#like genuinely became a permanent part of my life it has its own corner of my brain

[puhpandas]

thinking about my incredibly intricate insane oc sims 3 save today

[captain-barnes-writes]

Someone Like You [5/6]

Summary: In which Sebastian tries to win you back a year and a half after your relationship’s rupture, but only because there’s a new man in your life. [Part 5]

(Mini-series)

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Latina

Warning: Angst (LOTS) , language, 18+. 

NOT PROOFREAD so watch out for lots of errors.

Word count: 4.5k

You’d avoided thinking of Sebastian for a good portion of the morning, but he was creeping back into your head forbidding you from forgetting what had happened just last night. Upon arriving at your hotel room the night before, you had turned into a weeping mess while still clad in your beautiful satin dress, a huge contrast to the ugly emotions that were seeping out of you. Sobs had wracked through your body to the point it had become hard to breathe.

The strong smell of him lingered on your body as if taunting you that he still owned every part of your being. Despite everything, despite the many months apart and despite the very reason why things had not worked out he still had an effect on you. Even after you’d jumped into the shower to wash the night away, especially to rid of his scent and the smell of sex that had followed you, you could still feel his lingering hands on you, the wet trail his lips would leave on your skin. As if taunting you, his scent was still present even in your room. You couldn’t escape him.

He still managed to pull at your every heartstring. It was the silky locks, the azure eyes with the crinkles on each end and that toothy grin of his. It was the way a single glance your way and you were a puddle at his feet, melting for him. But whatever happened last night had been a mistake, he was a part of your past and had to stay there. Yet you still found yourself pondering over how after so much time he could hold such a part of you, tight and permanent. The fluttering sensation in your belly, and pressure on your chest weighing heavy and electric that he induced with just one glance let you know that he was still very much a part of you. And when he looked at you, kissed you, let alone put his hands anywhere on you? It was a magnetic force so strong it left you breathless.

With a heavy chest and an even heavier heart, you thought of how you’d become pathetic and submissive all over again with just a mere touch of his. So puddy in his hands, holding onto every word that fell from his lips. His hands had been so greedy, wanting to hold you and kiss you all at once. He’d been everywhere, placed his large hands on every single part of your body. And you couldn’t lie to yourself, couldn’t deny the deep attraction that was clearly still present.

The magnetic pull, the sexual tension and desperation that had surrounded both your glistening bodies the night before was an engraved image in your head; pinned to your mind not letting you forget how he’d felt inside you. How he took you with such force, kissed you as if your lips were his only mean of survival.  It was memorable what you’d both shared. Raw and emotional and in its wake left a gaping hole in your heart.

Despite how good it had felt while it happened, once it ended everything felt as if it had come crashing down. Like shattering glass around you, falling, breaking and so very loud, your mind had woken you from the bliss that had been shared in that stuffy closet. Like an alarm that rang and rang and the only way of shutting it off was the very act of leaving. Again. And so you did, you ran off once again from the man who’d held your heart almost two years ago and had refused to care for it. Refused to hold only you and you alone. He’d been valiant enough to corner you and take you again with such confidence, then you were valiant enough of walking away too.

But this time it felt different. Horribly different because there was pain growing inside, building up and tormenting you. You had been unfaithful. It didn’t matter that the relationship with Romeo was not yet serious or that he was away in a different country at the moment, none of that mattered because your desire for Sebastian shouldn’t have clouded what reality was in the first place. Nothing should have made you forget your morals and had you commit such a sinful act. It felt as if the guilt was diminishing you if you didn’t come clean or at least put pause on the budding relationship.

As if he had an extra sense, your phone rang next to you breaking you from the torturous thoughts that had been clawing at you. Romeo’s name appeared on the screen, his contact picture blank. Swallowing loudly with tears already brimming your eyes, you took a hold of your phone with shaky hands. God, what the hell were you going to say?

“Hi.” Was all you managed to choke out when you finally answered. Voice low and dull, nothing compared to the usual silkiness and cheerfulness that laced it.

“What is going on, Y/N?” Romeo’s boomed through the phone. The background noise was distracting, loud chattering in Spanish could be heard.

“What?” You felt slightly shaken at the tone of his voice, he didn’t sound like the sweet Romeo you’d grown used to hearing. He sounded different and, dare say, impolite without even a simple greeting to start the conversation off.

“I’m not a fool, Y/N. What the fuck happened yesterday? What are all these pictures of you and that damn actor from those Marvel movies?” He paused, the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard and the background noise was slowly disappearing. “They’re circulating everywhere to the point that people keep tagging me on that shit.”

You shouldn’t have, but a wave of relief washed through you. He was referring to Chris and at the mention of him you wanted to laugh. Even he thought the same as the media and besides the relief, you also felt upset.

“Oh, that...I got really anxious during the red carpet and he was nice enough to help me out. Walked me inside the venue and all. After the awards, we were just chatting.”

“You’re making me look like a fool. My whole team thinks so too.” It was apparent that he was only concerned about his image and the way people perceived him. It was disappointing to hear the roughness of his voice, accusatory and unkind. Though deep inside you were telling yourself that you deserved this type of treatment. You deserved it because even though he was upset about something that had not even happened, there was still something to be upset about. He just didn’t know what.

“I can’t befriend people because it makes you look bad? That makes no sense.” The words had flown past your lips before you could even think. You wanted to take the accusations, forgive them because you’d done something awful, but you weren’t that type of person anymore. You didn’t let men walk all over you.

“That looked more than friendly to me.”

“Yes, to you. My line of job has me meeting people constantly, as does yours, so either you get used to it or you don’t.” You had no filter. The words were just coming out without much thought. You wanted to be calm and let him continue accusing you using the harsh edge in his voice because you deserved it. You felt like he had every right to treat you this way, to denounce your behavior because he was right it had been more than friendly. It had become more than friendly just not with Chris, but with a different man he didn’t even know about.

“¿Qué estás diciendo? Se clara conmigo.” What are you saying? Be clear with me.

“You heard me. I’m not going to sit here and let you accuse me of anything. ” You responded, voice somewhat shaky. You were pleading with yourself to let you be firm and to keep an even voice, but your eyes were already welling up with tears for the second time in less than a day.

“Don’t embarrass me anymore,  that’s all I’m asking.” He couldn’t be serious, you thought. The world didn’t revolve around him.

“Vete a la verga.” Go to hell.

And you hung up the phone. You didn’t know what had come over you. You wanted so badly to take the treatment and the accusations because you were worthy of them. Despite Romeo’s true colors that were coming to light, you had still done him wrong. You’d slept with another man and now you had probably just ended a relationship not even over that, but because of another man whom you had nothing to do with. You were an awful person.

Although you were an emotional mess and felt like one too your mind drifted to what Romeo had said about being tagged in certain pictures. You became curious and despite the state of being you were in, curiosity always overrode anything.

Grabbing your phone again you did the one thing you were advised to never do, google yourself. Upon typing your name in the search bar and hitting the search button, instead of it being about you it was about none other than Chris Evans. High quality pictures had surfaced the web the moment your anxiety fiasco happened last evening and it had become an even bigger deal today.

Y/N flirts with Chris Evans.

Romeo who? Y/N cuddles up to Chris Evans.

You pressed your face back into the pillow and groaned loudly. The sound echoed in the empty room as the city of Angels boomed below you. You were upset that even the sweet interaction such as yours and Chris could be taken so out of context. The man was no doubt an Adonis, you weren’t blind and you’d be a liar if you said your heart hadn’t beat faster at the sight of him yesterday. But it had all been so innocent and his gentlemanly actions had been genuine and with no underlying intentions. It was nothing but friendly.  He’d been gallant, extending his arm so you could hook yours through it to get you out of the dramatic disaster that had been your red carpet experience. That was it. People were insatiable with their yearning for new information on people’s personal lives, wanting every little detail.

You’d taken pictures with other people at the after party and those pictures were out there too, but the media had clawed at those images that included Chris and ran with them. Of course, he was single and any woman who crossed his path was apparently dating him. You hated that now you were rumored to be one of them.

You were now a fuse of different emotions. Sadness because your relationship had just ended through a phone call, guilt because you’d been unfaithful and a flare of anger because you couldn’t believe your interaction with Chris had been taken as otherwise.

You saved one of the images to your camera roll. You were upset because many things in your life had come tumbling down in a matter of hours, but you knew that only you could discredit rumors that had no foundation. You didn’t want to become a victim of the media and knew just how to fix this.

Just letting y’all know that @ChrisEvans noticed me become extremely anxious in the middle of the red carpet & was kind enough to walk me the rest of the way. That is all. Please don’t believe these dating rumors, men and women CAN be friends🙄

You typed on twitter and attached a picture of him being the perfect gentleman, your arm hooked to his, bearded face smiling while he led you down the carpet. The real fixture of the picture was the clearly agitated face expression you wore. Lips formed into a nervous smile, anxious with knitted brows, forehead creased.

Pleased with the words and image, you pressed send to your tweet and dropped your phone back onto the bed. It bounced on the very edge of the very edge of the bed, any sudden movements and it would fall to the floor but you didn’t care.

Your cheeks were still wet with tears. Eyes dull, saddened and you felt exhausted. Chest so heavy it felt as if a weight was on top of it. Crawling under the covers you decided that the only way to forget about everything at least for a few hours was to doze off into a deep sleep.

-------

When you arrived back in New York a few days later after having concluded with a packed schedule, the weather had significantly dropped. You noticed the way the trees were still continuing to change in colors and drop their foliage on the wet floor. The holiday season was commencing and the vibrant colors of lights and many christmas decorations were already up throughout the city. It was such a divine sight and provided a serene feeling throughout your body. It felt like such a contrast from the way life had been playing out for you the last few days. Everything had changed in such a short time.

Your apartment was exactly as you’d left it and because the temperature had dropped even being in the comfort of it you felt as if you were freezing so you’d turned on the heater. You’d spent the last few hours trying to forget what the reality of your personal life was by taking the christmas decorations from storage and beginning the process of decorating that you loved so much. The holiday season was one of your favorites and despite the emotional state you were in, bits of happiness had oozed into your aura.

Frank Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon was rudely interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. You hadn’t contacted anybody in the last few days so nobody knew you were back in New York so you felt a little puzzled as to who it could be. You looked down at yourself in a haste noting that you were decent enough with your cozy oversized clothing. With a huff, you opened the door.

“Sebastian.” You sputtered out at the sight of the disheveled man. Like you, he was clad in comfortable clothing. Black sweats and a large jacket. With a shocked expression you noted how he looked so tired with dark undereye circles and he looked awfully cold standing in the hallway of your apartment complex.

“Hey.” Was all he said. His hands in his pockets.

“What are you doing here?”

He remained quiet for a few seconds, his teeth biting the plushiness of his bottom lip. Sebastian was just standing there looking at you as if you were the one standing in his apartment. As if you’d been the one to show up to his place unannounced.

“I know you probably don’t want to see me, Y/N. But I really have to talk to you. Can I please come inside?” His azure eyes were almost pleading, gazing at you. Even in the situation you found yourself in you couldn’t help but take notice of how blue his eyes were in the light, gleaming and so pretty. It was inappropriate to even be thinking of him this way when he’d just asked you a question and you seemed to be stalling.

“Uh. I don’t know, Sebastian.” You were unsure if to let him in. You’d been so weak for him at a venue filled with hundreds of people that you didn’t trust yourself to be alone with him in your apartment.

“I just really have to talk to you. Please.” He was begging and looked so desperate for you to say yes. He looked so cold just standing there in the freezing hallway that his lips seemed chapped too. You were pitying him despite everything and thought how this was the exact reason why sometimes you were taken advantage of. You were too kind.

Regardless of how much internal battle was taking place within you, you nodded and pushed the door ajar to let him in. He walked into your living room, taking a seat on the love seat opposite you when you did too.  The atmosphere felt a little awkward.

“I can’t stop thinking about that night, Y/N. I know I shouldn’t have initiated it, but it felt so right at the time. And even now, it still feels right.” Sebastian started.

“That night wasn’t supposed to happen, Sebastian. I did something awful to someone I was in a relationship with by being unfaithful. And guess what?” You paused, slightly chucking at yourself and the way life seemed to be playing with you. “Not even a day after I cheated and we broke up. Not even because of us, by the way, but because of something completely unrelated. And now here you are in my living room almost a week after we had sex and I’m...lost.”

Sebastian’s gaze was glued on you, he looked desperate. But you didn’t know what he was desperate for. You were confused as to why he was in your apartment in the first place.

“I’m sorry about your relationship.”

“No you’re not.” Was your response. He wasn’t sorry at all, why would he be?

“My relationship just recently ended too. But this was a little bit before the awards show.” God, what did he want from you. You wanted to know why he was at your apartment but he was beating around the bush.

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry about that.” You unconsciously took your lip in between your teeth while looking down at your clasped hands. Your apartment was warmer now with the heater having been on for a few hours and you made a mental note to turn it off soon.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. And this has been going on for a long time, Y/N. It’s not a recent thing. I think what triggered it even more was when I saw those music videos of you and...Well I felt extremely jealous. And I felt so angry with myself at having let you go and not treated you the way you deserved.” Sebastian stopped himself as he broke his gaze from you to look down at his hands. “And God, he just couldn’t even keep his hands off you...fuck, it was like you were a piece of meat to him and you just let him touch you like that.” His blue eyes were wide, mouth slightly ajar while he ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He had no right to be telling you off like this, especially not when you were witness to his many escapades with other women after you called it quits with him. No matter how hard you tried to avoid any news on him, it always came up somehow. It had been a nightmare.

“Who do you think you are, Sebastian?” You retorted, loud enough to alert him but not loud enough for your neighbors to hear. You didn’t let him answer as you continued spewing your rage. “So what’s it to you now? It seems like you suddenly want me again only because you saw me with another man. Was it because it wasn’t you?” You spat, doe eyes furious. Even with the gushing hot anger pulsing through you, this whole scenario was somewhat satisfying to you. After so long, he was the one in a jealous fit.

“Because that should be me. I feel like it’ll always be me.” His face had perked up at your questions, face still red with anger but slightly softening his hardened expression. He’d gotten to his feet, rounded the coffee table and started walking to you in a slow manner, careful not to push you away. You were on your feet then too, watching his movements and not at all knowing what to expect next from him.

“I don’t belong to you, Sebastian.” He hated the way his name seethed out of your mouth because you used to call him adoring names or whenever his name flew past your lips it wasn’t out of anger.

“Did you think I was going to sit around and wait for you? You refused to commit to me. I mean we weren’t even in a relationship according to you. You didn’t have time for one, didn’t have the type of commitment it took to be in one. Even the thought of being in that type of situation again makes me sick now.” Your voice was wavering, but your newfound confidence had not. He was going to hear what you had to say and he was going to hear it loud and clear. “You never did much for me. We were always holed up in my apartment because it seemed as if you didn’t want to be seen with me.”

“No, that was not it at all. Don’t think I was ashamed of you because that’s not it.” Sebastian was grabbing at his hair again, and this time he was pacing your living room back and forth. He couldn’t believe you thought he’d been ashamed of you.

“I was stupid. I was a fucking idiot who didn’t appreciate you and had commitment issues. That’s it, but I was never ashamed of you. I don’t want you to think that.” He exclaimed, eyes meeting your teary ones. He didn’t want to make you cry, and the sight of your pretty face with fresh tears falling down your cheeks was eating him alive.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” You cried out, hands wailing in the air in exasperation.

“To be with you.” Sebastian choked out. He was coming to terms with his feelings again, he’d pushed them aside for too long.

“Fuck, that’s all I want baby. To be with you. A chance to make it right by you and treat you the way I should have done before. I’m sorry for not appreciating you before and for taking you for granted. I’m sorry for being a blind asshole. I’m sorry for everything. You deserve the whole world and I’m willing to do anything to give you just that.” He was walking closer to you, hands stretched in front of him to grab hold of your arms. Your heart was beating erratically and eyes searched your living room, looking everywhere but him.

“Look me at me, doll.” He whispered as he stood in front of you now. He was so close. Too close that you could feel his breath fanning down at your face. He was taller than you and your eyes peered up at him through long dark lashes .

“I can’t, Seb…” Your voice was wavering, the confidence it oozed earlier was diminishing. You were internally screaming at the fact that he still had an effect on you. A heavy deep seated effect that pulled waves of electricity through you as his hand traveled up to caress your tense jaw.

“Fuck, yes you can. We can. Don’t you feel this?” He was inching ever closer if it was possible. His body plush against yours.

“No. ” You said, eyes breaking contact with his and hands pushing at his chest to move him away. He slightly stumbled backwards, not expecting the harsh refusal from your part.

“And you need to leave right now.” You pointed at the door. His shoulders had dropped at the sound of your words and he felt so dejected at your refusal to be with him now. He knew exactly how he had made you feel now because he felt devastated. Chest tight and his breathing uneven. You were tearing him apart.

“Is that really what you want?” His voice was low, eyes downcast as his hand slipped from your arm.

“Yes.” You whispered, your eyes looking forward trying so hard to focus on the tan lamp at the far end of the room. Even though it tore him apart, he walked his way back to the front door. He turned again just to take a quick glance at you as if expecting you to change your mind. When you didn’t even budge, didn’t even offer a single look at him, his demeanor faltered and he sauntered past the door managing to shut it behind him.

A sudden pang of excessive emotion allocated itself in your chest. So heavy it almost had you gasping. Cheeks wet with fresh tears and lips quivering, you were in such disarray not even a minute after he’d walked out the door. Even after so long, this is what you’d wanted. Him finally confessing how he felt about you, showing you the very emotions you so deeply felt for him.

You were unable to move as if glued to the spot near the sofa staring into space as cries wracked through your body. The man you thought you had stopped loving and had seemingly forgotten had just left and instead of feeling relief or a gust of calmness, you felt desolate. You were being forced to face the very reality that you didn’t just desire Sebastian, you were undoubtedly still in love with him. It didn’t matter that you’d been apart for so long, none of that mattered because what you felt for him was otherworldly.

And maybe you were the most ludicrous person in the world and maybe you deserved to get your heart broken many times again, but your feet dashed to the front door. You swiftly pulled it open, expecting to find the hallway empty. But Sebastian was still cemented there, back against the wall of the narrow hallway, with teary eyes. He pushed himself off the wall as your figure planted itself in front of him.

“Y/N.” He gently whispered your name. Frantic eyes meeting, both swollen and red, and his hands had moved to touch you in a desperate manner but they moved back as if scared you’d stalk back inside your apartment and leave him.

“When you walked out, I felt—I felt everything was closing in on me and this sudden rush of sadness washed over me. I don’t know why I feel this way about you, Sebastian. You know, maybe I’ll never be able to understand why after everything that’s happened between us we still have this strong connection. And I’m probably stupid for even contemplating this…”

Sebastian was holding onto every word you were uttering. Waiting for you to say the words he wanted to hear the most. He watched you pause, trying to gather your thoughts with your lip between your teeth.

“You get one chance, Sebastian. One chance and you better not fuck it up.”  You finally finished. Sebastian’s mouth had fallen agape first before a large smile began to form on his handsome face. He immediately moved his body to reach out to yours, but you backed away.

“Not so fast. We’re going to do things differently this time.” You pursed your lips. He was still beaming at you and you tried so hard to fight off the same expression from your face.

“I’m going to take you on a date. That’s the first thing I’m going to do.”

“What?”

“I’m going to do things differently this time, Y/N.” Sebastian was looking at you with gleaming eyes as if they were reserved just for you. His smile hadn’t faded away. 

“Tomorrow we’re going on our first date.”

----------

Good god this took me so long to write lol I feel like this is a horrible chapter! Next chapter will be the final one. Lee Bodecker is next on my list🥴

Thanks for reading y’all ♥️ 

@jeremyrennerfanxxxx123

[the-melting-world]

The Empress | Side A: “Everything”

Art by @markmefistov

~ In which a cheerful mage seeks the counsel of a fluffy magician… 

The Trio Appearances: Kipling | Khleo | Ozy

Arcana LI appearances: Asra | Nadia | Muriel 

Track Origins: “Everything” by Ben Howard

Not sure if this is the right track? The full album can be found here: The Empress

cw: none

~  1.7k words

Ozy hoped that time spent with Nadia would clear his head, but even after they had dinner and later, their fill of each other, the grey mage still hadn’t been able to get his afternoon with Kipling out of his mind.

Ozy stared up at a ceiling quilted in sheer panels of fabric. The overlapping panels created a majestic framework, all shimmering in varying shades of fuchsia and indigo. Nadia drew the curtains closed on her circular bed before snuggling up next to Ozy.

As she settled against the pillow, the Countess noticed something somber in Ozy’s profile even in the dim light. 

“Oz? Is everything all right?”

He blinked once and turned his head, his expression growing concerned. “I was distant again, wasn’t I? During… when we were…”

Nadia leaned over and gave him a reassuring kiss. “I’m not reprimanding you. I know you enjoyed yourself.”

Ozy grinned rather bashfully. “I did. Thank you for making sure of that.”

Nadia chuckled in the back of her throat. She kissed him again. “You’re welcome…” Then she drew back and said, “But there is something hanging over your head that’s making me worry. Do you want to talk about it?”

Ozy knitted his eyebrows together before exhaling defeatedly. “I keep trying to convince myself that Kip is the one holding onto too much of the past and that’s what is keeping her from progressing, but Nadia, what if it’s me?”

The Countess reached over and moved some hair out of his eyes. “Oh, Oz... look at everything you and Kipling have accomplished in such a short period. What makes you think that you’re holding either of you back?”

Ozy turned toward the ceiling again and closed his eyes. “I figured out early on how to contact the Major Arcana. They tend to give pretty good advice and sometimes I just like to sit in their realms for a change of scenery. But…”

“But what?”

Ozy opened his eyes. “I haven’t been able to locate the Sun. I know that they’re my patron. I’ve tried so many times to find them.”

Nadia was silent for a moment. And then, “What does that have to do with Kipling and Khleo?”

Ozy’s hands came to life as he wondered aloud, “What if there’s information the Sun has that I’m supposed to know? What if I haven’t done my part in locating them and it’s affecting my ability to train Kip? What if–” 

Nadia gently pressed Ozy’s hands against his chest with her own. “I don’t think this is about you, Oz. At least not right now. I think it’s about Kipling.”

Ozy’s hands twitched slightly against Nadia’s. “I don’t know what to do or who to go to in order to ask for help.”

“Have you spoken to Asra?”

His hands stilled. Ozy chewed the corner of his lip. “No.”

Nadia patted his chest. “He’s very connected to the Arcana, especially his own, The Magician. Perhaps you should start with him.”

It wasn’t the answer to all of his questions, but Nadia’s suggestion made Ozy’s brain settle. The grey mage took that as a positive sign. He chose not to dwell on it anymore, lest his thoughts take him off into another cycling of what-ifs. 

He thanked Nadia and got more comfortable next to her. Then he closed his eyes and waited for sleep.

The next day when Oz’mandias showed up at Asra and Kipling’s shop, it almost seemed as if Asra had been expecting him this whole time. Ozy made sure to arrive when he knew Kip would be busy with making her deliveries around the city. 

After Asra let Ozy inside and the grey mage explained his concerns, the magician sighed and said, “I agree with you. The memory of Khleo is still holding Kip back. I think that Kip’s patron is the only one who can help her now.” 

Ozy nodded. “Something tells me that the journey will be rough, but we have to get there. I don’t think she can do it on her own.”

“Come with me.” Asra came out from behind the front desk and started closing down the shop. When he and Ozy were outside and he was locking the door, he said, “To be honest, Ozy, I’ve been trying to get Kip an audience with the Empress for a while, but even with the help of my own patron, nothing has come from it. However, Muriel might know where we should start looking. He was the last one to give Kipling a reading.” 

Asra and Ozy spent most of the walk to Muriel’s hut in silence. When they entered the woods and the sounds of the city were replaced by a deeper blanket of silence, Asra asked Ozy, “Can you tell me what Khleo was like?” 

Ozy didn’t expect the magician to ask that question, but he was happy to give a little insight. 

“They were quite friendly! But they would brood a lot. And from what I can tell, they haven’t changed much in that regard.”

Asra slowed down. “What do you mean, from what you can tell? You found them?”

“I did.” Ozy said with a smile.

Asra blinked. “Where? In another realm?”

Ozy shook his head, his beads chirping happily. “Nope. Khleo lives and works right here in Vesuvia. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she and Kipling crossed paths a few times before I showed up. Only, they didn’t know it thanks to their individual experiences with memory loss.”

Asra stopped walking altogether. “Have you told Kipling about this? I feel like she would want to know.”

Ozy stopped as well. He looked over his shoulder at the magician. “Of course she would want to know. And as soon as she learns of Khleo’s whereabouts, she wouldn’t hesitate to abandon her training and instead fixate on seeking them out. Think about what a disaster that would be. Khleo’s not ready for us to intervene on their life. Kipling’s not ready to step away from her training. There are Doors and Rooms that need Kip’s attention before she can go flouncing after Khleo.” 

“Ozy,” Asra sighed, “I see what you’re getting at, but I don’t know if that’s fair. Kip’s been hurting this whole time. She needs to reconnect with Khleo at some point.”

“Yes, Asra, I completely agree,” Ozy interjected. “All puzzles deserved to be unscrambled. All equations want to be solved.”

Asra’s eyes darkened. He said coldly, “Kipling is not some damn equation.”

“Timing!” Ozy barked. “It’s about the timing, Asra. That’s the puzzle here. Not my cousin.”

Asra sobered at the serious tone Ozy had taken with him.

After a moment, the grey mage offered a more gentle expression. “You’re going to have to trust me on this one. Bringing Khleo and Kipling face to face right now is not a good idea.”

Asra clenched his jaw, but decided to back off. He gestured ahead of them. “We’re here.”

As soon as Muriel opened the door for them and saw Ozy, he adopted a relatively polite, but a cautious demeanor. Asra honestly had no idea how Muriel would react to Ozy, who was naturally open and genuine, but perpetually excitable. 

Asra did his best to make it very clear to Muriel that not only was Ozy Kip’s dear friend, but Nadia considered him very trustworthy. This seemed to help Muriel relax a little more in Ozy’s presence.

After Asra quickly informed Muriel of why they had come to visit, the huntsman flicked his sharp green gaze back and forth between the two magicians before leaning back on his stool and huffing, “I don’t know if there’s much I can do to help. You already know everything about the reading I gave Kip.” Still, Muriel’s gaze became thoughtful as he probed his mind for things that might be useful to Asra and Ozy.

Finally, after several minutes of silence, he said, “I don’t know if this is something that could help, but ever since Kip’s nightmares have gotten worse, her plant magic has been acting on its own accord.”

Ozy leaned forward, his hazel irises sparking with interest. “Explain. What do you mean?”

Muriel bristled slightly at his directness, but after an encouraging nod from Asra, the green-eye mage elaborated. “Wherever Kip goes on this property, she leaves behind a trail of daisies. They usually don’t sprout until a few hours later. At first I thought it was a coincidence, but I couldn’t deny it when I noticed the pattern of the flowers blooming only in the places that Kipling had visited.”

