#like nobody smart is doing that. we know how to construct a sentence with the right adjectives and verbs

[falllpoutboy]

students using ch4tgpt to write essays and do their homework for them is a problem that goes hand in hand with the declining literacy rate btw

[weatherwhim]

"OP this is hilarious" isn't a second person construction, OP is vocative and the subject of the sentence is "this" which is third person. An actual second person construction would be "OP know how to draw" or "OP are very smart", which nobody actually says.

It's a noun that is used as a title for a person. It grammatically behaves like other non-pronoun nouns that get used as titles, or given names. You could replace OP with Dave and get "Dave knows how to draw" or "Dave this is hilarious". That doesn't mean all names are suddenly 2nd/3rd person hybrid pronouns.

The fact that social context often means both the person themself and others will see it doesn't matter either. It's a regular noun. It has no reflexive form. It is regularly replaced with other pronouns in the same sentence (i.e. "OP needs to get a hold of themself" or "OP, you need to get a hold of yourself" rather than "OP needs to get a hold of OPself"). "Themself" and "you" and "yourself" are replacing OP here, because they're actual pronouns, and OP is a noun. And you'll notice that the grammatical structure of those two sentences with "themself" and "yourself" is different too, because it doesn't combine 2nd and 3rd person any more than a regular name does.

Chat isn't a pronoun either, by the way. Just because you drop the definite article doesn't mean the grammatical category of "pronoun" suddenly applies to all these words, you do that because you're using it like a name or title. The term pronoun has a specific categorical meaning in linguistics that we could all stand to not muddy the public understanding of any further, considering how important they are to people.

"OP" functions like a new pronoun between the third and second person. Think about it, when you write a comment and you mention OP you are giving people in the comments your opinion about someone else, that is third person, but you are also aware OP themselves could see it, so you are also talking to OP directly. This is why there are comments that use OP with third person and second person constructions, for example "OP this is hilarious" or "OP knows how to draw" As technology changes how we interact, it only makes sense language would adapt to it I think the next development should be a way to address people differently if they occupy the same physical space that you do than if they are far away

[chucktaylorupset]

Hinged Essay Writing Method

@catching-fire-in-the-wind asked for un/hinged essay writing methods and got the utilitarian version that should be used if you need to finish an essay Right Now but this is the fun rambly meandering anecdotal full backstory version

In terms of objective quantity of insanity I don't know anything that comes close to purposeful sleep trancing, but to be fair I also don't know anybody else nearly as insane as the guy who does them.

In terms of writing methods that are objectively similarly a bad idea and damaging to your long term health...  I knew somebody who used to drink heavily to get essay's written?  They are not doing this anymore, and are a year and a half sober, they’re doing very well and I’m very proud of them but yeah, would not recommend.

like, I wish it could go without saying but DO NOT TRY DRINKING AS AN ESSAY WRITING METHOD.

Nobody tells you the consequence of having your insane essay method writing story passed around tumblr is that all of the notes will exclusively be people talking about how they have done exactly that or, that they now plan to try it, which means you are responsible.  I very much wanted to set up a sign begging for no please don’t do this or like.  A charity collection plate for more hinged essay writing methods. 

Anyway, this isn't an insane essay method, just one that makes me insane.

Many a years ago I was on a walk with my mom.  This was so long ago that we were walking together by choice and not because all of her other running buddies were on the other side of a quarantine bubble. 

My mom is a pretty cool and smart lady who knows me fairly well but she did not need to be any of those things to notice that I will talk like its the only use for oxygen sometimes and that despite being an opinionated person who speaks not in sentences but in novels and paragraphs, I have a strangely hard time getting anything fucking done when it comes to essays.

So she wanted me to try something new.  There was this nifty little article that had come across her feed when she was up in the early morning taking time to herself and I was in bed continuing my best impression of a corpse for the next four hours.  The article was about the improvement to google's speech to text technology. 

My mom proposed that as someone who spoke very much and managed to write very little, I might benefit from this magical technology that would take the thing I had a surplus of and turn it into a thing that, you know, I actually wanted and was useful, like taking weeds in animal crossing and using the crafting mechanic to turn them into a variety of delightful little woven hats, which my mom would be doing a lot of when quarantine hit.

I presumably recognized the wisdom of this sick gamer strat and the love and care with which it was constructed, and told her it was a great idea and I would do it immediately the next time I wanted to write.

I then did not do that.

Mulitple years and one (1) global health crisis later I was fucking around on tumblr and saw a long post being passed around in early early early preparation for National Novel Writing month, part of which suggested using voice notes. 

Huh, I thought to myself, reblogging it to save for later, I should do that.

I then also did not do that.

A month later my partner was having trouble with an assignment.  My partner is, if it's even possible, an even bigger talker than me.  They also are a far more adept researcher, and so had quite a bit to say, both about the cool things they had found out for the assignment and also what utter shit the extremely vague prompt was. 

In addition to shitty course infrastructure, my partner is majorly dyslexic and adhd and so uh imagine the worst time you could have in school they've done that and also this assignment and course in general was tempting them to consider going back to their old way of solving this problem: drinking.

So I was having them talk to me about it, as the designated English major of the relationship, and taking notes hoping to turn it into an outline they could use when I was struck like lightning by an idea so insane it just might work.

I was like haha this is so crazy my mom has this cool little trick we should totally try it do you have a speech to text voice app on your phone.

They did.

I was like haha it's so unfortunate I just really don't understand your second source, and I've like totally forgotten it even though you just told me, could you maybe.... explain it again in its entirety into the microphone?

They explained it into the microphone

I was like wow, I think I understand now.  But didn't you relate it to that other piece of evidence?  How does that work, and also what was that piece of evidence

They talk about that other piece of evidence, and how the two different sources interrelate and work.

It should be known that I am acting my heart out here.  I have no poker face to speak of, being an expressive person and terrified of poker, but I am hauling out my best bimbo impression and gunning it for an oscar.

Anyway I was like oh cool now what if you tried copy pasting that into your document as a rough draft and then editing it into an essay.

And at that point they looked at me and were like. Wait.

I immediately reveal my brillaint deception, because I want credit for how amazing I was, and also its best to have a very narrow timeline between action and reveal when you're benevolently manipulating your partner.

As relationship benefits go, there is only one thing comparable to the joy of repeatedly doing a bit your partner doesn't like. Oh in that vein, purple car.  The only thing comparable is the joy of subtly manipulating them for their own good only getting to reveal it like a grandiose and suprisingly competent camp saturday cartoon villain.  And the only that surpasses both of those is blatant manipulation that nonetheless, still works.

My partner got their essay turned in, I joked they owed my mom a fruit basket next time we were in town.

Flash forward a few months.  I had an essay that was 75% of my grade.  By the grace of professor, I was allowed to pick the media I did it on, as long it was on theme, so it was actually about a movie I really liked and had a lot of things to say about it and interesting ways to say them.

Or at least I did when bitching to my partner or imagining myself interviewed while on a walk or in the shower.  I had yet to write a single word.  It was kind of important that I finish this because, as the more astute number wizards amongst you will have divised, it is mathematically impossible for me to pass this class without it.

But I am a writer!  You can tell because at this point I have nine whole fics on my AO3 my handle there is chucktaylorupset if you want to go check those out they're pretty cool i think.  You do not understand I am an ARTISTE.  I do not need technology, or hacks, or trickery, I do not need to do anything but sit down and write.

My partner fails to be convinced by this argument.  Clearly they have no understanding of the nature of the artistic spirit.

Using their phone, I record a brief version of the arguments I had been bothering them with instead of my word document for the past month.  They send me the audio file (despite the both of us having androids on their phone has a simultaneous speech to text AND voice memo program.  This both does and does not surprise me, on the one hand why would that not come pre-installed on all devices, on the other hand my phone is Terrible. This is a hundred percent baiting you to give me app recommendations I still have not found a good free voice/speech to text combo app.

I spoke into the microphone for less than nine minutes.  I came out with a draft of over ONE THOUSAND WORDS.  Because it was a movie I didn’t even need quotations, all I had to do was edit and submit.

My partner made sure to be very gracious when they immediately snitched to my mom about how she was right.  My mom was delighted, and not even a little smug it was horrible.

The moral of the story is that mom's are the worst.  And even worse than that, they're right.

[thefanficmonster]

Angel With A Shotgun

Rick Flag (The Suicide Squad) x Reader (Female)

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE NEW SUICIDE SQUAD MOVIE, Death, Blood and Gore, Swearing

Summary: Being Christopher Smith’s best friend since the early days of army training camps Y/N is more than honored to be going on a mission with him. Little does she know, there are more secrets at play than she could ever imagine. Good thing the girl’s always prepared.

Requested by no one, I’m just PISSED!!! The writers did us dirty AS FUCK and I’m not gonna stay quiet about it so please enjoy this fic and let’s pretend it’s canon. Cool? Cool.

“Careful up there, ok?“ That’s the last thing he said to me before we went our separate ways, following the plan we had conjured up earlier. I knew he wasn’t referring to the bombs I was supposed to plant or the ‘always watch your back, even around allies’ rule. He meant it genuinely. And he meant it for me. That sentence coupled with the look in his eyes when they met mine was enough for me to read between the words and grasp the true message.

And all I could do was offer him a small nod and an even smaller smile.

A smile he vaguely returned before turning and walking off with Cleo and Grieves. And that’s how I remembered him, wishing for that picture to be the one I remember of him in case I die.

In case I die.  I never considered the other possibility.

“Listen, Y/N. I’m gonna do something bad. Something really horrible. But it’s the right thing to do. I must do it. You know I only do things I must, right? You know me.“ He pleaded with me, eyes begging me to trust him as he basically told me he was derailing from the plan we had constructed down to the tiniest detail. 

My hands shook as I adjusted the bomb to the wall, my eyes widening and any words I wanted to tell him dying in my throat, leaving me speechless before him. As if automatically, my head moved on its own, nodding. It’s the only thing I’ve known I guess. Chris says something and I automatically agree cause I trust him limitlessly. Isn’t that how it always is with best friends after all? Can anyone blame me really?

But can anyone also blame me for my gut screaming not to let it go so easily?

There’s no real friends in the field, Y/N. He’s got a mission, you’ve got one of your own. You shouldn’t even be here, goddamn it! Go! GO, right this instant!

Gut feelings, the closest thing to being psychic. And boy does Flag owe my gut feeling his life.

But heroism always comes at a price, doesn’t it? There’s always a reward and a price that you never saw coming in the first place.

The reward is easy to guess, but the price can vary so drastically it can never be measured or foreseen.

That’s what happened to me when I decided to follow Chris.

The task I gave myself upon boarding the aircraft was simple, and the biggest price in my eyes was losing my life but I was already prepared for that when Waller recruited me on the very first mission.

Little did I know the price of saving Rick would be the look of utter betrayal in my best friend’s eyes, looking at me with the same intensity as a hundred voices screaming ‘TRAITOR’ at me.

“I’m sorry, Chris.“ I managed to say, my hands gripping the shotgun with all my might just so I don’t drop it. “You were sent here to cover up Waller’s dirty laundry, and I came here to protect Flag.” I cock my gun upwards, praying Chris doesn’t notice how shaky my hands are. “So keep your hands off him!“

He shakes his head, “You have no fucking idea what you’re doing, Y/N! Him over me?! Some fucking nobody over someone who’s been by your side for a whole fucking decade?!“

I gulp, my resolve only strengthening as a result of his guilt tripping. “You heard me. Friends or family, you don’t get a second chance for being a traitor.”

“Me?! I’M the traitor here?! He just threatened to send our country into chaos because of his righteousness!“ He roared, his gun clutched just as tightly. It may be the tension suggesting it but eventually, I know it’ll come down to who’ll pull the trigger first.

And that realization has cold sweat running down my body.

“Fake peace built atop lies is worse than a war!“ I snap, now aiming my gun at him, determined to be the first to send a bullet flying across the room. Not cause I want to survive for myself. But for Rick. If I die, so will he. Chris doesn’t play fair. Rick is knocked out and Chris won’t even think before turning his body into a bag of bullets. 

I won’t let that happen.

A gun’s pointed at me now too, sending my heart beating louder.

“Then you’ve picked the wrong side.“ He mutters with despise, “If you see me as no friend, I have no reason to hold back either.“

And that’s the last push I needed to send those three bullets I had with his name on them straight into his chest, at least one undoubtedly hitting his heart.

Did it hurt with all the memories we have made together in mind? Of course it fucking did. I may be a soldier/criminal but I’m not made out of stone, damn it.

But did it feel relieving knowing what he was seconds away from doing? Pains me to admit but yes.

With a heavy sigh I sling my shotgun over my shoulder and carefully walk over to Rick’s still unconscious form laying on the tiled floor.

“Colonel?“ I whisper, ducking down to give his shoulder a slight shake, “Flag, please don’t do me like this, wake up. Please wake up, Rick.“ I jump, almost losing my balance when I hear what sounds to be Harley screaming for a brief second before a loud crash echoes above.

I can’t stay here with whatever hell my teammates are going through going on above my head, threatening to wipe them all out and them Rick and me too. So, I make a quick and a rather stupid decision. Slinging one of Rick’s arms over my shoulders I wrap an arm around his waist and somehow manage to hoist him up, bringing him weakly to his feet and earning a small groan from him as if reaching me from the other side of a wall of fog.

“There you are, Colonel. Let’s go, the team’s counting on us.“ I say, desperately trying to push forward with the weight of my shotgun and Rick pushing my already exhausted and weak body down.

“Y/N...that you?“ He asks, his voice groggy, “Or am I dead? Are you an angel? Where am I?“ 

Damn Chris must’ve knocked his head pretty hard, I think to myself.

Just as I’m about to answer, Rick lifts up his hand to run it over his face to help himself wake up fully but he accidentally hits the handle of my shotgun, causing him to let out a chuckle. “Angel with a shotgun, I see. Then it must be you, Y/N.”

“Bet on it, Flag.“ I reply with a chuckle, almost sighing with relief when he manages to hold some of his weight up by himself, “Not gonna lie, you gave me quite the scare.“

“Never gonna happen again. That’s a promise, doll.“ He drawls, his head resting against my shoulder more as an endearing gesture than need for support.

“Better keep it. Not looking forward to finding you actually dead one day.“

“No worries, angel. No such thing will happen.“

“Good.“

He knows better than to disobey an angel with a shotgun. Smart man.

[mochegato]

What She Deserves

From the prompts “Have you lost your damn mind!?” and “Please, don’t leave.”  From @sophie-herondale.  

Sooo, this went longer than expected and as it is more than a couple hundred words, there is some angst, but happy ending!

Uh… this fic includes Jason and Constantine so…. There’s a bit of swearing.

“Have you lost your damn mind!?  What the hell was that?” Jason demanded pulling Marinette’s arm back to stop her from walking away and force her to look at him.

When she finally looked back into his eyes, her eyes ripped into him.  He squared his shoulders and set his expression waiting for her to lash out at him.  “You’re going to have to be more specific, Red.” She spat out the nickname like an insult.  “Which ‘that’ are you referring to exactly?  The agreeing to hang out with you?  The getting ignored all night?  The not getting nearly drunk enough?  The talking to people who actually showed an interest in me?  The trying to make friends?  The dancing with friends?  Which one? There are so many ‘thats’ from tonight, I don’t know which one you mean.”  She stalked closer to him with each sentence, but since he refused to back away as she did, she was now flush against him, looking almost straight up to glare at him.

“I meant taking John fucking Constantine’s goddamned phone number.  Which is probably literally goddamned, by the way.”

“You have a problem with John?  You seemed to be fine with him a little bit ago.  You had no problem with him when you invited him tonight.  What changed?” She snapped at him.

He stepped back to give himself some space.  It was hard to think when she was so close to him.  He couldn’t form coherent thoughts when he could feel her pressed against him. “Well for one thing, he’s old enough to be your dad…”

“You’ve slept with older…”

“…second, he’s totally morally questionable…”

“So is everyone else you know.”

“…third, he can’t be trusted…”

“That’s the same as the second.”

“…fourth, he’s an asshole…”

“Name someone you hang out with that isn’t.”

“…fifth, he smokes…”

“… so was almost everyone else in that room…”

“sixth… sixth?  Yeah, sixth, he is drinks his weight in alcohol…”

“You really want to throw that particular stone?”

“…seventh, he is unrepentantly violent…”

“Oh, you really do want to go there.”

“eighth, he is nowhere near good enough for you.”

Anger flared in her eyes. She stepped closer again to jab her finger into his chest.  “You don’t get to decide that.  I decide that.  And I decide that someone who pays attention to me and is concerned about me is good enough for me.”

