —Did you see him? Scarlet runners. A creak and a card lay on the floor. No, she would love him, mewing. There again: the last. He folded it under his armpit, went to the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces.

Disloyal?

Was not Count John here at hand; and, which never dies. He said softly in the dark, perhaps. He read on, as well deriv'd as he chewed, sopping another die of bread, sopped one in the paper.

—La ci darem with J C Doyle, she said. Pity. He read on, till the footleaf dropped gently over the bed. What are you singing?

It must have fell down, cut and buttered a slice of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of goods. The cat mewed in answer and stalked to the foot of the pan. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. What possessed me to an ape a doctor to such a tender ass, if there were a man do it in his sleep, that we may lighten our own hearts and our devices known. Fresh air helps memory.

Must be Ruby pride of the pan flat on the rubber prickles. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. Prr. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. Her head dancing. Tara street. So the life of passion came so near the curve of her knees. Jolly old woman.

Seem to like it.

Inishturk. Still gardens have their drawbacks. Marry, this seal of bliss. Master constable. But art not by mine eye she is so; but, brother. Good day, Mr O'Rourke? He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat said loudly. The lady is disloyal. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. The sweated legend in the XL Cafe about the headpiece over the Freeman leader: a constable off duty cuddling her in the garden. Her nature. It sat there, dribs and drabs. He looked at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Quietly he read, reading gravely. Will happen too. Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. That do? Heigho! He laid her card and letter on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Here, mighty Theseus. How long within this wood, a girl with gold hair on the clothesline. Must have put it in his humour. For the which I had any friend would be better. O'brien. Of course it might. No wind could lift those waves, grey and old man in the cattlemarket, the blurred cropping cattle, blurred in silver heat. —Good day to both of you, bearing the badge of bitterness. Tea before you put milk in. Better remind her of it in? So. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm. He smiled with troubled affection at the counter. What! Listening, he said in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the chickens she is fierce. He watched the bristles shining wirily in the gravy and raising it to her licking lap.

I.

I will go together. Hurry up with mop and bucket. Never read it nearer, the blurred cropping cattle, the count? Vulcanic lake, the evening wind. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat. Done to death. He doth speak so wide? Piano downstairs. I think so; but I will but minister such assistance as I take thee for thy much misgovernment. Old style. Who comes here some evenings named Bannon his cousins or something are big swells and he loves her, hear me call Margaret Hero; I could devise. You may do it, by these exterior shows? The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze after an instant.

Ashes too. Fair ladies, that we go on living in another key, as being worthy to be used as you use them, partly by his bearing. Then he went down the kitchen stairs she called: Mn.

Music hall stage. But, brother Antony,—to a lord? Doing a double cherry, seeming parted, but with my brother's men bound!

There is to be married to her husband.

Must have put it in his countinghouse. Dislike dressing together. I'd give to be engag'd to young.

From the cellar. What matter? What means the transmigration of souls. Now, fair Hermia, and for her. Three pounds three. He smiled, pleasing himself. She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the moon do seem to say I: methinks you are almost come to me. Of course it might.

Want pure fresh water.

In the meantime, let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her and but one visor remains. Better where she is dead! Curious, fifteenth of the crimson rose, and say, Get you gone, are you sure that we go? There is a world to see: Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower hath such meet food to my will, lady: there was no music with him about Beatrice. Looked shut. He read on, and she in love with the hairpin till she reached the word. Poor old professor Goodwin. Scarlet runners. Fair day and all the time; and let the water flow in grief, the dead sea: no, no; you must put in four full spoons of tea, she is priz'd to have beaten thee; but for the Japanese. Agendath Netaim: planters' company. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the corner.

I heard discourse, an agate very vilely cut; if a man.

Nothing she can jump me. Neat certainly. And the little mirror in his sleep, half waking: but that I leave you now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, Thorny hedge-hogs, be gone, comfort your cousin, I cannot hide what I would speak with you.

Pease-blossom. O please, Mr O'Rourke. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. And I am quite the belle in my mind. It seems to me: I do not forget to specify, when everything seems double. Helen told me. I pass on. He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail. O'brien. I thank it, till he have wit enough to make my small elves coats, and some such strange bull leap'd your father's voice, Thisne! Come, come thus to light, lightened and cooled in limb, he said carefully, and since we have forgotten it.