Ozy gave Muriel a little space, his gaze wandering as he processed this new information. This wasn’t news to Asra, but he hadn’t been sure if it was important enough to share with Ozy earlier.

“The daisies. Are they still there, Muriel?”

This time Muriel was not caught off guard by the directness of Ozy’s question. 

He nodded. “They are.”

Once again, Ozy’s gaze locked onto his. “Show me, please.”

Soon Asra and Ozy were following Muriel out onto his garden and the forest that surrounded his hut. Ozy dropped into a crouch at the first cluster of daisies they came across.

Ozy grazed the petals with the tips of his fingers, picking up on the magical traces of permanence. The flowers were so white, they looked bleached even under the shade of the surrounding oaks. 

“These look just like the daisies that sprouted when Kipling took us to Strength’s realm,” Asra noted.

Ozy heard Asra’s comment, but he didn’t speak on it. He was busy arriving at his own conclusions.

Everything, it seemed, came back around to the same point. 

Khleo. 

All this time, Ozy had given Kipling space when it came to the subject of their long lost friend. He was afraid to push. Afraid to take it too far.

But what if I need to take it there? Ozy wondered as he continued to brush the surface of the daisies and feel Kip’s magic buzzing under his fingertips.

As a long time scholar of grey magic, Ozy had developed his own instinct when it came to the pursuit of certain pieces of knowledge. He could acknowledge that there was time to give himself space and learn something in natural degrees.

But there were times when the information he needed would not come quietly, and Ozy would have to really push himself in order to get results.

Kipling found and opened Strength’s Door on her own. Twice. 

Khleo had been the motivation behind both instances.

Based on this information, Ozy’s instincts told him that if he expected anything more from Kip going forward, he was going to have to push her in the right direction.

[isthisthingeven0n]

my number neighbour : part two

brief summary: after a few months of talking back and forth, it’s finally time to meet one another in person. and what a better time to meet than on new years eve in new york city?

word count:  2.4k requested: yesss by so many people! i’m so glad to continue this story :) warnings: literally none. i just love this so much

* masterlistin’ / masterlistin’ 2.0

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website know it isn’t me. all rights reserved. - i have to start doing this as I had some shit on my other blog with plagiarism)

P A R T  O N E 

when this goes live i’ll be out at a party with friends so I hope you all have a wonderful new years celebrations whatever you may be doing! and thank you for such a memorable year. none of this would’ve been possible without you guys supporting and here’s to 2020 - maybe Ilya will finally notice me lmao. Love you all, stay safe. x 

“Okay, so who is down for Miami?” David asks as he draws a line down the whiteboard, making a note of potential locations for everyone to go for New Year's Eve. 

Looking around, David makes a note of those holding their hands up. “And those for LA?” Jason speaks up, and David copies down those names again with a small sigh. 

“What about Hawaii?” Corinna suggests and a few voices cheer in agreement. “Or Vegas? New York?” Her voice pauses as she raises an eyebrow to David who clears his throat, making a small note at the bottom of the board for these new potential locations. 

“Yeah, those sound good.” David mutters to himself, unable to shift his eyes from New York and it does not go unnoticed by the others.

“I think New York sounds like a good option.” Jeff states, smirking as he glances to Jason who gives him a knowing nod. “I heard there’s someone there too that would like to meet you in person.” He adds, and David smiles to himself as he continues to face the whiteboard. 

Eventually, David turns around with a smaller smile. “Yeah, she, Y/n is wondering what my plans are.” David shrugs his shoulder, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal when internally, his systems starting shutting down when you asked. 

“How long ago did she ask you this?” Jason questions, sitting upright as David focuses on his feet.

“About three hours ago.” David mumbles, unaware of the shared looks of excitement and adoration for his newfound interest in his number neighbour. 

“Well,” Jason rises to his feet, standing beside David in front of the whiteboard. “we can’t disappoint Y/n, so those interested in going to New York?” Jason speaks up, and David lifts his eyes to see the majority of hands raised. 

Jason pats David on the shoulder, trying to distract David from overthinking the fact he’ll be able to meet you at last. “New York it is.” David says with a smile as he turns around, rubbing off all the other potential locations and circles New York. 

*

Rushing around your apartment, you kept swearing under your breath. 

“What’s got you all flustered?” Nick questions as he leans against your doorframe, seeing your room having been turned upside down. 

You remove your head from the dark depths of your wardrobe as you let out a long sigh. “I’m looking for this one dress. It’s that ivy lacy one, you know?” 

Nick chuckles to himself, nodding. “Your slutty but not slutty dress?” He rephrases, watching as you rest your hands on your hips. “But super flattering and makes your ass look great dress?” He forces a smile, seeing you roll your eyes. 

“That’d be the one.” You respond before returning to your wardrobe. “I just can’t find it!” You groan and Nick appears by your side. 

“Probably because you lent it to your best friend.” He trails off as realisation hits you. 

“FUCK!” You yell, collapsing down into the wardrobe in defeat. “Of course she had to go and move to Liverpool.” You shake your head, burying your fingers into your hair. 

“Why’d you want the dress so bad anyway?” Nick helps you sit upright, removing you from the dangerous void your wardrobe is. You glance up at him, and watch as it clicks into place in his brain. “No,” He raises an eyebrow and your prolonged silence answers for him. “he, he’s coming to New York?!” He yells and you laugh happily.

“I think so?” You say with a hint of confusion in your tone. “Well, I invited him and his friends,”

“You invited the vlog squad?!” He yells once again, gripping your shoulders tightly. “If you don’t get me a chance with Corinna or Zane I’ll move out.” 

You roll your eyes. “You have such a varied taste, Nick.” You joke, ignoring his rambles of how perfect he’d be for any of his friends. “But, he didn’t respond about it yet.” You add, and Nick’s shoulders drop in disappointment. 

“He’s missing out if he doesn’t come. New Year’s at ours beats any shitty attempt LA has to offer.” He speaks proudly, ignoring the look you give him.

“Nick, you passed out two minutes after midnight and barely remember any of the party.” You remind him, chuckling as he glares over jokingly. 

“Well, I’d remember more if David came so I could finally meet the guy who has you digging up a dress you’ve not worn in two years.” He states and you can’t argue back, knowing it’s true. 

You didn’t intend for this to happen, but when you first FaceTimed him, he seemed like a genuinely sweet person. He was kinda shy which you liked, but as your conversation went on the more grounded you both felt talking to one another. 

Since the first FaceTime you two had, it became almost daily. Eventually, he told you more about his line of work and it clicked where you knew his voice from. You introduced David to Nick, and Nick screamed down the phone which made you laugh hysterically. Since then, Nick has been a cocktail of love, support and amazement that your number neighbour is David Dobrik. 

The sound of your phone pinging made your ears perk up as you resurfaced from old jumpers and darted for your phone. 

You manage to narrowly beat Nick, and you squeal as you read David’s message. 

“Well?” Nick asks eagerly as you type a response before turning back to face your flatmate. 

“We’ve got just over a week to find me a new dress.” You say with a smile as you laugh, feeling Nick lift you off the ground as he hugs you tightly. 

*

Fidgeting, you’re barely able to stand still as guests start arriving. You agreed to take a few shots with Nick to help your nerves, but your body seems immune to anything besides growing anxieties. 

“Hey, he’ll be here soon.” Nick smiles softly to you and you nod in response, knowing if David would cancel, he’d have the decency to message you first.

A loud knock starts on the front door, and you remain blissfully ignorant as you stand with your back turned, talking to some old friends. 

“I gotta admit, I blacked out last year.” One friend tells you, causing you to laugh remembering the whole ordeal. 

Sipping your drink, you shake your head. “You and Nick were clearly shot buddies last year then.” You say, watching as she retells the events she can remember, hoping to not repeat them tonight.

As your friend reminisces on 2018 New Years Eve, Nick opens the front door to see David stood with a bright smile and camera in hand. 

“Holy fuck.” Nick mutters as David chuckles. 

“Hey, Nick.” David speaks up and Nick stutters over his own breath. “I brought some friends with me. This is Zane, Carly, Corinna, Matt and Jeff.” 

Everyone waves politely as Nick barely manages to raise his hand to wave back. “It’s good to meet you guys.” Nick manages to force his words out, oblivious to David’s eyes darting around the room in search of you.

“Can we come in?” Corinna speaks up, smiling to Nick who chuckles under his breath before moving aside. 

Across the room, your friend's attention is immediately diverted. “Hold on,” She holds your arm, staring straight past you. “you never mentioned him bringing hot friends.” She says with a humourous scoff as you remain cemented on the spot, too afraid to turn around. 

“She’s just over there,” Nick moves to stand by David, able to fully compose himself. “you can’t miss her, she’s a stunner in that red dress.” Nick comments with a slight wink as David smiles. 

“Thanks, Nick.” David says before Nick walks off in search of Corinna to try and swoon. 

Taking a deep breath, David pushes back all the nerves that have built up over the past week. Now is his chance, he flew to come see you, just you. After all this time this is the moment he’s been waiting for since you replied to that first dumb message. Yet, it feels fake, but for once it isn’t a prank. 

Walking toward you, David watches as you begin to turn around.

Mentally, you were psyching yourself up for the moment, not sure what to expect. 

Neither of you was aware of the eyes pausing, having heard the stories about you two - the number neighbours whose friendship has the potential to blossom. You were the Twitter thread’s idea of fate working its magic. 

Facing him, you opened your mouth to speak, but David mirrored your exact actions. “I, erm, hi.” You manage to force the words out, glancing out of the corner of your eye to see Nick facepalm.

David chuckles softly, realising you’re even cuter in person. “Hi, Y/n.” He says softly before bringing you into a hug. 

Being in his arms, you began to relax your body from the tension you were holding in. It was comfortable, it felt right being close to him after almost two months of speaking through a screen. 

“Oh my god if they don’t end up together I’m going to scream.” Carly comments as the others nod in agreement as you two walk-off elsewhere in the apartment, engaged in conversation.

Whilst talking to one another, hours passed by like minutes. You felt like you had known him your entire life, and the feeling was evidently mutual. 

“I can’t believe you’re actually here.” You repeat for the tenth time, and despite your nerves having died down, there is still a small part of your system that is in a permanent state of shock.

His hand slipping down toward yours, David smiles to himself as you intertwine your fingers with his. “I’m glad you invited me. Otherwise, I’d most likely be in some bar in Vegas.” He comments, hearing you scoff lightly.

“How painful that would’ve been for you, Dave.” You joke, hearing him laugh in response. 

“So painful. Having to accept free drinks and see Zane drunk,” David sighs heavily. “it’s a hard life.” He comments with a shrug of his shoulder before returning his attention back to you. “But I’m really glad to be here, really.” He squeezes your hand lightly, watching as a smile ghosts your lips playfully.

“I’m glad you came. I mean, I knew we’d meet eventually but, but I’m glad you came for New Years.” You lean against the kitchen counter, looking out from your windows at the hectic citizens thriving below. 

David focuses on the features he couldn’t see crisply on video or through photos. He couldn’t see the small dimples or freckles dotted across your face. The iPhone camera never did you the full justice, you’re more beautiful in person than he could’ve anticipated. 

“Well, if it means one less single for 2020, I’m all for it.” He comments but as he listens to the words leaving his lips, your hand drops from his. “Wait, I, I meant,” He rambles, but you shake your head.

“I didn’t wanna assume,” You start, both of you stuttering and struggling to find the right words.

“Oh god,” Corinna cringes, looking up to Nick who winces at the sight. “they’re hopeless.” 

Nick rests his hand on Corinna’s shoulder for a second, a lightbulb moment occurring. “I’ve got an idea.” He says with a smile. “With Y/n, actions speak louder than words.” He states, glancing to his phone to see the time. “The countdown will start any minute.” 

Moving through everyone at the party, Nick walks toward the pair of you. “Oh, hey Nick.” You welcome the interruption, breaking the awkward silence between you and David. 

“Hey Y/n, David.” He says with a smile. “Okay, everybody!” Nick claps, offering his hand to you to join him on the kitchen counter. 

As you stand beside him, David moves back into the crowd, finding Jeff who looks at him with excitement, only to see it quickly fade. “What happened, dude?” Jeff questions, seeing David looking like a lost puppy.

“I think I fucked it up.” David states, sighing heavily. 

“I’m sure you didn’t, David.” Jeff says, patting his back lightly. “I mean, look at her, she can barely take her eyes off of you.” Jeff mutters, motioning up to you as you desperately try to not stare at him. 

“So, it’s nearly midnight so everyone pair up!” Nick cheers and everyone rummages through the crowd whilst David nears you, helping you down. 

His hands rest on your waist. “I, have you got a kiss at midnight?” David questions, slowly feeling his sense of confidence return around you as you smile to him. 

“Is this your way of asking me, Dobrik?” You ask in return. 

“If you say yes, that is.” He retorts playfully, watching as you nod. 

“I’d love to.” You tell him before moving into the crowd as the countdown begins. 

One minute left of 2019, of the decade. 

“Do you feel like it’s been worth it?” David turns to face you, wanting to drown out everyone else and focus just on you. “Do, do you regret answering my dumb message when I sent it?” 

You scrunch your eyebrows together. “Of course not.” You say as if it were obvious. “You, you coming into my life happened at an almost perfect time. I, I secretly look forward to our calls, knowing you will find a way to make me laugh at something stupid.” You ramble, feeling your heart hammering against your chest.

“After tonight, would you like to go on a date with me?” He questions, but the one thing he’s been wanting to ask you all night is drowned out by the countdown.

“THREE, TWO ONE.” 

As everyone reaches one, you rest your hands on David’s cheeks, pulling him closer into you. 

The sound of cheers and confetti surrounds you as David deepens the kiss, his arms resting on your wait pulling you closer. 

“Happy new year love birds.” Nick yells to you both as you pull away, smiling like idiots. 

“Hey, Dave?” You ask, looking up at him. “I’d love to go on a date.” You reply, before kissing him softly. “Happy new year.” 

The rest of his friends walk over, joining in the celebrations as the party continues. 

But all David can think about is how grateful he is to some dumb trend on Twitter, that he’s able to start a new year with you. 

[loquaciousquark]

Cut for talk of COVID and irresponsible failure to social distance (my own). Also, some updates on what’s been going on here for the last month or so.

part one:

Very very long story that I am truncating as much as possible. As you all know, I am an optometrist and professor. When we shut down in March, our university made a huge, painful shift to remote learning and our student clinic ceased operations altogether. Neither students nor faculty saw patients from March 15 - the the middle of May. At the end of May, faculty began seeing patients directly in an extremely reduced schedule, and at the beginning of June, we began adding in very limited numbers of students in a rolling schedule that minimized exposure to all involved.

Three weeks ago, my dear friend Jasper contacted me and said that an old friend of hers, whom I will call Carol, was in dire straits after losing her job overseas. Carol has an extremely rocky history: a terrible car accident that left her legs and feet permanently damaged which directly led to a very bad divorce, significant student loan debt (just shy of six digits I think, compounded from the accident, since she used her student loans to pay her medical bills--for anyone reading this, do not EVER EVER EVER DO THIS--student loans are never touched by bankruptcy declarations and you will owe them until you die), and something of an inability to put down roots. She is an English teacher who has taught and traveled all over the world: Prague, Bahrain, Czech Republic, Los Angeles, Rio, etc.

When I first met her about ten years ago, she had come back to Alabama from Prague because a job had fallen through. She was completely broke and living out of two suitcases and a carry-on. She lived with us for three months for free, sleeping in Jasper’s bed because we had no other room for her, and eventually got a job in Boston and moved on. She lasted--I think--about two months in Boston before quitting and taking a job in the Middle East.

On top of her student loan debt, Carol also has significant IRS debt and is in debt to several of her friends. Over the last few years, she took several ill-advised positions overseas back to back without ever consulting a lawyer on her contracts, and did not realize until recently that one of her positions classified her as an independent contractor instead of an employee, so she owed US taxes on all her income for that period of time. Her most recent job in Prague she lost in February because she filed her visa (again, without a lawyer) incorrectly, and what should have been a brief three-week stay outside of the country became a six week stay on the couch of strangers in the Czech Republic while she waited for her visa reapplication to process. However, it was denied, and then COVID hit, and she returned to Alabama with only a portion of her possessions and tons of important paperwork left behind in her Prague apartment. She then unfortunately had two emergency surgeries on her stomach for an acute, unpredictable medical issue, and while she is well healing now, it also added on another forty thousand dollars of medical debt to what she already owed.

She stayed with her mother and sister while she was recovering from the emergency surgeries, but her family is emotionally abusive and very unkind to her, and after a few weeks she left their home and went to stay with Jasper. However, Jasper is also 8 months pregnant with her fourth child, and they both knew it was a temporary thing. Jasper knows that I have a large home with several spare bedrooms, and asked if I would be willing to host Carol for a period of time while she got back on her feet. I knew what I was agreeing to when I said yes, and Carol and I settled on a period of two months. She has now been here almost three weeks.

Frankly, I do not like Carol very much. We are unbelievably different people in every way--personality, temperament, proclivity to crying in front of other people, hobbies, interests, religion, all of it. She is a very nice person, and I think she truly does mean well. But she is the most emotionally needy and energy-sapping person I have ever met, and I cannot tolerate her company in more than small chunks. It is not possible to hold a conversation with her about any subject tangentially related to her difficulties; if I try to sympathize with her loans by mentioning my own, she shuts me down by saying at least I will have the chance to ever pay them back. If I just try to listen without commentary, she’ll wrap herself up in her own stories and talk for hours without ever needing more than “mm”s and “hm”s and my undivided attention the entire time.

She will often work herself up into sobbing tears over her situation(s), and she always informs me immediately of any new development in any of her numerous trials: which are usually negative, considering the situation, and usually resulting in more tears. She has cried on me probably more than a dozen times since she moved in, and she wields “I love you” like a weapon, more to hear the validation of the response than to truly express the sentiment. She constantly asks for advice on her situation but does not listen to any of it--seems more to just want to relive each tragic detail of her life over and over again with an audience, wondering why she’s continually “screwed over in her life.” (Really, really poor financial decisions and constantly trusting her own “intuition” over getting competent legal advice before signing contracts, are I think the biggest contributors.) She has told me so many private details about her personal views, relationships with her ex-husband and mother and sister, her financial choices, and her extensive travel and job history over the last few years that I probably know her history better than my own at this point.

I think she thinks by sharing so much that she is justifying to me her need to stay with me. What is actually happening is that I am forced to help shoulder this enormous emotional load that compounds my own mental health problems I’ve been having since all this started. I have told her more than once that she does not need to justify herself to me and that my home is open to her for two months, no strings attached. I believe she is making all the steps she needs to and do not need reports on her daily activities to “pay” for her lodging or electricity or internet or whatever. This has changed the behavior a little for the better but not stopped it.

There are moments that are not bad. As I have mentioned, she does mean well and want well for most people. She likes Hamlet and loves Jasper, who is extremely important to me. But she is extremely difficult to be around in so many other ways, and the way she constantly exclaims over how we basically think alike on all things (absolutely untrue) makes me think she either will not or cannot read my reluctance to engage on any of these topics.

(An example: I was watching footage of the SpaceX launch and despite my feelings on Elon Musk, really excited about the implications for space travel. She came in, and after misunderstanding for some time that I was not watching Space Force with Steve Carell, decided that the SpaceX program was morally bankrupt, obviously borne of shady backroom government deals, and everyone involved should have used the money to solve world hunger instead. For the record, she had not heard of the shuttle launch, SpaceX, or Elon Musk at all before the seeing the footage.)

(She also until last week had not heard of Playstation, Xbox, streaming as a concept, or any game more modern than the original Mario. Trying to order a grocery delivery online was an excruciating torment for her [took her over four days to get through selecting the items, selecting allowable replacements, and actually paying] and I will not ask her to do it again. She frequently makes comments about video games being a waste of time, and when she sees children playing outside, comments on how glad she is they are not inside playing video games. She doesn’t seem to realize her comments are a direct commentary on me; I think she genuinely does not understand that those games are what I am playing most of my free time.)

Right now, everything seems to hinge on her passing some teacher recertification tests next week and the week after. She spent $150 to give herself less than a week to study from scratch for a test she described as the hardest she’d ever taken. There were several other dates later in the summer she could have chosen, and her deadline is December, but she picked the soonest option for reasons I can’t fathom. She is also in the process of trying to get a car--right now I’m driving her everywhere--and she was ready to hand over $3800 yesterday for a ten-year-old Hyundai with a check-engine light on without even thinking of getting any kind of inspection. She is far more concerned with the color and “energy” of the car than its function, and would not have even checked the headlights and blinkers if I hadn’t prompted it.

She will be here another five weeks or so. We move around each other now better than we did before, and I hope it will continue to improve. But it’s a lot like a rock grinding a groove in the streambed from the repetitive friction, and it’s not the struggle I wanted to be having right now.

part two:

As I mentioned above, Jasper is having her fourth child in a month or so. One of her friends, someone I don’t know, contacted me and said she wanted to do a drive-by “baby sprinkle,” where no one gets out of their cars. You drop off the gifts, talk to the recipient a few minutes from the car window, and move on. I told her that I work in health care and am exposed to patients, so that sounded good to me.

The shower was this morning. Carol and I got up and drove the thirty minutes to Jasper’s house. There were four other families in cars right around the corner, and the “hostess” gave us all balloons to tie on our side mirrors. She told us we would drive around the corner, drop off the gifts, and loop around. Jasper’s husband would arrange for her to be in the front yard at the right time.

Cute enough. We go around the corner with little honks and Jasper sees us and starts crying, and it’s all wonderful and emotional and a fabulous surprise and I’m genuinely excited about it. And then people start parking and getting out of their cars, and Carol and I start looking at each other. They’re full families, too--three of the other moms brought all their kids, and soon enough they’re playing with Jasper’s three boys in the front yard and coming up asking to pet Hamlet through the car window. No one was wearing masks.

And what’s worse, when they all started looking at us expectantly through the car window, we didn’t know what to do. They were handing Jasper her gifts and obviously settling in for a good long chat; the women were hugging, talking about how they are “so over this COVID stuff, please come visit soon,” and Hamlet of course recognizes his original owners in Jasper and her husband so he’s freaking out, and after a few moments, we decided to just get out of the car.

It was the first time I really felt the social pressure to participate in an event I wasn’t comfortable with. I have no issue maintaining my social distance and my mask and my handwashing at work because that is where I have the position of authority, and I have the responsibility to model it for the students and patients--but here, I was a guest at someone else’s house at someone else’s event, and I really, really felt how they might perceive me as rude. While I didn’t know the other women, my relationship with Jasper is extremely important to me, and I didn’t want to make this special event for her difficult in any way.

So we got out of the car and joined the group. I tried to keep my distance as much as possible, especially since I had Hamlet on the leash and there were a half-dozen small children around, but at least twice I looked up and there was someone right at my elbow, and we made small talk for five minutes or so before either she drifted back to the group or I moved Hamlet into the shade away from the rest.

Cars drove by and slowed down more than once to look at us. Jasper’s husband made a comment about rolling his eyes if he saw their family on Facebook that evening. The women planned play dates, all standing very close together, and Jasper opened her gifts (that part was excellent). All in all we were probably there about twenty minutes. 

I should mention that on the drive there, we passed a public park that has a very pretty waterfall right next to the road, and there were probably a dozen families out playing. There was a festival/outdoor market right outside the the park that had a sign up about social distancing, but the fifty or so people we saw shopping there were not adhering in any meaningful way. No one wore a mask.

And what annoys the bejeezus out of me is that I didn’t either. I didn’t even think about it until after we finally got back in the car to drive away. This is the first social event I’ve gone to since the first week of March, and while I wear masks for eight+ hours every day I go in to work, it didn’t occur to me even a single time to put on even my little cloth one that I keep in the car until we were driving away afterwards. I was so flummoxed by every little thing happening differently than I expected--people getting out of cars, how surprised I was by my own susceptibility to not rocking the boat, how normal everyone else made it to stand so close they could bump elbows so that Carol and I became almost excluded from the circle--that it never once crossed my mind. I know masks are more for the protection of those around you, not to keep you from catching what other people are carrying, but I could have set an example. I could have been the health professional I should have been in the moment.

I’m just so disappointed in myself. Disappointed in my own carelessness, irritated that I didn’t say anything, continually frustrated in a deep, gut-wrenching way by the whole situation that requires this in the first place. Bewildered that so many people are “back to normal” while this thing is still spreading, and in brutal honesty wishing I could be like them and just give up the fight myself. I’m not even mad at them. I WANT TO BE THEM. Why am I continually bothering to care and sanitize and mask and stay at home when no one else is? Literally no one would judge me in this state for it more than I’m already being judged (in most cases impersonally, though I felt the potential for it today in specific) for still watching the recommended guidelines.

I am really, really sick of this. I am so sick of feeling alone in this (of being alone in this, and Carol doesn’t count). Hearing other people saying “there there, you’re doing the right thing” honestly makes it even worse. I want people to stop patronizingly telling me to do things I already know are the right thing to do. I want other people as mad as I am that I can’t do the things I want to and need to do instead of being endlessly patient and noble about all the lives they’re saving by staying home. I’m top-of-my-head-blowing-off furious that so many people are shrugging and saying “well this is just the way it will be forever and alas, so it goes” and acting like those of us who did the right thing and cancelled our plans and our trips and our visits to dear friends but who are mad about having to do it are overreacting. I’m so fucking mad about it. I’ve stayed home for two months and I’ve isolated and I’ve quarantined and my hands are cracking from the constant sanitizer/washing at work and except for today I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do for this, and I don’t want to do it. And seeing people be so heroically virtuous and longsuffering on Facebook feels as alien and upsetting to me as the people who go to the beaches with a hundred of their closest friends.

That’s probably unfair in myriad ways. I’m really too angry, including at myelf, to soften it right now.

I want a vaccine and I want to be back in my classroom teaching to fifty faces instead of a screen in my living room, and I’m honestly freaking sick of waiting at home for them to figure this out. And watching everyone else move on with their lives back to the normal I would kill to have is just one more crack in the dike.

[safflowerseason]

Anonymous Asked

(post #5 in the “Tumblr ate my asks” series)

“No pressure if you're short on time since I know there's a lot to say about it, but I would love to hear your thoughts on the relationship between Amy and Selina”

Hi Anon - you sent this in weeks and weeks ago, and I’m sorry it took me ages to get around to it! But the question has been on my mind recently as I’m rewatching S3 and writing the next chapter of BMTL. 

What I find kind of interesting and frustrating about Selina and Amy’s relationship as presented on the show is that it’s a bit opaque compared to Selina’s other relationships (or Amy's with Dan, her other primary emotional foil on the show). We know virtually nothing about how Amy came to work for Selina (other than that she must have been quite young) or what she did that made her so invaluable; the most evident dimension of their connection—the fact that they are two women in a heavily male-dominated workspace—is never addressed explicitly by the writers. From the very beginning of the series, Amy has to try and defend her close relationship with Selina, but since we didn’t see how they became so close…to me, it always feels a little like there is something missing, in the way their connection is laid out.