“He isn’t.”  He growled back.

“Oh?  And who is?” she demanded, throwing her arms out.  “Tell me, who should I be talking to, oh Wise One, oh Knower of Others’ Worth.  Who do I deserve to be with?”

He stared at her for a few moments, mind racing to come up with an answer to that question.  Who was good enough?  Who would he approve of?  “Nobody,” he whispered out looking at her earnestly.

She looked at him in shock. Her face quickly shifted to hurt, then morphed into a carefully constructed blank expression. “Good to know. Thank you.”  She said unemotionally, as though he had just told her the weather.  She turned around quickly and moved down the street as quickly as she could without actually running.

He watched her leave wondering what caused the shift in mood.  Was she really that appalled by the idea of him thinking that highly of her, of his opinion of her?  Was he that reprehensible that a good opinion from him was a red mark on her?  She was probably right, but it still hurt to know she believed it too.

“That was a sight to behold, mate.” John said as he lit his cigarette behind him.

Jason whipped around to face him.  “You should be ashamed, you fucking pedophile.”

“I’m not going to argue with the rest of what you said about me, but she’s over 18.  So legally, it isn’t pedophilia.”  He stared unimpressed as Jason growled at him and pushed him against the wall, pushing his forearm into his throat to keep him there.  “It’s just creepy as fucking hell and disgusting.  She’s young enough, technically, she could be my granddaughter. I’d rather skin my arm with a dull knife.”

Jason eased up on his hold, confused about the change in attitude.  “I didn’t give her my number to shag.  She has some information I want.  I have information she wants.  We’re going to meet up tomorrow and exchange information.  Magical information.”

“You were dancing with her,” Jason narrowed his eyes at him.

“She wanted to dance and nobody else was volunteering to dance with her. Actually, nobody else seemed to want to be around her, almost like they were afraid of upsetting someone if they got too close.”

“You don’t dance.”

“She was sad.” He shrugged. “Apparently, she was getting ignored by some twat and she needed someone to be nice, platonically.  My hands never wandered from her hands.  She needed someone to confirm she wasn’t the wanker, he was.  More specifically, the wanker that just told her she deserved to be alone.” He looked at Jason pointedly.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an appointment tomorrow and I’d like to get pass out drunk with enough time to get some sleep before that.”

He easily pushed a stunned Jason off of him.  Jason stared at a point on the wall.  That isn’t what he had said was it?  He replayed what he had said again.  He said nobody deserves her.  She asked who she deserved to be with and he said nobody, because nobody was good enough to deserve her.  Mother fucking FUCK.  He hadn’t added that last part.

He raced down the street in the direction she had gone.  He needed to find her.  He needed to fix it.  He couldn’t believe how stupid he was.  This is exactly the kind of thing that proved he didn’t deserve her.  She had to know that.  She had to know she was better than him and his friends.  He finally caught up with her a block away from her apartment.

“Marinette, stop!” He yelled to her as he ran.

She continued walking, the only indication she had heard him was a slight stutter in her step and an increased pace.  He moved in front of her and held his hands up in a placating gesture, trying to catch his breath from having run for blocks to catch up to her.  “Wait, please.”

“You’ve said enough tonight, don’t you think?” She said coldly.

“No,” he begged.  He looked down at her face and the sight broke his heart.  She had wiped away the tear tracks, but she couldn’t hide the red that lined her eyes and branched out throughout her eyes.  He had done this.  He made her cry.  He silently cursed himself.  “That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”

“It’s fine Jason.  Don’t worry about it.  I just want to go to bed.”  She said tiredly, refusing to look in his eyes.  She moved to get past him again.  He backed up so he wasn’t preventing her from walking, but was still in front of her.  He wanted her to understand but he was not willing to make her even more uncomfortable.

“Please, don’t leave. Please listen.” He begged her, but she kept walking forward.  He moved out of her way and allowed her to continue.  He clenched his fists and let out a frustrated breath.  He looked up to her retreating back and tried one last time. “I meant nobody deserves someone as amazing as you.” He called after her.  “I meant you are too incredible for anyone I know.  I meant… I meant you are brilliant and kind and talented and hilarious and strong and sassy and everything that is good in this world.  I meant… I meant you deserve better.”

Sometime during his speech she had turned to look at him, her mouth opening slightly, forming an ‘oh’. She blinked a few times and looked down to gather her thoughts.  When she looked back up at him her eyes had softened.  “That sounds awfully lonely, up on that pedestal all on my own.  I don’t want to be up there by myself.  I don’t want to be up there at all.”

“Sorry, Pixie, but to me you are perfect.  You always will be.  So even if you’re a monster in the mornings and you can’t say no to anything to the point that you overload yourself into anxiety attacks and you like horrible TV shows and three drinks has you falling over drunk and you have terrible taste in who you let get close to you, you will still always be perfect to me.” His voice grew gentle as he spoke.  He moved closer to her as he spoke until he was close enough to brush a strand of hair behind her ear and cup her cheek.  

She reached up to lay her hand on his and looked at him eyes shining with tears again.  “Why have you been avoiding me?  Why didn’t you speak to me all night?  All week?”

“Because you deserve better than me.  I was trying to back away so you could find someone who deserves you.  Someone smart, like you.  Someone with a kind heart, like you.  Someone who would give their shirt to help someone else, like you. Someone who makes you smile, like you make everyone around you smile.  Someone who makes you unabashedly, breathlessly, wildly, happy …”

“Like you,” she cut in before he could finish, tears spilling over again.  “That describes you.”  She reached up to twist her hands around the back of his head and pull him down to her lips. She put all her passion and love into her kiss, kissing him desperately, hungrily.  He wound his hands around her hips and pulled her closer to him, pressing her body to his as he fiercely returned her kiss.  

They pulled away when they could no longer go without air.  He pressed his forehead to hers and shook his head gently.  “I don’t deserve you.”

“I decide what I deserve and although I don’t think I’m good enough for you, I want to believe I deserve to be happy.  And you make me happy.” He shook his head vehemently.  She cupped his face to slow his motions and spoke before he could deny it.  “I don’t want to argue about that tonight.  I don’t want to debate worth and mistakes tonight.  Tonight I want to kiss you.”  She leaned up to place a chaste kiss on his lips.  “Tonight I want to be close to you…” she moved her hand to the back of his neck to play with his hair. “… and snuggle up with you while we watch television. Because I have amazing taste in shows.” She grinned up at him.

He chuckled and shook his head, “You really don’t.” He gave her a gentle smile and caressed her cheek. “But, I’d endure worse for you.”

[violetsystems]

#personal

It was a pretty quiet September 11th around the city for a change. I took the train downtown for coffee near the river. I was all over the place yesterday. On foot, on skateboard, on train. On the platform, a woman who had been seated with her son approached me. She asked me softly what book I was reading. It was William Gibson's "Pattern Recognition." I had been carrying it mostly because I saw a woman holding a bag a few days prior with the words "always carry a book." You get clues from society sometimes of how not to be a douchebag. You learn to read the court. Know when to fake. Know when to pass the ball. Know when to dunk on a motherfucker. This was one time where I had a chance to follow through on that wager. I told her it was science fiction but written too long ago so that it just seems like reality. The least complex way I could explain it was science fiction meets advertising. I could hear her son groaning presumably in the background. Probably at me. But it was a thoughtful conversation. We both agreed that carrying a book was about as neutral as it gets. If someone wanted to talk to you they'd have to reference the literature you were holding. It beat doom scrolling through the news which we both agreed is always different but never changes. We also agreed books put us to sleep. I said that was probably why I liked to read them in transit so I could tune out the world. The train approached as she wished me a good day and I continued my journey of minding my own business. Chicago lately feels a little less intimidated by culture as it happens. Particularly in communities of color where I spend most of my time and foot traffic in. I don't really feel all that comfortable or at ease around white people for the most part. They're all too scared to be real and talk about anything unless they're drunk. One of my favorite white basketball players was inducted into the hall of fame. He's a cracker for sure but a Croatian American which is one third of my nationality. He was called "the waiter" in which he was famous for waiting to pass the ball at the right time. He won a game for the bulls with five seconds remaining. He could dunk from the foul line and so on. And he played on a team of athletes where he was the minority and got his due. He did well enough to get inducted in the Hall of Fame when all was said and done. But he achieved that through team work not through domination. I have all these situations where it might seem from a certain vantage point that I alone saved the day. That I'm some superhero. And my only power is getting along in the environment I'm in. An environment that people constantly report is unsafe, in flux and horribly toxic. It is when you don't do anything about it to change it And then again people are smart enough and connected enough to figure out ways to cope. That is if they talk to each other. It's not like New York or Hong Kong where everyone is so used to living side by side. Chicago loves to have space and defaults to awkwardness. It's gasping for air sometimes in that respect. You need to wear your heart on your sleeve at all times. What better than a good book?

It seems like I write one every week. There's so much to reference and yet it all seems like chaos to organize. I can get lost in my head for any number of reasons. The people I care about most are far away in some ways and not so much in others. But it is still all so very vague. Small interactions at least keep me from feeling attacked and isolated. I think we're all looking for a balance to be able to express what we feel out in the open normally. Everybody is so focused on crystalizing it online one sentence at a time. They react to a feed that's been frankensteined together for an ulterior agenda. You read it on the news and it must be true. And year after year it is never about you. They've since taken the model of activism and made it a fucking reality show with Usher. The prize culminates at the G20 where you face the secret tribunal and receive funding for your cause through some bizarre sectarian ritual. I'm sure this is not the truth of it. But activism like reading should be a passively active goal. It should be your compass on the high seas of adventure in a city like this. The reward should be the conversations you unlock. The things you can reflect on and write about. How I don't really feel self conscious talking to people on the spot anymore. If a member of the opposite sex came up to you and asked what you were reading what impression would they leave you with? I'm already changing the world around me. And there's things that I've done in the past that are great trivia but don't speak for the real me. I was invited to see some people dj down in Chinatown last night. It was by the river in a park. I had just gotten back from Little Italy to get Hong Kong style Indian food at a restaurant called Siri. All of this is within walking distance if you don't mind shin splints. Everybody can tweet away how they're afraid to visit Chicago for fear of getting shot by the gangs. I am on foot ninety percent of the time. There's crime and then there's crime. And then there's what five media conglomerates owned by five billionaires have to say about it. This is why I listen to publicly funded radio. I hurried back, burnt my mouth on dal makini and jumped back on the bus to the park. Everybody was there that I knew from footwork and magic the gathering. An impossible mix of people who nonchalantly know you as violet systems moreso than Tim. I hung out for an hour and left around eight thirty. I took another long walk home over an empty bridge overlooking the city. I did this all alone. Aside from the people I run into from the neighborhood on the block. I was free to do so. And Chicago is still that place no matter how mad I get at it. And it isn't going anywhere.

Seemingly neither am I. For all the bullshit I write about how frustrated I am with things, people do eventually get the message. Would you rather have them understand it organically or force your perspective? You can repeat the same thing over and over again and it becomes tired. About how you are so progressive that nobody in your city has actually heard of you. About how you are doing all these things to fix the future but aren't living life in the present. All it really takes is letting the world know you are stable. Getting your own chaos in order and operating from there. Maybe you inspire someone along the way. Maybe you start a conversation that has nothing to do with you. But it all starts with communication. Knowing when you've said enough. Knowing that simply showing people another side of you may change the dialogue. Living by example and not just talking about it. Maybe understanding that it isn't constructive to be fighting with the universe all the time. Maybe the peace we seek to achieve on the global level starts with the conversations within ourselves and not the society trying to galvanize public opinion. If we could just help people feel normal again maybe we would all deserve normalcy. September 11th was a horrible thing caused by an outdated mindset across the board. It is twenty years later and we still cower in fear. Mostly of our own country's shadow if we are Americans. We have since thought of our freedom as something to be shaken out of other people. To rattle and provoke each other to show our true selves like a bull in a glass house. We don't start small. We get egged on and thrown in such a paranoid mind state that we think everyone is out there just to roast us. We constantly feel we have to prove our patriotism to a peanut gallery of billionaire funded social networks. We chase money in the present instead of investing in better futures. We don't know when it's our time to pass the ball. Working as a team, you fear you will be forgotten. That somehow you won't get your slice of the bloated pizza pie and unevenly distributed future of the American dream. But we all live here oblivious to the freedom we have to build it back better ourselves. The billionaires aren't walking on these streets. They're blind to how it really works. Maybe it just starts with a book and an honest question. What am I reading these days? I'm reading into all the signals and they're coming back clear. Whatever I've written in the past is just context for whatever I write about in the future. And the future holds less terror because I am less fearful of being misunderstood. I still wear that bright pink heart on my sleeve. It's the team I represent. I'm just waiting for the right time to dunk from the foul line. For now I pass it back to you all until next week. <3 Tim

[harry-pottery-barn]

As Your Future...

Draco Malfoy x Hufflepuff!Reader

a/n: This is part one of a mini-series I’m doing – look out for part 2 and possibly a part 3. This is also my first one shot, so any feedback/constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!

word count: 4.1k

warnings: light cussing, some French words (google translate works well for these but knowing the meaning isn’t necessary for the storyline)

requested by @fenxiaomao​ on tumblr

posted on tumblr and wattpad august 26, 2020

art: https://www.reddit.com/r/Pottermore/comments/fovxjq/draco_malfoy_artwork_by_me/

********

“Looks like we got paired up again, L/N.”

“What a coincidence,” you groaned sarcastically as Professor Slughorn smiled at the lot of you. “We get paired up for everything, don’t we?”

You clenched your jaw as the white blonde boy sat down in the stool next to you. You hated the British mannerism of calling everyone by their last name. You didn’t dare look at him while you flipped through your crisp copy of Advanced Potion Making.

“You say that as if I wanted this to happen,” spat Draco, his awkward smile now curled into a scowl.

You despised everything about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The teachers, the classes, the weather, the uniforms, the houses, the castle, and especially the students.

The students who never paid you any attention unless you were involved in a rumor. The students who shot sideways glances at you in the halls. The students who didn’t bother lowering their voices when they gossiped about you because they assumed you didn’t understand a speck of English… even when all of your classes were conducted in English.

Even the students of your own house seemed to keep you on the sidelines, so much so that you had given up on trying to become friends with anyone.

At least they acknowledged your existence, you kept reminding yourself.

You spent a lot of your time wondering why the so called “kind and caring” Hufflepuffs didn’t go any further than simple pleasantries with you. Perhaps it was false that they were all accepting, or perhaps they thought someone of your lineage would be better suited in Slytherin.

It was utterly clear, even to you, why nobody seemed to bat an eyelash at you. You were the prestigious, pretentious, pure-blood transfer from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Or, as you knew it, Académie de Magie Beauxbatôns.

Of course, nobody knew why you had transferred so late in your education. Your parents advertised their desire to move to England to their friends, co-workers, and even the school administrators. It was extremely plausible that they simply wanted you close by while you were at school, instead of in another country. What people didn’t know, however, was that you just so happened to move to Wiltshire – more specifically, a mansion that was just down the street from Malfoy Manor.

You came from a very well known family – the longest line of pure-blood wizards in all of France. Your family line had only been “muddled” by a Squib who married a Muggle and started a Muggle family back in the 1400s. Besides that one branch, every single bit of your family tree is pure-blood. Your parents strived to uphold the so-called purity of the L/N bloodline. And, as two of the most ambitious and determined people you knew, you were aware of just how far they would go to keep it that way.

As members of one of the largest pure-blood families, you and your parents often attended French, as well as international, galas, balls, and fêtes for those with similar bloodlines. This, of course, is how your parents first met the Malfoy’s.

The night you first saw Draco had to have been ages ago – nine years to be exact, when you were both only seven. It was a rather private event, celebrating the 90th birthday of some old man, in the manor that you were destined to live in about a decade later. However, you had no idea back then.

At the time, Draco religiously slicked back his hair, had chubby cheeks, and was a couple inches shorter than you. He didn’t say more than a simple “hello” before hiding behind his mother’s leg, staring at you the entire time. You ignored him and had a conversation with his sweet, almost warm mother, while your parents discussed something rather serious with his father, who you were genuinely terrified of.

Now, nine years later, you were sat next to Draco Malfoy in a potions class with the task of successfully brewing a Wound-Cleaning potion within an hour.

Wordlessly, you stood up and gathered your ingredients from the pantry. With your arms full of jars of honey-water, dittany, boomslang skin, stewed mandrake, asphodel, and lion fish spines, you made your way out of the store and to your desk, where Draco was turned towards Blaise Zabini, laughing. Just before you reached your table, someone very tall and massive bumped into you.