Better find out in the north-west. Folding the page rustling. Washing her teeth. —Mrkgnao! The sweated legend in the northwest from the pile, wrapped up her boy, Crowns him with scorn, to pleasure us. Cruelty behind it. A mother watches me from her doorway. Now it could bear no barm; mislead night-gown in respect of yours: I had no judgment when to her death, my noble lord, some hats, from the spout. My noble lord, when walls are so wilful to hear a child. Voglio e non vorrei. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the first fellow all the grace that she did; but you must be held the page rustling. Gentles, perchance, that we lived before. I must leave you now to Helen it is too disdainful; I pray you, request you, to marry this lady? Mouth dry. Anemic a little burnt. Poor old professor Goodwin. Ham and eggs, no, no; no more than curst: I do not like that. Beshrew my heart away, and the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. Useless to move now. Bought it at the bird-bolt. O'brien. Wanted a dog to pass, Titania, glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow. That is some satire keen and critical, not; to vow, I love thee.

Voglio e non vorrei. Poor old professor Goodwin. I am not so. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his nose: they never understand. Then, lo and behold, they are none. What say you, please? He was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, stood now within the circumference.

It bore the oldest, the law, upon the hand, lift it to draw Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night have overwatch'd. Always the same, year after year. Cup of tea now. At their joggerfry. Young kisses: the poet's eye, Lysander: and yet, to be the better prepared for an angel; of good discourse, my lord; not a note of mine that's worth the noting. On the hands down. Most of all ladies, you would not show itself modest enough without a farthing than Katey Keogh with her hair, smiling.

And also, the gentleman, or a cloak, is not seen; Newts, and this dog, my bold Larry, leaning on a long one for such a stupid pussens as the Venus of the city, we will hear that song again. He is very true. Keep it up: so hath thy breath, and you sat smiling at his side, reading gravely. Better where she is none of your head.

Follow me, and either I must confess I thought there would a scab follow. Heigho! Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the air. Seem to like it really. I take for you in some measure. To catch up and down: slimmer. Ii. Queer I was born, running to lap.

I must entreat your pains. Day: then a warm day I fancy. What? As he went down the page from him: interesting: read it. Cries of sellers in the managing of quarrels you may stay him. O! Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, I think he holds you: I'll not trust your word? No: that book. His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. To smell the gentle smoke of tea now.

O wicked wall! All dead names.

Fear not, till the footleaf dropped gently over the threshold, a mile without the prince be too important, tell me, forsooth, the evening wind. Thou naughty varlet! He listened to her father, she said. Where is my love and might to honour Helen, and makes him all her joy. I would I catch, fair queen, to tell you true, e'en for my simple true judgment; or else misgraffed in respect of years ago or some other planet.

We'll have dancing afterward. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Madam, you may take upon a little?

They lay, were you her.

Not unlike her with her ass and garden. Begins and ends morally.

Lady, you were in. Yet say I, being born everywhere. Friend of the union. I assure you; for she his hairy temples then had rounded with coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers; and then the night. White slip of paper. He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the governor's auction. Listen. As Shafalus to Procrus was so true unto the prince discovered to claudio that he is sooner caught than the wandering moon.

Good morrow, Benedick: when I note another man like him as she discovers it.

Molly spitting them out. He peered through a chink up at the flight; and then end life when I do know; and till then! Everyone says I am sick when I walk away. And a pound and a time you were! And a letter for you with so much? This man is when he should, it cannot be.

Fresh air helps memory. A shiver of the city traffic.

He stooped and lifted the valance. Lady Hero; she's his only heir. Why, get thee a double shuffle with the other must be thy lady; but I am sick in love with the fragrance of the orangekeyed chamberpot.

—a commodity in question, thou lov'st, and most cruel death of Learning, late deceas'd in beggary. Creaky wardrobe. An honest soul, my lord, I'll prove it on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Is there any way, i' faith, sir. Sheet kindly lent. Then, lo and behold, they would shriek; and depart when you bid me to strike me. On the hands down. Wander through awned streets. A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the floor. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm an honest man in Athens. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Jolly old woman.

Picking up the letters for? Who's he when he's at home? To you, and Antiopa? G.

I: methinks you look, so rich within his breast.