I think the pilot actually works well as a kind of microcosm of Selina and Amy’s dynamic as it plays out through the Iannucci years of the show. Amy is presented as Selina’s right-hand woman; Selina clearly regards her as the smartest person on her team and has some measure of her respect for her that she doesn’t have for, say, Mike. But by the end of the pilot, she’s also gone over Amy’s express recommendation (hiring Dan) and has no objection to Amy performing a humiliating and sexist task (go on a date with Jonah in exchange for fixing the card situation). This is the dynamic that plays out through S4—Selina turns to Amy last and often only when she feels she’s truly backed into a corner and/or can’t discuss a particular issue with the men on her team. There is something very intimate about this kind of relationship, of course, and it’s drawn in deeply emotional terms. But in exchange for this particular kind of political intimacy, Amy has to fake a miscarriage, flush Selina’s toilet, get picked last for campaign manager (and only after she sabotages Dan and thus the very campaign she wants to run), and essentially watch Selina make increasingly bad political decisions based on advice from her current favorites while ignoring whatever Amy tells her. And one might say the tragedy of Amy’s character is that she endures these indignities not because she’ll get fired if she doesn’t do them (although that is literally true in some cases), but because she clearly derives a lot of her personal and professional self-worth from doing Selina’s dirty work. To a certain degree, and in face of stark evidence to the contrary, Amy believes that her willingness to do these things means that Selina values her the most of all. 

That all sounds a bit darker than I mean it to. Of course Amy does experience small moments of genuine triumph under Selina, and she obviously wrestles with the uneven terms of their relationship during the first four seasons of the show—she thinks about jumping ship in S2, we see it dawn on her in S3 that Selina is basically her entire life in a way that probably isn’t healthy, she goes through phases of trying to develop some kind of life outside her work. Her own personal ambition is also a huge part of what’s going on. She’s very invested in the idea of being the managing force behind the first female Vice President (and President) and that helps her put up with Selina's most infuriating qualities as a politician. And of course, she does ultimately quit mid-way through S4, as she comes into this realization that she got her chosen horse into the White House and it’s a fucking disaster. 

As for Selina’s side in all this…this is where the opacity of their relationship really features for me. I admit, I don’t quite understand viewers who talk about Iannucci-Selina as if she is Amy’s endlessly supportive older gal pal. Selina says more nice things about Gary in the early seasons of the show than she does about Amy. Yes, she obviously sees Amy as someone who can perform a certain kind of emotional labor for her and she relies on her greatly for that. Selina is very isolated emotionally, and I think Amy’s presence in her entourage as a young woman who is personally and professionally devoted to her is very reassuring to her, even if she doesn’t really realize it until after Amy leaves. This is something @thebookofmaev pointed out to me and I think it's quite telling: Selina reacts to Amy’s resignation in S4 by arranging “girls night” with her old law school friends, which she obviously finds excruciating. It’s significant to me that Selina is trying to fill an emotional hole, rather than a political one. While it’s obvious Selina generally prefers the company of men, there is something in her relationship with Amy that I think she finds very uncomplicated and soothing in a way she doesn’t find any other relationship on the show. She needs Amy for the moments of emotional extremity that Ben can’t handle. But considering how she treats Amy outside of those few moments, it's hard for me to view the relationship as one between genuine equals (not to mention the literal power imbalance between them). She needs Amy when she needs her and there’s no space for anything else in their relationship. 

Amy returns to Selina in the S4 finale and it’s clearly a deeply psychological impulse more than anything else, more to do with herself than Selina, I would argue. It’s one of Amy’s most honest moments in the whole show—she can’t not be there after spending so much of her life invested in getting Selina elected. Selina collapses in her arms and wails that she should never have left and it’s genuinely moving and borderline romantic…and then she tells her supporters at the election rally that Amy took time away because she had a mental breakdown. Plus ça change. 

Unfortunately, we can’t know what Iannucci had planned for Amy and Selina…I suspect we would have seen a few more “break-ups” in their relationship as it became increasingly unstable, and Amy would continue to wrestle with the costs of remaining within Selina’s orbit. Obviously (as a Dan/Amy shipper, haha) I think Dan would have been part of that journey for her…S4 is pretty explicit (in my opinion) about the fact that Dan now officially occupies the third point of the triangle between Selina, Amy, and some semblance of a life, not to mention the fact that the Dan/Amy/Selina triangle is a major structural anchor of the show in its own right. 

Of course, one of the greatest objections fans had to Mandel as a showrunner was his approach to Amy and Selina’s relationship, largely driven by Selina’s transformation into the ultimate mysogynist. I don’t agree with this interpretation of Selina, but I do think the deterioriation of Amy and Selina’s relationship is very plausible even under Iannucci. Amy has to leave Selina at some point, like most strategists move on from their bosses if they want to remain politically relevant. But Selina's attachment to Amy is primarily emotional and not political, and Amy permanently moving on from her would be a bitter pill for her to swallow…she clearly views Dan and Amy at PKM as non-WH extensions of her staff, but Amy leaving to work for another politician, especially a female one, would be unbearable for her. Similarly, I do not think any version of Selina would react well to the news that Amy was going to have a baby. We can’t know if this was a sure thing in the Iannucci Veep universe, obviously, but considering how she reacts to Mike potentially becoming a father…I just can’t see Selina embracing the fact that someone else is going to have a superior claim on Amy’s time and energy. (But I also don’t think Iannucci-Selina would ever order Amy to have an abortion, of course.) 

My fic, Bring Me to Light, is exploring this theme to a certain degree. It imagines a future in which Amy has fully invested in a life outside of Selina, and when her old boss makes a reappearance, Amy struggles with old professional demons (and of course, because I’m the author, she has to reckon with Selina and Dan’s separate professional relationship as well 😈)

Well, this turned into quite an essay, so I’ll stop there. You’re right, Anon—there’s so much to say!

[moonchildsaurora]

The Hercules of a Weapons Master/Mechanic

»»—— Crew Member #8 of Space Pirates ATEEZ ——««

all aboard The Perihelion, welcome to the co-pilot’s log system! here you’ll be able to access the crew’s profiles should you wish to read about their journeys: (no nsfw content)

[CAPTAIN] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

“so you want me…to break them? As in literally or figuratively?”  

is the baby of the crew but actually the eldest in his own family

epitome of ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’. With a well-grounded and balanced mindset along with a great sense of independence and self-discipline

is a native Draerair born and raised on Corebos, a relatively peaceful planet where several clans co-exist across the different regions specialising in agricultural and metal work

[database file: Draerairs are shape-shifters by ancestral blood, however not every individual are born with the ability to shift into their bestial forms (though they retain some of their inhumane strength and traits). Each clan’s lineage has a specific beast they’re associated with. Individuals with the ability to shift can do so at will, be it partially or fully]

Jongho and his family are descendants of the Silverclaw clan, their associated beast is that of a bear. He’s the only one currently in his family that was born with the shifters ability, his grandmother was the previous individual with the ability

in his human form his hair is dark like the coals in his father’s workshop, honey tanned skin from hours of work under the sun and a gentle shade of hazel for eyes        

when partially shifted he gains a good 2 and half feet in height as bones and muscle mass expands, nails are elongated into claws, canines sharpened and eyes become more of an amber gold colour. Faint markings appear around his eyes as well as down his arms. Fur of black-brown shade emerge the closer he shifts into his beastial form

his strength is renowned throughout his clan, at the tender age of 5 he shocked the souls out of his parents after they found that he’s managed to bend the metal bars of his youngling playpen simply to get out so he could go on a mini adventure to find an afternoon snack

“oh sweet Zeus, we’ve lost the baby!”

they found out very quickly that he particularly liked snacking on fruits especially apples and sometimes would have to hide extras from him, otherwise they’d have none left

Jongho had always looked up to his father and his speciality with weapons forging. During his youngling years he’d be allowed to sit at a safe distance and observe, wide eyes with wonder when he looked at his father welding ambthanite metal together or carving a blade from crystalline emeyl

it was no surprise that Jongho followed in his footsteps and begun his apprenticeship by his 12th summer, his immense strength was a sure advantage when it came to being efficient and how easily some techniques were mastered 

“who needs a machine when you can just bend it with your bare hands?”

his younger siblings adored watching their older brother (it felt like déjà vu) build anything as small as a hunter’s dagger to fixing up parts of visiting ships. It’s also an extra treat for them whenever Jongho would crush fruity snacks single-handedly, because he loves hearing their joyous laughter and applause

The Perihelion had actually made a supply stop within the region that Jongho resided in to trade for food and energy cells. Under the recommendation from some of the market farmers, the crew were led to the Chois’ smithing workshop to fix up minor damages on the ship’s hull and to assess if any defence upgrades were available to be installed on such short notice  

“…I can’t tell if that’s Hercules or a beast hammering away in there”

the expressions on half the crew’s faces were priceless once they met Jongho, right after they saw him heave a 7 tonne slab of frerhil iron [database file: a common metal for heavy duty spears used by barbarians & warmasters] on to the bench without batting an eyelid

“you sure are one strong baby!”

“MINGI SHUT YO-“

“oh don’t worry, I get that. A lot”

and if it wasn’t for the overly toothy smile that Jongho sent their way that made the crew slightly nervous, it would’ve been the way his muscles flexed tauntingly as he gripped Mingi’s hand in a handshake during introductions Seonghwa nearly sweated out his worries just wearily watching that exchange

“I think what our lovely tech engineer meant was that you have a bab-ahh youthful face, yeah, youthful appearance! Not that you’re a baby at age”

“of course, I just passed my 15th summer not too long ago actually. So what can I do for you lot today?”

Hongjoong didn’t even try to hide how impressed he already was, he hadn’t come across too many shifters before and knew very little of their nature and abilities so this was great insight for him. He couldn’t care less with Wooyoung snickering in the background when his chest puffed out proudly after Jongho complimented his ship

Jongho was genuinely amazed that The Perihelion had managed to hold out until now (after hearing brief stories as to how the damages were acquired), without even having a ship’s mechanic for regular maintenance. His awe elevated when Hongjoong told him that he, a self-taught, was the one who worked and spruced the ship up from its near-scrap stage

Jongho’s father made similar comments when he came round to check up on his son and the workshop, even helping a bit with fitting in newer protective panels around the engines and windows. It wasn’t anything fancy, but Jongho did promise should the crew make another stop by in the future he’d have some better upgrades for them

it wouldn’t be till nearly 4 years later where their paths would cross once again in the city of Acreon. Jongho having made the decision to leave his home planet to start living life a little more, though he’d still pick up smithing-mechanic work along the way of his travels. Probably not the most ideal way to reunite with the crew, especially amidst a bar brawl of all things    

having not fought in his entire life (unless you count sand wrestling during his youngling days), Jongho was running entirely on pure adrenaline when he recognised Hongjoong and swiftly grabbed him out of the way – seconds before a stool came smashing down

“what th-OH hey! It’s you!”

the crew witnessed Jongho partially shift that time, almost bowling the entire crowd over with his solid mass to get Wooyoung and San out of the fray. Throwing them over his shoulders and bolting with the rest out the back door of the bar (Wooyoung’s shrieking could be heard down the street)

“thank you for that, really, we owe you one”

“do your evenings out usually end up like this? Never would’ve pinned you lot as the type to throw punches at a bar”

“listen here, that slimy loathsome spawn of a troll deserved it for inappropriate treatment of the dancer”

well at least Jongho couldn’t fault them for having good morals and standing up for it, though he wouldn’t be able to live it down come the following day when news spread throughout the city of ‘a beast from the nether realms’ being involved in the incident at The Illusion he dreaded getting an earful from his parents should his family ever catch wind of the news

Hongjoong invited him to tag along with the crew for the rest of their time in Acreon (highkey hoping this time Jongho would stick around more permanently), which allowed him time to evaluate the state of The Perihelion since it’s been a long while

Jongho officially became a member of the crew after he convinced Hongjoong to head over to Vostrilles, a place he knew had supplies of the latest ship weaponry and mechanical resources, and stuck by long enough to help with the upgrades that the crew pretty much adopted him into their wholesome chaotic family

he grew to thoroughly enjoy their company and now have the luxury of being doted on by his older sibling figures (he’d still deck anyone who dares call him a baby with the exception of mumma Seonghwa)

“watch your language! There are children on board”

the crew realised just how much they needed a proper weapon smith/mechanic on board after a few close-calls with a rival crews – Jongho’s newly installed point-defence canons had given the ship an advantage on its durability and defensive structure that it could withstand enemy attacks enough to make an escape

no one would openly admit that they cannot stay angry at Jongho for longer than 2 minutes, even when he was being in an argumentative mood

not to mention that everyone is extremely protective of their baby bro  

ends up being closest to Mingi, Wooyoung and Yeosang, the latter having a calming presence when he needs some downtime and he appreciates the other chaotic duo when they join in singing random duets with him (a habit he does whenever he’s in his workshop)

recently Jongho found some quality metal paint, he pitched the idea of giving The Perihelion a proper makeover – Hongjoong and others could customise the colour palette they’d like and finally give the ship the glo-up she deserves (no one noticed Yeosang’s little character doodles he so sneakily painted at random spots/corners of the ship hehet)              

(moodboard made with love, by @s1ardusk​ ♡)

[incarnateirony]

Sometimes I feel like SPN’s greatest strength is its fandom’s weakness. And sometimes even the product itself.

When SPN started, it was very insular. The internet screamed at you in most parts of the world to connect. Cable was even pretty rare. It was on a small backwater channel and, even at its hottest fresh burst, was running 1/4-1/5 of the numbers of the leading competitors at the time. When SPN premiered just above a 2.x, Grey’s was running 9.x and was still well above 8.x by the time SPN fell to 1.x. It was a dedicated cult show, with fandoms communicating by postcard, huddled in moderated livejournal corners.

Kripke, Jensen and others have all mentioned SPN really getting its wings around S4 to have a sense of stability, and it even survived the digital conversion mandate, it survived the advertisement crash, it survived one of the biggest TV show culls in history while the landscape changed and, somehow, the ratings that year went /up/. But even still, just because it wasn’t riding the bubble anymore, didn’t mean it was huge.

It barely survived Ostroff’s mismanagement. It barely survived the season 7 crash under Gamble. And then CW struck a legendary deal, and binge watching became available on Netflix, while Carver shifted and serialized the show, now that both DVR and increasing-speed internet and streaming services became available. And within a year, SPN was an international phenomenon. Hell, by seasons 11+, it perpetually ran in the top 20 digitally called shows in the world, ranking higher each year.

I think this is really what caused, in every way shape and form, the constant fighting in fandom. 

I mean sure, we can talk about people who get stuck in ruts in what they think the show is supposed to be about. Those happen in every old as dirt fandom. For every Old School Fan in SPN I point you to Star Trek, to Star Wars, to whatever. You know, Back In My Day The Show Meant XYZ isn’t really a fresh thing to SPN.

But the fighting isn’t just about that. It’s about how to render characters. It’s about what makes good story flow. It’s about what dialogue means. In some corners, it’s about representation.

By and large the fandom endorses, “all interpretations are equal” -- which is valid to a point. Personally, I always asterisk it with “all interpretations are equal as long as your interpretation continues to work for you.”

But there’s some catch-22s to that. In a still developing piece, things change. That’s obvious. And what “works for you” seems to be difficult for some people to identify. I regret to inform you, if you have an interpretation, and yet the piece continues to divide further and further from your interpretation, and you continue to get angrier while the show seems to be going against your interpretation, then technically, no. Your interpretation is no longer working for you.

That is, if you choose to continue to consume content. There’s lots of ways to manage this. One can figure out at what point their interpretation broke away from the product and try to adapt -- you can take pointers from fandom, but realistically, it’s something to do yourself. Taking pointers from fandom tends to be what gets people into this mess where people get angry. You can choose to stop consuming new content and enjoy the canon within the sandbox that made you happy with your interpretation. Or yeah, you can stay angry and keep watching while you’re angry and refuse to figure out how to get un-angry, but I mean, why torture yourself. It’s your right and your decision of course, so I’m not going to tell anyone not to. That’s not the point of this.

Because ultimately that’s a small aside to the “interpretations are equal”, a general disclaimer appended, vs “still developing piece”, but the point I intend to make is it’s more than that. It’s more than Old Fan vs New Fan, it’s more than whatever weird totemic argument fandom ritualistically engages with and faps to. It’s...

A while back I mentioned offering to do an AV studies course. Technically drafts of it are still floating in my draft folder, just between life emergencies, life, covid pandemic, getting grossly ill, I’m just sitting here kind of empty. Full honest. But thoughts still come, so I blog, even while staring emptily at my half finished project in my video editor I don’t have the spoons to finish much less anything else.

But one of the things it was going to discuss was different things like Representations, Audiences, Ideologies, Language, and so forth. And this circles back to my point on this show’s strength and weakness, and how it falls into interpretation.

Two major impacts (I would be far from saying they are the only, or are they themselves laws that make someone somehow oblivious, but are major influencers when speaking of large groups of people) I’ve noticed are generation, and location. Such as... country.

SPN is a very Americana show. It’s filmed in America for America (hey, technically Canada is North America, but it’s definitely American oriented business/studios regardless of filming locale), often making American references, but even getting references doesn’t mean you’re really catching a lot. American shows do not follow the same time/format/delivery pattern as, say, Chinese or Korean shows. Go watch them, put them side by side if you have to of something in related-ish genres. Different cultures deliver their stories differently be it pacing, structure, symbolism and color, or whatever. What Japanese culture perceives out of the idea of a dog in symbolism is like wildly different than what American culture perceives out of a dog. 

Similarly each generation has its own language. I mean, watch boomers and zoomers talk right past each other and that isn’t hard to see in practice. 

Don’t even get me started on representation. America’s in a goddamn trashfire of Hays Code aftermath, which say, British people didn’t have to grow up with and may be used to entire other systems so they see Rando American Show elsewhere and go, well see! but that’s a whole other mess. Just... adding it to the equation (and vaguely thanking the Brits and other Europeans for shipping off so many gay ass films for decades that the MPAA couldn’t stop that they just gave up enforcing the code as much as letting cultural aftermath doing the work.)

So this show absolutely exploded, and like, it’s nobody’s fault that the entire sum of the fandom aren’t all like, media minds/eyes that pay attention to the different methods in international films. But it adds to a lot of talking past each other in the dialogue. It leads to a lot of expectations or readings that may be/seem valid to people because it’s what they know in their area. It leads to a lot of obfuscating of points, infinite carousels of suggestions and alternatives that, after dozens of millions of fans engage for a decade, just becomes a big relativistic vat, but a lot of lanes are now angry in every way. 

Like this isn’t a one-ship thing or one-lane thing, it’s a just about everybody thing. And it’s not about any one subject or angle or view of approach. These days, it feels like Everybody Is Mad About Everything. Their reads aren’t really working for them anymore, regardless of their lane (for every pissed off Wincester there’s a pissed off Destiel fan, for every pissed off Sam stan there’s a pissed off Dean or Cas or even Rowena stan these days). Everybody somehow seems permanently blindsided by Everything if you take the temperature of the sum of an entire lane as a general rule, rather than (impossibly) reading through every opinion in each lane and figuring out where people are still happy vs where they’re upset. Then of course groupthink kicks in and well, if Rando French Cas Stan is Outraged, I Should Be Too I Guess. Everybody’s mad, guess I should be mad, instead of trying to figure out why everybody everywhere is fucking mad.

So people each build interpretations, reasonable in their own way, from their own origins, in their own countries with their own styles, but somewhere along the line, there’s a fracture. The storytelling pacing they thought they knew vanished and turned out wrong. The character dialogue wasn’t what they interpreted out of it. The cinematic stuff they read was coded to a different language than they were used to reading (back to, say, dogs). People are flagged and pay attention to things that may mean nothing to a filmmaker in the area it’s made and other people completely miss things that may mean something to the filmmaker because it really doesn’t mean A Thing elsewhere.

Compound this by lanes, echo chambers, people collectively finding what they enjoy and is -- respectively -- convenient to their mindset. Add in ship warring, slap fights, wasted kilobits. Add in decentralization, globalization. There’s no leaders, no teachers, and frankly, there’s not even a real In The Know anymore. Most people are In The Know to some extent. Some more than others. Hell, the people who most loudly /publicly/ pose as In The Know are often hilarious bags of air that end up embarrassed a year later (here’s to looking at you, blogger that anti-ranted Friendship Fan now facing the return of the Subtweeting Turkey. You know who you are and what I’m talking about.) I mean sure, there are a few legit Secret Masters of Fandom. But that’s it. They’re Secret. You may kinda pick up the vibe between the lines, and maybe just maybe they’ll drop a few genuine hints here and there in public to try to tilt people ahead, but it’s not the clout chasing goblins around here that anyone really should listen to and I /think/ at large everybody’s kinda figured that out. Most SMOFs are just silent contacts that hide in DM boxes and casually ignore the raging thunderstorms in the wild.

So going back to how I started this post-- while SPN found its success mostly post-S8 from the globalization of the product making it a phenomenon -- more than any one ship (but that doesn’t help), more than any one demographic, it’s just... it feels like everybody’s talking past each other and nobody’s introspecting or considering that while, yes, people’s interpretations are valid to them as long as it works for them, that if it’s not REALLY working for them anymore, maybe they’re missing somewhere. Generationally. Culturally. Whatever it may be. And I don’t see any amount of me sitting here in a Thinking Man pose about it changing that, or changing a vast amount of minds, as much as I really just want to /speak/ the thought process.

Because like. I’ve always existed kind of in the grey space of fandom. I “ship” Destiel in so far as I simply can’t be budged from the value in the text be that by antis or honestly even shipping culture itself. I don’t escalate into rants just to prOVE the tRuTH. I write meta about mythology because it interests me. Who the fuck are you MikeDawg1783894jKFbetabitch82398123? why should I care, where is your self importance coming from. I am far too tired to bother explaining anything to anyone, and frankly, I don’t owe anybody jack shit. You know what, you do you. If you’re happy go be happy. If you’re not happy, stop spewing your misery at me. This isn’t hard. But people around here make it complicated for some reason.

The internationalism also harms the product to some extent. Parrot Analytics reveals that this Americana show with Americana origins and methods is also ... *primarily viewed in Russia.* Like, 3x the US audience size. SPN been running the top 15-20 digitally called shows in the world up there with big sling hitters like Grey’s Anatomy now? Grey’s, as I saId above, always dwarfed it. In live numbers we still do. But there’s that audience to account for online now, with SPN treading almost neck-and-neck with it.

Result? Well, with TV being a business, that means that they try to cater to Russia. And like, no hate on my Russian friends out there. ILU. There’s nothing wrong with you. But then it’s like trying to perform for an international audience that this studio is not designed nor predisposed to deliver content in the form of. Read as: whole new interpretive tire fire potential, new arguments. New mess. Just extra restrictions on a core business level about the do’s and don’t’s for authors. Cuz things that are cool in the US may not be cool in Russia and the other way around for that matter. 

So somewhere between “what business chooses to do” and “infinite cascade of fandom white noise, anger and confusion,” I feel lies in the same thing that has kept SPN so successfully on the air so long. It’s strength is it’s weakness, and it’s the international nature of it, the longer I think on it.

And no, I’m in no way implying international friends aren’t welcome or whatever. Most of my followers are international. That’s fine, I ain’t shitting on you or telling you to hang it up and go home. I just feel like a lot of this eternal static is based on this many cultures trying to argue interpretations of a work from an outside perspective with very few anchors on the methodology that drives it from within. And frankly, fandom hotbox dialogue doesn’t exactly lend itself to sitting and truly wanting to discuss the methodology, because people are so high-strung at this point, nobody wants to hear a POV that clashes with what they’ve built for themselves. Because you know, “my interpretation is valid.” I just... wish... people would assist their own health and mental health by, once it no longer is-- kinda figuring out why and where? be that for international reasons of film delivery, be that language, be that generational gaps, be that *WHATEVER* it may be. I feel like that’s a message not often-enough put out there in this fandom.

Like, hell, it’s okay to like. Just. Not watch new episodes. Play in the sandbox that worked for you when it still, like, worked for you. Watch it a million times. Write a million fics to it. It’s okay to not watch the Declared Popular Thing. You don’t have to shackle yourself to a piece when it’s no longer working for you, just like I don’t advise watching a show with a premise you hate only to yell about it from go. And furthermore-- if you do wanna keep going, it’s totally fair and okay to go, hm, I was wrong somewhere. Let me unplug this giant fandom screaming megaphone from my skull, go review, figure out for myself where the fandom egregore led me one way or another, let me find a new way to appreciate this piece as it continues to grow. But that ain’t gonna happen unless people truly want to surrender their current framing. And... you don’t have to. Not anymore than you HAVE to keep viewing. 

I’ve found, for example, a lot of internationals I talk to tend to be upset about something or another, or confused, or what have you. And the reasons vary. They aren’t dumb people. But somewhere they fell off the rails and struggle to get back on and whatever chamber of fandom they’re in isn’t helping. The internationals I find that don’t struggle with any part of it just outright tend to be people who like... specialize? be it film study or lit study or whatever the topic is that helps them bridge understanding; people who can discuss constructivist theory or have read enough books across their barriers that it all just kinda clicks. Doesn’t make them better or worse than anyone else. Not a better fan. Just... happier with the content, which is better for /them/. And that’s really what matters in the end, isn’t it?

So IDK what the solution to this musing really is, as much as trying to put my finger on the pulse, beyond the sticky underbelly that is shipping fandom and its many corners that people blame for a sum of it. And like. Yeah. Y’all know I’m not a fan of Shipping Culture. But I really don’t think My Ship Vs Ur Ship is all there really is to blame. 

The same reason for SPN’s success is often the same reasons for SPN’s fandom’s downfall, IMO.

[rutilation]

Listen, they’re not evil. They just lack empathy, and go into a dissociative state and commit atrocities.

As much as it pains me to do so, I’m going to start off by talking about the bastard himself.  I must say, believing that rage and misery is the inevitable endpoint of a person’s life is an awfully convenient belief for Aechmea to hold when his plan would end all sentient life as collateral damage. If all your victims are better off dead anyway, then your actions don’t warrant any guilt!