There was a loud, earsplitting shatter that echoed through the stone dungeon, silencing any small talk. The large bottle of honey-water had fallen from your arms, and the entire bottom half of your uniform was soaked.

“Bloody hell, Goyle,” giggled Pansy Parkinson, who peered from behind Gregory Goyle.

Gregory’s feet and shins were also covered in honey-water and shards of glass. He glared at you, pure anger in his eyes.

“Bet she did it on purpose,” he muttered. “Wasn’t my fault Beauxbatons wasn’t looking where she was going.”

“Knock it off, Goyle,” said Draco sternly from your desk.

You shot him a quick glare before rolling your eyes.

“Is everyone alright?” said Professor Slughorn from his desk, looking over his glasses at us.

“Nobody’s hurt,” you said.

You leaned to the side and set down the rest of your jars on a nearby table.

“Beauxbatons dropped a jug of honey-water,” Gregory said, glaring at you all the while.

“It’s Y/N L/N,” you said clearly, pulling your wand from your robes.

“Bloody hell,” gasped Pansy.

Gregory took a step back, stumbling into another table. He scrambled for his own wand and pointed right at your neck, gripping it in his gigantic hand.

“Mon dieu! I’m trying to clean up the mess!”

“Watch where you’re going, Goyle,” muttered Ron Weasley, a Gryffindor whose cauldron had tipped over and rolled across the table.

“Pfft,” said Gregory, pocketing his wand. He continued, fake coolness dripping from his words, “I knew that, Beauxbatons.”

Pansy cackled from behind him. She passed you, whispering loudly to Gregory, “You should’ve hexed her; then perhaps she’d go back to where she came from.”

Without another word, you waved your wand at the floor. The glass bottle pieced itself back together, while the honey-water evaporated from the stone floor and your uniform. You didn’t bother with Gregory’s. He slammed his giant shoulder into you again as he trod into the pantry.

“Connard,” you said under your breath.

“Let me get a new one.”

Draco had already leapt out of his stool and passed you, following Gregory. You rolled your eyes, knowing you were perfectly capable of getting a new jug, before gathering your other ingredients and finally sitting back down at your cauldron. You began preparing the ingredients, glancing at the textbook only once to confirm a measurement. You seamlessly cut, ground, and poured each ingredient from memory by the time Draco finally returned with a new bottle of honey-water.

“How did you prepare them so quickly?” he asked in awe, the jug hitting the desk with a low thud. He added, with his trademark smirk, “switch ingredients with Granger, did you?”

“My school specializes in healing,” you scoffed.

You lit the fire underneath your cauldron and measured the honey-water, immediately pouring it into the cauldron.

“I’ve known how to brew this since I was thirteen. What took you so long?”

“Had to have a conversation with Goyle and Parkinson,” he said.

“About?”

“I think you’re smart enough to know what it was about, L/N.”

You glared at him, unsure whether to feel exhausted or exasperated.

“I can handle myself without your chivalry, Draco.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let him walk all over you?” he asked aggressively, yet barely louder than a whisper.

“He didn’t walk all over me,” you replied in an equally quiet voice. “I just didn’t pick a fight with him. At least I can go a day without insulting someone’s family, wealth, or appearance.”

“Stop acting so high and mighty, L/N. We both know you’re in a more damning situation than you like to tell.”

You kicked Draco’s leg under the desk before peacefully continuing with brewing the potion. You could tell, even without looking at him, that the Slytherin was bright red with anger.

“We also know that we’re not supposed to bring it up around other people, don’t we?” you whispered in a sickly sweet voice, trying to be as demeaning as possible.

You didn’t like being rude, but you would rather play Draco’s little game than run the risk of Hogwarts knowing why you had transferred. Draco fumed in the stool next to you, then began to jot things down in a notebook for the rest of the class as you silently finished brewing the Wound-Cleaning Potion. Your mind began to wander as you added and stirred in each ingredient.

You had only met Draco three more times before attending Hogwarts. After your very first meeting, you saw each other again about five years later, at a gala for Quidditch sponsors in Germany. Just like the first time, your parents began talking; however, you and Draco were left alone.

It was awkward to say the least.

He was much cockier and more confident, and he spent most of your time together talking about himself and his successes as Seeker on his team at Hogwarts. You probably managed to squeeze in five sentences during the hours you were stuck alone with him at that table.

The third time you saw each other was in Marseilles, France, at the housewarming party for your parents’ beach house two years ago. Luckily, many of your friends from Beauxbatons were there. You couldn’t help but feel bad for Draco as he stood awkwardly with your friends, nodding his head while clearly not understanding a single word that was said. You decided to start speaking in English, which you eventually regretted. Draco took the opportunity to talk about how great he was once again. Your friends all gaped in awe, asking questions and fawning over him. You passively listened as Draco got an ego boost, answering question after question like a celebrity.

The last time was in Malfoy Manor last July. You had been out of school for no more than a couple of weeks when your parents decided to take a trip to England. Once you arrived, the Malfoy’s had happily invited your family over for dinner last-minute. Or at least, you thought it was last-minute at the time.

That dinner, as well as the trip itself, was all planned by your parents and Draco’s parents years before. And just as they had planned on the first night you and Draco met, they gave you news that would change your life.

“You’re kidding,” you said, no other words coming to mind.

“We are not,” said your father sternly, “and we would appreciate it if you would hold your tongue while Mr. Malfoy is speaking.”

“Thank you, Mr. L/N,” drawled Mr. Malfoy.

You fell silent as you clenched your fists under the giant dining table.

“In the winter of 1998, after you are both eighteen, you will be married here in Malfoy Manor,” explained Mr. Malfoy. “This, of course, is to ensure that the L/N and Malfoy bloodlines are secure from any filth that would accompany half- and mudbloods.”

“As you are both only children, we deemed it was only fitting to merge our two families together, creating an even better bloodline for the future,” continued your father. “This also allows the opportunity for the two of you to marry someone who is not a cousin of any sort.”

As you panicked, your eyes fell on Draco, who was sitting next to you at the table. His blank face stared at the wall in front of him, without a single reaction.

“And, so the two of you do not enter a marriage without knowing each other first, we have decided to move to England, and Y/N will be transferring to Hogwarts in the fall,” said your mother.

“WHAT?!” you shouted, standing up abruptly. “I am most certainly NOT transferring to Hogwarts! And I am not going to marry Draco! This is absolutely absu--”

“You will learn to keep your temper under control in the presence of others, Y/N,” growled your father.

What felt like two large, invisible hands pushed down on your shoulders, forcing you back into your chair.

“Of course, Y/N, you do not have to do anything. You have choices,” your father said.

A sense of relief flooded your system.

“Either you can transfer to Hogwarts for your last two years of school and marry Draco the following winter, or you can explain to the Dark Lord why you will not be doing so.”

You felt your heart stop. There was no way in hell you were about to try to tell Voldemort himself why you didn’t want to keep your bloodline pure by marrying Draco.

“That’s what I thought, ma fille,” said your father with a smile, before continuing to discuss details with the Malfoy’s.

You didn’t remember much else from that night. Your mind began to wander just as it was now, while you were brewing this simple potion.

The potion was purple, but not smoking, in just under forty minutes. You called Professor Slughorn over to inspect it, causing Draco to jolt. He seemed to have dozed off while you were working.

Figures, you thought helplessly.

After Professor Slughorn joyously celebrated your potion, he allowed you and Draco to leave class for lunch as soon as your station was cleaned up. You quietly replaced all of the ingredients in the pantry, emptied your cauldron, packed your things, and left the classroom.

“That was brilliant, L/N,” said Draco, who had caught up to you in the empty corridor. “I didn’t have to lift a finger.”

“For the last time, Draco, it’s Y/N. You know I hate the whole last name thing,” you said, not looking at him.

“Perhaps I hate the whole first name thing.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t speak to me at all,” you fired back.

“If I had the chance to never speak to you again in my life, trust me, I would take it,” he snapped.

You weren’t quite sure why, but his words stung in a way no insult had hurt you before. You remained silent for the rest of your walk, until you reached the Great Hall. You didn’t even feel hungry anymore.

“I’m going back to my common room,” you muttered, turning away from the massive oak doors and walking towards the Hufflepuff Basement.

“Ah, she speaks,” said Draco, in a tone that was maddening.

You stopped dead in your tracks. You looked at him again, contemplating if it was worth getting into a quarrel over.

“It’s just that-- well, you’re an awfully quiet person.”

“Really? Hmm, I haven’t noticed,” you deadpanned.

A group of first years passing by suddenly stopped walking. They started whispering and giggling amongst themselves, very clearly about you and Draco.

“What are you looking at?” spat Draco. “Go before I give you all detention.”

With small screeches, they rushed past you into the Great Hall, still whispering and giggling.

“C’était superflu,” you mumbled to yourself.

“Unnecessary? They were laughing at us!” said Draco. “If I had the chance, I would’ve straightened them out!”

“They’re first years! They’re barely eleven! You truly expect a group of eleven-year-old’s to pass by two teenagers who are alone and not be immature?”

“I was never that immature.”

You scoffed. “Never that immature”? Did he know how he acted at parties? “Never that immature”, my ass, you thought.

“Do you have something to say, L/N?” he demanded, daring to take a step closer to you.

“Putain de bâtard, it’s Y/N!” you shouted.

You turned swiftly on your heels, noticing the odd stares and whispers of students going to lunch, and marched down the corridor. You didn’t look back while you sped to your common room, only stopping to tap the barrel that opened the door. The large circle door swung open. You scurried through and slammed the door, relieved to be in the Hufflepuff common room.

Merlin, how Draco pissed you off. As if having no real friends at school wasn’t terrible enough, the man you were destined to marry was always there to make you angry on an already bad day.

It took all of your willpower to not fight back. The way he was treating you, as well as everyone else, was just plain wrong. On a regular day, you might have made a couple of comments back, but you never called him names or raised your voice. You kept your temper in check, letting him berate and poke at you every day.

You sat down in a large, golden armchair and stared into the fire, finally realizing what you had said to Draco.

A wave of panic rushed over you. Draco was surely going to tell his father of this incident, and if Draco’s father heard of it, he was surely going to tell your father.

Your father scared you more than Voldemort himself. He knew how to get to you, and he managed, without hesitation, to discipline you from the longest of distances. You honestly never had a clue how he always found out about anything slightly wrong you had done, but he did… every single time.

The uneasy feeling lasted throughout the rest of the day, clouding your thoughts and ruining your appetite. By the time dinner rolled around, the last thing you wanted to do was eat. Since you had missed lunch, you forced yourself away from your library desk, without a single assignment completed, and to the Great Hall, hoping you didn’t run into Draco along the way.

Once you were a single turn away from the Great Hall, you heard your name echo through the empty stone corridor.

It was Draco.

You sighed heavily, strong feelings of anger, fear, and exhaustion overwhelming you.

“Please, not now, Draco,” you groaned.

“But you don’t know what I was going to say,” he replied, confused.

“Honestly, I don’t care.”

“Y-you don’t care?”

That was odd. You tried to recount another time Draco had stuttered, but your mind was blank.

“I know it’s going to be something either insulting, negative, or inflammatory, and quite frankly, I don’t want to hear it. You’ve probably already told your father I cursed at you, and I’m sure my father’s punishments will begin promptly tomorrow morning, so thank you,” you said without taking a breath. “I need to force myself to eat something, so if you’ll excuse me--”

“Why would I tell my father you cursed at me?” he asked plainly.

“Don’t you tell your father everything?”

“Well, not everything… just when someone needs to be discipli--”

“Disciplined or punished, yes, I know. You sound exactly like my father.”

Draco suddenly became very shy. You had never seen him this way before. He was so thrown off his game, his act had completely dropped.

Suddenly, you felt very lightheaded and dizzy. You quickly stumbled towards the wall and caught yourself before you fell. You pressed your fingers to your temples as you leaned back against the wall, sliding down until you sat on the ground.

“Merlin, Y/N, are you alright?”

“Oh, just a little lightheaded.”

“Why’s that?”

“I didn’t catch breakfast this morning, and then I didn’t eat all day today because I’ve been nervous about what kind of fresh hell my father would put me through if he knew I called you a bastard,” you explained with a weak laugh.

Draco slid down the wall and sat on the cold stone floor next to you.

“You don’t have to act like you care about me,” you groaned, resting your chin on your knees.

“Who said I was acting?” asked Draco, in a soft voice he had never used before.

He glanced around the corridor, as if making sure it was empty.

“You are my future wife, after all,” he continued very quietly. “Might as well try to get along.”

“Could you sound any less pleased about it?” you chuckled.

“I’m sure we can both agree it’s a rather unfortunate situation to be in, but is it so terrible for me to care about the general well being of the person I’m going to be spending the rest of my life with?”

You fell silent. This was the first time he had ever said something remotely nice to you. You were very taken aback, searching for something, anything to say. You and Draco sat in peaceful silence for about a minute, completely uninterrupted. His words rang in your mind: Might as well try to get along.

“Do you ever wish you could do what you wanted?” you asked abruptly.

“Excuse me?” Draco asked, bewildered.

“Oh, come on. Don’t pretend your parents don’t control your every move and your future. Do you ever wonder what things would be like… what your life would be like… if you were the one in control?”

Draco didn’t answer. You turned your head, laying your cheek on your knees, and glanced back at him. He looked as though he had never considered a life with his own decisions before.

“Personally,” you started, catching his attention, “I would want to own a potion shop. In the southern French countryside. I never decided on where specifically. I figured I would have the rest of my life to imagine a village that was big enough to not know everyone but small enough to be quaint. My shop would be a cottage on a plot with a few acres to grow my own plants and herbs. All of my ingredients would either be locally sourced or imported from humane places with the best quality potion ingredients. My potions would be brewed by myself and a couple other potioneers – preferably from different countries in order to bring new perspectives to the table. It wouldn’t necessarily be a lavish way of life, but it would be mine, and it would be helping others as well.

“I’d want to be able to fall in love and get married on my own accord,” you explained further, “regardless of their blood status, but preferably a wizard so the potion shop could work out as well. We’d either live in the second floor of the shop or in a different cottage a short walk away. We’d have a dog and a cat, and perhaps children if it felt right and we were old enough. I would be able to be my own person without walking on eggshells, trying to do what would make my parents the happiest. I would leave the stuck-up, grandiloquent snob my parents raised me to be, and I wouldn’t have to live up to the generations of standards put on me. I would have nothing to do with my parents, nothing to do with the Ministry of Magic, and nothing to do with--”

You caught yourself before you said the name of the castle you were currently in. You sighed, knowing that this fantasy you concocted for yourself would never become a reality. That you were stuck in the narrative your parents wrote for you, unable to pick up a pen and rewrite it yourself.

You leaned your head back against the stone wall with a small thud, breathing deeply. You saw Draco tilt his head toward you out of the corner of your eye. You looked back at him, studying his face.

His white blonde hair fell down in front of his eyes ever so slightly. His expression was just as woeful as yours. You couldn’t help but notice the faint tinge of blue in his light grey eyes.

“That’s the most I think I’ve ever heard you say,” he said with a slight chuckle.

“Believe it or not, my friends back at Beauxbatons call me loud and outgoing,” you admitted.

“I promise you,” he said in a determined tone, his eyes never leaving yours, “that, as your future husband, you will one day have that shop. I will make sure of it.”

A smile crept onto your face – the first genuine smile of yours in a long time. You leaned your head on Draco’s shoulder. The smell of expensive cologne and green apples washed over you as you stared out the large, arched window that looked over the school grounds.

The sky, which was bright pink from the sunset, gave the trees and rolling hills a beautiful warm glow. The clouds were painted orange and dark purple, and you could see the silhouette of an owl soaring from one side of the window to the other.

You felt content and at peace for the first time in what felt like your entire life.

And suddenly, the world didn’t seem so dim anymore.

[isabearies]

Instability -- D:BH [07]

Pairing: Connor x Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: violence, mega angst, some cursing, please read at own risk

Author’s Note: this one is way long, I got a little carried away lol. Super action packed, I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Connor has just been assigned to the deviant case with you and Hank. You have a history with androids, but he just wants a partner. You want androids to be heard, but you’re still terrified of them.

Chapter Seven: Machine

The ride to the scene was awkward, no one had the confidence to break the looming silence. Not Connor, certainly not you. You hadn’t even thought about Hank or if he knew what was going on. You didn’t even know what was going on.