There’s a little moment in chapter 67 that has always stuck out to me as being representative of Aechmea’s character, and I think it’s especially relevant to this chapter. It’s the part in which Cairngorm is trying to argue that it’s in Aechmea’s best interest to keep Phos as mentally stable as possible since they’re his staunchest ally amongst the gems. My reaction upon reading that line was that their appraisal of Aechmea’s intentions was very naïve.  To the contrary, the more unstable Phos becomes, the easier it is for Aechmea to manipulate them.  At this point in the narrative, Phos is no longer carefully treading through negotiations with Aechmea, as they were in volume eight and the beginning of volume nine; they’re now doing exactly what he wants, with gusto, and no thought to the long term consequences.  This is entirely deliberate on Aechmea’s part, and indeed, in the very same chapter that Cairngorm brought this up, Aechmea pulled the same trick on them.  He made Cairn feel cornered and desperate, presented himself as the sole solution to their problem, and thus Cairn went from being deeply suspicious of Aechmea to…still being deeply suspicious of Aechmea, tbh, but burying it under an ironclad sense of denial.  This chapter even contains a callback to chapter 67:  Both here and there, Phos/Cairn is broken and despondent, Aechmea is looming over them, and they reach out to weakly cling to his hand.

He asks Barbata to “handle” Phos’s memories of the past two hundred years.  That’s an ambiguous line if I’ve ever heard one.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but Phos shouldn’t have memories of the past two hundred years, right?  I’m not sure if this is implying that he wants Barbata to implant false memories within Phos of the past two hundred twenty years, or—heaven forbid—if he’s implying that Phos actually has memories of the timeskip, and that he wants Barbata to make sure Phos doesn’t lose any of them.  If it’s the latter, that would suggest that Phos has, somehow, been conscious this whole time (holy shit,) and that Aechmea doesn’t want Phos to be able to move past those memories.  Regardless of what he’s referring to though, the sentiment behind his cryptic order is clear: now that he’s molded Phos into something he can easily control, he’s taking pains to ensure that they’re stuck in their current incarnation, so that they don’t evolve ever again.  It brings to my mind this scene in chapter 54, in which Aechmea all but fetishizes Phos’s capacity for change.  It was already pretty creepy, but knowing that this is what he intended for Phos to change into adds another layer of wrongness to that exchange.

It’s interesting that just a couple chapters ago, Phos was screaming at Kongou “If only you weren’t here!”   But here, the sentiment has completely inverted, and Phos is weeping as they say that Kongou is the only one who still cares for them, and that it’s the gems who shouldn’t be here.  In only a few short hours, they’ve gone from directing all their hatred at Kongou, to directing it at everyone except him.  Their rage is unformed and all over the place.  Good thing Aechmea’s here to refine it to his own ends!

Aechmea says that he’ll answer Cairngorm’s question “when this is all over.”  That could imply a couple of different things, depending on what he means by that.  If he means he’ll tell Cairn after he’s finished dealing with Phos for this chapter, then that’s one thing.  But, if by ‘all over’ he means that he’s not going to say anything until Kongou successfully prays, and his victory is assured--as with the previous secret he was keeping from Cairngorm, then that implies that whatever he was alluding to when he said he had loved Cairngorm since before they came to the moon, it’s probably something awful.

If you’ve been following my essays for a while, you’ll know that I’ve long suspected that some sort of Cairn-related plot twist will rear its ugly head at some point in the near future, and that mind-control eyeballs were perhaps only the tip of the iceberg.  Well, after nearly a year of deliberation, I’ve settled on my personal theory of what this plot twist could be, but it’s far outside the scope of an essay focused on a single chapter, so I’m going to post my thoughts on that in another essay sometime in the coming weeks.  Keep an eye out for it if you want to see me go fully and embarrassingly tinfoil hat.  (With my luck, chapter 83 is going to reveal what Aechmea meant by his cryptic statement before I get that essay done, and it’s going to be something banal, thus ruining my precious conspiracy theory.)

But enough about cornmeal and acne man, let’s talk about the trajectory Phos seems to be on, and also about Cinnabar.

For quite a while now, it’s been a pretty popular theory that Cinnabar will eventually kill Phos with their mercury, and it does feel like things could head in that direction.  Phos is so far gone that they’re willing to kill anyone in their path, and in so much pain that their death could be construed as a mercy.  And since they can best Bort in a fight, it would seem that Cinnabar’s mercury is the only thing that could actually stop them, especially since it could chemically bind to their alloy and poison Phos from the inside out.  To be perfectly honest though, something about this potential course of events has always rubbed me the wrong way, but until this chapter, I hadn’t been able to pinpoint exactly what it was I didn’t like.  

The whole story was started because Phos thought Cinnabar deserved better than their miserable lot in life.  At no point did Phos, or the narrative for that matter, ever suggest that it would be for the best if Cinnabar were simply put out of their misery.  Their plight warranted not just a release from pain, but a better life to replace it.  And as they are now, Cinnabar probably doesn’t want to die anymore, and I imagine they’re glad they didn’t go through with their passive attempt at suicide.  (Come to think of it, I think they’re the sole character who’s moved away from being suicidally depressed over the course of the story, instead of gradually succumbing to it.)  So, now that the shoe is thoroughly on the other foot, and Phos is the one at rock bottom, it would leave a really bad taste in my mouth if Cinnabar’s response to Phos’s pain ends up being: “Yeah, you should die.”  

So, although the plot is probably going maneuver Cinnabar into a situation in which they have to decide whether or not to kill Phos, I hope that it’s ultimately in service of that not coming to pass.  

Speaking of Cinnabar, I really hope we finally get more insight into them in these coming chapters. Broadly speaking, more stuff has happened with them the past twenty or so chapters than most of the rest of the series.  Their whole life was upended, they (seemingly) made a friend in Bort, and they’re finally making choices that affect the plot, which hasn’t really happened since volume two.  But, despite all this, we don’t really know what they’re actually thinking, of what emotions they’ve been going through.  You can make some inferences, but that’s not really as affecting as experiencing their perspective firsthand, and I think that’s why people get the impression that they’ve been made irrelevant to the story, despite the fact that they’ve been contributing to the plot lately.  So, hopefully we’ll finally get some further elaboration on them in the near future; I think it would remedy the issue quite a bit.

I’ve been thinking lately that what Cinnabar did to Phos in this arc is kind of a grim mirror of how Phos’s desire to help Cinnabar became muddied over the course of the story.  I don’t believe that Cinnabar was acting out of malice in chapter 78 when they suggested burying Phos in pieces.  If they genuinely wanted Phos dead, they could have encouraged the earth gems to go along with Rutile’s murderous impulses, instead of coming up with a plan in which Phos might come back eventually—certainly no one else in that scene, sans Euclase, voiced any objection to Rutile’s idea, and if Cinnabar hadn’t spoken up, they all might have gone along with it.  I think it’s quite possible that they were attempting to protect Phos by trying to appease the other gems’ enmity in a way that wouldn’t bring Phos permanent harm.  

But, just like how Phos’s ever-shifting goalposts pushed Cinnabar to the back of their mind over the course of the story, it’s possible that their new life among the gems had the same effect on Cinnabar.  Thus, in their mind, Phos was relegated to an important but altogether distant obligation that they’d deal with later, when the time was right.  But since these are gems we’re talking about, the time is never right, and complicated problems like these never get dealt with.  And just like how it was cruel and thoughtless when Phos put Cinnabar on the backburner, it’s cruel here too—especially if, as I speculated earlier, Phos was somehow awake this whole time.

Because I am a sentimental sap who still has a little bit of hope for a bittersweet ending instead of a complete tragedy, I think that Cinnabar might actually be a wild card in this situation, one who has the potential to save Phos from themselves.  (I’m sorry.  I can’t help myself.  My mind is stuck in power-of-friendship mode, and it’ll probably stay there until Ichikawa beats the idealism out of me, just like she beat it out of Phos.)  Keeping in mind what things Aechmea has been able to deduce either through direct observation through Phos’s eye, or what might have been reported to him from any Lunarians returning from an attack on earth, he doesn’t have enough information to figure out that Phos had a strong connection to Cinnabar.  Although he’s confident now that Phos has no ties to anything they once loved, and is wholly dependent on him, the previous chapter shows that Cinnabar still means something to Phos, even in this state.  Since all of this exists in a blind spot for Aechmea, I think it has the potential to muck up his plans—if Ichikawa deigns it to be so, of course.

Now let’s talk about symbolism, because there’s a lot of it.  First off, I want to talk about a pattern I noticed regarding Phos’s changes, one which I discussed in the very first meta I wrote for the series.  At the time, I speculated that the title of the art book, Pseudomorph of Love, was hinting at this pattern, but when the artbook was translated later courtesy of @red-dia, it turns out that said title was alluding to something totally different. Nevertheless, I think I may have inadvertently stumbled onto a method regarding Phos’s changes that seems too consistent to not be deliberate, and I’ll reiterate it here:  With the very notable exception of the pearl eye, down to even the most minor of losses, every permanent loss and addition to Phos’s body has been tied to an attempted act of kindness.  Specifically, Phos loses parts when trying to do something altruistic, and they are given new parts out of kindness on another characters part.

They had to have contaminated parts of their body scraped away after trying to save Cinnabar from falling.

They lost their legs while trying to help Ventricosus return home, and gained the new legs because of an act of kindness on her part.

Although the ice flows initially tried tempting Phos into giving up their arms by reflecting their self-loathing, it was only when they frightened Phos with the idea that Cinnabar might kill themselves if Phos doesn’t change quickly enough that they accidentally-on-purpose lost their arms.  While Antarc initially dismissed the gold they ended up giving to Phos as useless, they changed their tune when they noticed Phos projecting their own low self-esteem onto the gold.  To me, it seems like the act of giving Phos the gold was their way of telling Phos that they’re not worthless.

They lost a bunch of small pieces while trying to save Antarcticite

They lost their head while trying to save Cairn’s arm.  And then Cairn... uh…  Let’s put a pin in that for now, and come back to it when their character arc has progressed a bit further.  The element of mind control eyeballs that may or may not even be real makes the situation a bit more fraught than I care to get into right this very second.

They lost Lapis’s hair while shielding Morga and Goshe from the Lunarians.

They gave away a piece of their leg so the Admirabilis would know they weren’t holding a grudge against Ventricosus

With that established, let’s talk about the pearl eye.  The moment they received it was practically an inverse of the established pattern. It was a transformation motivated by spite on Phos’s part, and for Aechmea, it was an opportunity to exert control over them.  Even the act of receiving the pearl eye made them sick, mysterious human particles notwithstanding.  The ensuing chapters after they received the pearl eye are, as I’m sure you’re all aware, a whole lot darker and meaner than what the story had been up to that point. If I had to draw a dividing line between the part of hnk that is simply melancholy, and the part that makes the reader feel like a frog in boiling water, I’d use Phos’s first trip to the moon to demarcate these two tones—and the symbol that heralded this descent into hell was the introduction of an unkind addition to Phos’s body.  

That brings us to the matter of their most recent loss.  Since it’s now apparent that they won’t be getting their other parts back, we can look back on the moment they lost those parts for good and see if it fits the previous pattern, and in my opinion, it does.  The reason Phos was in that situation was because they were making a last ditch effort to do right by everyone else, and take responsibility for their mistakes.  It was at this point that they mustered up the last bit of kindness and courage they still had in their heart.

But the loss of a given part is only one half of the equation, which begs the question: with what sentiment will Barbata give Phos their replacements?  Barbata has subtly given off the impression that he feels guilty about his role in the various atrocities the Lunarians have undertaken, and is disillusioned with Aechmea, but is as of yet unwilling to actually go against him.  If there’s ever going to be a point in the story in which he decides to do the right thing instead of just following orders, it’s now or never.  I’m counting on you, pasta man.  Follow your conscience for once!  Either way, whether Phos’s reconstruction ends up being an act of kindness on Barbata’s part, or simply another expression of Aechmea’s corruption is, in my opinion, a crucial distinction that will have ramifications for the future of Phos’s character arc.  Speaking of which, it now seems like Red Diamond is the most likely candidate for a replacement, since Padparadscha is busy being asleep on earth.

I’ve talked about how a character’s eyeballs and where they got them from symbolizes their worldview, broadly speaking.  This chapter seems to be a continuation of that.  Kongou shaped the gems’ worldview, which is symbolized by him giving them their eyes, Cairngorm’s devotion to Aechmea is accompanied by them adopting eyes that Aechmea made for them, during the time that Phos was trying to balance the needs of both the gems and the Lunarians, they had an eye from both Kongou and Aechmea, and now that Phos only has the single pearl eye left, they’re thinking with a one-track mind from a distinctly Lunarian perspective: that everything that gets in the way of their salvation needs to die.

I also find it interesting that Phos’s original material is mostly intact, and what they’ve lost are chunks of their legs and head.  It probably symbolizes something, but my brain is starting to leak out of my ears at this point, so I’m just going to remember it for later and see if the meaning becomes clearer in retrospect.

Regarding Phos’s alloy shaping itself into a lotus’s seedpod, my first reaction was that it was a rather ambivalent symbol to use in the context of Phos’s downfall.  On one hand, the seedpod only appears when the highly symbolic flower dies, but on the other hand, while the flower is the part of the plant to which a number of cultures have ascribed auspicious meanings like purity and renewal, it is the humble, unsightly seedpod that goes about the actual business of rebirth.  

But, as @rinboz pointed out in a post on the subject, it appears to be specifically evoking the image of an empty seedpod.  If that’s what Ichikawa is going for, then the meaning is unambiguously ominous, to put it mildly.

Lastly, I brought up in my previous essay that it was highly convenient that Phos happened to trip off the table at the last possible second, and in a manner so noisy that it woke the other gems, no less.  In this chapter, Phos lays the blame for their failure on the earth gems interfering… but that only happened because Phos made a racket.  I speculated that they may have subconsciously sabotaged themselves—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time.  I don’t know how likely that possibility is, but I think it’s one worth keeping in mind.

Well, that was heavy. But on a lighter note, I think it may be time for me to update the only good meta I’ve ever written, birdseki no kuni.  What should Phos 4.0 be?  I think this feral demigod of vengeance ought to be represented by a real apeshit bird, like an Australian magpie, or something.  This will require further deliberation.

[outroshooky]

my pretty sleeper | ksj

⇢ genre: series; part two (ghost!au; person b crying and screaming that they’re sorry, believing they caused person a’s death. person a’s ghost at their side, helplessly trying to comfort and hold someone they can no longer touch, or speak to, anymore.) (angst, fluff)

⇢ pairing: kim seokjin x reader

⇢ word count: 5.8k

⇢  warnings: major character death (reader insert); blood mention. there are darker themes here, please read with caution.

⇢ a/n: thank you for all of the positive feedback on part one!! this is a bit angstier than what i usually write but nonetheless, i’m proud of it. i hope you enjoy this winter-y fic; thank you to oh ms. believer for inspiring me all these years later (in the bleak bahamian summer, no less).

part two of the verses and vibes series. part three will be uploaded on wednesday, january 29, 2020.

“the woods are lovely, dark and deep,   but i have promises to keep,   and miles to go before i sleep,   and miles to go before i sleep.”

⤷ stopping by woods on a snowy evening; robert frost

Never in your life had you seen a more beautiful snowstorm.

Soft flakes drifted through boughs hanging like some great Gothic arches above you, a chapel of nature’s own wonderful creation. They swept past birds fluffed to fend against the bitter cold, settled around you in drifts like a miniature mountain landscape. Ahead you, the path stretched in peaceful calm, the white blanket an insulation for the sounds that leapt and tumbled with the puffs of wind exhaled from some indeterminable heaven. Somewhere to your left, a finch trilled a cheery tune, and the boysenberry vines rasped in scratchy reply. 

It was the picture-perfect scene to accompany what would, under all usual circumstances, be a nicely brisk walk in the chill of winter.

Unfortunately, these are not, by any standards, usual circumstances.

The snow falls delicately around your hustling figure, bound against the cold in nothing but the simple dress of a commoner and the jacket of a noble of the highest degree. Your outfit is completely contradicting, but it is not like you have a choice in the matter.

Because as hard as you try to will a speck of snow to settle gently in the crook of your palm, it does nothing but continue its downward descent, rocking to and fro hither and there. It passes through the translucent aura that is your hand, your arm, your entire body.

Perhaps the statement about how never in your life had you seen a more beautiful snowstorm needed to be amended to how never in your afterlife had you seen a more wonderful blizzard.

It is ever surprising to you how, though you are no longer made of tangible matter, the whistle of wind through endlessly tall trees will never cease to send a shiver down your transparent spine. The chill rests on your shoulders, curls around your neck with chilled lips; you know it must be cold, but you can’t for the life of you actually feel it. When you tread on the freshly-covered path, hurrying along in your urgency, the untouched pure white remains… untouched. When you glance behind you at the ringing of bells, no footsteps imprint on the finely frosted earth.

The horse is a dappled stallion, wide-eyed and foaming at the bit, hooves prancing high to escape the tug of the fallen snow. The gentleman sits, hands loose on the reins, comfortable in the saddle. He's handsome, with a jaw cut like glass and deep almond eyes peering out from a woolen scarf tucked beneath the folds of his jacket. As he passes by, wrapped deep in fur to fend off the chill, you step to the side of the path out of pure habit. It would take no effort at all to simply continue on your way, letting horse and rider barrel straight through your unseen figure, but you’ve learned by now that animals have a better sense of the preternatural and decided to spare the horse (and gentleman) undue panic.

The rider’s eyes never waver from the path ahead, confident and illustrious in his goings. He is bold and dashing and incredibly handsome, and you notice, too late, the scrawled insignia etched into the leather of the saddle, as refined yet regal as the very stranger who claims it.

The symbol of the nobility burns a brilliant gold against the black tanned skin, and your throat constricts with the pain of remembrance.

 Eyes as warm as the heat of summer sunshine; brow regal, fit for a king; tawny hair artfully sweeping across the breadth of his forehead; lips as plush as fat grapes in the fall; jaw as defined as a blade through wa-

The horse nickers, ridding snow from its hooves in dirt-flecked clumps, sending them straight through the aura of your petticoats.

You sigh, ruffling the folds of your dress, tucking tighter the corners of your jacket out of reflex. There are, you suppose, some benefits to being a ghost, but the complete and utter loneliness does tend to be a drawback. 

Indeed, the complete and utter loneliness makes you question whether your mission is even worth it in the first place. Is it worth trying to reconcile things with a lover when they can't even see you, hear you, feel you? You could caress their cheek with the most loving of touches, and yet they would guess it to be nothing but a passing breeze. The curse of eternity is one spent in solitude, a soul left to wander the earth with a purpose unfinished, aptly never to be ended. You watch as the horseman canters on, and something clenches in the space where your heart once nested, like the wrens that call the castle battlements home.

No. No. You cannot allow yourself to think like this. You cannot allow yourself to doubt, to assume that for a moment love is not a powerful enough force to wrest the bounds of time and shatter the fettered chains. Love is a blade more powerful than any forged sword, a fire more passionate than any raging mountain blaze. With love, one can mold a landscape to their liking, shift the sands of what is known into a brand new reality, a dawn previously inconceivable to any and all. 

Eyes as warm as the heat of summer sunshine; brow regal, fit for a king; tawny hair artfully sweeping across the breadth of his forehead; lips as plush as fat grapes in the fall; jaw as defined as a blade through wa-

The thought of him fills your mind; the gap in your chest mends. Every step you take is one step closer to him.

With every rise and fall of your boots, your boots seem to land in the tracks of the horse and rider, their figures now only a mere shadow against the backdrop of nature’s finest woodland cathedral.

The more you push on, the more memories seem to unconsciously surface in your mind. When you came to in that field, your mind was as untouched as the fallen snow. However, it took merely a wobbly rise to your feet for you to notice the massive jacket that hugged your frame, permanently welded to your aura whether you wanted it to be or not. Simply put, whatever you wore at the time of your death became your spirit’s regalia, and you often thanked the stars that you hadn’t decided to go riding in the buff that day. Not that you would in the first place.

With that jacket came the flood, as you called it. The waves of memories that lapped at the shores of your consciousness, their chaotic dances spilling foam into the crevices of your mind. They came back to you in one fell swoop, overwhelming in their sights and sensations and feelings, and you wondered how you could have, even if just for a brief moment, forgotten it all.

Eventually, the mouth of the forest opens to a broad, rutted dirt road, which has turned to mud with the advent of the blizzard. At the mouth sits a thatched roof shack, cheery with the ice that dangles precariously from the thickets of straw. Beyond it, fields of grain- sorghum and wheat and barley, their stalks cut low to the base. In a single breath, curling in on itself in the chilled air, your senses are flooded with thought and sound and breath.

“Catch me if you can!” Seokjin’s fingers slap at your shoulder, tagging you plain as day. He is barely thirteen, still gangly and slender with youth, but experienced eyes can see his frame beginning to thicken. There's delight in his eyes, a mirth that sparks double when he sees the fiery temper in your own. 

“Seokjin!” You hiss. He's playing a game of chance, egging you on as his father pauses at the edge of the forest to speak with the farmer who came bounding out of the newly-built barn. One of the things you loved about the king was his flexibility, his genuine interest in the lives of his subjects. He was willing to lend an ear to all, and it brought him a certain respect, from the lowest beggar to the highest knight. With that in mind, you dared not cross him. “Not now!”

“Papa’s not looking!” He teases, skipping backwards when you swing outwards with a well-timed smack. “Catch me if you ca-an!”

“Seokjin!” You hiss again with vigor, a concerned glance over your shoulder. “You’re not about to get us both in trouble!”

“You won't get in trouble.” He’s breathless, riled in his own games while his father talks business just beyond the magnolia bushes. “You're with me.”

“Just because you're the prince does not mean that I won't be sent to the gallows for participating in one of your stunts. This is an official business trip and I am thirteen and as so it happens your maid and I kind of need this jo-”

Without hesitation, the young prince saunters closer, leans in, and taps your nose lightly with a single digit. “I said,” Seokjin breathes, voice nearly a whisper. “Catch me if you can.”

In one fluid motion you lunge forward, your index finger landing squarely in the middle of his forehead. 

A smile breaks across his visage, radiant and mischievous, the grin of madmen. Or young boys. “Game on.”

You blink and the scene clears. The horses’ reins in your grasp evaporate, leaving you in front of a crumbling stone wall falling apart at the seams.

Peering closer, you realize the house has aged fast, too fast to be natural. The straw has grown thin in some places, the roof sagging inward, spine exhausted. The windows are grimy and cracked with age, and the foundation settles crooked into the soft earth. Beside the chimney, a rabbit twitches, darting into the brush at the inkling of eyes watching from afar. Something isn't right here, you think. Something is different from before.

You turn towards the horizon, the spires of the castle piercing the far-away arch of the sky, and continue on towards him.

He had never cared that you were only his maid.

You had been in his life as long as you could remember, and he had been in yours much the same. Your mother having been attendant to the queen meant that you inherited the duties for her royal child, born in the frigid chill of December a year and two months after you. From a young age you learned how to reorganize his endless closets and dressers, to attend him in a court of nobility, to keep a pitcher of cold water and a bottle of lavender on his bedside table every night. The fair-minded, fair-haired prince had never understood how you were any different to him- you thanked the stars his parents taught him humility from an early age- and as a result, he treated you much the same as he treated any of the other young boys in the court. You had never been “merely a maid” to him- you were a playmate, confidant, best friend, and later- much, much later- a lover. The only lover, in fact, that ever mattered to him.

He had had suitors from when he was as young as ten years old, coming to seek his hand in uniting their great kingdoms. They pranced about him in grand dresses of silk and lace, curtseying and bowing and placating themselves for his eyes. More than once, they’d nearly popped out of his head at how tight their bodices were. And yet, he never took one to be his bride- never even expressed interest in having one as his bride.

You secretly pondered if he was the stuff of legend, Ancient Greek myths that whispered of men coming together in ways that male and female could not. Meanwhile, as the years passed, you grew all the more closer to him, and he all the more closer to you. Often he'd tug a sewing needle out of your hand to insist that you go riding together, pulling you away from mending the jacket he’d torn the last time you went riding with him. He would beg you to visit him in the sparring circle to show you some new masterful combination he’d learned with sword and shield, even taking such liberties to teach you yourself some swordplay techniques. He would even take you down to the market to buy fresh vegetables for your grandmother, or new silks for a coat. It was clear that he cared about you deeply, deeper than he’d ever admit to himself for a long, long time.

Your journey continues on mile after mile; the closer you get to the center of the kingdom, the more broken down it all feels. Granted, it is the dead of winter, but the world seems to have fallen into disrepair along with it, lulled by the hypnosis of the cold into a weary, uneasy slumber. Cattle shuffle stiffly along their paddock fences; dry tufts of grass poke through the chilled mud. Civilians too hustle, wrapped in rags without splendor or hint of grace, trying their hardest to protect against the frosty bite. So much has changed in the brief time you've been gone, and for the first time, worry begins to gnaw at your thoughts with true voracity. It doesn't feel right, none of this does; but you know in the core of your being, that this, somehow, is home. 

With every landmark you pass, a new memory washes over you, scent and sight and feeling. You make a left at the second crossroads and continue on at the third, but your mind flashes back to the times you went right and then left to the beekeepers’ fields, or left and then right to the carpenter’s shack. Every memory rekindles a bit of something in you, something that you can name only as humanity, and you swear the chill’s begun to set in a little colder than it was before. You are more alive now than ever, you think.

It is as if in the brief time you slumbered, the world aged a hundred years without you. The miles to the city walls pass quickly, but not without mention. The closer you get, the more decrepit it all feels- richly constructed halls now ground to sawdust, fields of grain and vegetables now plains of snow and ice. The walls themselves are in poor shape, the dull stones lacking the regal glory they once held, and you ache at the sight. Once the pride and joy of the kingdom, now a sad hallmark- if there was anything left of the kingdom to begin with. 

A mere trickle of people flows on either side of the gate, a much, much slower stream from the constant push-pull of the tides you’re used to. Here, the roar was once chaos- a wave of crowds jostling in, a tide of jovial citizens pouring out in a flood of color and sound and energy. But the banners flutter threadbare, flapping without statement in the wind, as if they have fallen asleep at the helm, in the bleak of midwinter, in the midst of it all.

You crane your neck to see the guards as you approach, careful to keep your space from the few stragglers limping up the path along with you. In your youth, you knew every castle employee, every knight and guard and maid. Now, you squint till the nearest stern face comes into view, and realize, with a jolt of clarity, you don't recognize him at all.

His face is cold-cut, molded from a block of iron. His lips are pressed tightly together, back as straight as a ramrod, mouth as firm as an oak tree. He is completely unfamiliar to you, and for some reason, trepidation begins to roll a metaphorically thrilling drum beat in your stomach.

The fear, which had numbed to a gentle stream in the back of your conscious (if you could call it that), rose to a fever pitch. 

Something was horribly, horribly wrong, and you were absolutely determined to find out what.

You had a feeling that this is what you were brought back for, to get to the bottom of this horrid stunt, to find out why everything you knew had been thrown off its axis in one fell swoop. It thrummed in your silent pulse, lofted like owls’ wings through the quiet of the forest. No was simply not an answer, and when a renewed sense of determination beat in the space where your heart would have been, you touched your chest with a sudden burst of fondness. Seokjin was close, so close. It would be like old times; together, you would solve this, bring closure to this plague of wintertime. And you, his wonderful bride, reunited with him as if no time had ever been wasted in between. Not to mention you were home, back in your city, the place you had labored to visit for days, weeks, even months since you’d awoken in that godforsaken wheat field with a royal riding jacket wrapped around your shoulders.

Unassumingly, the guard turns his head and stares straight at you, gaze blank, numbly focused.

You hold your breath for one moment, two.

He blinks, stark eyes staring right through you, and thumbs the rutted shaft of his spear. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from his own, and, with only a moment’s hesitation, stride unfailing into the heart of the kingdom.

Your walk to the castle, at the very top of the city, is seemingly the longest, most arduous part of your journey by far.

Everywhere you look, in every corner seems to be darkness and despair. Shapeless forms, nameless figures cluster around pathetic fires, which sputter and lick with the will of the wind. Dead leaves tumble down the cobblestones to embed themselves in snowbanks, piled up high, effective barriers against the frost for the unlucky souls with no other place to go. Doors are wrenched shut but rattle every now and then, the muted glow under their edges a telltale indicator of the separation between poor and poorer. You hasten to avoid those clusters around the fires, god forbid a careless sweep of your petticoat extinguishes what little hope they have left. You pause for a moment when you see a mother clutching a child to her chest, wishing not for the first time you could simply reach out and make her problems melt away. If anything, you’d only make her feel worse, the lofty draft of your fingertips an added stress upon her already narrow shoulders.

With every step you take, you can feel the individual consciousnesses trapped here crying out for you, flocking to you, a bright burning candle flame against a backdrop of nighttime. There are so many souls beneath the ground, you wonder if there was some sort of famine. Does Seokjin see any of this? Where has he been? The questions plague you one after the other, much like the howling spirits that crowd the back of your mind, individually vying for your attention. No, you reassure yourself. I know him. Seokjin must have the situation under control, or if not, he's working to get it under control. The kingdom will be saved; happily-ever-after is just out of your reach, soon within. It simply cannot be any other way.

The higher and higher you climb, the more desolate the path becomes. It is clear that the only people who trek up here nowadays are the guards on their shift rotations, but even then, you’ve noticed less and less the closer you get to the castle. We had plenty of guards; I don't understand why the sudden lack, you think to yourself. Sooner or later you will have your answer, though, because you find yourself at the base of the castle, and your mouth drops open in some sickened form of awe.

Ah yes, what's the name of that feeling?

Horror.

Your home has fallen into disrepair, a state of shambles that never would have been allowed in the days of your lifetime. 

There are cracks and crevices that fracture the bones of the grand hall, splits and nicks in the wood from years of neglect. There once perched gargoyles and flowers and creations atop the limestone columns, so wonderfully sculpted that they seem to leap from their very material constraints into living, breathing figures. Now, only shattered fragments of the beasts remain, flower petals chipped away to fall hundreds of feet to the stiff dead stalks of grass below. A castle, once inhibited with beauty and life, now lies dormant, sleeping, decaying. A single piece of limestone, the wing of a butterfly, shears off, rebounding off the gutter to tumble to the dirt. From dust it is made, and to dust it shall return, but if you had a heart, you swear you would have felt it break.

Once again, it is the thought of him that keeps you moving, pushing on, except the fear is all-consuming now, a snarling dog snapping at the heels of your fantasy. You can barely think as you approach those great dark oaken doors, palm flat against the decaying planks as you pause, your eyes fluttering shut.

You still, readying yourself for this. This, the thing you have been waiting for, the only thing to keep you going, demanding that day after day you push on. Anticipation of it has pulsed in your veins for days, weeks; the closer you got, the more anxious and excited you became, but it is here now. It is here; there is nothing you can do to stop the hands of fate, for she brought you here to reunite you with him, Seokjin, the prince of your land but the king of your heart.

The toe of your boot eases into the splintering wood, and in one beat, your entire body passes through into the grand entrance hall.

For all of your preparation, however, nothing could possibly steel you for what lay on the other side of those doors.

The grand hall looked like it had been ransacked by an army. 

The stone arches above your head no longer bore their weight proudly, but drooped with depression suggesting hopelessness. A flurry of activity buzzed around you, a servant even stepping through you by pure mistake, but it was not the kind of bustling, cheery frenzy you were used to. This was a quiet kind of frenzy much like silent fury, the calm before the storm. Footsteps resonated against the grand ceilings flaked with paint, yet there was no exchange of greetings, no playful step of the servant children. It was an atmosphere so foreign it may as well have been a completely different house, rather than the home you knew so well as your own.

The throne room is many paces away from the entrance hall, but with your internalized map of the castle, it took a few mere passes through walls (and a left, another left, and a right) to land you in the hall of kings, or the waiting room outside of the throne room. There is a layer of dust that sits upon the artifacts, the Staff of Arrn’och, among others, nearly broken in two in its display case. Everywhere you looked, it seemed, was desolation. God forbid what the throne room itself would look like.

With a sudden bang!, the doors at the far end of the room were thrown open, a ragged, hunched figure stumbling through the open gap. Male or female you could not discern, matted strings of hair shielding its twisted visage, but the sobs its lungs produced pierced you to the core. The pair of guards at the opposite end of the room strode forward, collecting the pathetic creature by the underarms and practically dragging it down the muddy rug. Although you could pass through whatever surface you pleased, your instinct urged you through the gap in the closing doors, and you managed to slip past just as they slammed shut behind you.

In front of you lay a dias, fifty feet in diameter, upon which two thrones of the same size sat, both lonely, one bare. While large windows perched over the dias, casting blocks of light across the stone floor, any natural light that managed to filter into the high-ceilinged hall was dulled by grit and grime. Torches flickered low in their sconces, doing their best to compensate, but instead casting shadows across the walls that seemed to flinch at the quickest intake of breath. Indeed, the throne room had suffered much in your absence; it was as if you stepped into a nightmarish equivalent of your past life.

It was too dark to see the face of the king as you approached, his profile framed by shadow as he argued with an attendant.

“-can’t turn down every citizen who wants to make an audience with you and has good reason to do so,” The attendant insisted, his tone desperate. “The people are starving, but they haven't lost hope! They're looking to you, Your Majest-”

“And why would they look to me?” The king snapped, voice gravelly, a thickness there that you’d never heard before. “What good have I been to them? Haven't they seen enough of me yet? Every day, a miserable existence, and they seek to know my counsel on matters such as one calf between them?”

“One calf, my king, would provide food for their children for three days,” the attendant murmured gently. “Your people need you now, more than ever.”

But the king seemed not to hear, dismissing the attendant with a flick of his hand. “I can't hear any more.”

The attendant hesitated just a fraction, but bowed respectfully. “As you wish.”

It was at this moment you realized there were only two thrones, not the three you had been expecting. Although the queen had passed many years before, they had always kept a throne in its place for her, in her honor. You wondered now at this- where was Seokjin’s throne? 

The king, bowed over with the bridge of his nose pinched between two fingers, paid you no mind as you approached, dipping a respectful curtsy out of habit. He’d certainly gone grayer in these last few months, his shoulders having lost their proud touch, and he looked as if he was a completely different man, aging a hundred years in the mere two hundred hours it had taken you to get back to the place you so lovingly called home.

In your living days, you would not have dared step up the dias to look at the king eye-to-eye, god forbid he strike you down himself. But you were not alive, and these were desperate times, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

And so, with one fluid motion, you stepped atop the dias, skirt swirling around your ankles as you paused, waiting for something, but you did not know what. 

The king lifted his head, and as your eyes met his, aged with the aches and pains of ruling, you felt as if someone had ripped the very carpet out from underneath your feet and cast you back to the underworld below.

Because these were not the clear eyes of the king, sparkling and gentle in their mirth. These were not the bright pupils that brought forth memories of afternoons spent on the lake, or crystal clear waterfalls that tumbled through mysterious glades. 

No, these eyes were dark, once as rich as chocolate, but now as muddied as silt. Cataracts strung silky webs across the clag, weaving intricate patterns in the depths of emotion, rendering not only the viewer incapable of reading emotion, but the seer incapable of, well- doing just that. While crows’ feet stamped their corners and fine lines etched their lids, you would know those eyes even if you had seen them once in ten thousand years, for they stamped themselves onto your soul all that time ago, never to be undone by any mortal power.

“Seokjin?” You gasp, and at once, all of time seems to stand still.

For it is indeed Kim Seokjin who sits on the king’s throne, his beautiful features softened with age and the passage of time but still regal, ever unforgettable. He is enthrallingly handsome, but your heart aches evermore, because you have missed it all.

You have missed seeing the aches and pains of early, and then middle age set in. You have missed watching his child, the prince or princess (and surely more than one), stumble across the floor of the nursery for the first time. You have missed him sleeping in the early morning, worrying in the late evening; you have missed him in bed and in combat and all things in between. For it has been years, perhaps decades since your death, and in one horrifying moment, it clicks into perspective.

And then he tilts his head up at you and whispers your name, and it is as if every weight on your metaphysical shoulders has been lifted. “Is it really you?”

“Yes,” you warble; somehow tears streak your cheeks, pale in their sheen. “Yes, Seokjin, I'm so sorry; I'm here now, it's me-” you grab for his hand, but it passes right through, and he recoils at the draft. “I'm so fucking sorry.”

Flashes. A golden field, merry horses, a beautiful spring day. “Take my jacket, my darling. It will keep you warm.”

Hooves pounding, heart racing. The royal horses are afraid of practically nothing, their one fear far from your mind, unworthy of mention. Together you dash through the meadows, up and over hills and valleys. What you would give to run free with him forever.

“She's here,” Seokjin’s voice nearly breaks as he half-rises from his chair, extending an arm to brush his thumb along your cheek. “After so long waiting for my queen, she's finally here.”

“You can see me?” You beg for clarity, but alas, he does not reply.

You pause atop a hill crested with wildflowers, white and pink rivers that cascade down the landscape, tumbling, flowing unbridled and uninhibited. Seokjin is a mere few paces behind you, slowing to appreciate the beauty ahead of you.

“My lord?” The attendant steps forward

“Can you not see her?” Seokjin turns, gesturing to you. “She's right here. She's come back to me after so long,” and there's so much fondness, so much promise in his voice that you know, just know that things will be okay. You will right every wrong, fight every demon- “I have missed her dearly.”

“I've missed you too,” you choke. “With every bone in my body I have missed you; I have been walking for days, Seokjin, I'm so sorry-”

It is then that your horse nickers and tenses, rearing without warning and whinnying like the devil himself. He panics, lashing and whirling about, and you can only hold on for so long before you are thrown from his back like a rock from a slingshot.

Seokjin is screaming. You have never heard him scream like that before, a sound that seems to so purely channel fear and terror and anguish, all in one. He is a roaring fury, knife drawn from his belt, and he beheads the snake lying hidden in one fluid motion before dropping to his knees at your side. His shoulders shake as he weeps, cradling your body to his as your eyes roll back in your head and you cough, frame shuddering, barely conscious.

“Sire, there is nobody there,” The attendant says, as softly, carefully as he can.

“Don't leave me,” he’s sobbing, over and over. “This is all my fucking fault, I'm so sorry, so so sorry-”

“My love,” you whisper, fingers brushing the inside of his palm. It is all the strength you can muster. “I will have gone a thousand years, but to still find your eyes imprinted on the breath of my soul.”

He’s whimpering, blubbering, desperate, screaming for help. Screaming and screaming, but there is no one to stop the ceaseless flow of blood, and your final act of life is to stain the sleeves of his riding jacket crimson where it lies comfortable across the breadth of your shoulders.

“I have never forgotten you,” he exhales. “It has been sixty years and not one day have I gone without envisioning your face in my hands, beautiful.”

“I’ll fix this,” you promise, but it's starting to fall into place now, why everything around you is falling apart. “I'll help fix the kingdom if you would just tell me what's wrong, Seokjin. Please, I want to help. Tell me what I can do.”

“I have loved you perhaps too much,” his voice cracks, wobbles with ache. “I've neglected these people, our people. I say our people because you have always been my queen; I have never taken another; there is no one who is worthy of replacing you.” 

“Perhaps you should retire for the night, my king. You've had a long and tiresome day,” The attendant tries to coax Seokjin, but he pays the servant no mind.

“You're here in this moment for a reason, my sweet. You're here and we will fix this, I promise you,” Seokjin is nearly begging, the urgency in his voice bleeding scarlet. He rushes forward towards you. “We will fix this together-”

“Seokjin, my love-” You rush towards him with the same intensity, but your hand passes through his chest, and suddenly you are staring up at him, and his eyes are blank, unseeing.

The attendant clears his throat. “Your Majesty, there is no one there, sir. It is merely a draft.”

“I want to help you,” you plead, fingers tracing his sternum, his ribs, his heart. “I'm here, Seokjin. I'm here, right in front of you; I'm here. Believe in me. Believe in us; believe in love as I have believed in love. Please.”

The once-legendary prince, now dishonorable king looks out over a barren, desolate throne room as a zephyr of cold brushes icy digits down his shoulder, along his chest. “Ah,” he utters, sounding exhausted all at once. “I believe you're right.” A small chuckle parses his lips. “What am I saying? Perhaps I shall retire for the night, yes.” He pauses. “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

“Goodnight, my lord.” 

“Yoongi?”

“Yes, my king?”

“Start keeping the fire burning in the hearth. It's too drafty in this hall in the evenings.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Sleep well.”

“You as well, my faithful servant.”

[raiyakun]

Two Worlds 

━━━━━━━ ☆ ━━━━━━━

As always my brain randomly decides to kick into overdrive when thinking of AUs so it took on a life of its own (ADKJSHDKASD), but this was very fun to think of so please have the rest of it under the cut.

(TW for those who might be prompted to check out W: [mostly minor] character deaths, violence, blood, which get more prevalent in later episodes. The music volume changes quickly at certain points too. My concept so far only covers the early half of the series, but still TW for mentions of violence, blood, and minor character deaths.)

(Also a sidenote because I’ve had comments with other AU concepts (；´∀｀) This won’t be a 1:1 AU. The basic premise stands but I make a bunch of changes especially with character roles like splitting and/or splicing roles.) 

❝Keith Kogane is the hero of the immensely popular action mystery webcomic W. Marco McClain, the series’ artist and writer, has become practically a household name as everyone has gotten addicted to the story of Keith, a young man who once rose to fame as the prodigy who became the youngest Olympic judo gold medalist at 18 under his father’s training but gets embroiled in a series of tragedies and injustices as his father is later found dead in their home and his mother discovered missing, with Keith framed and later imprisoned for the murder and abduction by the ambitious prosecutor Zarkon Daibazaal.

Keith is later proven innocent and released following a year in prison, then disappears from the public eye for years only to reemerge later as the successful co-CEO of Voltron Co., and alongside his mentor and brother figure Takashi Shirogane, co-CEO Allura Altea, and assistant Acxa Marmora, he establishes W, a TV program that aims to solve criminal cases and mysteries and give people the justice that they seek for. But Keith’s ultimate goal is to find his father’s killer and his mother’s whereabouts, a goal which he will stop at nothing to achieve.

Meanwhile, Lance McClain is a new resident in the esteemed cardiovascular and thoracic surgery department of the Garrison University Hospital under the tutelage of Professor Iverson, who doesn’t exactly have the most stellar impression of him. That is, until Iverson learns that Lance is the younger brother of Marco McClain, writer and artist of W. Lance sees this as a chance to get on Iverson’s good side and decides to visit his brother Marco, who in reality has had little contact with his family after dropping out of medical school to pursue being a comic artist, much to the disapproval of his and Lance’s parents. His sister Veronica, herself also a doctor at the same hospital, advises him against the idea, but Lance decides to push through.

At Marco’s studio, though, Lance learns through his friends Hunk and Pidge, both assistants to Marco, that his brother has been missing since the previous night, which is a problem since the deadline for W’s latest chapter was the next day. They have absolutely no idea where he could’ve gone, and in the middle of their conversation, Lance finds out about Marco’s plan to kill off his comic’s main character, much to his disbelief. Hunk brings him into Marco’s room to show the last panel he’d worked on his tablet, showing Keith lying in a pool of blood on a hotel rooftop after getting stabbed by the story’s mysterious killer.

After Hunk leaves him alone in the room to attend to a call from the editor, a bloody hand suddenly shoots out from Marco’s tablet to pull him in, and Lance finds himself on a high rooftop, with nobody but a bloody young man with a mullet at his feet. 

Lance is incredibly confused, but quickly jumps into action and helps out the man, saving him from dying from a collapsed lung by puncturing his chest with a pen, the man’s eyes opening for a split second just as Lance does so. After paramedics arrive to bring the man to the hospital (with Lance feeling quite proud he managed to save someone under pressure. Take that, Iverson!), Lance is thanked by the hospital’s manager, and Lance learns the name of who he’d just saved: Keith Kogane.

Wait. Is it a coincidence? For him to have the same name as Marco’s character? But Lance recalls the bloody hand that pulled him in and realizes how the man was lying exactly like Keith in the drawn panel was. And at the corner of his vision, Lance catches the words To be continued appearing out of thin air just before he finds himself back in Marco’s room. 

And that’s how Lance’s curious experiences with moving between reality and (what should have been) fiction begin. What’s worse is that whatever events that happen while he is in the comic world end up getting reflected in W’s story, to the point that Iverson accuses his of forcing his brother to base a new character on himself.

And Marco is little help to Lance’s predicament. He reappears like nothing happened and refuses to listen to his younger brother talking about what he experienced, instead cryptically proclaiming that he needs Keith to die in the comic, even if it goes against what the readers and his editors (and Hunk and Pidge) are hoping he would do.

Lance manages to save Keith’s life a second time after getting sucked into the W world again, and he discovers that the world follows a weird logic that revolves around its main character, and that Lance would only be able to get back to the real world whenever something shocking to Keith happens. 

As for Keith, meeting the man who saved him on the rooftop that one fateful night leads him to believe that he has the key to his existence, his purpose. But the man seems elusive and....very weird. He has a nameーLance McClainーbut it’s as if he swims in and out of existence, with no one knowing him or him disappearing without a trace. But despite his friends’ doubt, Keith is resolute that Lance McClain holds the answer to the mystery governing his life.

The question is, is that a mystery both him and Lance are prepared to unravel?❞

(end of Part One)

This was getting long so I just decided to bunch the rest of some important details into bullet points (；´∀｀) (there’s a LOT more since a ton of stuff happen in the series so there’s a bunch more to come after this. Some might be confusing if you don’t know what happens in the series but I’ll try to clear them up in later posts ksdjfhksdfj)

Romance isn’t a big point in W, but its readers popularly believe that Marco is building a love triangle with Keith and Allura, with whom Keith shares a hatred for Zarkon and some common ground due to her parents also having been murdered, and Acxa, who used to work for Zarkon but whom Keith convinces of Zarkon’s evil and hires as a personal assistant-slash-bodyguard. Lance believed this too, at first, since when they were younger Marco told him about his plans, although at present Lance isn’t sure if Marco still intends it since he’s only played with the idea in the really early chapters but has not touched upon it again. (Later, when Lance and Keith realize they’re falling for each other and the comic IRL begins to turn into a romantic comedy, Iverson rants at Lance about how the story is getting completely ruined by the “new character Lance” and that Keith should’ve gotten set up with one of the two heroines, only for Lance to yell back at him “Well how are you completely sure Keith is into girls in the first place!”)

Shiro’s role is a combination of Do-yoon’s and Hyun-seok’s from W. He was an athlete also trained by Keith’s father and a close family friend. He took Keith in after his release from prison and became the program manager of W. (No, he does not get Hyun-seok’s fate.)

Hunk and Pidge share Soo-bong’s role, although their reactions to realizing Lance can somehow get into the webcomic world are very different: Hunk is extremely anxious while Pidge gets excited and curious.

Keith’s father was murdered by stabbing, and Zarkon framed Keith as the murderer with the knife that Keith got as a gift from his mother as the murder weapon. It’s what Keith secretly keeps under his pillow (which Lance is aware of, much to Keith’s shock. But Lance only knows it thanks to having a lot of knowledge about the webcomic details from the real world).

Lance gets caught by the police in the comic a similar way that Yeon-joo in the series does, but this isn’t due to any purposeful set up by Allura or Acxa the same way the series did for So-hee. I really don’t like how the writing treated So-hee sdjkfsdkjfksf. Lance genuinely becomes friends with Allura and Acxa, and instead it’s Zarkon, thinking that he can use Lance as the key to send Keith to jail permanently, who’s the reason Lance is caught by the police. Allura and Acxa try to help him out but are prevented by Zarkon until Keith’s return.

Marco used to be very close to both Veronica and Lance when they were younger, since all three used to share a love for comics and Marco had a talent for drawing (and although they don’t remember it at first, both Lance and Veronica contributed ideas to what eventually became W). But their parents wanted them to aim for “real” jobs and pressured Marco into studying medicine. While Marco rebelled and left, becoming a small artist that anyone barely knew until W blew up, Veronica chose to bury her love for comics and pursue medicine, thus becoming a doctor. Lance is caught between the two routes they took (wanting to pursue his own dreams like Marco or persisting in the field with Veronica). Despite looking stern most of the time, Veronica is indeed worried and cares for both her brothers.

Eventually, Veronica gets roped into the mess as well, especially after Marco gets attacked and sent to the hospital and when she finds a hysterical Hunk and Pidge yelling about them and Lance getting chased by a killer only for her to find Lance passed out and so weak he needs to be hospitalized.

Eventually, both Lance and Veronica realize that they are able to influence the W world too, since the comic’s logic recognizes them as “part-creators” due to Marco having taken inspiration from them when he was originally planning the comic. I may or may not have a Veracxa agenda here KJFHKDJFHDKSJFHD. Bottom line is: instead of just Yeon-joo and her dad in the original, the three siblings can get dragged into the comic. Okay I admit there is a Veracxa agenda here.

Aaaaaannnnd more to come because W has like 3-4 arcs and both my sister and I can’t stop watching it because it’s cliffhangers everywhere KJDHKJSHKSDJFHKDF

[snowbellewells]

Savior’s Haven {Part One of Two}

Hello there!  I realize I am slipping this in right under the wire for my September 14th posting date, but here is my contribution for the @csseptembersunshine event. I hope it will still be enjoyable despite its tardiness; some real life things caused me to both struggle with my focus and switch from the original idea I had planned to write. I needed some adorable puppy fluff in my life, and it all changed from there. This actually grew a fair bit as I wrote it too, so I have divided it into two parts with the second to follow within the week (hopefully). Thanks so much to @captainsjedi for being so gracious and understanding when I messaged to let her know I was working on my fic and truly hadn’t forgotten it, and to all the lovely ladies on the @CSSNS Discord chat who offered a wealth of name suggestions to me this afternoon - particularly @shireness-says @profdanglaisstuff @snidgetsafan @darkcolinodonorgasm and @kmomof4.  I used one here, but more of them very well might follow in the conclusion!

This is what I call “missing moment fluff”, meant to be taking place sometime post season six in Storybrooke, but before Henry leaves and prior to Hope’s birth.

So without further delay, enjoy this opening!

“Savior’s Haven”

Part One

It began one cool September evening on the way home from weekly dinner at her parents’, Killian offering Emma his arm to wind hers through as they began their leisurely walk back through the darkening streets of Storybrooke. They had nearly reached the street their own two story house by the sea was on, gently arguing back and forth with cheeks flushed by the chill night air about who would have to take the early shift at the station the next morning, when they heard the soft, almost overlooked, whimpers just off the sidewalk.

Coming to a concerned stop at the sound, both sheriff and pirate deputy were alertly trying to locate its source within moments. It didn’t take long, even with the gathering shadows. Peeping around the corner of the lattice gate enclosing the front walk along Mrs. Sprat’s Bakery, it was Killian who located the pitiable, shivering culprit responsible for the troubling noises drawing their attention.

“Swan,” he breathed, barely audible in an effort not to startle the small creature he had already knelt and reached out towards. “Over here, Love.”

Having moved a few feet ahead in her search, Emma stood and came back toward her husband carefully, already aware from the tone of his voice - low and soothing - that he was trying not to frighten a terrified critter of some sort. “I’m here,” she answered quietly, crouching beside him to see into the flowering bush Killian had knelt beside. “What is it?”

Her sailor straightened slowly, pulling his hand and hooked arm back from where he’d reached into the bush, carefully cradling them against his chest with the small animal he had retrieved. In his care and gentility, the way he looked down at the terrified and shivering black puppy Emma could then see in his arms, she was reminded once more of one of the most compelling things she loved about this man who survived a life of harsh trial, challenge and pain. Though once lost and angry, seeking nothing more than his revenge followed by long-awaited death, the darkness her husband weathered alone for so long still had not darkened him permanently. The heart beneath was still tender and open to hope the moment he was offered a way to regain it, and it had made him into the very man who could love her with enough understanding, patience, depth and determination to indeed win her heart, just as he had once vowed.

He showed the same calm restraint in that moment as Emma watched his large, calloused hand stroke along the back of a trembling, undersized and scrawny little dog, and her heart swelled, loving him all the more for it.

“And just what has happened to you here, pup?” Killian murmured, rubbing the soft, silky ears soothingly as Emma leaned in closer to examine the young dog’s protruding ribs and dirt-caked legs and paws. The puppy’s large, soulful brown eyes turned on her as if already begging a piece of her own heart. She wasn’t any more anxious than Killian to turn the little guy loose in the night now that he was untangled from his thorny prison. Both of them could all too easily recall what it felt like to be hungry, cold, and abandoned in a world that felt much too large and uncaring to face.

Her husband’s clear blue eyes met hers over the small canine head between them, and Emma could only smile reassuringly at him, already certain the little guy was as good as theirs as soon as they could get him fed and back to health. “Come on, let’s get him home and cleaned up,” she urged, shivering a little the longer they stood out in the night air, a wistful smile on her face at the thought that maybe they had found an orphan of a different sort to give a home like both she and Killian longed for in their youth. “We’ll make sure he isn’t hurt beneath all that dirt and grime and see what a warm bed and good night’s sleep do for him.”

Killian nodded his assent; the two of them clearly of one mind, as they were quite startlingly often. True, they might find out tomorrow that someone was looking for the sweet little guy, but she still sensed they were bringing home a new member of the family.

*****~~~*****~~~*****

Such events began to repeat themselves rather quickly after that, though their next addition was of the human variety - a young man in the class below Henry, yet clever enough to be in his senior Calculus class - and took much more careful finesse on both of their parts to win over and make feel at ease.

Rolly (a name chosen much more from Emma and Henry’s teasing affection for his tipsy past self in their Back to the Future adventure than by Killian’s choice, though he had good naturedly accepted being outvoted) had only been an exuberant and adored member of their household for about a month in fact when Henry brought the new kid at his school home for dinner. As it turned out, Oliver was a holdover refuge from the Land of Untold Stories, and though he had found lodging with the fairy nuns in a spare room at the convent and took communal breakfasts and dinners with them before heading off to, and after returning from, school each day, many of his hours were spent either studying or roaming the park and woods of the town alone. 