Again, there was nothing said even as you exited the car and got into the elevator. However, Connor looked preoccupied. As the elevator lifted you several floors, his eyes flickered closed and he appeared distant. It was an odd sight, but it was also weird to see his features in this way. The lighting was bare and it casted shadows onto his bone structure. His expression was calm, yet determined. You wondered what he was thinking about. The elevator halted and opened, to which both you and Hank naturally strutted out of the contraption.

Connor, however, stayed.

“Hey Connor!” Hank tried to get his attention. This was the first anyone had spoken in a while. It felt unnatural.

His eyes opened to look across at Hank.

“You run outta batteries or what?”

“I’m sorry,” he spoke, robotic and distant, “I was making a report to CyberLife.” 

You were not sure how, but his voice was…satisfying. When he spoke, it was as if it completed a sentence in the constructs of your mind with no words. Something about it implied human texture, but it was elastic and smooth like silicone.

“Do you plan on staying in the elevator?” The thought of that made you chuckle, and Connor’s reaction didn’t help.

“No, I’m coming!” He sounded offended and it made you giggle more. Things were feeling normal again. Whatever normal was, that is.

Hank and you walked into the hallway with Connor just behind you.

“So, what do we know about this guy?”

“Not much, just that a neighbor reported that he heard strange noises coming from this floor.” Connor filled you in a little more.

“That doesn’t immediately say deviant though, right?” you questioned this report just subtly, since you had heard plenty of empty complaints from neighbors before.

“Nobody’s supposed to be living here, but the neighbor said he saw a man hiding a LED under his cap.” The details started to come together.

Connor had started walking a little faster to catch up to you, walking in tandem with you and Hank.

“Oh Christ, if we have to investigate every time someone hears a strange noise, we’re gonna need more cops.” Hank was distraught with annoyance, rightfully so. Connor bent down parallel to the apartment door accessing some junk on the floor. You got curious.

“Connor, were you actually writing a report in the elevator? Just…by closing your eyes?”

Connor turned back to look at you, his eyes reflecting into yours.

“Correct.”

“Wish I could do that…” Hank mumbled ruggedly as he knocked on the door.

Silence, followed by Hank shrugging as Connor turned to him. Connor knocked harder, “Anybody home?” More silence.

You got tired of this. “Open up! Detroit Police!” Finally, there was movement.

Hank drew his weapon, as did you.

“Stay behind me.” 

“Got it.”

Hank kicked down the door as the two of you entered, Connor still behind the door frame.

The hallway was decrepit, with light showing through the ceiling and paint peeling from the ghoulishly grey walls. It might have been bland in color, but definitely not in texture. The walls were also decorated with hexagonal shapes and weird pictures. Connor ducked into a room and as you cased the other.

Hank broke open a door, to which a shit ton of pigeons flew out.

“What the fuck is this!” Hank’s call beckoned you to follow him to the main room. In it, the floor was crammed with pigeons and there were more hexagonal shapes. Your hand moved to cover your nose.

“Holy shit it stinks in here!” you blurted out, noticing Connor looking around, never minding the pigeons nor the smell.

“Looks like we came for nothing, our man’s gone.” Hank’s hoarse voice echoed in the abandoned room. 

“Just look around and see if we can find where he might have went.” Hank was in a mood, probably because he was sick of the deviant business in general.

Connor turned to his right to see a UFO poster, and promptly removed its place from the wall. This action was unjust at first, but behind the wall lay a book. You could not see its contents, but seeing his face riddled with confusion made you curious as to how his brain worked. Or however androids brains worked.

His brow drawn and mouth downturned, his perplexity perplexed you in a way. How could someone sound and look so pristine, so human, and yet still reflect such robotic qualities? That was just it, really; he was a robot. An android.

A machine.

He could not feel, he could not exude the same emotions as a human. It was quite bothersome, really. It was as if talking to a wall with a face. Yes, the wall can talk and make faces and such, but all it was just a wall. Nothing more, nothing less. It was not human, and it could never act like a human. You knew this far too well.

“Found something?” You already knew the answer but the curiosity was itching.

“I don’t know, it looks like a notebook but it’s…indecipherable.”

You turned to your direct right and opened up a closet. A couple pigeons flew towards you. Nothing.

The windows were boarded up, the cabinets in disarray, which made you think. There was nothing in the cabinets to begin with, except for rat food. You opened the refrigerator.

Empty.

Connor was to your left and looked at what seemed to be a military jacket.

“R.T…probably initials.”

“He put his initials in his jacket? That’s something your mom does when you’re in the first grade…” Hank was a smart ass as always.

“That’s assuming he went to first grade.”

You walked into the bathroom, where something was smeared on the side of the sink. Connor touched it and placed his fingers to his lips.

“Connor! Don’t lick the evidence!”

“I can analyze blue blood in real time–”

You thought a moment.

“Okay, that’s really cool, but it’s still evidence. Please don’t put anything else in your mouth.”

“Got it.”

You took a look at the sink itself, to find an LED sitting on the ledge.

“So it was a deviant. Mystery solved.” You were getting sick of smelling bird feces. Finally looking around the bathroom, there were symbols everywhere. The most prevalent was “RA9,” which had no meaning to you. However, as Connor looked at the patterns, something clicked. He reached out to the paint to find it was still wet. 

You decided to speak. “Any idea what it means?”

“RA9...written 2471 times...it’s the same sign Ortiz’s android wrote on the shower wall. Why are they obsessed with this sign?” Connor’s tone was of pure confusion.

“It looks like a bunch of mazes...maybe like a map?” Connor bent down to find a wooden stool turned over on the floor. His eyes paced the scene rapidly, placing everything together it looked like. He got up and quickly walked to the cage on the floor. Again, getting up and looking towards the door. Finally, he moved towards the chair in the corner of the room to the hole in the ceiling. The room almost stood still…

You paced towards the ceiling, with some pigeons scattering about when a large black figure fell out of the hole and into you. You fell hard into the ground, feeling every splintering piece of wood stab your backside.

“Oh shit!” 

Connor helped you up, a hand on your forearm and shoulder. You stood, and Connor was gone, chasing the deviant. A crash, a boom, and a door opening. That was all you heard before silence as Connor probably left the building from the emergency exit. 

“Let’s go around!”

O

There was nothing on his mind. Complete calm in his systems. His body, however, was dashing in utter and absolute control. He jumped over a generator, never failing to make the cut. He focused on one thing and one thing only.

Catch the deviant.

The task was better read than done. A jump down the wall to a field of wheat. Again, completely calm as he did what might’ve been painful to humans. Something that would have injured your ankles in three different places.

Catch the deviant.

He crossed the field and climbed the wall parallel to the last into another field, and onto another higher building. Androids all about, growing plants. A swift right turn and a fall onto a glass ceiling. The deviant broke the glass in front of him and Connor hinged his legs to jump into the damage.

A perfect landing. However, not good enough. The deviant was making headway up the stairs, approximately 10 meters ahead of him. The door closed in front of him, to which Connor made a quick right into a lavender field. Taking a shortcut to his right, he climbed onto another generator onto a building. Two meters ahead.

Catch the deviant. 

The jump led the another glass ceiling to slide down. The deviant was already on the train as Connor jumped and landed into a perfect stance. A ladder, deviant is approximately 1.6 meters ahead. However, Connor skidded on the ladder, the deviant was already running. He was now 8 meters away. Damnit.

Catch the deviant.

Another jump onto a higher building into a greenhouse. A swift couple of jumps later and he was in a cornfield. This chase was taking too long, he needed the deviant secured as soon as possible. Connor dashed out, to find (y/n) having a fistfight with the deviant. The suspect threw you over the ledge. Analyzing the situation, he found that if not helped, you would be heavily injured. Chance of survival: 89%

CatcH the deviAnt.

The decision was not conscious. He ran toward you and pulled you up, a hand on yours and another on your forearm. This was the third time he pulled you up today. If it was a habit, it was one he didn’t mind.

^^ sOftwarE inStaBility ^^

O

Hanging over the ledge, you anticipated Connor to run after the deviant. You left Hank in a mad dash to cut him off. However, when you felt a warm, strong hand pull you up, you were left surprised and somewhat disappointed. You realized Connor did not go after him, but instead saved you. He disobeyed his orders.

“Shit! I--We had it!” The cursing was real, but you were not just cursing at the deviant getting away. Connor disobeyed his orders. That meant something, and you knew from experience. This was only the beginning.

“It’s my fault,” Connor broke your thoughts, “I should have been faster.”

You looked up at him. He was still in an action stance looking towards the deviant. The realization only became more prevalent.

“You didn’t chase after him…” Your voice was soft, but audible. It wasn’t a statement, more so a moment of disbelief. Connor looked down to you, his soft brown eyes not fully comprehending what this meant. Not disobeying orders in this moment, but the big picture. What was to come. Oh god.

His face was sad, and you felt bad that you had to be a burden to carry. You were the reason the deviant was not in custody right now.

A distant sound of footsteps were heard, a bang of a door opening, and Hank was now on the roof.

“Where the fuck did it go?” he yelled.

“I fell, Connor helped me.” It was a frustrated response.

Hank was also disappointed, but his face changed. You thought you saw the same realization hit him for a split second. He was good at hiding his emotions.

“It’s alright, we know what it looks like. We’ll get it next time.”

Hank was already down the steps. You wanted to thank him for saving you, but the words didn’t feel right. It was your fault. You let him get away.

“Connor--” He turned to look at you, his sad brown eyes looking down at yours. This was getting all too real all too quick. And you had nothing to contribute.

“Nothing...let’s just go.” You could feel his gaze on your back once again, it was a cold stab on your warm, heart-pounding, nervous body. 

Connor stood there a moment. Just a moment. He saw the sun. It looked...different.

—

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[alltheworldsinmyhead]

                                 SOON YOU’LL GET BETTER

      time's running out for Riza. and they can do nothing else, but face this truth.

                                                     ao3

{AN: This is easily the most personal story that I have ever written. My mom died of cancer almost two months ago and I needed to cope with that, hence this fic. Tbh, I don't even think it can strictly be called fanfiction - I simply used those characters to channel my personal trauma. Sorry not sorry for that. It feels very weird to post it publicly, but I decided to do it, cause the fact that this doc was somewhere on the hard drive of my laptop was driving me mad. Also... I feel like the topic of death and dying is not discussed often enough nor openly enough. I certainly hope that this story will maybe help someone who's going through something similar to what I'm going through. Or maybe will help someone to understand how it feels to say goodbye. How heavy this grief is. 

The title comes from Taylor Swift's Soon You'll Get Better, cause this song is by far the most accurate description of what's going on in the head of some who has a sick parent that I have ever seen.}

__________________________________________________________

When you're feeling lost I'll leave my love

Hidden in the sun

For when the darkness comes

- Colbie Caillat

RIZA

The house’s so quiet and feels so inviting that she could cry from the sheer relief of coming inside. There are no flames dancing in the fireplace but she still feels warmth worming underneath her skin, replacing the bone-chilling coldness of the rain outside. With a sigh, she kicks off her shoes before putting them neatly in the corner and stepping on the white plush carpet in the corridor. She wiggles her toes in it, enjoying the texture against her battered feet.

Soft material makes her steps almost soundless as she makes her way through the first floor and climbs up the stairs. Even Koya doesn’t lift his little ginger head from where he’s sleeping, in his wicker basket by the doors of her younger daughter.

Riza gently pushes the door, letting them open slightly. The light from the corridor spills inside the room, framing Sara’s bed in silver; her little face so pale in the poor lighting, dark hair messy and thumb inside her mouth.

It’s been a few years since she last did it, since she last came back to the childish comfort of this coping mechanism.  Riza was sure that she has it well behind her, those moths of coating Sara’s hand in foul-smelling ointments or wrapping it with ribbons.

Despite her best wishes, she can do nothing but take a few steps closer and then another few and then suddenly she’s on her knees right next to the bed. Carpet in her little daughter’s room is blue, Amestrian royal blue, deep and soft. Her girl loves this color. Wears it in her hair and on her clothes and all her pet animals are blue too.  But as Riza watches her sleeping face, she thinks pink would be a shade much better suited for Sara, with her rosy cheeks and flowery innocence of a child shielded from any possible harm, any dangerous blow.

That’s what they have been doing all this time, her and Roy. Spreading an umbrella above their girls’ heads, building glass castles on the clouds for them and keeping them safe at all cost.

Riza gently touches Sara’s still-chubby hand and contemplates pulling her thumb from in between her lips, but ultimately decides against it.

Her daughter will need all the comfort she can get soon.

*

Sometimes she feels like she has spent most of her life waiting.

When she was six years old and her mom went into labor, nobody suspected that it won’t be a quick thing, devoid of complications. Tereza Hawkeye was a strong woman, used to hard work on the farm and running the house for her absent-minded husband. Riza remembers her red, calloused hands and freckles that would appear on the bridge of her nose during summer months; remembers her smile and the smell of her hair.  There wasn’t a soul that would look at her and guess that Tereza was born in the aristocratic circles of Central City, with an army of servants ready to attend to her every whim and silk dresses in her closet, that she could rise very, very high if she didn’t decide to so-called ‘’follow her heart’’, run away with the young alchemist and settle down with him in the village on the countryside, forgotten by god and men alike.

To be honest, Riza never thought much about her mother until she became a mother herself. Trying to put together fragments of Tereza in her head the way one could play with a jigsaw puzzle, she looked through few faded photographs she had left and recollected even more faded pictures in her memory. And the more she thought about it and the more she watched Roy and Grumman playing chess together, the more she pondered of how much of a hopeless romantic really was in her mother. Because it seemed to her Tereza could be as well a perfectly pragmatic young woman who just plainly decided she preferred to be barefoot and pregnant at the edge of the world than to be pushed on the board according to the whims of her father – even as a queen.

No matter her motives, Tereza married Berthold Hawkeye and gave him a daughter before dying in childbirth along with their son.

And Riza remembers that waiting all too well; small blonde girl sitting forgotten and omitted on an armchair in the corridor, clutching her teddy bear close to her chest, her face pressed to the faded material. She remembers screams behind the wall, remembers how her father stormed inside, remembers the sound of the door shutting close. Remembers long hours of pressing her fingers to her closed eyelids just to see stars exploding. Sometimes she feels like maybe she never left this armchair, never hoped off to kiss her mother’s soft, cold cheek goodbye.

And then years and years of silence, of wind blowing inside the house and playing with endless pages of her fathers’ notes laying discarded on every surface. Of silence in which they both were trapped, like flies in a jar full of honey, which they shared for so long she thought she will never speak again. Until a pretty boy from Central City appeared on their creaking doorstep, with his laughing dark eyes and a suitcase. He bowed in front of her politely and asked about her name.

And she said ‘’Riza’’, even though only her mother ever called her that, even though she was ‘’Tereza’’ in her birth certificate.

And he smiled widely.

‘’What a beautiful name.’’

Forget fire alchemy;  the warmth she felt in that moment was incomparable with any other before and after.

At least her daughters won’t be left to her own devices after she’s gone. At least she has given them a better father than hers. At least this, at least that, all bitter, all making her choke.

*

They tell them first thing in the morning.

Time for deception and avoiding this topic is over. They wasted it on constructing elaborate lies instead of trying to find the right words and it’s so, so hard now. Riza grips Roy’s hand tightly under the table during the breakfast and opens her mouth before he has a chance to.

“I’m sick, girls.”

The harsh, ugly truth. Cruel military honesty.

Sara whips her head up to stare at her in shock, her eyes round like coins and confused. She drops her fork; it slips from in-between her fingers and lands with a clatter on the porcelain plate, spraying her blouse with yellow of scrambled eggs. But, as Riza takes a look at her older daughter, she thinks Eli as well could’ve, on the contrary, turned into a stone. She doesn’t even blink. She just sits perfectly still, her hand suspended in the air, reaching for a bread roll.

A heartbeat passes, maybe two.

“Girls-“

Eli’s hand slaps down on the table.

“How sick?”

Sara’s bottom lip starts to tremble. Dear god, please don’t let her cry. – thinks Riza desperately, feeling something welling up in her chest. She feels like a grenade about to burst and kill everyone in the room.  Maybe that’s truer than she suspected.

She tries to answer and, horrified, finds that she cannot seem to find any words.

“Very sick, Eli.” – says Roy instead; quietly, gently, he reaches out to caress Sara’s cheek and here they are, rolling down her perfect, pink skin. Tears, one after another.

Riza cannot breathe, cannot think even.

Eli slowly lowers her eyes, until they stay stuck on her plate; she is so, so beautiful like that, lost in thought. Forget blonde hair and sun-kissed complexion of Hawkeye’s, forget her blooming breasts and round face – she has never looked more like Roy right now, when Riza can almost see the gears in her head turning, her brilliant mind putting facts in order.