Henry had run into Oliver one day down by the docks, and noticing the way the slightly younger guy watched the weekend sailors with the eye of a skilled pickpocket, and without too much effort in going through his storybook figured out whom the other teen might have been, Henry realized that he’d had a fair bit of experience at it in his former life. Introducing himself and offering the seat next to him on the bench and a share of his cheese fries from Granny’s with the pretext of asking Oliver what he thought of their teacher and the calculus class in general, had brought forth a genuine burst of conversation from the other boy and - Henry had hoped - forestalled the trouble the other young man might have gotten up to.

It seemed that once Henry had witnessed his parents’ incredibly soft hearts for outcasts in person (and having gained a pet out of it, was hardly going to complain) the Truest Believer had felt that they were the perfect people to lend a hand in the situation he had discovered as well, hence the dinner invitation. He came by his charitable outreach honestly - not just from Emma and Killian, but his whole family after all. When Oliver sat down to their table with them that first evening, they learned that while the boy was grateful for the Storybrooke convent’s willingness to feed and clothe him, to give him a room and bed to sleep in, it was a far cry from having a family of his own - something he never even remembered possessing - and a place where he could truly belong.

They learned little more from Sister Astrid when Emma approached her booth at the Miner’s Day festivities that weekend.  Not that the friendly young woman didn’t want to help, but none of them knew more than Oliver himself did, not even his last name. The secretary at the school had merely noticed at the end of the previous school year that he seemed to repeatedly be the first student to arrive at the high school building in the morning and one of the last to leave each afternoon - until it finally became clear he didn’t have anywhere else to go. This had lead to the sisters sponsoring his schooling and offering him a place to stay until he finished.

After that supper, which Oliver thanked them for inviting him to profusely, Emma could tell the young man was reluctant to leave. And yet she could also see he had pride enough not to want to seem needy; a mortifying motivator that she remembered all to well. She and Killian mulled their options for a bit, until one sunny Saturday Killian offered the teen a day’s work helping batten down his ship for the winter months. When he convinced Oliver to return to their house for supper that night, Emma could see long-dried tear tracks on the boy’s face and sensed in Killian’s bearing that his own soul had been bared as well. It was clear the two of them understood each other in a deeper way from their day spent together on the Jolly. When they broached the topic of his living with them for the rest of his senior year and until he decided what he wished to do after, it was clear her husband’s way with words and the heart had allowed this young man who had already charmed them both to accept without feeling shamed or beholden. 

Henry had been thrilled, as had Rolly, since the prospect of someone else to throw sticks and take him for walks pleased the lab mix as little else could. Though Oliver only stayed with them for a little over a year, it allowed their son to feel as if he had gotten to experience having a sibling as he had always wanted, and he enjoyed every moment he got with his foster brother. When Oliver wrote them from his dorm room at the college of his choice, he closed with the best words he could possibly have given Emma and Killian. “...You both provided me the haven I had been missing - the first place I ever felt I belonged until now, settled in at the second. I’ve found where I’m meant to be, and I never would have if not for the two of you.”

They missed their temporary second son, even if he did occasionally come back to visit, but as the weeks and months and years went by, Rolly and Oliver proved to be only the beginning.

Tagging a few who may enjoy, besides the above folks who helped:  @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @whimsicallyenchantedrose @hollyethecurious @thisonesatellite @drowned-dreamer @ilovemesomekillianjones @thislassishooked @resident-of-storybrooke @winterbaby89 @therooksshiningknight @spartanguard @laschatzi

[ineffablecolors]

The Wife [18/?]

The Wife || Ch 18 ~ 5.1k || Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 Ch9 Ch10Ch11 C12 Ch13 Ch14Ch15 Ch16 Ch17 || FF.NET&AO3

Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are?

A/N: Bit of everyone in this one :)) Also - should this be E-rated now? Have I turned my slow burn period piece into feelsy porn?!

For all intents and purposes, Ruby grew up in the Jones household. She baked her first pie in this kitchen, she learnt to read along with lady Alice even though she was quite a bit older, she took the first book she ever read from cover to cover from Captain Jones’s library and apologized through tears when he found her reading it only to be told it was hers now, she became a woman in this house on a hot summer morning, she had her first kiss under one of the apple trees, she snuck out the first girl she ever made love to in the middle of the night only for her to get lost and wake up the whole household upon her return.

Granny made her do all the washing for a month for that last one but Captain Jones just send Peter to help Dorothy find her way back to town and never said anything about it.

After her grandmother, there’s nothing and no one in this world Ruby loves more than Alice and Killian Jones.

Thus, she finds it hard to describe the feeling that passes through her when the captain brings his small staff together and tells them that they will need to make some small changes around the house – it is as if her stomach swoops down and rolls in on itself and Ruby feels herself wobble a little on her feet. Granny is impossibly still beside her. It is the first time she has seen the grin that she thought permanent drop from Peter’s face.

And it doesn’t matter that she is still young enough to marry and it doesn’t matter that she can certainly find work elsewhere. This isn’t work, this is her home. And in that moment, Ruby realizes that between her grandmother taking care of her after her mother ran away and Killian taking her in as soon as she could run around after Granny, she has never before been truly afraid.

“I hope you know that…” Captain Jones clears his throat and she feels every word like a nail being hammered into her heart. “I consider this your home as much as mine. So I have done everything necessary to ensure its safety.”

The air that leaves her lungs is so audible and so close to a stifled sob that Granny glares at her from the corner of her eyes but Ruby doesn’t care.

“That being said…”

Killian glances at his wife and Ruby almost feels guilty for having completely forgotten about Emma. Despite everything, despite how much she likes the new mistress, in that moment, Ruby realizes that she still doesn’t see her as an integral and irreplaceable part of the family, as someone who will stay no matter what.

It takes seconds – Killian’s look and Emma’s assuring nod and the way his shoulders straighten and the way she steps closer – for Ruby to realize that Captain Jones most certainly feels very differently.

She is glad for it.

“There is a number of things to be done and I will be coming and going frequently in the following weeks. Meanwhile, Emma is going to take care of the household expenses and I hope you will all assist her where you can.”

He gives Granny a look but the old woman just huffs and dusts off her hands as if she is done with the whole thing.

“Long as nobody messes with my cooking.”

*****

Emma does mess with her cooking. There is scarcely a thing that she doesn’t mess with and Mrs Lucas has always considered herself a prudent and productive woman but that was before she encountered the single-mindedness of Mrs Jones.

She would grumble about it more, if she wasn’t so damn impressed with the girl.

Granny never would’ve thought a woman could be so excited about cutting expenses and yet, here they are. She supposes it has more to do with actually getting to do something, to be helpful and in control. She doesn’t think Emma Jones has been made to feel like that often in her life. The fact that she obviously cares very little for the quality of table cloths, the oils for her hair or the salts for her baths probably makes the whole thing much easier as well and yet, Granny can’t help but appreciate Emma’s tenacity and dedication – the fact that, against all logic and circumstance, she seems happier than ever and Killian – more relaxed than Granny can remember him.

She appreciates how he lingers at the table at breakfast and doesn’t linger in his office late into the night, how Emma’s appetite has grown exponentially since she first dined at their table and her cheeks are a little more rounded and not quite so pale anymore.

Still, Granny acts sufficiently put upon when Emma does away with small costs that Killian would’ve probably never bothered with and sighs in genuine relief when the captain concludes his own affairs for the day and manages to redirect his wife’s attention with a speed that gives the cook whiplash.

It’s none of Mrs Lucas’s business what the masters do behind closed doors but it is her business to prepare their chambers and Emma’s hasn’t been used in weeks.

And still, despite all that, despite her growing admiration for the girl and her pleasure in seeing her happy and believing that she has a voice and a right to things, there is still a murmur at the back of Granny’s head. A little niggling whisper of worry that is both amazed and terrified by how much the captain obviously trusts his wife, how much power he has given her – over his home and over himself.

She sees it in the way he looks at Emma before deciding on his schedule for the day, the way he asks for her opinion when arranging for the dealers that come to look at pieces in the house, the way he lets her into his study – going through numerous pots of tea while he explains how shares and companies work, the way he tries to go to bed at a reasonable hour because she always stays up with him.

She sees the way he considers how everything he does and says might affect her, the way he seeks her approval, if not her permission. It is much more than the piqued interest of months ago, much more even than the obvious care and attraction of weeks before.

And – much as she has grown to trust and believe in Emma Jones – it worries her.

Mrs Lucas has been a widow a long while but not long enough to forget the bittersweetness of being married to a kind and loving man who still managed to almost bring them to ruin. She can remember loving and trusting before she learnt that the latter is not always so easy to earn as the former. You can love someone despite all their faults, you can even love their vices, but kissing someone under the dead of night and walking hand in hand with them through life is not quite the same.

So she worries.

She worries until the night she opens a door, a silver tray under her elbow, coming to collect the cups Emma took earlier, and sees them before the fire. Emma is leaning against the plush settee behind her, awake and alert, her eyes flying over the piece of paper in her hand that she is obviously trying to decipher, but it’s Killian that the old woman can’t take her eyes off of. A Killian Jones that she has never known. He is on his back, his head in his wife’s lap, her fingers in his hair, a paper still in his right hand even though it’s lying limply beside him, and his left arm resting across his chest, rising and falling with his every breath. Almost ten years and she has never seen him without the wooden hand at the end of his left arm, not since it was fashioned by his physician and brought to the house while he was still bed-ridden.

Granny shifts her weight, the glasses on her tray tinkle, and she sees Emma’s hand move on instinct, leaving his hair to settle protectively over his chest, as her eyes fly to the door.

“Oh,” she sighs and her shoulders relax again. “Is it quite late?”

It takes Granny a few seconds to swallow the lump in her throat.

“I’m about to turn in for the night, if you don’t need anything.”

“Yes, of course.”

She should still collect the cups on the floor beside them but it seems inconceivable to her to move further into the room, to break into the space that is almost simmering with their intimacy.

So instead she nods and turns on her heel. She probably shouldn’t look back, she has never felt more like an intruder in her life, but she is glad she does all the same – she is glad for the way Emma leans over, brushing his hair back and kissing his forehead, the way her whisper carries.

“The floor is not an appropriate place for sleeping, my heart.”

*****

Admiral and Mrs Jones return from their trip and Elsa asks Emma over for tea. She even invites Mrs Nolan – Mrs Nolan who she would truly love to meet before she is too far along in her pregnancy to leave her home. It is a good scheme but not quite so good that Emma doesn’t see right through it. Elsa is to draw her out of the house so Liam can ambush Killian and convince him to take his money.

Killian laughs long and hard when she uses the inkwells and paperweights on his desk to explain this battle strategy to him. He does not disagree but he is also absolutely adamant that she should go, see her friends and take some time for herself. Overall he acts like she has been toiling in the fields for the last few weeks. She rolls her eyes heavenward but the pressure from all sides is too much.

That’s how she finds herself watching with undisguised amusement as Elsa gushes over Mary Margaret’s rather pregnant state and Mary Margaret praises Elsa’s home and china enthusiastically and profusely. Knowing Elsa Jones, it probably shouldn’t but it still shocks Emma when she shoots straight for the heart of the matter as soon as the tea has been poured.

“Liam won’t have any success, would he?”

Emma just shakes her head.

“Success with what?” Mary looks between them in confusion as she takes a dainty sip from her cup.

“Oh, Killian has gotten himself into a bit of a bind and he won’t let Liam get him out of it.”

Emma purses her lips and tries to tempter down her annoyance at the regal and yet somewhat blasé way Elsa points things out and distributes information as if she is a flower girl in the last hour of daylight, rushing to rid herself of her merchandise.

“Oh, Emma. I’m so sorry,” Mary Margaret sets her cup down and her hands flutter in the air for a moment before one of them settles on Emma’s knee.

This time she can’t help but roll her eyes toward the ceiling.

“It’s quite alright. We have most of everything settled and no, I do not think Admiral Jones will be successful in his endeavour but,” she spreads her hands, indication her very presence. “As you can see, he was given a fair chance.”

Elsa’s lips twitch in amusement at Emma’s bluntness before she shakes her head.

“It must be a first for Liam to read someone better than me,” she says, obviously not quite believing it herself and smiles at Emma’s questioning frown. “Oh, I told him he would do well to have you around – no one wants a man’s difficulties resolved faster than his own wife. But Liam claimed that he will have trouble enough with Killian and didn’t need you backing him up, which you undoubtedly would, no matter his decision.”

Emma feels her cheeks heat up but for the life of her she cannot tell if she is embarrassed or pleased by Admiral Jones’s assessment. The moment passes as she runs Elsa’s words through her mind again.

“You mean to say, you would urge Liam to do otherwise?”

“I mean to say that I have,” Elsa responds calmly. “Age and other pleasures have mostly tempered his desires for it but Liam used to speculate wildly. And not always successfully. Killian and Captain Nemo have gotten him out of more than one mess.”

She blinks in surprise, Admiral Jones has always seemed like such a stable and practical man to her. Then again, there is also a certain overconfidence about him that she can easily see leading to such pitfalls.

Still, Emma restrains herself from saying that, while she respects his desire to return the favour now, Killian’s troubles have a much different source and she is not in the least angry or ashamed that he should want to fix everything himself. They’ve decided that the less it is known about the whole situation, the better, and while Emma trusts Elsa’s love and commitment to the Jones name – even when they don’t see eye to eye on all things marital – she cannot say that she has full confidence in Mrs Nolan’s ability to keep much to herself. Speaking of—

“Mary, how is Mr Nolan?”

Mary Margaret is only too happy to talk about David’s excitement over their growing family and almost as happy to question Elsa on all things Italian – from food and architecture to how suitable she thinks the climate for young children. Emma thinks herself well and truly safe from being the center of attention when she starts noticing the sly glances Mary Margaret is throwing her way and the calculating look in her eyes as she looks between her and Elsa.

“Emma, dear, you haven’t written me in so long, I’m eager to hear about any new… developments in your married life. Other than that unfortunate business in recent days.”

Emma frowns hard in confusion before the direction of her friend’s inquiry suddenly becomes clear to her and her eyes grow painfully wide.

“Mary Margaret!”

She stares at the other woman in disbelief for a few seconds, consciously resisting the urge to put her hand over the lovebite on her shoulder that she knows is well-hidden by her sleeve. Then she glances at Elsa. The sparkle in the older Mrs Jones’s eye is one Emma has only seen when she looks at Liam and thinks nobody is looking at her.

“Oh, splendid! I wasn’t quite certain how open Emma might be to such a discussion—“

“I’m not—“

Mary Margaret’s eager nod cuts her right off.

“It’s just— you hear such stories from some women, I want to make sure—“

“But, of course! My friend Mrs Seaborne has just the lousiest luck in the bedroom.”

Emma looks between the two of them in bewilderment and just shakes her head mutely.

“You’re new to married life, Emma,” Elsa says in that same tone that makes her opinions sound like law. “I should have invited my sister. After she has done talking no one worries about divulging too much.”

“You mean to tell me you discuss what goes on… in your bedchambers over tea?”

Elsa and Mary Margaret share a look and, in that moment, she can swear they seem to have known each other for years. They look back at her and nod at the same time.

Emma slums back in her seat and blinks. Admittedly, she has never been invited to any tea parties but, despite her jesting with Killian, she never thought they included discussions of one’s marital happiness. Let alone, that particular kind of happiness.

“Why, I— I’m not sure I feel comfortable with this,” she admits honestly.

Mary Margaret waves her off.

“You needn’t share everything, Emma. I… well, I’ve never done this myself but I know many ladies who— that is, I want to know you are being treated well and—“

Elsa is nodding along and Emma shoots her an almost accusatory look.

“You doubt Killian treats me well?”

“Oh, I’m sure he is the perfect gentleman but I have no notion of anything beyond his table manners and reluctant ball dancing.”

“There is nothing wrong with wishing to be well-satisfied,” Mary adds with a properness that doesn’t match her words in the least.

Emma flounders for a minute, trying to make her decision. She is slightly mortified to find herself too proud of her newfound joy to refuse to acknowledge it.

“Well, then… if you must know, I’m quite— I’m very pleased with everything.”

Mary Margaret’s smile gradually dissolves into confusion.

“Whatever do you mean by “everything”?”

“You know there are a couple of different ways,” Elsa says with the authority of one who has had such discussions before and engaged in those “different ways”.

“Well, yes, there are different ways and different things,” Emma supplies before she can think better of it.

And now both women are looking at her with wide eyes.

“Oh, you know, it’s not all—” she helplessly waves her hand before her and feels her face burning.

“I think she means touching,” Elsa almost whispers to Mary Margaret without either taking their eyes off Emma – their look is very much the one you give a foreign object from a different continent. “Do you mean touching, dear?”

“Well, yes, but also…” Emma sputters and looks all around and finally drops her face in her hands and groans.

It is in that moment that one of Elsa’s maids knocks on the door and brings in some more refreshments and every part of Emma thinks she is going to use that as an excuse to get away from this conversation. So she has no clue where on earth the part that speaks when the door closes again comes from.

“You know you can be kissed… everywhere.”

“Of course, but— oh!”

For the first time Elsa’s face contorts obviously without her permission and the shock freezes her eyebrow high on her forehead. Emma blinks.

“Have you never—“

“Once or twice but—“

She is about to ask what Elsa means by that – once or twice every month or every week? She doubts it can mean every day – true, Admiral Jones seems much more at his leisure than Killian but still. It is the slightly glossy look that takes over Elsa’s eyes that brings the sudden realization of her meaning to Emma.

“Whatever do you—” Mary Margaret’s quiet voice draws Emma’s attention to her friend and she watches the process of understanding play out across her features. “Oh. I didn’t— I mean, we… Is it— Is it nice?”

Emma bites hard at her lip and nods vigorously.

*****

“But Alice is alright?”

“Aye, they are both perfectly fine. They haven’t seen any trouble or unwanted attention since.”

Liam sighs and shakes his head.

“She never did do things the conventional way.”

“Liam,” Killian narrows his eyes and the hint of a warning in his tone makes his brother raise his hands in supplication.

“Never said she should, just…” he shrugs and rubs his temples for a few seconds before deciding that another sip of rum would do him better. “But Emma has been fine with it all?”

His little brother’s face softens immediately and Liam makes a note of this magical way to mellow Killian down.

“She’s been wonderful.”

He feels something warm and serene spread over his shoulders at Killian’s smile. Then Liam puffs out his chest and spreads his arms wide.

“I’m ready to accept your thanks at any point.”

Killian sighs in what Liam hopes is faux annoyance as he takes his own glass in hand and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I thought we’d settled on—“

Liam waves him off.

“Not that.”

“Then what laurels do you wish to lay claim to, brother?”

“Why, introducing you to your wonderful wife, of course.”

Killian’s eyebrows go high in amusement as he leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his drink.

“In truth, you didn’t exactly introduce us.”

“I as good as brought her to your door,” he fires back half in jest and grins at Killian’s laughter.

“You spent every day between my proposal to her grandmother and our nuptials trying to convince me what a rotten idea the whole thing was!”

“Which I know is the surest way to make you do something, little brother�� Liam finishes matter-of-factly, more than a little pleased with himself when Killian proceeds to open and shut his mouth in quick succession.

For a second Killian just watches him with narrowed eyes but Liam refuses to let the smug grin leave his face until his brother chuckles and shakes his head in defeat.

“Thank you for introducing me to my wonderful wife, Liam.”

Liam grins – knowing he can’t take any real credit for most of it does little to diminish his satisfaction with his brother’s happiness.

*****

It’s a cold but clear day and there are still a couple more serviceable hours of daylight when he hears Emma come home. Killian leans back in his leather chair and starts counting back from ten with a smile that is just on the right side of expectant and far beyond smitten.

She comes through the door at four – hat in one hand, the other still unwinding her shawl, cheeks flushed from the chilly air outside and a couple of pins sticking out of her slightly askew bun. She has shed her coat and her dress is lovely and her face is animated by whatever transpired at his brother’s home while the man himself was here and Killian is still amazed that a woman this beautiful shares his bed.

“Why didn’t you tell me tea parties are so… bizarre?”

She tosses her things on the chair across his desk and plants her hands on her hips and there is some kind of joke lurking in her bright eyes. Killian raises an eyebrow.

“Do I look like I spend a lot of time drinking tea with respectable ladies?”

Her lips purse as if to respond but them her shoulders drop a little and she smiles sheepishly. Killian reaches out and, when he feels her cold fingers close around his own, he gives a little tug. Emma comes closer all too willingly, hitching her skirts up so she can settle in his lap. He sets her hand under his shirt where the top few buttons have been undone and brings the other one to his mouth, blowing hot air over her delicate skin. He takes extreme pleasure in how quickly she warms up and proceeds to kiss her nose and cheeks and release her hair from its ruined coiffure.

“I take it Mrs Nolan and my sister-in-law did a fine job of entertaining you, my queen?”

“I believe I was the one that entertained them,” she says drily

He does his best to ignore the fact that her hand has seized the opportunity to undo another couple of buttons of his shirt and looks up, studying her face for any sign that something has upset her. But Emma just shakes her head and mumbles something about the afternoon being “very interesting and enlightening” as she leans in and presses her lips to his temple before she starts sliding her way to his mouth.

“And yours, my heart?”

He huffs a little and tries to recall anything beyond the scent of her and how she skin feels below this outrageous corset.

“I will be visiting Captain Nemo for a couple of days to conduct some business in mine and Liam’s name. And collect a ridiculous commission from my imprudent brother for it.”

It was a concession on his part but Liam still found it necessary to point out that he can sometimes take things without working so damn hard for them. Killian made sure to point out how very piratical of him that sounded.

Emma pulls away and he is sure that she is not aware of the way her lower lip juts out slightly – pink and so very tempting.

“When?”

“At the end of the week.”

She looks like she is trying very hard not to show her displeasure and he goes for some levity.

“You know, most women don’t mind that much when their husbands make themselves scarce for a bit.”

Her look is very much not amused and her hands are definitely not where he placed them anymore.

“Most women aren’t married to you.”

Before he can respond, she is on her feet and half way to the door and Killian’s heart lurches after her. He knows his increased engagements and small trips are the thing she dislikes the most, even if she hasn’t said anything, but he hoped this will be the last one and perhaps—

“Emma. Love, I’m sorry, I—“ the sound of the key being turned in the lock echoes in the small study. “Emma?”

“As a man who will be going away at the end of the week,” she makes her way back to his desk, her hands fiddling behind her, obviously trying to loosen her corset a bit. “You are done for the day.”

She snaps the ledger on his desk closed and telling her that’s not the one he’d been working on is the furthest thing from his mind as she kisses him deeply. His chair screeches back a few inches and in the next moment Emma is on her knees between him and his desk.

Killian swallows and frowns, even as he feels his groin tighten at the very sight of her.

“What are you doing, love?”

“You’re smarter than to ask that, Captain.”

He opens his mouth and almost bites his tongue when he feels her small hand cup him through his pants.

“Bloody hell.”

Emma smiles – obviously surprised and delighted by his immediate reaction, and tugs at the laces of his pants. As she shuffles forward, his legs fall open of their own volition to let her settle comfortable. The picture she presents makes him hard as a rock and his hand squeezes the armrest so it doesn’t reach for her but part of him still feels strange having a lady – his wife – on her knees before him, between his legs.

“Queens are not supposed to kneel,” he says, a small part of him trying to dissuade her from her path of action while the rest of him growls and snaps at it.

Emma gives him a look from under her eyelashes even as she gives one last tug on his pants and shamelessly takes him in hand.

“Not even when they wish to?”

Whatever words he might have thrown together in response she swallows along with his cock and Killian is a fool but not fool enough to protest further – not when he can feel the flat of her tongue against him and her lips around him and her hair brushing his skin.

“Christ.”

Her hair is a sight indeed – his lap full of tangled blonde curls that rustle in time with the movements of her mouth. He bites hard on his lip and lets the inhuman groan building inside him through his nose. He doesn’t know how his body remembers to keep breathing when he knows every sensation in it is centered on her and only her.

He feels her nose brush against him, feels her throat muscles tighten as she chokes a little – once, twice, as she tries to take him all in. That’s when he finally allows his hand to touch her – combing lightly through her hair before it slips down to rub his thumb over her jaw, coaxing her to relax and not try anything that’s giving her difficulty.

Emma seems to get the message because her mouth retreads a little and she glances up at him through her hair, something self-conscious in her eyes that smooths out when she takes in his expression.

Killian is not sure what his face is capable of communicating in this moment – desire, gratification, incredulity, awe – certainly not everything he is feeling. He brushes the strands of gold that have fallen in her eyes and looking her in the eyes as she continues her ministrations almost makes him lose control and come right then and there.

“Love, you might wan— Fuck, I’m—“

He sees her frown in thought before he feels her hands slide over his thighs. Then he sees and feels her cheeks hollow around him and he is lost.

When his vision clears and sensation returns to his legs and arms, Killian can do little but moan at the feel of her tongue running leisurely over him before she lays her cheek on his thigh, her warm breaths washing over him in a marriage of deep bliss and light torture.

He curls a strand of her hair around his finger and when she looks up the almost innocent and bashful look on her face is the last thing he expects.

“Was that alright?”

He groans and instead of answering helps her up and back onto his lap, his hand cupping her head and bringing her closer. She stops a hair’s breadth from his lips – a doubt, a question, in her eyes that he answers by running his tongue over her lower lip until she opens up for him.

“I do not mean to disparage your vocabulary, love,” he says as his fingers work diligently on freeing her breasts from the confines of her dress. “But if you are going to be doing things like that to me, you’ll have to find something a bit stronger than “alright” in the dictionary.”

He palms one of her breasts and bites lightly at the other – his cock stirring again at the sound that seems to come from the very center of her and the newfound knowledge of how much Emma likes having her flesh between his teeth. He pulls back to admire the round red mark left behind before he glides his tongue and lips over it gently.

“Then again, sometimes I see and hear things that I can hardly put into words either.”

*****

She wakes up to the first snow, with Killian’s lips against her ribcage, asking her if she would like to meet a far more distinguished captain than himself.

The only reason she doesn’t start packing right away is that her legs have already locked around him.

*****

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[etherealwaifgoddess]

What He Wants (Pt. 14)

Main Characters: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced Reader

Summary:  On going series of Bucky getting his shit together and falling in love with you.

Warnings/ Content: none, just domestic fluff

Word Count: 1831

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! We are firmly into fluff territory now. Like serious, tooth rotting fluff. Ya’ll might want to see a dentist after this ;) 

If you missed the first few parts, you can read them here: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

XOXO -Ash

What He Wants, Pt. 14

In the early morning light you wake to a heavy, hot weight over your waist. You’re overheated but extremely comfortable and it takes you a moment to realize the tickling on the back of your neck is from Bucky’s breath against your hair. At some point during the night you had both shifted to the center of the bed and became entwined. He has his right arm thrown around your waist and he’s lying partly on his stomach and partly around you. His head is pressed against your neck in your hair and you can’t understand how he doesn’t mind laying like that. You had your arms wrapped around his when you woke, and you are reluctant to let him go. You’re afraid to wake him and lose this perfect, warm moment but you know it’s inevitable and he will likely not be thrilled to wake up like this. You shift to roll away but his arm tightens his grasp on you. “Where ya goin’, mouse?” He asks, his Brooklyn accent thick in his semi-conscious state. 

You freeze, he is awake and not pulling away. “I have to pee.” You say honestly and pull yourself out from under him.

Your voice and movements wake him up fully and he jolts back. “I’m sorry, God, mouse, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

You shake your head, “It’s okay. Apparently we’re both cuddlers. Who knew?”

Bucky’s eyes widen at your flippant comment and you hurry to the bathroom before you die of embarrassment. You scrub at your face with a cold wash cloth, staring at your reflection for a moment. You had lost your mind, clearly. You pile your hair on top of your head in your standard messy bun and steel your nerves to go back out and face the man in your bed. 

Bucky had already gotten up and dressed. When you enter the bedroom he takes off towards the bathroom without a word. He can’t be around you for the time being, you are too soft and too beautiful in the morning light. He had been having the most wonderful dream of dancing with you in a ballroom, both hands wrapped around your waist leading your movements to a slow song. You had worn a red carnation in your hair and smiled at him like he was your whole world. When he had started waking he thought it was part of the dream. He curses himself for his foolishness. He needs to get himself together before he does something stupid and scares you off. The memory of last night and the way you had touched him has him gripping the side of the sink trying to catch his bearings. 

It’s been almost 80 years since he wanted a woman the way he wants you. After HYDRA had gotten their claws in him he’d had the singular focus of the Winter Soldier, or was on ice. There was no time for attraction or desire for sex during that time, it was just rage and fear. After Steve had helped him get out, well, he wasn’t exactly boyfriend material anymore. If his scars didn’t scare people off the permanent scowl he wore surely would. He had become a pro at keeping people at a distance and it was a hard habit to break. Bucky thinks about your words in the hospital, what did he want the rest of his life to look like? He has to admit, until he saw Steve come back aged he wasn’t sure they were capable of growing old because of the serum. The damn serum that was forever mixed with his DNA, ruining his insides the same way the HYDRA surgeons had ruined his outside. Risking a glance in the mirror he shakes his head at his reflection. He will just need to keep himself in check better, just like he does with the winter bastard rolling around in his subconscious. 

Bucky’s resolve lasts all the way to the kitchen where he finds you dancing around to some upbeat song, still wearing your night shirt which rides up your thighs a little higher every time you shimmy. He leans back against the door jam and coughs lightly so as not to startle you. You are completely unphased by his presence and send him a wide smile across the little pink and white kitchen. 

“I’m making French Toast. Your favorite, right?” You ask as you continue your movements, swaying as you coat a piece of bread with the egg mixture. You plop the soaked piece of bread in a sizzling pan and Bucky forgets every harsh reminder he had given himself only minutes before in the bathroom. 

“Yeah, mouse, that’s my favorite.” He says roughly, trying to reign himself in. “You didn’t have to-“

You cut him off before he makes excuses you don’t need, “I like it too, so it works out. Can you grab the syrup from that cupboard?” You point to the one and Bucky is quick to respond.

“Yeah, what else can I get for you?” He asks shuffling around the small kitchen the best he can with his crutch. 

“Plates are in there” you point, “And silverware is in that drawer” you point again.

“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky replies with no trace of sarcasm. 

Bucky has the table set by the time you place the first piece of toast on a platter by the stove. He looks around, wanting to stay busy while you work. “Can I get a pot of coffee started?” He offers. 

“Sure, grounds and filters are in there.”

“Thanks. Where’s the salt?”

“The salt?” You look at him incredulously.

“Yeah, to throw in with the grounds.” 

“Um, Bucky, don’t take this wrong but salt doesn’t go in coffee grounds.”

“Just you wait and see. My ma taught me this trick. It does somethin’ with the grounds, makes ‘em taste better. Less bitter. Just trust me, okay, mouse?”

You shake your head and wave your hand at him, letting him have his way. You can just make a new batch if it tastes weird. Bucky gets the coffee machine going and hops up on your kitchen countertop, sitting happily next to your work area. You’re surprised it holds the super soldier, but it seems stable. He swings his legs a little, happily watching you work. His cheerfulness is unnerving and you feel the creeping of a blush starting in your chest and working its way up your cheeks. You wish Bucky could be like this all the time, but you know he can’t ignore his issues forever and you need to make the most of these carefree moments when they happen. 

Having him so close while you cook is comforting and you place a hand on his thigh before you realize what you’re doing. Bucky’s eyes widen and his lips part in surprise. You pull your hand away as if you had placed it on the stove instead of him, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I-I-I’m so sorry.” You stutter, wishing the floor would open up into a void that you could fling yourself into. 

Bucky ambles down from the countertop to go check on the coffee which is doing just fine on its own. He also needs to readjust things. Bucky feels like a teenager again, unable to control his body’s responses to a pretty girl. It’s difficult for him to hide his reaction behind his fitted black jeans but he does his best to think of every disgusting thing he can to wipe any remaining lust from his system. 

You almost burn the next piece of toast, turning it just in time before it goes from just really dark to charred. You can’t shake the feel of Bucky’s thigh beneath your hand from your mind. It was so wide, thickly muscled, and powerful. You force your wayward mind to stop conjuring up imaginings of those thighs against other parts of your body, trying to get a grip on yourself. You cool off while making the last few pieces and then join Bucky at the table with the giant pile of French Toast. He’s sipping his coffee with a satisfied smile, clearly ready to gloat. 

“Just like my ma used to make it.” He says with a flourish as he hands you the cup. 

You roll your eyes but accept the offered cup, taking a sip of the salted coffee. To your surprise there isn’t even a hint of salt in the brew. It’s strong and rich, definitely better than when you normally make it, and you want to smack the smug look off Bucky’s face. “Damnit.” You grumble as you take another long sip.

Bucky laughs and it’s a harsh, almost dorky sound, seeming to have burst out before he could control it. You try not to snort your coffee through your nose and hold back the laughter bubbling up in your throat. Bucky’s cheeks tinged red, embarrassed at his outburst. 

“Thank you, Bucky.” You concede, raising your cup to him.

“You’re very welcome, mouse. Thanks for cooking again.” He takes four pieces of toast and starts dousing them with syrup. You try not to make a face, still unable to believe the way he eats. You pick two pieces off the plate for yourself, giving them a slight drizzle of syrup and then dig in. The coffee is good enough to go back for seconds and you catch Bucky’s pleased grin out of the corner of your eye. He polishes off eight pieces before pushing himself back from the table with a sigh. “A man can get used to this.” He teases. 

“Oh really? Well, as soon as man is feeling better he can get used to doing dishes too.” You sass back.

“Oh come on, mouse. You know I’m gonna help you once I’m back on both feet. I’m gonna cook for you, I’ll do the dishes, take care of the laundry, whatever you need. Just gimme another day to rest up.” 

“I know you’re good for it, no worries.” You get up to take care of the dishes, trying to keep your mind busy before it goes to all the other places you would like Bucky’s help. 

Bucky places his hand over your wrist, stilling your movement, “Seriously, mouse. I can’t repay you for taking me in like this. I know I’m a pain in the ass, and I’m gonna triple your grocery bill, but I really appreciate it.” The genuine gratefulness in his eyes stops you in your tracks even more than the contact of his hand on your wrist. Your brain struggles to come up with an appropriate response but all you come up with is “Any time.” It’s trite and you hate the sound of your voice. You force yourself to break the contact before you do something stupid like pull him against your chest and kiss him senseless. It’s barely 9am and you already know it’s going to be a long day. 

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[tally-kiza]

Horrorswap and Horrorswapfell Headcanons

So I decided to make Horrorswap and Horrorswapfell headcanons. There’s not a lot of stuff out there for it, so I wanted to throw my hat into the ring, and see what I could come up with.

This isn’t typical scary Horrortale, btw. These are soft-Horrortale inspired by popatochisssp’s HT skeletons.

(this is slightly edited and revised as of 02/25/2020 so if things seem different than before, thats why)

Horrorswap Sans (Boston)

- The famine was particularly hard on him. Alphys’s abuse really injured his head, and combined with the effects of starvation, Sans was eventually diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. His brother was always so worried when Boston started spending days in bed or sprinting throughout the underground setting up violently painful puzzles and traps, shouting about humans, but having an explanation assuaged his worries a bit. At least then he knew how to help. 

- Speaking of Alphys, when Sans became captain of the Royal Guard and bore the brunt of her anger, it left permanent damage to his bones and teeth, leaving them cracked and crooked, with strange blood stains on them (his own marrow/blood, not a human’s).

- Despite everything, he's still Sans. He’s sunny, but less so than he use to be, and even when he’s feeling miserable, he tries his best to be friendly and cheerful. ...It’s difficult though. It’s so tempting sometimes to just curl up and forget about the world, but... even though he does do that occasionally, he never stays like that for long. He keeps going through the day, trying his best to live and forget about the past.

- On better days though, he can be pretty cheerful and friendly! He likes talking to other people and hearing what they have to say.

- Boston goes to therapy regularly to cope with his trauma. He tries to convince his brother to go too but Citrine’s been stubborn so far.

- During the famine, one of his favorite things to take his mind off the stress was creating things. Like drawing maps of what the stars in the sky look like, and designing diagrams of spaceships that he likes. Very space-oriented things usually, since he’s always loved it so much. It’s... very difficult to make these though most of the time. His concentration and focus is basically nonexistent when he’s starving, so he can mostly only create when he’s recently eaten. Making them is his favorite hobby on the surface.

- Adores farmers markets. There's so many possibilities! Buying cool new foods, selling the things he’s made, meeting and talking to cool new people! He loves them, they’re so fun.

- Uses the fruits from his brother’s gardens to make preserves! Saves jars of jams, jellies, and other preserves in the cabinets for whenever he needs to use them when he cooks. They’re delicious and he always has a lot of fun making them with his brother.

- Has a collection of lava lamps! They’re so satisfying and relaxing to watch. He loves them, and they always help him feel less stressed.

- Along that same vein, he likes stim videos! Pretty much all kinds of them. they’re very relaxing to him.

- He hates the silence... It reminds him so much of Snowdin during the famine. Cold, empty, devoid of life and joy... He cringes whenever there’s too long of a silence. Boston will almost always have some kind of noise on in the background, whether it be music or tv show or an audiobook. It really eases his fears.

- Stars, he loves food. So much. He loves watching stress-free cooking shows and learning new recipes to cook. Trying something new and making food for him and his brother is one of his favorite things. 

- Awkwardly genuine. He tries really hard to fit in on the surface and be a good person to make up for what he's done. Every so often he’ll say or do something really dark and completely forget he can’t do that anymore on the surface. Sans will berate himself really hard afterwards, so he really appreciates the reassurances he gets that it’s okay.

- Admittedly, he had lost hope of ever seeing the stars... He thought they’d be stuck underground, starving to death forever... But when he and the others emerged out of the Barrier in the middle of the night, he finally saw the infinite blanket of stars twinkling above them. He’s never been quite so happy in his whole life, as he collapsed on the ground and sobbed with the pure relief of finally being free and finally seeing the stars.

Horrorswap Papyrus (Citrine)

- After getting into a big fight with Alphys and interfering when she tried to hurt Sans, he ended up with a big bad hole in his skull. Sans had to use all the healing magic he could find to save him. When Citrine woke up, his skull was throbbing and he could barely remember what happened.

- Very apathetic at times. It’s hard to care about stuff when he’s stuck underground and feels like they’re going to die soon... It'll take a lot of years on the surface for him to be anywhere close to normal again. Also doesn't have the energy to be nice to people sometimes. So he just isolates himself and doesn’t interact with them.

- That being said, it is possible to befriend him. It’ll be a long journey but With the right circumstances and if you’re good to Boston, Citrine ends up being a pretty great friend.

- Pretty touch-repulsed unless he’s close with someone. After many years of being friends with them, he can be pretty cuddly. If you’re lucky, he’ll drape himself over you like a cat.

- Like the other lazybones, the hole in his skull gave him memory problems but not as severe as the others'. Still has all his long-term memory, he just forgets recent things (like where he put his keys) ver easily.

- Since he has no suckers to chew on during the famine, he chews on sticks as a replacement. It's left his teeth chipped and scraggly. He gets them fixed on the surface, and hoards all the suckers, honey, and pocky he can find.

- Loves plants. Has a mini garden on the surface. Grows his own food and everything. Boston is so supportive of him and helps him when he’s struggling with it.

- Probably has a slight case of osteoporosis? And maybe the other horror!skeletons would as well. So his spine is kinda bent, unfortunately. 

- Still really loves puns. Dark ones make him kind of uncomfortable (he doesn't like anything that reminds him of the underground) but his favorites are plant and music puns. They're perhaps the quickest way to get him to warm up to you.

- Still appreciates memes. Doesn’t outwardly show a positive reaction to them, but they make him chuckle inwardly. Will deadpannedly meme at you when you least expect it.

- Has an unfortunate case of MVRSF: Monotone Voice and Resting Stony Face.

- Pretends he’s fine when there’s clearly something wrong. Refuses to accept help and burden anyone. He just... doesn’t want to cause any more problems. He insists he’ll be alright....

- Stars, he just? loves Hozier’s music?? so much??? It’s so ethereal and chill and it always calms him down when he’s stressed. And music! Just music in general is his one true lomfve. He can’t get enough of it. Starts learning to play the kalimba on the surface. It has such a lovely sound. He’s a little rusty at it, but he tries hard. Hozier songs are his favorite songs to play on it.

Horrorswapfell Sans (Knox)

- Like Horrorfell Papyrus, after the famine began, he sobered up. Sans didn't have the time nor energy for all his usual grandiose. Like with all the Fell skeletons, he blames himself that the human killed so many people, and it's really taken a hit to his ego. His self-esteem is a lot lower than it used to be.

- Didn't take of any of Alphys's shit, and refused to let her abuse him. They fought quite a bit however, resulting in chipped misaligned teeth and long scars on his eyesocket and side of his face. The eyesocket with those scars lost its eyelight, so hes unfortunately blind in that socket now. Scraps with Snowdin-folk have left scars and marks all over his and body, but nothing too deep, luckily.

- An incredibly responsible and capable skeleton. Like, he gets shit done. Insanely productive at times with laser-like focus. He was basically the only reason his brother survived during the famine; Knox motivates Clover to get out of bed and live.

- Mildly paranoid on the surface. He's worried that something bad will happen and is lurking around the corner, so he's incredibly suspicious everything. Especially people he doesn’t know.

- In addition to being mildly paranoid, he also is easily stressed, and has anxiety and depression. He has... a lot on his plate, to say the least. The famine gave him a lot of trauma, but frequent therapy helps a lot, once he’s comfortable opening up to strangers. His brother Clover is a great help, he’s the most helpful, supportive brother and friend he could’ve asked for. 

- Oftentimes he wears a dark cloak that makes him look like the Grim Reaper. Enjoys scaring people with it and making them think he actually is the Grim Reaper. It’s one of the great joys he has in life.

- Favorite type of music is opera and classical. He likes how quickly it can go from soft and peaceful to fast and dramatic and dynamic.

- Secretly likes baking, especially baking cupcakes, but sshhhh! No one can know. ...Mostly just because he’s new to baking and not very great at it yet, so he’s self-conscious. But! He hopes knows he’s gonna be great at it someday. And his brother is always there to cheer him on and nom all the sweet treats happily.

- He's very sly. Makes the most subtle, hidden, and deady traps out of all the skeletons, and with his silvertongue can easily turn people's words against them. 

- But... once you have his trust and his friendship, he wouldn’t dream of doing that to you. Knox isn’t someone who takes friendship lightly, so he’d never dare manipulate your words or hurt you in any way.

- Also very formal and serious. Not much of a casual skeleton, and doesn’t like letting down his walls. It’s part of his distrustful nature. Makes him pretty difficult to befriend, honestly. But it is possible, in the right circumstances.

- Sans isn’t passionate for many things on the surface, but sewing is definitely one of them. He got into it when he was younger, and starting sewing and creating more during the famine like Boston to keep himself distracted when he wasn’t working or patrolling. He enjoys it so much on the surface, that he starts doing tailoring and sewing commissions. Probably even becomes a tailor or something similar eventually. Altering clothes is the one thing he feels like he hasn't failed at, so he likes it.

Horrorswapfell Papyrus (Clover)

- Animalistic. The famine probably hit him the hardest out of all of them, mentally at least. He started acting more and more dog-like over time. Nothing extreme, he just has bad habits that he’s picked up. Hostile and distant towards strangers, growling at people with too high LV, whining if you won't cuddle him. It's pretty cute tbh.

- Once hen him and Alphys got into a fight over Sans, she threw her axe at him, and left a pretty big cracked hole in his skull. When Sans saved him with the DT, one of his eyelights became enlarged and beaming red. The other eye "overloaded” in a way from the influx of magic so it became basically unusable. Even though there’s no physical damage to it, keeping it uncovered hurts sometimes so he keeps an eyepatch over it.

- Wears beanie hats! Clover’s self-conscious about his crack, so he covers it with adorable beanie hats. He has a whole collection of them of many different types. He also likes how they make him feel cute.

- His slitted pupils make him look so adorable when they dilate when he's excited.

- Basically a cat. Drapes on top of his s/o for cuddles. Naps in the sunbeams. Complains when you don't pay attention to him. Kills pests for you. Just a 7 foot tall teddy bear kitty skeleton ;w;

- Looooves chicken nuggets. They’re his favorite food and nomming them after a bad day always makes him feel better <33. Calls them chimken nuggies.

- Also loves love songs! Especially the soft and sweet and heartfelt ones. They're so nice and calming to listen to. He really likes to hum along to them when he's drawing.

- Pretty quiet. He didn't talk a lot underground so as to not draw attention, so he rarely talks anymore. Doesn’t speak much around people he doesn’t know in public, but in private with people he’s close too he’s more comfortable talking. When Papyrus does talk, it's rather slow and his voice cracks occasionally.

-  Before the famine, Clover ate hard candies. But after he ran out of candies when the famine started, he wanted to have the same sensation so he started chewing on sticks and pebbles. It's left his fangs misaligned and cracked. They're partially repaired on the surface, but there wasn't a lot the dentist could do. So he just replaced them with more gold teeth. He has four now, instead of one.

- Has a panic disorder. He's terrified of going back underground. Only his brother and his s/o can calm him down from his panic attacks. Also has generalized anxiety. If he’s in front of strangers, he’ll try to hide it with aggression out of fear of looking weak.

- Papyrus used to love reading, but after his head wound, it was difficult to concentrate and understand what he was reading. So he stopped. But on the surface, he discovered the magic of audiobooks and uses them all the time! He can often be found wearing headphones listening to audiobooks in the background.

- Him and Knox eventually get two sweet darling therapy cats. They’re the most helpful nicest floofs he’s ever known and he loves them to bits. The cats are incredibly sweet and helpful when the skellies are having a bad day, and always makes them feel so much better.

- Works as a commission artist when he gets to the surface! He tried other jobs before, but they were always so stressful so he never worked there for long. He never lost his passion for making art during the famine, even though remembering how to was difficult sometimes. But once he relearns all his skills again, he loves working from home as an artist. It's the best job he could've ever asked for.

-He’s just Babey. A wonderfully sweet, wholesome, precious babey skellie ;w;

[littleredroseonthevalley]

Red Rose - Chapter 16

Prologue Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7 Ch. 8 Ch. 9 Ch. 10 Ch. 11Ch. 12 Ch. 13 Ch. 14 Ch. 15 CH. 16

Summary: Riley manages the fallback from the hedgemaze fiasco, but she’s soon reminded that there’s no dull moment in Cordonia, as Tariq barges into her room and her and Drake have a moment.

Rating: M -  Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16 with non-explicit suggestive adult themes, references to some violence, or coarse language.

Theodora sat at her dresser, brushing her thick, platinum blonde mane. Puberty has done her very well, with her skin as fair and spotless as it was at her birth, the hourglass figure and the harmonious breast also being God-given gifts. Her eyes were cold and cutting as a knife.

That night, they shone in determination.

“Promises are made, promises are broken.” She told to her own reflection. “Well, father, two can play at that game.”

She took off the brush from her hair and placed the richly-engraved brush back into the dresser drawer. She then rose from the chair and walked over to her closet. She took some clothes from the racks and threw them at a bag open at the door. She then proceeded to change her blue dress into a pair of pants, a shirt and a green parka.

All dressed, she threw the bag over her shoulders and sneaked off to her parents’ room. At that time of day, it was predictably empty. Behind a painting, lay a safe, and the code was 1918.

Inside the safe, there was cash, jewels, and most importantly, a hostage for her escape operation.

She refused to end up like her parents and siblings. She refused living that odious life. There it was a passport for another life, another herself.

Theodora threw everything inside the bag and sneaked her way into the house’s backdoor.

Half an hour later, safely on a train going away from the life she knew, she took a deep breath. Relief washed her lithe body.

Escape seemed at hand’s reach.

Applewood, Neokastron, Cordonia, Fall 2015

“Oh, God.” Riley bemoaned. “I’m so screwed.”

“This does hamper our initial plans, yes.” Charlotte noted. “We would stay in Cordonia until Theophany, and, when Liam did not pick you, we would have a good reason to leave. Riley would be killed off in some tragic accident a few months later, and that would be that.

“What we didn’t count on is the fact that you want to stay.”

“No matter, we are sticking with our original plan.” Riley said, determined. “Regardless of what I may be feeling about Liam or about anyone else, there is no way I can stay in Cordonia come February. Even if the impossible happens and Liam does choose me.”

“But there is a way.” Charlotte said, thoughtful. “Think about it: your story held uncontested up until now, even with the security services looking thoroughly into it. I doubt anyone except perhaps the MI-5 or the CIA could blow it now, much less some lowly yellow press, sketch of a reporter. And that’s only in the first few months, once the rage of your marriage passes, they stop snooping on the dirty secrets of your past and start snooping on the dirty secrets of your present.

“You have files of the marriage of Amara Grey and Brennan Flowers, the latter of whom died without any relatives to say you weren’t related to them, and the former is so deep in this as yourself, she won’t blab or else she’ll be packing to a federal prison.

“You planted school records in not one, not two, but in three different institutions, you swapped the yearbooks from the library in Cedar Cove, and all your supposed colleagues seem to remember a shy, quiet student at the corner they don’t quite remember the name of.

“You fed a fake Facebook for years, for Christ’s sakes!” Charlotte exasperated. “Honestly, if I didn’t know you, if I didn’t know you were lying, I would fucking think you were really Riley Flowers.”

Riley weighed what has been said by Charlotte, and she had to give her a point, by now there is no conceivable way for her to be discovered, not by the Cordonian court, and not if she didn’t screw up. However, one thing weighed heavily on her mind: “What about Karen and Ludwig?”

“Riley, my promise holds regardless of you deciding to be a queen or not. A week in February, and you’ll be free.” Charlotte said, in all seriousness. “We could tell everybody you were off to New York tying up some loose ends, we could even have Amara backing up these claims.”

Riley grumbled. “It still don’t change what happened today. Liam and I still had this huge fight, and we both said things we shouldn’t have, even if we did meant them.”

“Hey, sweetie, do you still have your journals?” Charlotte asked.

“My journals?” Riley said, confused.

“When you were younger, every time you got upset, you used to write your feelings away. Don’t you do that anymore?”

Then it dawned on her. Her notebooks. She used to write on them every day, as in to chase away the feelings of loneliness and fear from getting caught by the Rosenbergs. She remembered to take them to Cordonia, but she hadn’t touched a single one of them ever since she left New York.

Riley rummaged her trunk and pulled out six leather-bound notebooks. “Here they are. All the way back from the time I moved to New York.”

“Now, why don’t you give them to Liam as an apology gift?” Charlotte proposed.

“What?” Riley shouted. “Are you insane?!”

“Why not? I know you are paranoid enough not to put any names on those, and yet they are personal enough for him to see you’re making an effort to reach out. Besides, they’re the most genuine piece of yourself we can afford to give him right now.”

“That… That…” Riley stuttered while the wheels of her brain turned. “That might be actually a good idea.”

“I’m full of those today.” Charlotte said, smugly. “Now, come, we have to re-do your make-up and accessorize with this dress. Lord, for as much Bertrand is a stick-in-the-mud, he really has no sense of style!”

Riley giggled. “He really don’t. All that ‘country lord’ look of his isn’t working on his favor.”

New York City, Summer 1979

Melissa payed her cabby and got out of the car. Her meager belongings, mostly clothing, were packed into a small, black bag.

She had just arrived from the airport, she was at her parents’ home, in Georgia, and it certainly did not end her way. Not that she really blames them, she had thrown them a bomb.

She had met Kristijan during her internship at the United Nations. She was working under the Spanish ambassador, while Kristijan was a guard to Lord Talmai Bartholomaios, the Cordonian envoy.

They had met when he helped her when she got lost on her way to a meeting at the UN. He had been posted there for over three years and could probably walk through those halls in his sleep. He had a rare afternoon off, as Lord Bartholomaios was otherwise engaged, so, after her meeting, they went out for a coffee and became friends.

After some outings through the city, they started dating. It was a whirlwind romance, one she threw herself into head first.

However, Labor Day was just around the corner, and Lord Bartholomaios was due to return to Cordonia, and Kristijan is supposed to go with. He had told her his ‘commander’, the head of the security services he wasn’t allowed to disclose, was impressed with his work, and offered him a superior position, one that required him to move back to his homeland, permanently.

Facing the possibility of never seeing each other again, Kristijan proposed to Melissa last Friday night. She said she had to talk it over with her family first and promised him an answer the following Monday.

Today.

She used the card key Kristijan had given her and waltzed into the hotel. She went up to his floor and knocked on his door.

He answers her with a grin and a: “Melissa, you’re back!”

“Let’s do it, Kristijan!” She said, overwhelmed. “Let’s go to Cordonia! Let’s get married!”

She didn’t give him time to respond, as she kissed him passionately.

It might be against every ounce of reason in her body, but Melissa Walker was in love.

Applewood, Neokastron, Cordonia, Fall 2015

An hour later, Riley snuck off to Liam’s chambers. No-one saw her, as the servants were busy with preparations for the party downstairs, while the noblepeople were in their rooms dressing up.

She knocked three times, slow and steadily, waiting for a response. After a moment, a tortured ‘Enter!’ was heard from the other side of the heavy, engraved doors.

Prompted, she pushed the heavy doors weakly, as if she was afraid of it disturbing someone’s sleep. The room behind it looked the part, as its thick curtains were drawn, letting none of the sunset light into the room. The bed was also disheveled, as if none of the servants remembered to make it that morning.

Sat on a chair, with his back turned to the door, sat Liam. He had a glass on his hand and a tumbler on the coffee table in front of him, the brown color of the liquid suggested it was bourbon.