“I knew it. I knew it and yet… I didn’t want to know it.” – Eli’s voice is very quiet, barely above whisper, but she commands the attention of everyone. Even Sara stops biting on her lip to look at her. – “You stopped working and god, all those trips. The trip all the way to Xing, that you didn’t take us – you were visiting Al and Mai, right? To ask if they can do anything.”

Riza suddenly has an urge to laugh. To cry also, but mostly to laugh. Her eyes find Roy and there it is, their common understanding how could we thought we can ever keep anything a secret from them?

Even if they don’t know, they do. Sara’s finger stuck in her mouth, how big of a crybaby she became lately, her ever-brave and ever-bold firecracker of a girl.  The stare of Eli’s watchful eyes analyzing every action and change in their daily routine.

“You are too smart for us, darling.” The corners’ of Roy’s lips twitch as if he was about to smile. “We never give you enough credit.”

Eli takes a shaky breath and barks a sad, little laugh before burying her face in her hands for a moment. When she raises her head up, her amber eyes are shiny.

“I don’t think I am, honestly. If I was, I would know what to tell you –“

“Are you going to die, mommy?”

Silence falls like a knife, cutting Eli’s sentence in half and freezing Riza’s brain. Sara is standing now, hands planted flat on the table and she leans towards her; tears still rolling down her cheeks and nose already red, she asked her question with the dead seriousness, crashing violently with the high, birdy pitch of her voice.

Ishbal was one, never-ending bloodbath that she will never manage to atone for. Working under Bradley was a constant, day by day struggle, when her body felt like a taunt bow-string, never relaxing, always on alert. During five minutes when she thought Lust had killed Roy she barely felt  alive at all. Promised Day was a nightmare. Her first miscarriage sent her into the very depths of despair. Sitting with Roy in that room and hearing the results of the tests, seeing his face and the light gone from his eyes, she was sure there will be nothing more harder than that. But having lived through it all, Riza realizes has never felt more broken, more helpless and devastated, than now; when she has to gently cradle her youngest daughter’s face in her hands, look her in the eyes and say, without any turn-backs or bullshit excuses:

“Yes.”

*

There are more than a few things that she loves about her life. She loves their house in Central; cozy, bright and without fancy high ceilings and big windows that would put her bodyguard instincts into overdrive. She loves her dogs; their simplicity and loyalty, how they always come over to greet her home, how they appreciate a good scratch between their ears and how they all remind her of dear Hayate somehow. There are days that she even loves Central City, its hustle and bustle, and all the memories – good and bad alike – that she made here.

But above all, she loves her family and each and every person that form it. She suspects she will never stop marveling at the miracle that happened to her at some point; that the lonely, sad little girl growing up as alone as a child can possibly be, ended up surrounded by so many people loving her and caring for her. So many people to say goodbye to.

She considers herself lucky. More than lucky – the luckiest.

It doesn’t think any of this makes is easy. On the contrary -  she thinks it would be easier if she was not so generously gifted by fate. The biggest struggle, as she learns in time, is to not say I’m fine all the time, not repeating it as a foolish parrot round the clock. She respects Roy and girls too much to maim them with this fool’s gold phrase, but it’s so difficult. She finds herself biting on her tongue more often than not, several times a day, until there are scars on the soft tissue that refuse to heal.

Cause she is not fine.

*

Where it hurts most,  asks her Roy one time, desperately, in the dead of the night; his arms around her, holding her upright from behind and his lips on the back of her neck as she sags above the toilet. At this point, she can’t remember how much time has passed since she started vomiting, the room is spinning in front of her eyes and she too bone-deep tired to even try faking anything, and so maybe that’s why she actually answers him.

She slowly wills her arms to raise up, until her hands are up in the air, high enough so he can see.

“This.” She says, voice small and throat scraped raw, but she knows he would understand anyway.

This never-ending shaking, twitching, trembling, as if somebody was electrocuting her limbs all the damn time. Her treacherous hands that used to be so sure and reliable holding a gun, finger concrete-still on the trigger, and which now did not even allow her to braid her daughters’ hair. She misses their sureness and, even more than that, the sign of them simply makes her scared. Everything is more real, more tangible, seeing this tremble.

And then she starts to vomit again, with blood this time, and she doesn’t want to remember anything else from what followed, but she recalls how it ended; the blissful, cool sheets, the wet rag on her forehead. Roy on his knees by the bed, kissing her every finger and knuckle and line on her palms.

*

They go to Dalisay in June, just four of them. The road is longer and harder than Riza hoped it would be, with pain running up and down her spine like an electric current, her hands struggling to turn the pages of the book - but it’s nice anyway, so nice.

She cannot read and is too tired to talk really, so she just sits with legs resting on the opposite sofa and head nested on Roy’s shoulder, listening to Sara’s baby-bird-twitting. Her girl spends the whole journey standing up with her palms pressed to the glass, looking out of the window and asking about everything – what is this station, what is this city, how many hours ahead of us, are these sheep, mommy look, mommy look. And Riza obliges, slowly turning her head in the direction of the outside and nobody has to know that she doesn’t look at the sheep, or horses, or little farms, but she just watches Sara; her eyes gleaming, her cheeks cherry pink, dark hair curling around her face.

Eli has an alchemy book on her lap, opened right at the middle, but it’s more for the show as she’s not reading either. From time to time, she scratches Mochi’s head or pets Koya gently, but most of the time she just stays silent. Riza feels her eyes on her, as her skin tingles from the intensity of this state, with the familiar desperation, love, and longing. How to burn someone’s face in your memory, in your heart? If you stare long enough, can you remember for forever?

So, the only voices in their compartment – a nice one, really, with comfortable sofas and wooden floors and curtains, private, for what she’s more than thankful – are Sara’s questions and Roy’s answers. He knows everything about the landscape outside and Riza wonders how weird it must feel for him, going down this old memory lane with them, taking the same train that he used to take as a little boy and then teenager, but many years later, with his family and his dear, dying wife. She doesn’t know what kind of feelings it must evoke – she was always the one waiting on the train station after all, static and longing.

He tells Sara – this is river Enola, do you know where it starts? This village is called Priam, they have a sunflower festival every summer, yes, we can go see it. Yes, this blue thing is a lake, lake Moore. It’s very big. Like, hm, from your school to the park? No honey, I don’t think whales live there. Dolphins neither. But there are many other fish.

Riza skids closer to him, feeling his arm gently wrapping around her, his fingers rubbing circles on her hip. He must take comfort in knowing at least this, answering at least those questions. For Roy’s action-driven nature it must be torture to drift with her like that, time slipping from in between their fingers like water. But he slows down to stay by her side as long as they have left, wills his blood and heart to match the rhythms of hers. He is no longer her wildfire, but a rock, solemn and still.

Unflinching.

*

Dalisay’s somehow just like in her memory and completely different at once, and it makes her head spin. The streets are busier, livelier – with the opening of new train lines and the discovery of rare elements in the area nearby, her sleepy little village has never been so awake. But the air still smells like honeysuckle and strawberries, the grass is so shockingly green compared to the one in Central.

It’s a new world, altogether. It’s almost like they crossed some barrier and entered a foreign land.

And her daughters explore it eagerly, even Eli losing that worried expression from the train in order to curiously peek around the corners and listen to people talking with a melodic, longish intonation that Riza has abandoned long ago, somewhere between the first and second year of the Academy. Sara basically vibrates with energy as she runs from one stall to another on the farmer’s market, begging Roy for sugared almonds or a pack of mint candies.

As the girls lead the way, the two of them slowly stroll, step by step. Riza holds onto Roy’s arm, but she feels so light that it surprises even herself. The pains more bearable like that. She can almost convince herself that the girls are a little smaller, that they are still a First Family, that it’s just a regular Saturday like thousands before and thousands after. The sun’s so warm and honeysuckle so sweet, and they take a break here and hide in the shade for a second.

“I have dreamed of taking you on that damn market, you know.” – Roy whispers into her ear and she just has to laugh at the irritation at his voice. –“ But I never had enough money or guts to do it.”

“To be honest, I think guts were the bigger issue.” – she waves her hand at the crowd and the stalls. – “ The only thing you could’ve bought me here back then were carrots probably.”

He chuckles lightly, gently sneaking one arm around her waist to stabilize her, as the smooth street turns into a cobblestone path. She wonders briefly if he even notices those small acts of care that he performs or if they are something completely instinctual. Her heart swells at the thought and she turns her head slightly and presses a kiss just below his jawline.

“What was that for?” he asks softly, caressing her cheek with a free hand in return.

“Everything.” She simply states and rests her head on his shoulder as they continue to stroll at snail’s pace, in silence this time. She is sure he understands. They never really needed many words between them anyway.

Bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, they make their way forward.

*

There were snakes in Ishbal. Or, she supposes, there are snakes in Ishbal, since they have proven to be far more resilient than Ishbalans.

Upon entering the front, the first thing higher-ups did, was presenting  her with a pair of military boots and forbidding her to ever take them off. They were monstrous things, made from tough, boiled leather, with an extra protective layer around the ankle; they weighted a ton and made her feet cook inside, turned her skin white, slimy and wrinkly. But she and everyone else would dutifully wear them every day, even in their sleep, mindful of the alternative.

Sand vipers like dark and cool places, just like humans in the desert. They are small and sleek, their bodies fashioned for zig-zaging through the golden dunes and escaping from sunlight. If they bite you, you don’t even feel it at first; you go on with your life, resume your duties. But after two hours or so, you start to shiver violently. Then, in mere minutes,  you lose your balance. Then your sight, your hearing. And then you die, just like that. It takes maybe an hour from the first tremble. You don’t have any time to say goodbye, to write a letter to your loved ones.  You are gone before you can feel yourself slipping away.

More Amestrians died from this goddamn venom than from any Ishabalan resistance, that’s for sure.

Riza’s sickness is kinda like that.

It takes time to unravel, gives her a room to breathe, gives Roy and the girls and even herself some hope against all reason, because how can she die if she still can walk and talk and smile? If she cooked a dinner yesterday and tended to the flowers in the garden in the afternoon?

Yes, she can.

Yes, she does.

One morning, she doesn’t get up.

I still have time to say goodbye, I still have some time, I still do. - she keeps on thinking right until it runs out.

ROY

In the end, after Havoc and Catalina take sobbing Sara away to their flat, it’s only Roy and Eli, alone.  Her, curled on the bed by Riza’s right side. Him, kneeling on the floor next to the bed by Riza’s left side. Each holding her hand.

It’s very late and very quiet, no sound besides Riza’s heavy breathing. She has lost consciousness days ago and ever since then, Roy has been staring into her unseeing eyes and trying to spot just a spark of awareness in them, just a little bit of brightness. It’s all for naught, of course. Her eyes are still brown, but they are no longer hers. He doesn’t know where his wife went to, but she’s not here. He told that Eli a thousand times and more and she would always nod in understanding and then lay back down on the folded sheets and resume tracing gentle circles on Riza’s limp hand.

So he gave up trying to talk her out of staying. Besides, her presence gives him comfort, he cannot deny it; she’s the other set of heartbeat in the room that is not going to go silent any time soon. And she’s the only one who can possibly come close to understanding what he feels, no matter how different was Riza’s role in her life compared to the one in his.

Riza, Riza, Riza. Slipping through their fingers so damn quickly. He keeps on begging for just one more smile from her, just one more word that means anything; not the delirious babbling that she sometimes lets out, not those screams full of fury when they try to move her. She just went under so quickly and violently that it makes his head spin.

‘’Life is no more than a candle burning in the darkness, about to get blown away at any moment.’’ – Eli whispers, breaking the silence.

Roy almost smiles at that. They’ve been playing this game of quotes ever since she was six, but recently, she started to win more than lose. His bright girl.

“I don’t know.’’ – he admits, his eyes trained on Riza’s face. God, she is still so beautiful. Her skin is clammy from sweat, lips half-opened and cheeks hollow and she remains the only woman he has ever had eyes for. – ‘’Who wrote it?’’

‘’Mom said it.’’

Eli’s voice is heavy and, when he takes a look at her, he realizes she’s on the verge of tears.

“She did?’’

‘’Yeah. She also said I should cherish the light as soon as it lasts. But - papa, this is - so hard.’’ – his daughter lowers her head, her hair falling down and obscuring her face from him, but he can still hear her choked sobs. Her shoulders are shaking. She hasn’t called him ‘’papa’ since Sara was born.

She does not deserve this, crosses his mind. Maybe it’s my punishment for all the things I did, but she’s innocent. She’s good. She does not deserve this.

He wonders what he can say to her to make it easier for her and finds himself empty-handed and terrified. So he settles for the only thing he can say.

‘’I know, baby. I know.’’

He holds out his free hand and she takes it. Her grip is strong and sure, and he thinks, once again when did she grow up, when did it happen? Five minutes ago she used to have two long braids and missing front teeth. Ten minutes ago she used to be a sleeping babe by Riza’s breast, cheeks pink and brows constantly furrowed, as if she was pondering about the universe’s biggest questions. And now she’s here, they’re both here, holding hands in a circle and waiting in silence for the candle to burn out.

*

‘’She wanted to say goodbye so badly. We had so much time and wasted it all.’’

‘’We did not waste any time, dad. I don’t think you can ever really say goodbye to someone like that.’’

*

Riza dies before the morning comes, choking on the blood flooding in her lungs and flashing the whites of her eyes in desperate attempt to catch yet another breath. Roy does not cry; instead, he stays solemn and still as a stone, his voice loud and clear, telling her how he remembers when they first met.

“What a life we had, my love. You can go now, rest.”

He can feel his heart beating in his throat.

Eli sobs helplessly, clutching Riza’s hand to her chest.

“I love you mom, I love you, I love you.”

Maybe Eli is right. What more can you say than that? I love you, I will miss you. And Riza already knows all of that, wherever she is.

“You don’t have to be brave anymore, Riza.” - He tells her, every word dipped in honey of years well-lived.

And then there is only silence, uninterrupted, ringing in his ears like a gunshot.

He can swear that his wife last breath was a sigh of relief.

ELIZABETH

Dawn finds Elizabeth curled on the swings in the garden.

She has laid down here after mom died, hours ago; slipped out of the house just when the lights of uncle Jean’s car appeared on the driveway. In part, she wanted to give them all the space to say their goodbyes and didn’t feel like she was needed inside. In another part, she just wanted to be somewhere else for a while.

Nobody told her that death had its own smell.

And nobody told her that her mom’s corpse will still be soft and warm after she passes away. That, if one would not look for it, you could even not notice she wasn’t breathing.

Elizabeth sat on the bed and felt as mom’s hand in hers was growing colder and all she could think of is that it’s still her mom.

And so she fled, her feet wet from the morning dew and sobs still tearing through her body.

She’s not crying now; it feels like she has run out of tears, to be honest.

Somewhere, at the back of her mind, she’s thinking: there are mom’s clothes hanging in the closet. Her shoes put neatly on the shelves by the door. Her favorite mug, the one with chipped rim, on her bedside table. Her favorite perfume, the one in a blue glass bottle,  in the bathroom.

What we’re supposed to do with all of that?

What am I supposed to do, when she’s gone?

Now it’s only her and sunrise, light caressing her face like her mom sometimes used to do, when she was tucking her in.  She closes her eyes and she can almost see that; moonlight coloring mom’s hair silver and her soft, low voice wishing her goodnight. The smell of her shampoo. The quiet rhythm of her steps on the carpet as she was leaving, the sound of the door shutting close because Elizabeth never wanted the ajar.

Mom used to sing to her when she was sick. Soon you’ll get better. Soon it’ll get better.

Elizabeth pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Maybe she can pretend it’s not real, if only for now. Maybe she can forget that their time has run out.

Maybe she can just – close her eyes and think about her mom, about her face and her voice.

Ooo-ah, you’ll get better soon.

Despite the morning chill, for a moment, all she feels is warmth.

[believerindaydreams]

not a gatehouse scene

but taking place during that long strange Lent. Probably towards the end. 

(following up, among other things, on the Pablo/Tuco discussion about what this monastery’s for and veiled reference to the church’s abuse scandal. Mentioning that in case it’s triggering.)

“For christ’s sake, put the gun down,” Blondie snaps. “We’re in a holy place.”

"He’s right,” Tuco says, quietly. “Have a little faith, Angel. In my brother if nothing else.”

“I hardly know your brother,” Angel says, evidently unmoved. “Do you two seriously think that incense and stained windows would stop police from doing, what needs to be done? Or that they’d stop me?”

Tuco’s never been sure, how one could bite a lip so hard the blood flows; but his are pressed together so thin it hurts. There’s far more anger mixed into it than he trusts himself to admit right now. Nobody should be pacing around a chapel like this, weapon at the ready and checking ammo- maybe he’s not the most pious believer, but it sickens him with a ferocity that he’d hardly have imagined himself capable of. 

Of course, he could do something about that. Could just open the door, yell down for the hunting pursuers- but then maybe he’d never make it to the door. Angel Eyes is not the kind to go quietly. 

Blondie squats down besides him on the dusty kneeler, a little awkwardly, and slips an arm under his jacket. An old, habitual gesture, comforting at times when they didn’t have anything else; and Tuco nestles against him anxiously, his head against Blondie’s shoulder. It can’t hurt any. If anyone finds them here, they’re probably done for regardless. 

“You three, stay in here,” Pablo had said, serious as he’s ever been. “I’ll find out what the police want and come back for you when it’s safe. They won’t come in here.”

(He’d obeyed, because Pablo’s his brother. Blondie had, because he trusts a holy father implicitly.)

(Angel's just here because they are. Tuco wonders if the man’s regretting that.)

“...I’ll give him this much,” Angel says, running a hand over the walls. “I didn’t expect to find an honest-to-god priest hole in twentieth-century American construction, let alone one that’s up to code. There’s enough soundproofing in here to cover for a herd of elephants.”

“So we can talk?” Tuco ventures uncertainly. 

“All you like. A man of unexpected depths, your brother- I would not object to learning how he arranged this,” Angel says, with a note of admiration. “Amateur work, obviously, but sufficient unto the day...”

“Stop,” Blondie says. Rather stiffly. 

“Cheer up, Blondie. If this is what’s going to stop me desecrating an altar or six, I should think you’d be all in favour of that.“

“We don’t even know they’re here for you yet,” Tuco points out. “Maybe it’s someone else.”

“Now what are the odds of that?” Angel asks. “An entire monastery of holy, reverent monks committed to vows of silence, two half-price hustlers who kept having to go straight they were that bad at crime, and also, one assassin of international prestige and reach. Now who else do you think might be here, who’d require that many police cars?”

“A lot of people,” Tuco says. It just slips out of him. 

“The-” Blondie starts, and has to choke off the sentence, swallowing down something crude. “Tuco, what are you talking about?”

Angel actually switches his keen glance from the door to him. “I must admit, you’ve caught my attention as well. Is this anything to do with what you kept hinting about, in all those letters?”

He wishes he hadn’t said anything, wishes it so badly. If he’d only been smart enough to keep his mouth shut, Angel would be grumbling and Blondie unhappy, but at least he wouldn’t have betrayed Pablo’s trust. Not admitted that there’s broken bones festering, beneath the altar’s bright gilding...

“I spent two days being sick, when Pablo told me,” Tuco says rather dully. “Blondie thought he’d talked me into being holy for a little while. It felt like the opposite.”

“Tell me now,” Blondie says, sure and intent. “What happened, that was so bad you wouldn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want to think about it! I didn’t want you to have to think about it- maybe you don’t even remember, how bad you were last year. Feverish, so ill I thought- maybe I’m losing him, at the end- we didn’t have anywhere else to go. Or at least I thought we didn’t,” Tuco says, with a nod for Angel. “But that was the devil or the deep blue sea...and I didn’t think Blondie would have wanted your help then.”

“Possibly not,” Blondie agrees, with surprising sanity. “Maybe it would have been better that way.” 

“Shut up,” Tuco says sharply. Only two ways to deal with his partner getting into a slump, hard or soft; and he’s already as close as he can get to Blondie without doing something that’d make him blush to think of in a chapel. “It’s- look. My brother looks after bad priests. Too holy to imprison, too dangerous to leave be...he seeks them out, brings them here so they won’t hurt anybody.”

“And this is the place you asked me to save?” Angel Eyes asks, in a voice quite stripped of all emotion. 

“...yes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Blondie draws away from him, as he knew would happen. There’s such a stillness in the air, while his partners contemplate how he’s betrayed them, lied and let them down; only to tell the truth, and maybe that’s worst of all. 

The moment lies suspended, while his body holds still, too frightened even to quiver. Conscious of every smallest sensation, an ache in his knees and the sweat of thumb against fingers. Perhaps he’s never going to feel anyone’s flesh against his own, ever again. 

(By now he could almost wish for that door to open; but he trusts his brother, damnit. Damn him. Damn everything.)

“They haven’t hurt you, have they?” Angel inquires. Same quiet voice. 

“Me? Christ, no, I’m not the kind they’d want...um,” Tuco says, for once struggling with his words. There’s no elegant ways, to explain without half-measures. “No. It was just because Pablo asked me to help, that’s all. Blood thicker than water.”

“Then I don’t think I’m in much of a position, to cast moral judgements,” Angel Eyes says. “You thought it was necessary. I’ll take you at your word.”

“That’s exactly what’s wrong with you,” Blondie says. “No idea of repentance for your crimes, no concern for morality in the slightest-”

“You’re more than right about that,” Angel Eyes agrees. “There’s no point in repentance, if you’re planning to repeat the crime- and I will have no compunction about making sure the pair of you get out of this with whole skins. So. Why even waste Pablo’s time?”

“Maybe-” Blondie starts. 

He’s muffled, then, by a mouth kissing his own and hands that grab him tightly; the pair of them topple over, from the force of Tuco’s lunge. 

Silly, Angel will say afterwards, once their three-way love’s been slaked, and so will Blondie; and he’ll spin it as nervous, death-induced lust for life, when honestly it’d just been the only desperate gambit he could think of that would save them all.

Because he’d seen the way his partner’s eyes had flickered to the door, knows the unspoken tells after too many nights, too many years; and let him be damned into the bargain, if Blondie hadn’t wondered whether letting in the police on them all wouldn’t be the cleanest way to end this.

He knows, he knows for sure and certain that Blondie wouldn’t have survived that move; but he’s not sure either, that Angel could have taken that consequence.

(And himself?)

(God, he doesn’t want to think about it.)

[albaxsutton]

I Hate Tuesdays || A Self Para

*TW: Mentions of abuse, mentions of violence

Alba decided she hated Tuesdays.

She tipped the wine bottle upside down, emptying the last few drops into her already full glass. To say that her day had gone badly was an understatement. Her day had to have been constructed specially by the universe to completely f her over. She had woken up that morning optimistic; she had a nice, long shower, her train came on time and she even managed to get a free coffee from the barista she frequently flirted with at the coffee shop a block up from the Rail.

But then she saw the dismayed looks on most of her colleagues faces. The same colleagues she had been competing with for the head writers position for the past few months. It was all friendly, of course. She only truly hated one or two people on staff and that was only because they were privileged idiots and constantly lorded it over the rest of them. The others she tolerated enough to smile and greet as she walked to her desk. Her desk, like most on their floor, was a tornado of organized chaos. Anyone would look at it once and wonder how she ever managed to get any work done. For her, she knew where everything was. She could navigate with her eyes closed and most of the time, was able to grab whatever she needed without looking away from her computer.

So, when she saw the bright, yellow sticky note taped to her computer, she frowned. ‘Come see me in my office, thanks, Xavier”. Simple and ominous. She plucked from her blank monitor and glanced around to the others, who all seemed to be trying too hard to avoid looking at her. Alba rolled her eyes and set down her coffee, purse and shrugged off her jacket before traveling the sea of desks to get to the editor’s office- which she hoped would be hers one day. It was situated on the corner of the building with windows on all sides looking out at the city. The only downside was that it had a pretty open view to the entire floor, meaning no one could pull any  while he was sitting pretty at his big, modern desk with a cup of coffee and a perpetually dissatisfied expression.

She knocked on his door and entered when she heard the gruff, “come in” from the other side. Xavier was pacing behind his desk, his blue tooth on his ear. He gestured for her to sit at one of the leather chairs in front of his desk, which she did without hesitation, watching as he ushered whomever was on the other line off the phone.

“Yeah, I got it Janine… Yep… No, we can’t do that piece next month, we had to move it to December… Look, at this point, I don’t care. Let him know we have a circulation of 500,000 issues and about a million plays to review in New York. He wants an interview? Tell him to get available.” With that, he tugged the headset from his ear and tossed it on his desk. “Swear to god, these new age playwrights get a sold out opening night and suddenly they think they’re the god damned Shakespeare of their generation. Didn’t you deal with that wannabe last year, Sutton? The Italian guy, what was his name?”

“Phil Columbo?” Alba answered, obviously amused. “Yeah, I reviewed his one-man musical about the gentrification of Brooklyn Heights. Not subpar, but not the next Jonathan Larson of Alphabet City.”

Xavier shook his head and plopped down in his large, comfortable looking chair. “Yeah, you’re gettin’ him in December. I can’t deal with divas and you seem to like em’.”

“I like talent.”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” he shot back offhandedly before clearing his throat and settling into his desk properly. “You do good work, Sutton.”

Alba’s brows shot up in surprise. Getting a compliment from Xavier was like getting a blessing from the Pope at the Brooklyn Rail. His word was bible. “Thank you.”

“And you’re talented. I don’t say that a lot.” Yeah, no shit. “You’re the youngest writer on my staff, you outwork most of the people who’ve been here for years and you consistently give this magazine great content.”

She should have been basking in the praise, smiling like some idiots who got a gold star in Kindergarten. But something felt off. Something about the way he said the words set up an expectation for something bad to come. “I feel a “but” coming on…”

“That’s because there is.” Xavier said, his face both remorseful and disappointed. “If it were up to me, you’d be getting that head writers position. But unfortunately, it’s not just up to me.”

It took a few moments for her to grasp the words completely. There was always a good chance that she wouldn’t get the position, she knew that. But hearing it and expecting it were two completely different things. She felt like cold water had been splashed over her body, igniting every nerve in her body and making her fully aware of just how much that single sentence hurt. “Oh…”

Xavier sighed and sat back in his seat. “I could dance around with numbers and give you some sugarcoated excuse as to why you’re not changing your title, but I know you’re too smart for that. The fact of the matter is that you’re young and you’re not as tenured. Mikey, he’s been with us 11 years. It’s a matter of who is going to get the most respect and right now, that’s not you, kid.”

She wanted to yell at him and tell him that Mikey hadn’t written a good article since the West End run of “Cats”, but she knew that would leave her without a job and possibly blackballed in the New York journalism circuit. She wanted to tell him that she could get respect from anybody she talked to because that was just the kind of person she was. Instead, she sat and listened, her eyes not really focusing on Xavier or anything for that matter.

“I don’t have these conversations often because I don’t feel like I need to explain myself, but you’re different.” He said, his lips pursed in a thin line. “You wanted it. You worked for it and I saw that. I appreciate it. It’s just…”

“Nobody respects me.” She finished for him, her tone a tad bitter.

“Nobody respects you as supervisor material.” Xavier admitted. “Not now anyway. We respect the hell out you, you know that. Now’s just… not the time for you.”

The conversation had ended after that and she dragged herself through the rest of the day with as much grace as she had mustered. But of course, life hit her. Hard. Her interview with a rising, prominent artist had been cancelled, she spilled coffee all over her new shirt and just when her incredibly shitty day had come to an end, she missed her train and had to wait an hour for the next one. By the time she got home, she was a walking ball of nerves and irritation.

She drank from her wine glass and started to settle into her couch for a night of tipsy Netflix watching and trying to forget about the incredibly terrible day she had when a knock suddenly sounded at her door. She frowned. She hadn’t texted Mari, Terry or Siobhan about not getting the promotion yet, so it wouldn’t be them and Raul would never come over without texting first. With a heavy and irritated sigh, she stood up and crossed to her door to look through the peep hole. She froze as a face she hadn’t seen in a very, very long time appeared on the other side. Without another thought she reached forward and yanked her door open to glare at her mother on the other side.

Yelena smiled at her as if they hadn’t not been in contact in over ten years. She was exactly as Alba had remembered. Beautiful, long dark hair and big brown eyes. There were a few wrinkles on her face that weren’t there before, but she looked as if she had stepped out of a page of Alba’s memory. Or a nightmare of hers.

“Alba…” She started, looking her over. “It’s been a long time.”

She wasn’t sure what to say to the woman before her. She could feel the angry glare burning on her face, a distinct feeling of rage creeping up within her that she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to hold in. “12 years.”

Yelena nodded. “Yeah… how have you been?”

Alba stared at her in disbelief. “How have I been? That’s it?” She rolled her eyes and then squeezed them shut, a headache forming at the stress of her day. “What the f- How did you find me?”

“…I hired a private investigator.” She admitted, her smile turning sheepish. “You changed your last name, so-“

“Yeah, so that you wouldn’t find me.” Alba snapped at her. 

Yelena sighed, adjusting her purse on her arm and Alba realized, suddenly, that it was designer. In fact, everything she wore was expensive, from her shoes to her coat and even her hair cut. Alba blinked at her, wondering how her mother -the woman who couldn’t hold a job to save her life- could afford those kind of things. “Alba, sweetie, I don’t want this to be antagonistic-”

“Oh wow, “antagonistic”, that’s a big word, Yelena.” She said sarcastically, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s good to see that the drinking didn’t completely destroy your brain cells.”

“I didn’t come here so that you could insult me, Alba.”

“Then why are you here?”

Yelena sighed and looked down at her hands, perfectly manicured and weathered at the same time. “I... just wanted to see you. See how you were doing.”

Alba raised an eyebrow at her, completely skeptical. “You wanted... to see me?” She scoffed and cast her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “Ten years and you’re still a terrible liar. You wanted to see me? Where were you when I was in the hospital for a month after you set our apartment on fire?”

Yelena cringed at the words, at least having the decency to look ashamed. “Alba...”

“Where the hell were you when I was put into foster care? Where were you at my high school graduation, or my college graduation for that matter? You know I worked three jobs to put myself through school because I had nobody and ten years later, you want to see me?” Alba didn’t realize that half way through her rant, tears had started to pool in her eyes. Not because she was sad, she would never give the woman in front of her the satisfaction, but because she was angry. “Pick another lie because I don’t buy that shit.”

Her mother sighed. “I deserve that... Believe what you want, it’s true. I’ve.. done a lot  of growing up and I just want to make amends.”

Alba, with a bored and disbelieving expression, scoffed at her words. “Cry me a river.”

“Why are you acting like I don’t know I made mistakes?” Yelena said, the words coming out quickly and with an emotion that made them waiver ever so slightly. She looked close to crying too, her eyes red and her lips forced into a thin line. “I did, Alba. I made a lot of them, most of them with you. I don’t know what you want me to say!”

“An apology would be nice.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you.”

To Alba’s surprise, Yelena gave her a sad smile in return. “Crazy thing is, you sound a lot like me.”

“No, I sound a lot like Alba.” She shot out, shaking her head. “You don’t get to take credit for anything but a strong liver, great hair and childhood trauma.” She leaned against her door and shrugged. “So last chance. You tell me why you’re really here or I slam the door in your face. Your pick.”

Yelena stared at her for a moment, looking unsure of what to say. Alba couldn’t really blame her. If she had been a bad mother, she wouldn’t be sure what to say to her kid either. The fact that she even had the gall to knock on her door would have been impressive if Alba hadn’t hated her so god damn much. She reached in her expensive purse them and pulled out a small, rectangular piece of paper and held it out for her. Alba glanced at the paper and then back at her, slowly taking it and looking it over. It was a check, one with her name and “$25,000″ in the amount line. Alba’s eyes widened as she stared at hit and she looked up at her mother in shock.

“Why the hell are you giving this to me?” She said, hastily putting it back into the woman’s hand. 

The older woman took the check back looked at it, smoothing it over with her fingers as she spoke. “I got married five years ago. He’s... a really good man. He helped me get sober, get back on my feet. He paid for the private investigator to find you. He’s... going to be running for political office soon.”

Alba raised a brow at her. “And... what the hell does that have to do with you handing me a check for $25,000?”

“...He had a lot of my criminal record sealed, including the neglect and arson charge from... that day.” Yelena explained to her, clearing her throat uncomfortably. Alba didn’t know what pissed her off more. That she wasn’t exactly the woman she was from all that time ago, or that she was trying to act like that person was long gone. “I’m his wife, we can’t have any... scandals, affecting his campaign. If anybody found out that I had a daughter that I left behind... it wouldn’t be good for him.”