“If you came here to tell me I should be getting ready for dinner, pass along the message to my father I will be out shortly.” His tired voice rasped through the room.

“I did not come here to tell you that.” Riley said, in a meek tone. “Though, I can try to reach the King.”

“Riley!” The blond exclaimed, turning to see her. “What are you doing here?”

The woman sighed. “I came here to talk. To apologize, actually. I said some things I shouldn’t have, and I overreacted a little about… that.”

He gaped. “No, no, you were right, I shouldn’t have read that file. I just got scared and did something stupid, and when you caught me, I got scared again and just made everything worse. I should be the one to apologize.”

“Let’s agree we were both on the wrong, then.” She offered. “Regardless, I haven’t been doing a very good job of soothing your worries. You felt the need to read that file because I don’t talk about the past often, and while you’ve never asked, I also haven’t been going out of my way to tell you about it either.

“I don’t do that because it is painful for me to remember. Not the thing about my mother or my aunt and uncle, but for me it feels like every step of the way so far have been difficult somehow, and I just keep hoping for the next to be easier, to be painless. For me to be able to do that, I have to try and forget a little bit of the past and try to move forward, without looking back.

“When I moved to New York, I got into a little of a rough path and I found that writing my feelings helped sorting them out. So, I want you to keep these.” She handed him the six notebooks.

Liam inspected the objects. “What are these?”

“Those are my journals. Six years-worth of them, from the time I moved to New York to the day before I’ve met you. I haven’t written on them ever since I arrived, though, because every day seems more hectic then the one before, so…” She trailed off.

He placed them neatly on the coffee table, away from the tumbler and the glass of booze. “Are you sure you want me to read them?” He looked deep into her charcoal eyes.

“No, I’m not.” She said, honestly. “But I’m sure I want to give you, us, a sincere attempt, and if that’s what it takes, then so be it.”

Liam quickly crossed the distance between them and hugged her tightly. “Thank you, Riley.” He whispers into her hair. “Thank you for being so kind and patient with me, even when I don’t deserve it.”

He kissed her deeply, making her knees go weak.

Palace of the Brigades, Avlona, Cordonia, Summer 1984

Melissa had her finest dress on, and her little child was also dress impeccably. She lived at the Brigades for five years, now, but she wasn’t quite used to the idea of royalty, and the prospect of actually meeting one made her giggly.

She walked over to some French doors, where Bastien, one of her husband’s apprentices, waited stoically for her.

“Good afternoon, Bastien.” She greeted, amicably. More than once the young man has had a meal with them at their apartment on the service lodge of the palace, and both Kristijan and Melissa had a soft spot for the boy.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” He smiled at her. “Your Majesty waits for you.”

“Lead the way!”

He nodded and opened the door for her. It leads into a small drawing room, in which the Queen have had served some tea and biscuits.

The young royal rose to her feet, with some difficulty, taking upon account she was heavily pregnant, and greeted her. “Madam Walker, I am very glad you took upon my invitation this afternoon.”

Melissa’s face probably betrayed the frantic thoughts running through her head. “Y-Your Majesty!” She bowed hastily. “It is I who is glad about your invitation!”

She laughed softly. “Please, call me Carmela. We are alone, and I was hoping we could have a more relaxed conversation.”

“Of course, ma’am. I mean, Carmela.” It was rather strange calling a girl younger than herself ‘ma’am’, after all.

“Great!” She smiled. “Is this little Drake I hear so much about?” The blue-blooded approached the carriage, where the boy slept soundly. “How old is he again?”

“Six months.” The woman answered, with a soft smile. “He was born in late Fall last year.”

“How adorable.” She gushed. “Pardon me, I have the baby fever. I must run poor Bastien haggard with all my questions about all the mothers at the palace.”

Melissa giggled. “I remember how I was with Drake. I spent the day looking through baby clothes catalogs and pregnancy books. When are you due?”

“The doctors say All-Hallows, but I think this one’s going to be an early bird.” She patted her own protuberant stomach fondly. “I’m thinking of naming him Liam if it’s a boy.”

The other did a small double-take at the revelation. “It is different in Cordonia.”

“It is unusual in Italy as well.” She dismissed, with a faint smile. “But I’m a fan of Liam Clancy. Constantine’s going to take some convincing, though.”

“I thought the King wanted something more traditional.”

Carmela shrugged. “Some Greek mouthful, yes.” She poured two cups of tea and handed one to Melissa. “Speaking of things unusual, I never expected to see a surname like Kristijan’s in Cordonia. Walker,” She tested on her tongue, with her foreign accent. “It’s English, right?”

“It’s actually my name.” Melissa pointed out. “Kristijan said his surname carried a stigma in Cordonia, and he wanted to change it when we married.”

“Oh, my! There’s so much I know not.” Carmela commented. “Was it Slavic? I’ve noticed our Serbian subjects are very hostile to our rule. It would make sense for Kristijan to change it when he joined our employment.”

The other woman shook her head. “No, it was Greek. Bunas, after the river.”

“No, it doesn’t ring any bells.” She commented.

“How about the social season, ma’am?” She tried to change the subject. “You’ll probably be bed-ridden by then.”

“Don’t tell me.” She grimaced. “It would be my first one as Queen. Fortunately, Constantine is able to attend alone the events elsewhere. What worries me are the ceremonies held here at the Brigades. Which reminds me, Melissa?”

“Yes?” The woman responded.

“You were a diplomat once, right? Before marrying?”

She laughed uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t say that. I worked at an embassy, and I have a degree in International Relations.”

“But you do understand about ceremonials?”

“I suppose? Somewhat, at least.” Melissa said.

Carmela smiled broadly. “Great! You see, I was looking for a secretary, to help me with the preparations for the season. I would do it myself, but with the pregnancy and everything…” She trailed off.

The woman made a double-take. “Are you sure you want me?”

“Of course. You know the ropes, and I know I can trust you. It is more I can say about any other woman in this house.” The monarch answered. “And you will be paid handsomely for the job.”

Melissa weighs her options. As the wife of Kristijan, she was not allowed to take employment outside the palace and caring for Drake full time get really boring fast. Besides, with the money, they could save for retirement, which came early for royal bodyguards.

“Okay. I’m in.” The eldest smiled.

Applewood, Neokastron, Cordonia, Fall 2015

Riley arrived at dinner rigorously on time, perfectly composed and her head held high. Liam wasn’t with her, staying behind as in not to arise suspicion, but aside from him, all of the guests at the chateau were already in attendance.

Servants bustle about, keeping the tables freshly stocked with foods and drinks. Over a couple of tables, a few girls conversed in rushed tones.

“The King and the Queen seemed quite taken with you today, Lady Madeleine.” Some random suitor commented with said blonde.

She smirked. “They respect my opinions. And I believe we have a lot in common. I hope I’ll have the support and respect of all the ladies of the court if I’m chosen.”

The tone of her ‘if’ portrayed no doubt.

Penelope sat next to the pair and whispered back: “To tell you the truth, I think Lady Riley may be the one to be chosen, and I think she would be a wonderful queen.”

As much as Penelope’s heart was in the right place, that certainly wasn’t the moment to make that kind of statement. Much less to Madeleine, who frowned quite pronouncedly: “I suppose you are entitled to have your own opinion.” She said.

Charlotte waved at her, as if they were just meeting. Riley started walking over to her, also keeping up the appearances, when she crossed paths with Tariq.

“Good evening, Tariq.” She greeted, politely.

“Lady Riley.” He nodded, acknowledging. “It is always a pleasure seeing you.”

“A rare one, it seems. How have you been?” She engaged in conversation. Bertrand would be proud.

He laughed. “Indeed. I’ve been as splendid as you look, my dear.”

“You seem flirty tonight.” She pointed out.

“It comes from the deepest recesses of my being.” He winked. “This event can hardly bear a star as bright as yours.”

Riley thought it to be strange behavior from the young nobleman but preferred not to probe. She has enemies enough, no need going out and making more. “Thank you, Tariq. You flatter me.”

“It feels me with joy to hear you say that.” He beamed. “You know, I have to tell you, after talking to most of the other ladies here, I find myself having nurtured such an… appreciation for you. You are like a breath of New York fresh air.”

Knowing those same girls he speaks of, Riley can only agree to the sentiment, even if the phrasing is hardly ideal. “I don’t think anyone says that.”

“The other suitors are absolutely boring.” He admonished. “One talks only about her dogs, another merely sulks to the corners. And don’t get me started on Olivia.”

“Some of the other girls have their charms.” Riley weighed.

Tariq scoffed. “If they do, I have yet to find them. They have good breeding, wealth and manners, but they’re absolutely dull. How disappointing.”

There it was. Tariq the Plutocrat. Riley was starting to worry he had banged his head at some table corner.

He, however, wasn’t done: “Whereas with you, Lady Riley, you grow more interesting every time we speak. I must, however, take my leave. May you have a fantastic evening.”

Tariq bows and left, while Maxwell approaches.

“There’s our little social star!” He greets, with an unusual dose of excitement. “Is that Tariq you were talking to?”

“Yeah, and it was weird.” She commented, while looking at the place the young middle-eastern left empty.

“Strange?” Maxwell inquired, confused. “How so?”

“He was so amicable! And before today, we barely talked.”

The man tutted. “I’ll keep an eye on him. Now, come, Bertrand and I got a table this way.”

Palace of the Brigades, Avlona, Cordonia, Spring 1993

Melissa was sitting on the kitchen table. The dinner was served, and the children already ate. Drake and Savannah were at the conjoined living room, having their TV time.

Kristijan was late for dinner, again. Melissa knew his patrol schedule was messy, but he had said he would be home that evening. She tapped her fingers against the table, anger and hungry, as she had been kind enough to wait for him.

She sighed angrily and walked over to the living room. “Kids,” She told them while turning off the TV. “It’s bed time.”

“But, mommy!” Little Savannah complains. “Daddy isn’t here yet!”

The woman sighed once more. Her husband gave her nothing but trouble. “I know, darling. But it’s late, it’s way past the time for little girls to be in bed.”

She pouted. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Grown-Up.” She smiled at her daughter’s antics. “Tell you what, go to bed now and I’ll have daddy giving you a good-night kiss when he gets here, ‘kay?”

“’Kay…” Savannah caved and walked over to the bedroom she shared with his older brother.

“Drake?” The woman called.

“Yeah?” He grumbled. Sometimes, she swore that boy was born sour.

“Watch your sister, okay? I’ll go over to the kitchens, but I’ll be right back.”

He looked at her warily but nodded his head. She kissed his hair and went out the front door.

Closing and locking her apartment’s door for security, she started walking down the hall. However, instead of going down to the kitchens like she said she would, Melissa walked over to the bachelors’ wing and knocked on an apartment’s door.

A man came out. “Mrs. Walker?” He asks, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Bastien, you’re on the night shift tonight, aren’t you?” She inquired, feverishly.

“Yeah, I was going out right now.” He said. “Why? Do you need anything?”

“Actually, I do.” She smirked, with a hint of crazy in her eyes. “I need you to take me to the Queen’s chambers. It’s where you’re supposed to switch guard, isn’t it?”

He looked at the woman he so deeply respected and cared for. Bastien was sure that if she was asking such a thing, she had a legitimate reason for it, no matter how unorthodox. “Follow me.” He said and led the way.

On a hurried place, they made their way through the labyrinthine, ghastly hallways of the Brigades at nighttime. When they arrived at the heavy, mahogany doors of the quarters, Melissa eyed Bastien for him to make himself scarce.

The look he gave in response said that he would not hinder her, but he sure wasn’t leaving.

It was his own peril. Taken by murderous rage, she opened the door and walked right into the room. Unfortunately for Melissa, she saw exactly what she was looking for.

She picked up a shirt laid on the ground and placed on her nose. She knew that aftershave anywhere. She let it fall to her feet as she walks over to the bed. The couple laying there was fast asleep.

Melissa sat on a chair by the dresser and turned on the lamp. She took a good look at the face of the man resting on there. Tan skin, shaved neatly, but with a defined, rugged, hairy chest.

She picked up a heel on the floor and admired it. A dark blue, satin Zanotti, with silver fastenings. A beautiful shoe for a beautiful woman. Melissa twirled it by the heel, and then threw at the man.

He woke up, of course, startled. His eyes focused on her: “Melissa! What are you doing here?”

Her eyes glinted with the light of the lamp. “Why, Kristijan, you’re late for dinner. I came looking for you.”

The woman woke up, dizzy, and looked over at Melissa. “What is the meaning of this?!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Regina, did I wake you up?” She asks, sickly sweet. “Now you can join us.”

“I would ever.” She admonished. “Have some respect!”

Melissa clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Oh, Regina, I find it terribly funny how you Cordonians think everybody owe you respect. When will you learn respect is earned?”

She leaned over the bed, over Kristijan, and whispered to her: “Don’t try evoking any Laws of Exception on me. I’m not a Cordonian citizen. You can’t throw me on jail.”

The Queen fumed but did not say a thing. Kristijan, however, pulled her away and stood up. He was as naked as the day he was born, his intimacy hanging limp by his leg.

He tugged on her arm, and whispered menacingly: “Let’s go, Melissa.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” She wriggled her arm away, and then lowered her sight to his genitalia. “But I think you should change first. I know you clearly don’t really care who see your bits, but some people may.”

She stood up and started to leave. Kristijan came after her, thankfully using some underwear, shouting: “Melissa! Melissa, wait!”

“What?!” She turned and barked.

“Just hear me out, okay?!” He said, frozen in place by her glare.

“What are going to say, huh?! It wasn’t what it looked like?!” She shouted, the sound bounced from the walls and empty rooms.

He sighed. “It is what it looked like. Or not, I don’t know. I did sleep with the Queen, I have been sleeping with her for some time, too. But what did you want me to do? She’s the Queen, for Christ’s sake!”

“I wanted you to keep it in your pants. I expected you to keep your vows. I expected you to, at least, tell me what was going on.” She said, cold.

He scoffed. “And then what? You think I’d still have a job here? A place to live?”

“We would find a way, Kristijan!” She shouted, frustrated. “I’m not an invalid!”

He sighed one more time. “What now?”

“I’m going back to the US.” She said, seriously. “I’m taking the kids. There’s nothing for us here anymore.”

With that, Melissa left, and Kristijan did not try to stop her.

Applewood, Neokastron, Cordonia, Fall 2015

Riley followed Maxwell to the table and sat down between him and Charlotte, who accompanied them on that meal.

Soon enough, the sound of glass clinking fell through the al-fresco dining area. Everyone then turns to the source of the noise, which was the figure of Prince Liam, standing up next to Constantine and Regina.

“If I may have everyone’s attention, I’d like to say a few words before we serve the main course.” The blond announced. “First, I would like to thank everyone for joining us out here at the country estate. I had the honor and privilege of having you in my court, and I could not ask for better company.

“As I step into my father’s place in the next few weeks, I can only hope I am half the man he was for Cordonia.”

“Long live Prince Liam!” Maxwell pulls the chant, followed by claps and cheers by all attendees.

“Thank you all.” Liam bowed. “When we next meet like this, it will be on the next event of the season, the traditional New Year’s party hosted by the illustrious House Beaumont.”

The crowd applauds, and Maxwell hollered: “Woo-hoo!” He then turns to Riley. “I can’t wait to show you the manor.”

“Maxwell, aren’t we a little strapped for cash right now?” She asks, concerned. “Can we afford hosting a party this big right now?”

He grimaced. “I don’t think we have a choice. Like Liam said, it’s tradition. We can’t back out now.”

“Yes. If we back out, we might as well announce to the whole world we are officially ruined!” Bertrand barked.

“Bertrand has a point.” Charlotte pointed out. “The manor house is big and opulent enough, we’ll be fine as long as we keep them busy. If the food is a little lacking, I bet no-one will notice.”

As the applause dies out, Liam continues: “The Beaumonts will surely give us another legendary night to remember. Until then, I thank you once again and wish you a good night.”

Palace of the Brigades, Avlona, Cordonia, Spring 1993

The Walker family, the personnel of the palace division of the Security Services and the Royal Family was congregated at the chapel within the Brigade Hill, honoring a sacrifice of one of their own.

As per request, there would be no speeches, no talking, no medals. There would only be a prayer conducted by the chaplain, which was over. The people were walking on a line, saying their condolences to the widow, standing by the casket.

After a big group of maids, security guards and other relatives payed their respects, there came the turn of the Royal Family. The youngest boy, Liam, was spared from the ceremony, thankfully.

Melissa couldn’t spare Drake of many uncomfortable comparisons he was subject to as the ‘common’ friend of one of the Princes, but the absence of a parent was a circumstance she really hadn’t considered to face up to a few weeks before.

Then, when Kristijan’s sins had come to light, Melissa was ready for filing divorce. She had bought the plane tickets, prepared the kids’ passports, wired her savings, called some relatives. And now she was a widow.

The first one to offer his sentiments was Prince Leo. The teenaged aristocrat couldn’t be bothered to play the part appropriately, appearing bored throughout the ceremony. Though, it was fair to say he would have rather for Kristijan to have failed on his mission.

Following him, there was Constantine. He hugged her softly, and said, on a low tone: “Your husband died a hero. The Royal Family has an eternal debt to you, ma’am.”

Then, it was the face she dreaded the most. Regina. Her dead husband’s lover. The woman he died to protect. There was something salacious, belonging to a cheap paperback novel, having such an encounter.

She was wearing a black, embroidered silk dress, her head covered with a shawl and a Spanish mother-of-pearl clasp. As she often does, Regina was asserting her power with subtlety.

The royal approached her and whispered softly to her ear. “I want to see you out of this country by nightfall. Take your snotty twerps with you.”

“Say, Regina, doesn’t your husband find most strange for you to be all alone with Kristijan on the gardens? At the middle of the night?” She asks, with a smirk.

“Are you really threatening me?” She barked.

“Not at all, Your Majesty. I am merely showing you I am not without my own bite.” She said, neutral. “But rest assured, by this time tomorrow, I’ll be far away from your sight.”

The Queen huffs and backs off her.

Applewood, Neokastron, Cordonia, Fall 2015

Riley walked down the hallway leading to her chambers. She was alone, as Bertrand and Maxwell were busy arranging their suitcases, and Charlotte said she would retire early.

Speaking of the Beaumonts, they said they would be spending their Christmas on a ski lodge in Switzerland. Given the price of the room and the fact the holiday was upon them, Bertrand made it clear she wasn’t invited. Charlotte said she could spend the week in Italy with her, but Riley knew how it was at her place, and she had her fill of aristocratic parties.

She reached her door and opened it. “Charlotte!” She called. “I’m here.”

The room was empty. Shrugging, Riley tried to lock the door, but the lock seemed stuck. As it was very late, the two women would have to make do with a chair against the handle.

Deciding to place it only after Charlotte’s return, Riley started taking off her clothing and her bodice. Butt-naked, she put on a silk robe and started walking over to the dresser to remove her make-up.

It was when she heard the door open and shut. “Is it you?” She called, distracted.

“It is I, love, and good Lord! Disrobing in my room! What a forward gesture. I like it.”

It wasn’t Charlotte’s voice. Riley turned to the intruder and shouted: “Tariq! What the Hell are you doing here?!”

“Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not upset. I’m just surprised. I suspected, but I’ve never thought it would happen so soon.” He said, approaching her.

She tried to cover herself better, while taking a step back. “Tariq, I think there’s something wrong here…”

He takes her hand and places over his heart. “No, I must say this! Your feelings are most ardently returned! You’ve enchanted me just as you enchant everybody you come across, and now I know you feel the same way about me.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “About that…”

Before she can say anything else, he lowers his head and take her mouth into a kiss.

Riley starts trying to push him away, when the door is pushed open and a figure launch itself into Tariq.

“Get away from her!” The deep voice commands, pining the middle-eastern man away from her by the shoulder.

“Unhand me!” Tariq spats back. “How dare you enter my room without my permission!”

“He’s one to say!” Riley sneered to herself, as Tariq punches the figure squarely on the face. Just then she is able to take a good look to the man, who reveals himself to be Drake.

The commoner reels back for a split second and then tackles the nobleman to the ground. They grapple intensely for a second until they pull apart.

“Who the Hell do you think you are busting into my room?!” Tariq shouts, angry.

“This is Riley’s room!” Drake spats back. “And I heard her screaming, I think she wanted the interruption.”

“Oh, God!” She ran her hand through her hair. “Tariq, someone pulled a prank on you. I’m not, in any way, interested in you, I’m sorry.”

He looked at her with puppy eyes. “So, this isn’t going to be the bold, romantic beginning to our love story?”

“No.” She doubled the ‘o’, shaking her head.

He sighed and tried to gather whatever little dignity he had. “I see. Let me deeply apologize here. I’m so sorry for this transgression. I was incredibly wrong. Now, before I can humiliate myself any further, let me take my leave. Good night, Lady Riley. Whomever has your heart, he is indeed a lucky man.”

As the man leaves, Drake slams the door shut behind him.

Riley threw herself on the bed, covering her face with her hands. “Before I bemoan my luck, thanks, Drake. If you hadn’t intervened, I would have kicked him in the nuts and it everything would be worse.”

“Aw, shucks, Flowers, don’t go soft on me now.” He sideline-smirked at her. “I’ll always be here for you. Because of Liam, of course.”

She sat up straight and looked at him. “What Liam got to do with anything?”

“Liam would never forgive me if something… bad… happened to you.” He sighed and withered under her inquisitive look. “And I wouldn’t forgive myself, either.”

She smirked, defiantly, at him, while he averts his eyes, embarrassed.

He clears his throat. “Anyways, you can see why it looked bad. I heard a scream and I saw you half-naked, with Tariq all over you…” He trailed off. “Are you okay, though.”

“I’m fine.” She said, earnestly.

“Well, I should get out of here before we really cause a scandal.” He said, and turned to leave when he winced in pain, clutching at his side.

“You’re hurt.” She pointed out.

He dismissed it with a: “Nothing some whiskey won’t heal.”

“Come on, big boy, I’ve got some ice.” She said, motioning for him to sit on the bed.

He smirked. “You trying to get me to take my shirt off, Flowers?”

“I am succeeding.” She smirked at him. “Chop-chop, I don’t have all night.”

“You have a real bossy side to you.” He murmurs while obeying her order.

“Take it to someone who cares.” She rolled her eyes, picked up a handkerchief and some ice, and started evaluating the bruise.

“So, doc, do you see anything alarming?” He asks, ironic.

“Other than the fact you bruise like a peach, it seems you’ll be okay.” She said, snarky.

He scoffed. “Tariq hits harder than you’d think.”

Riley laughed, ironically, while standing up. “I can’t believe you lost a fight to Tariq!”

“I didn’t say I lost! I never said that!” He defended, desperately. “I definitively won, I’m just saying he got in some good hits and I didn’t expect that from a palace brat.”

“Whatever floats your boat.” She smirked.

From Drake’s point of view, the moonlight coming from her window framed her profile. Her petite, princess-like nose and superior smirk were features he was sure he was supposed to despise, but it seemed right on her, like if it was supposed to be so.

Drake runs his fingers through his hair. “You can be so…” He started, but then lost his nerve. “Never mind. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be treating my wounds?”

“Before I ice your wounds, wouldn’t you like something to drink?” She offered. “Lest of all you bitch when I put it on your rib.”

“Hit me.”

She walked over to the bar and poured two glasses of whiskey on the rocks. Handing him one of them, she says: “I wouldn’t make you drink alone.”

“Heh. Thanks.” He smirks.

Drake downs his glass as Riley presses the ice against his body. “Hey! It hurts!” He complains.

“Grow a pair!” She bit back but pressed more gently the ice.

Drake turns and catches her eye. After a long second, he lowers his gaze. “Thanks.” He breathed out and paused. “I know I don’t act very grateful for anything most of the time, but I do… care about you.”

“Mighty way to show it.” She complains. “Most of the time you act like you hate me.”

“I do not.” He defended.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Drake.”

“Okay, I do, don’t I?” He sighed. “It’s not personal. It’s just… easier that way.”

“Easier? For whom?” She questions while keeping up with the ministrations.

“You’re here for Prince Liam. All of the suitors are. And, well, so is the entire court. All the nobles, all the servants, even. Everything and everyone in this place exists to orbit around Liam. You could almost hate him for it, if he weren’t so damn likeable. It’s dangerous for people like you and me to forget about that.” He grumbled the last part.

“Where are you getting at, Drake?”

“Hell, Flowers. Don’t make me say it.” He whispers and gulps down his drink. “If we’d met somewhere else, anywhere else. At a club in New York, or in the airport, or at a party… If you hadn’t been our waitress that night, and I hadn’t been sitting next to Liam… Do you think it would be different?”

“Drake, Drake, Drake.” A woman’s voice came from the door. The two of them broke apart, and faced the source of the sound, which was Charlotte’s frame. “Don’t you ever tire of being a whiny, charity case? Because I do, constantly.” She sneered.

“Fuck you, Rosenberg.” He barked at her.

“Drakey-poo is mad? How sad!” She ironized. “Let me answer this one for Little Miss Flowers over here. It wouldn’t be any different. You know why? Because you’ll always be the same, you’ll always look over your shoulder, worried that Liam will take your happiness away from you, that they will move on to greener pastures. And so, you make their lives a living Hell, so when they finally leave, you can act like if you had known all along.”

He lunged at her, and it seemed like he was going to hit her, but he lowered his hand and said on a dangerous tone: “You are just some left-over, bitter, society wife. Look yourself in the mirror before preaching about my life.”

With that, he left the bedroom.

Charlotte then shuts the door. Riley runs over to her. “God gracious, Charlotte! Where were you?”

“Constantine called me over to his study. He was trying to negotiate part of their debt.” She said, dismissive. “What is more interesting is why Walker was here in the first place.”

Riley then explained everything to Charlotte about what had happened that night. The blonde walks over to the door to check it. “Riley, I locked the door on my way out.”

“But it was open when I arrived!” She said, nervously.

“Check the trunk!” The blonde commanded.

It was still locked, with no signs of forced entry. “It seems our secret is safe, at least.”

Charlotte was fretful, still. “Regardless, there’s blood in the water. Come, we’re leaving now.”

The two girls packed everything on the room quickly, and on the silence of the night, they fled Applewood.

Atlanta, Georgia, Summer 2010

A middle-aged man climbed slowly the stairs. He was struggling with the steps, having been hindered with a crutch. Unfortunately for him, the building had no elevators and his destination was on the fifth floor.

It was a very important meeting, which is why he had come from so far away, and the delicacy of the matter had him prescinding of his assistant.

When he finally reached the floor, he stopped for a moment, to catch his breath and to dispel his flustering. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, as Georgia was much warmer than he had expected. Then, he continued his walk and knocked on an apartment door.

A woman answers. “Hello. How may I help you?”

He cleared his throat and asks: “Are you Melissa Walker?”

Her face paled. “Who are you?”

“I am Ludwig von Rosenberg.“ He said, solemn. “I wish to speak about your husband.”

Red Rose - Masterlist

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