It slowly pieced together. And when the puzzle was complete, Alba was filled with an anger she hadn’t felt in a very long time. The anger that only came from a frustrated kid who just wanted somebody to come and whisk her away from her horrible life. Yet no one ever came. It was an anger with her mother as the singular focus. “You’ve... got to be out of your god damned mind.”

Yelena clenched her eyes shot and cringed. “Alba, just think about-”

“Oh, I don’t have to think about anything!” She yelled, not caring if her neighbors heard her rage filled words. Yelena had the good sense to take a step back as her daughter unleashed her anger. “Do you even remember all the shit you did to me? Do you remember all the times I had to defend myself when you went on some drunken episode? I had to lie to my teachers and tell them I fell. There were times I had to stay home from school because sometimes I couldn’t hide the bruises.”

Yelena listened to her with tears in her eyes and shame on her expression, but it wasn’t enough for Alba to feel satisfied. She wanted the woman in front of her to hurt just like she did. “I think we should take this inside-”

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think you’re stepping foot in my house.” She snapped, her words low and vicious. She scoffed lightly and shook her head. “Years of court ordered therapy by CPS and I still can’t function properly.” She sounded hysterical at this point, letting her words move out of her without thought of consequence. It was like a dam had been broken and there was no way to stop the rushing waters from flowing free. “I spent a lot of time wondering what I had done wrong. Because what kind of child couldn’t be loved by their mother?”

Yelena tried to reach forward, her hand open in a caring manner that Alba wasn’t used to. “None of that was your fault!”

Alba ripped way from her. “How the hell was I supposed to know that? I was a kid trying to raise myself. You know, because of you I’m just some hyper sexual, asshole whose walking around angry all the god damned time with absolutely no decent moral compass and a deep embedded distrust of men. Because you had guys coming in and out of our apartment and more times than not, I had to lock my bedroom door because some of them would try to get in. You took everything that was good and decent about my life and you crushed it with your bare hands.” 

They were both crying now. Yelena stood silently, tears running down her face while Alba had to catch her breath. “The only thing I hate more than you is the fact that deep, deep, deep down, I still wish we could have been different.” Yelena started to open her mouth but Alba cut her off. “And don’t you dare say that things can be different now, because I know you’re not that naive so... just go. We don’t have anything else to talk about.”

Her mother pressed the check forward again. “Alba, I know you have student loans and bills-”

“Which I will take care of, I don’t want your money and I don’t give a fuck about you or your husband, so just fucking go.” She sounded exhausted by the end of the sentence, emotionally and physically done with the small conversation. 

Yelena, stubborn as stubborn was, leaned down and placed the check on her doormat between them, putting a business card along with it. “That’s one of two. I can give you the other half when you agree not to say anything about... that.”

“Woman up and say it.” Alba spat out with a shrug. “Your incredibly shitty and abusive attempt at being a mom.”

“...If I could take back everything I did, I would.” Yelena admitted, her tone close to a whisper. “I want you to know that.”

Alba didn’t respond, just stared at her dead in the eye and glared. “Go, before I call the cops and have them wheel your unconscious body out of my hallway.”

The threat was sharp and enough to make Yelena jump slightly. She gave her one final look and turned on her heel to leave. Alba wasted no time in slamming her door shut, her vision blurred with angry tears. She managed to stomp back over to her wine, not realizing how badly her hands were shaking until she brought the glass to her lips. Everything that she had repressed and forgotten about in the ten years since she had last seen that woman rushed forward to the forefront of her mind. She was suddenly a little girl again, scared and curled up in her bed. She was that little that she thought she had grown up from. But here she was.

With an angry cry, she threw the wine glass across the room and watched it shatter against the wall, red wine splattering across her furniture and floor. Her chest heaved up and down, trying to take in air that just wouldn’t come. After awhile, her legs were unable to hold her up and she crumpled to the ground, crying and feeling sorry for herself and the girl that she was.

She really fucking hated Tuesdays.

[my-body-aches-for-you]

It's shit on Melissa week.

Always right before my birthday. Went on a date with a dude who pre-date seemed really ideal. Cat/animal lover, geeky, cute, seemed kind and sweet, liberal, most of the stuff I'm looking for. Drove up to him because his car was in the shop. Had a good dinner. Made me feel awkward and uncomfortable back at his place. But we were laughing and talking the entire night, no warning signs that anything was wrong. Woke up in the morning to an actual 5 paragraph essay about how he thinks I'm gorgeous and smart and funny, but then the jokes I was making apparently offended him (he never said a word and he laughed at everything) and basically picked apart my entire character and told me how horrible he basically thought I was. That was disgusting and jarring to say the least. He told me I was rude and insulting. And it's like, dude, you wrote a 5 paragraph essay about how horrible you think I am, but I'M the rude and insulting one over a few jokes? And he told me I had no manners which just ultimately blew my mind.

Then today a friend I've known for 12 years just went to town on breaking me apart because I tried to educate her on late term abortion. She didnt like that I expected her to know things I guess? And she got nasty with me about how all I like to do is debate and argue with people (girl, when was the last time you even remember me doing anything like that?) And she told me I'd have more friends if I changed my personality basically. Which I told her I have enough friends, but thanks for the concern.

I dont get why people think it's ok to make comments on people's personalities. The date dude didnt have to write a 5 paragraph essay. Extremely unnecessary. A simple "I just wasn't feeling it" would have sufficed and would have been more polite. You dont want to ghost me. Ok. Literally the smallest sentence telling me you werent digging me would have been fine. Why do people think that's ok? It's not. I'm not going to dim my brightness to make you, or anyone, more comfortable. You're not worth me being unhappy with who I am. Nobody is. "You can take it as constructive criticism." Or, how about this, you dont criticize people for who they are? A person's personality isnt and shouldn't be subject to constructive criticism.

I hope he unblocks me at some point and realizes that he's the asshole in this situation, even if he made me feel like one at first. I'm not going to feel badly for being myself. My friend cant handle asking to be educated about something. My bad I guess. I'll know better next time then to try and expect people to be educated about what they're talking about. Still not going to dim my light for you just because you chose to be mean and cruel in your interaction with me. No need to tell me "this is why you don't have friends." I have all the friends I need right now, thanks for the concern though. I'm happy how I am, date dude, thanks for the concern though. Everyone can go fuck themselves if they want or expect me to be someone I'm not.

[thebachelordiaries]

Jocks And Finance Bros: Bachelorette First Impressions

Becca, I hope you like jocks and finance bros. 

If not, you’re shit out of luck.

Becca dates one athlete and they beat that one dating preference of her’s to death by casting 18 or so former athletes. Kind of like how they beat “Let’s Do The Damn Thing” tagline to death.

I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.

A letter to the men on this season of The Bachelorette:

Do you think you deserve this goddess of a woman, Becca Kufrin? You probably don’t. You probably think too highly of yourself to know this.

Maybe two of you will be good enough for her. Five of you may turn out to be decent people, but that’s me being generous. If it’s anything like JoJo’s season, we will have just one or two decent men. ABC producers, please don’t let me down. Oh wait, you already did with the super-short bios. 

This season we have 25 28 men vying for Becca’s heart, or at least a blue checkmark on their Instagram page. At least one of you will get fake engaged on Paradise and six of you will move from middle-of-nowhere USA to Los Angeles and move back home within a year. I’m not sure which guys will do that yet, but it’s always fun to guess!

Anyway, good luck with your 15 minutes of fame!

Signed,

The Bachelor Diaries.

WTF: No Q&A?

ABC did not include the usual Q&A in this year’s cast bios. I’m so offended. How will I truly understand these men if I don’t know what kind of fruit they’d be or what kind of superpower they’d want?

I would boycott this season because of this, but I have literally nothing better to do on Monday nights, or any night for that matter. I’m still going to try my best to roast these men, of course. It shouldn’t be that hard.

Despite no Q&A’s, I will still form my own opinions on these guys. I, like Kanye West, am a free thinker. Go poopidy-scoop yourself, ABC.

Ok, now let’s get to know these men:

Alex, 31, Construction Manager

Alex is the male equivalent of the basic white girl. He likes country music, his dog, the beach and skiing. He probably has “Let’s go on a hike together!” on his Bumble profile and regularly wears a Patagonia dad hat.

Blake, 28, Sales Rep

We already met horse boy Blake on After The Final Rose. He either played baseball or football in college. Thanks for being so concise, ABC. However, he looks like a baseball player to me. While originally from a small town in Colorado, he definitley lives in LA now. He also believes “two people need to be independent in order to truly love each other” so I think that means he’s into open relationships and or will cheat on you.

Chase, 27, Advertising VP

Chase, unlike Blake, was definitley a college baseball player who was apparently good enough to be in the College Wold Series but evidently not good enough to go pro— at least longterm. We also met Chase on ATFR and I don’t remember much about him. He likes “adventure” and the “outdoors” so he’s quite the special snowflake.

Chris, 30, Sales Trainer

What even is a sales trainer? Chris hopes to retire by 40. In this economy? Good luck with that. He is passionate about “fitness” and “health” which is so unique and different. I feel like I really got to know him through that piece of information.

Christian, 28, Banker

Christian is a former semi-pro soccer player who moved to the US from Mexico when he was three. I feel like his picture makes him look like he has a little head, but other than that he seems alright.

Christon, 31, Former Harlem Globetrotter/ Professional Dunker

I spent a good 30 seconds wondering why two guys with the same name didn’t have their last name initials included in their bios. It took another 30 seconds to notice that Christon was spelled differently than Christian. So this dude is a professional dunker in LA. My first thought is that he’d have a pretty good intro video package for The Bachelorette. Anyone want to put money down that he gets one?

Clay, 30, Pro Football Player

Clay was on his way to the poetry slam but somehow got lost and ended up on the Bachelorette. He allegedly doesn’t curse but is a fan of hip-hop music. I think he is the “famous” football player who was in talks to be on this season. Apparently I should care. Never heard of him. 

Colton, 26, Former Pro Football Player

“Hi, my name is Colt and welcome to my Youtube Channel!” That’s the vibe I’m getting from this picture. I’m also getting Blake Griffin vibes. He just looks strangely tan here. Colton may have a job at the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. I’m curious to know if he has a story as to WHY he is involved with CF. He also lives in Denver and has a dog named Sniper, which is awkward because the neighboring city of Boulder just banned assault weapons.

EDIT: He was the guy who asked out Aly Raisman via public video and they briefly dated. I shipped them so hard. I AM SHOOKETH.

Connor, 25, Fitness Coach

I feel like I’m going to be sick if I hear one more guy talk about how they were “almost” a professional athlete and how much they lo0o0o0ove working out. I’m sadly only at the beginning of this cast list. Someone pray for me. And someone pray that Connor’s eyebrows grow back after that terrible wax job.

Darius, 26, Pharmaceutical Sales Rep

Darius works for big pharma yet claims to be dedicating his life to helping others. Err, okay. He likes to dance and travels a lot so my guess is he’s probably not ready to settle down at age 26 despite his 36-year-old hairline.

David, 25, Venture Capitalist

David looks like every finance bro who lives in West Village and only dates 22-year-old Instagram models. The only difference is that he lives in Denver instead of Manhattan, which by society’s standards makes him more wholesome. He also loves guacamole, but dislikes avocado, which roughly translates to: I don’t cook and eat Chipotle for dinner every night.

Grant, 27, Electrician

The only way Grant is making it past night one is if he shows up fully dressed as a member of the Village People or as Bob The Builder. If not, he has no chance.

Garrett, 29, Medical Sales Rep

Pro tip to ABC: The letter A comes before the letter R in the alphabet. These names are out of order. 

Anyway, Garret reminds me of Ben Afleck in that his face just makes me want to punch him..in the face. Besides the fact that he also works for big pharma, he actually has outdoor hobbies besides “I enjoy fresh air and walking in the woods” like fly fishing and showshoeing. I’m hoping he isn’t a giant jerk because I kind of like him.

Jake, 29, Marketing Consultant

I thought his name was “Joke” at first because I am a terrible person. I think Joke...I mean Jake...is from the same city as Becca. (I’m assuming Minnesota only has one city) I feel like all hot people in cities have this inner-circle where they know of each other, so maybe they’ve crossed paths before.

Jason, 29, Sr. Corporate Banker

Andrew Keegan? I love your work. “Jason” likes sports and singing along to Disney movies. He contains multitudes. 

Jean Blanc, 31, Colognoisseur

I love that ABC took a smart, educated, immigrant with a successful job and gave him a fake occupation on television. Jean Blanc is a cologne connoisseur. I feel like he would smell good. 10/10 would smell him.

Joe, 31, Grocery Store Owner

I feel like a lot of these bios are the equivalent to what it’s like to drive in an Uber. The driver is always explaining to you how successful they are and where they traveled as a way to prove they aren’t some loser driving you around. Joe’s bio screams “Yeah I own a grocery store but also worked in finance before I burnt myself out, so don’t judge me.” Nobody was judging you, but now I am.

John, 28, Software Engineer

John hopes to be the first Asian male to make it out of night one on The Bachelorette. I can already tell he’s better than most of these guys: he works at a start-up in Silicon Valley, likes wine, plays guitar and bakes banana bread. He deserves a rose, dammit!

Jordan, 26, Male Model

Robert Mills, who is like an important ABC guy or something, called Jordan the “greatest Bachelorette contestant of all time.” Clearly he’s trying to make us forget about Chad. Good luck with that, Robert. Definitley not happening.

So Jordan is probably this season’s villain. Whatever, I don’t care. I DO care, however, that his bio is bragging about a mediocre 4:24 mile time and “sprinting to the finish line.” The time was written as “4.24″ by ABC and a comma is also missing from that sentence. ABC, let me know if you want to hire me as an editor. Back to the mile comment: A mile is an endurance mid-distance race. Nobody is technically sprinting in it, unless it’s a tactical race. Puns don’t work if they’re factually incorrect. 

Kamil, 30, Social Media Participant

Kamil works in real estate and is a part-time model, but ABC decided to call him a “social media participant.” He’s originally from Poland but lives in Upstate New York, which is evident based on the fact he’s wearing a denim button-up shirt.

Leo, 31, Stuntman

It’s crazy how fast Alex Bordy grew his hair in a year. “Not Alex Bordy” is a stuntman in LA, which I heard is a pretty sick job. I am personally a fan of his hair. He knows how to tame those curls and probably rocks a great man bun. I would love to know what products he uses.

Lincoln, 26, Account Executive

Lincoln has a lot of things going on in his bio. He moved to Boston from Nigeria as a teenager, went to college in Kentucky and moved to Santa Monica for work. We met him on ATFR and he was super nervous, cute and had an accent to make most girls swoon. I’d say make him The Bachelor but 26 is too young in my opinion.

Mike, 27, Sports Analyst

How come every Ohio sports fan names their dog Riggins? Based on his hair, I’m assuming Mike is a radio sports analyst. That hair on television? No thank you. Hopefully Leo can give him some tips to make his hair look decent. Did you know: Becca’s psycho ex Ross used to have long hair? It was not cute. But I don’t think Becca is going to send the long-haired guys home immediately a la the notoriously shallow Andi Dorfman.

Nick, 27, Attorney

I’m excited for Nick to be on the show because I know him by association. Let me explain: A friend of mine went to school with one of his friends and periodically stalks her social media. The friend is a girl, so I think he’s friends with mostly girls, which may explain why he loves to “brunch.” He looks terrible in this photo. Nick gives me polished, sexually ambiguous vibes based on how he appears on Insta. I also knew he was going to be on the show before R*ality St*ve, which made me feel powerful. It was a rush.

Rickey, 27, IT Consultant

I know of Rickey too. He was a Bodybuilding.com Spokesmodel Search finalist in 2017. Hashtag #rightreasons. I’m not sure how “online personal trainer” translates to IT consultant, but ok. Side note: I don’t think bodybuilders look good in suits so he might go home night one. 

Ryan, 26, Banjoist

Before the “Yanny or Laurel” debate there was the “Ryan or Brian” debate on After The Final Rose. Evidently the answer is Ryan. He’s the new Wells and I could not be more excited to watch this babe on my television screen. He plays at least four instruments and loves to sail. He also screams “family money” but it’s ok, we can mooch off his parents together.

Trent, 28, Realtor

Can you imagine having a child and naming it Trent? This guy never had a chance. He is a realtor and a part-time model (I swear I wrote the same thing a few contestants up) and has appeared on covers of romance novels, but I certainly wouldn’t call him the next Fabio.

Wills, 29, Graphic Designer

Wills is a graphic designer who loves Harry Potter. I see no problem here. Except for maybe his porno-stache.

Prediction corner: 

Welcome to the prediction corner where I never get anything right. Oh, you know what happens because you read spoilers? Please keep that information to yourself. I like to find out what happens on my own.

Without further ado, here are my baseless predictions:

First Impression Rose: The guys who got the First Impression Rose on the last three seasons became engaged to The Bachelorette. If that happens this year I demand a scientific case study to explain the power of first impressions on women. Anyway, I think Ryan gets it.

Season Villain: Jordan (that was easy)

Next Bachelor: Blake (don’t ask me why)

Winner: Garrett (I like him)

Comment below to let me know your early favorites!

[mallory-writes]

Do you know that horrible feeling when someone tells you something bad about your work? Whether it’s about your writing or anything else, in today’s post we’ll learn how to deal with it and how to accept it.

Identify the type of criticism

Try to realize if the person that criticizes you actually wants your best and not to hurt you. For example, if your best friends says that the last chapter you wrote is a little bit boring, they probably don’t mean to hurt you. However, there are also many people who will just try to take you down by being mean. So, the first step is to realize the intention of the person you are talking to, in order to learn how to react properly.

Express yourself

Everyone tends to act completely unaffected when they are criticized. It’s a coping mechanism in order to seem like you don’t care a lot or that you are not actually hurt. I do that all the time and it’s a habit I’m trying to get rid of. Nobody says that you should start crying every time someone tells you something that’s not a compliment, but there is nothing wrong with accepting/showing the fact that you are sad/disappointed. 

Normal ways to react to criticism>

“Thank you for telling me that. Even though it makes me sad, it is actually helpful on the long term.” “I’m glad you told me the truth. Lying to me just to protect my feelings is never a solution.” “I’m happy to have another point of view about this chapter/scene/word/etc. I’m a little bit sad because I wanted to do better, but this will help me improve and develop my skills.”

Of course, these answers apply only if the criticism is politely expressed and is meant to be constructive and not offensive.

Be objective 

This one is really hard. When being criticized, there are two mistakes that you can make. Not believing a word because you are sure that you are actually perfect or believing it all and thinking that you are terrible and there is no way to get better. 

What you should be doing is trying to read your writing like an outsider. If a paragraph seems incredibly deep to you, trust yourself! If a chapter seems boring or has a lazy rhythm, trust your intuition. For example, if Susan told you that a line seems a little bit ridiculous, read that line like it’s the first time you’ve seen it. 

Maybe Susan is right and there is something to improve there. But if you read it and tried to be objective and it still seems like a great sentence to you, just let it go! After all, it is your writing, your story, your choice. People have so many different tastes and beliefs. What works for me may not work for you and that is okay!

Fight it

Obviously, there are some situations when criticism is not necessary and it’s said only to hurt others. When this happens, you are not supposed to be quiet and accept it. It is hard, but stand up for yourself and for your work.

Here are some types of criticism that are not constructive and are only meant to hurt you ( + answers ideas )

“Why are you even writing? You are obviously not smart enough for it.” Answer> “Writing has nothing to do with how smart you are. You should know that the best. I mean, you write all sorts of things day after day.”

“Your characters and plot are terrible and boring.” Answer> “At least I created characters and a plot. After you do that, we can continue this conversation.”

“Your writing account is lame/pathetic.” Answer> “Maybe yours would be better, but I can’t find it anywhere. Oh, yes, I remember now. You are not brave enough to create one.”

“No one is ever going to publish a kid like you.” Answer>”No one thought that we are going to land on the Moon one day, isn’t it? And trust me, publishing a book is much easier than that.”

Of course, there can be many other situations, but I count on you to find a good answer and defend your work. After all, people who don’t respect you do not deserve to have an opinion on you.

Know your worth

Nowadays, people care about such pathetic things. We are shamed for being different, for being too loud, too quiet, too sensitive, too happy, too positive, too optimistic, too serious or too hard-working. We are shamed for our style, for the clothes we choose, for wearing or not wearing makeup, for reading or writing or liking to draw, for having good or bad grades, for having different opinions and beliefs, for expressing them. So, in a world where everything that is good is criticized, your work, your writing is going to be criticized. Not necessarily because it’s bad or because it’s really boring. Even if it’s amazing and everyone loves it, there will be that one person who will not think like that, just because they can. 

And that’s why you need to know your worth. Criticism does not define you. Whether it’s true or not, you are so much more than that. When it’s the case, learn from it and grow, improve your writing and become better. It’s like running everyday for a whole year to increase your resistance and then not running for a week. Do you think your progress is lost? Of course not! Just like that, a critique or some bad words about your work do not erase all your effort and hard work and the amount of times you gave your soul on paper. 

Do not let it be that way.

[natasha-talks]

The Relapse-

4th August 2021; Bismillahirrahmanirrahim.

This is something that is so difficult for me to do. I don't even know how to construct a full sentence. I couldn't find the right word to describe what i'm feeling. Like a baby, who is not able to talk trying to tell her parents that she is in absolute pain - She cries.

I've been feeling this for about a month, i would say. But i kept on being in denial because i've been told so many times that everything is fine to a point i thought i was overthinking. But i'm turning 23 in 6 days and no, my intuitions are always right. Always.

Yesterday, the man that i love most finally said that it's not going to work out. It didn't kill me but something inside me died. It felt like someone poured salts all over your wounds. It was too painful because he gave up on us while i'm still here trying to understand and fix things. I was not sad that he's going to leave me because i understand that this ain't just about me, it's about him too. His feelings matter. But it killed me when he started disrespecting me with "What the hell?" "What the hell is wrong with you?" "Shhhhhhhit" and the list goes on. I have always looked up to him as someone who is mature but yesterday, i felt like i was talking to a different person. It's like i have never known him. I saw the look in his eyes and the only thing i could see was.. nothing. He looked at me as if i am the most horrible person in this world. But i let it slide because i know that he's been dealing with things and i really thought that i've been there for him but the truth is, i am stupid for thinking he would actually notice and appreciate the little things i've done for him when i have actually saw numerous signs that he's not that type. From the things he said about himself to the things he said about other people. It made me realise yesterday that it is a narcissistic behavior. But somehow, it still didn't change the amount of love that i have for him. Because i saw it. I saw it from the very beginning but i still chose him. I chose him, fully and i knew what i was signing up for.

He said that it's me. I am flawed, i know but it's not like i don't want to try and make things better. I kept on asking but i guess, that will never be enough. He said I treated him poorly by not giving comfort. I have told him to teach how he wanted it to be because my way of comforting is different and i have never dealt with people saying that i'm not a good listener or good at giving comfort. But yea, there are so many things that i've done but it will never be seen. I knew it for quite some time and yesterday, he proved me right again. It's when i said i do understand but he quickly cut me off by saying i don't and gave an example. You see, he would focus on the flaws instead of the good things i've done. He didn't notice that talking to him is like having to walk on eggshells. But i'm not complaining, i have never complained because again, i knew what i was signing up for and i love him still up until this very moment and i think i will always love him no matter what he puts me through because i really really let down my walls for this man when i have actually promised myself not to be with anyone. I even brought him back home to meet my parents. My mom was the one who told him that he's the first because i have never been that type.

Yesterday made me realise that he said everything is about me. At first, i almost fell for that but while i was busy crying, it actually made me realise that this relationship was not about me or us. It's about him. When he asked me what did i want him to do for me, i said "Im just looking for respect in this relationship" and he said he wants comfort and peace. He started listing out other things too. If i were to ask, there are so many things that i wanted but i never did because i really really accept him for the way he is. He never gave me comfort, it's always "It's okay, i'm here. We'll get through this together" -- I'm not complaining by the way. The comfort that i need is advise, is for someone to guide me when i'm wrong and have a discussion about it. But again, i have never complained. Whatever that he gave me, i accepted it and i do appreciate it. But it's sad. It's really sad that it's not the same for him.

He told me yesterday that i couldn't let go of my past. To be honest, i have never cared about the people from my past. He told me many times that its a new book and i started to view things differently. I started posting throwbacks when i saw it coming. One of my ways of coping to look back and remind myself that it's possible for me to be happy. Those were all me at my best and how i dealt with things. It got nothing to do about me wanting to be the old Natasha. Because the current Natasha is the one who made it through. Who has been clean for a year and a half. I am proud of her even when nobody else does because i know i did this on my own - of course, with the help of my friends and my extended family members. Arwah atuk left me last Ramadhan and my world changed. It felt like 2018 again. I miss him. I really really do because he gave me comfort that i couldn't have. A person that i can be vulnerable with without having the fear of being judged. But he's gone for good.

He told me yesterday that when things didn't go my way about the pasta panas, i started acting poorly. That was the first argument we had. He's not wrong, i did act poorly even when i know it's not his fault. I know he wants to put me on the good side. But that day, it really broke me because he actually said that he missed me, for the first time the day before and i was so excited to see him. It was never 100% about pasta panas? It's just me wanting to show him that i miss him too. I apologised but he brought it up again yesterday. He brought up so many things to a point i questioned myself, was he lying this whole time? Because he told me he forgave me and it's important to learn and grow.

That's the word. I want to grow and i know that i can always grow alone because i've been there, done that. But i chose to grow with this man because i may not know how to show it according to him, i love him with all of me. It hurts me soooooooooooo bad knowing that he's hurt. Because i never wanted to hurt him. That's why i kept my distance when we first started talking because i knew that i was not healed. I took my time to heal and i came back when i was ready even when i thought he was seeing someone else because of the story he posted. But i tried. I could have always date someone else but the reason why i chose him, it's not only because i thought he's smart. It's because i really prayed for signs and then 27th January came. Things didn't go like how we both expected but yea, i have never stopped praying and it's always him. The signs, it's always leading back to him.

Yesterday, it was the day when i cried the hardest because it was painful. Too painful even when i know i can always get over it but i have no idea, why.. it's painful. From 12pm i was crying over the phone with Danish because i knew somethings not right but he left me in the dark and i couldn't stand wondering what did i do. I couldn't talk to him because he made himself unavailable. Even when he's available, he would say that things were okay. It was never fair. Not for me and for anyone who was put in that situation. I could have done it to him a lot of times but never once it came across my mind to do that to him. I know i mentioned about red flags at the beginning of this post-- "You know it's going to hurt you so bad right when this relationship is over?", he's right. It will hurt me because i love him more but it's never right to say that as if i am not capable of fighting it. Plus, i've been through everything. It will hurt me like hell if this relationship is over but i hope Allah will give me the strength if the day comes. Nauzubillah min zalik. Something that i don't ever want to face is the day that i know it's not going to work out.

Yesterday, i have never prayed hard for things to go back the way it used to be or for things to get way better for the both us. I have never cried to a point i couldn't close my eyes because it's going to hurt my head so much and it felt like my eyes were burning but after an hour of struggling to sleep, i finally slept and i accidentally woke up at 1.52am. I tried sleeping back but i couldn't and at 2.05am, i decided to perform solat tahajjud. I googled how to perform solat tahajjud and i did it. It was my first solat tahajjud. I forgot to mention that, Asr, Maghrib, Isya' and tahajjud, i couldn't control my emotions because of the Kaaba on my praying mat, it reminded me of him. He planned to take me there with him after our nikah. He wants to perform umrah and Hajj with me as a husband and wife. I couldn’t help it. I felt so weak. 

My last sujood for Subuh, i poured my heart out to Him. I was shaking, i couldn’t control my emotions. All the prayers i made yesterday, it was all just for us. Not for me, just us. I really really want this to work out and i know that only He can change this. I poured my heart out on the praying mat for Him to soften both of our hearts, for Him to shower us with comfort and peace, for Him to protect us from the evil eye, shaytan, iblis, humans and unwanted diseases, for Him to ease our journey and bless our relationship as we want to make this halal, for Him to shower us with endless rizq and success, for Him to make us a better Muslim, for Him to protect us from the hellfire and place us in the highest rank of Jannah. The rest, it’s between me and Him. I prayed really hard for this.

But hey! Look on the bright side, i performed my first tahajjud. While i was crying to Him, a thought came to me.. Maybe this is a way for Him to remind me that He can give everything that i need, something that i’ve been praying for and He can also take everything away from me in a blink of an eye if i do not practice myself as a good Muslim. Maybe this is a test for me and for him for us to grow stronger and wiser. Suddenly, there’s a voice inside my head telling me to have patience because this is shaytan’s doing. They do know that we want to make things halal and that’s something that they hate so they have made a promise to create chaos in our heads and turn us against each other, in the end, everything will be ruined. I am a firm believer that Allah is the only Protector and He will protect us from all of these. 

This test is not only to test our faith but it is also to test our patience. I almost gave up but i did not. No matter what he puts me through, i signed up for this and after all the things we’ve been through, i still choose to look at him the same way as i did at the very beginning. He hurt me but it doesn’t that he’s the only one. I hurt him too and i wish to stop, that’s why i kept on asking in order to make this work. Leaving was never an option for me because no matter what, i don’t want to make it a habit because this habit, it will be carried until marriage. When things get rough, you fix and work together against it, not leave. What will happen to the kids if we are unable to control our emotions? I am tired of always being the bigger person and still, not be seen because i do realise that i am surrounded by so many people with a slight narcissistic attitude or worst, some are just purely narcissists. 

For this man, he’s not. I don’t blame him. I’ve been telling myself that maybe he is so used to being in a bubble where all of the people around him would always make him feel good and he would always feel like he needs to be good. Maybe i’m wrong and this will probably offend him but i don’t sugar coat things to make someone feel good. But that’s the thing, your partner shouldn’t be the kind of person who needs to always sugar coat things, your partner should be the one who would remind you and slap you with reality. You will never grow if you’re so comfortable not having people going against you, you will never grow if you cannot accept opinions and only want the things that you want without thinking about other people. Relationships should be about two people compromising. I used to do that to people and at the end, they felt so powerful and they threw me away as if i was nothing because they thought they could get everything. Oh by the way, i’m not comparing. He’s not even in the category to be compared with. He told me that i need to do a lot of learning and i admit that but i think he needs it too because the he projects his issues, that’s not the way it should be. Those words, the way he listens- defensive listening, the body language and so many more. It’s a learning process. 

5.07pm; I stopped crying because i know that this is what the shaytan would be so happy about. Filled myself with rage, sadness and thoughts i shouldn’t have. But i know i’ve been here for too many times and it is so stupid of me if i would react the same way. I’ve learned a lot and i won’t repeat the same mistakes again. 

For now, i’m counting days until Allah grants all of my prayers about us. 

I miss him but i respect his space. I know he’s okay without me, this is test for me to fight alone. 

Lots of love, 

NNS.

[enchantedevents]

♡Bachelorette #23: Karmen Inca♡

Name:  Karmen Inca Age: 22

Would you consider yourself a beauty or a beast?: I shower too often to be a beast, so the first one!

Snow White lived with seven little men. Would you prefer to be bid on by Happy, Dopey, Grumpy, Bashful, Sneezy, or Sleepy and why?: I’m sorry, but why isn’t Doc an option? There are seven dwarves, after all, not six! And Doc is the one that I would want to bid on me anyway. He’s the smart one and moreover, the other six are defined by a single trait, and nobody wants someone one-dimensional.

Finish the sentence: “Who needs true love’s kiss when I can wake someone up with my________________.”   Alarm clock. It goes off every day at 5 AM, but it’s Shakira at least, which I hope softens the blow.

What is your favorite part of your body and why?:  I really like my arms! I use them every day and I think they’re nice and strong and long and utterly helpful.

Would you say the size of a person’s wand matters most, or the magic they make with it?: As the age old adage states, size doesn’t matter.

If your last partner claimed you were a fixer upper, would you keep that relationship or let it go? It depends on how often they claimed that and what they were claiming that about. I know there are things I can stand to improve upon, especially in terms of relationships, but there’s a line between constructive criticism and insults.

Which hot Walt MILF do you relate to the most?: A. Ariel Triton – I’m a dreamer who’s ambitious and determined! B. Tinker Bell – I’m feisty and a little bit mean, but that’s what’s so cute about me! C. Cinderella – You’d conduct a kingdom-wide search for me because I’m that unforgettable!

Where will you be taking your lucky highest bidder?: Given that I’ve never been on a date, I’m going to go with the most basic of answers: dinner and a movie. I’m talking about a night chock full of the cliches I’ve yet to experience, starting at The Enchanted Cinema where we both pretend we want to watch the latest romantic movie instead of the movie we actually want to see. From there, a nice dinner at Tony’s sounds divine. You can open the door for me, and when we’re done, we can split the dessert. The night comes to a picturesque close as we walk off our dinner in the park. Awkward small talk comes highly recommended. Let’s have fun with it!

COME BID ON KARMEN THIS FRIDAY.