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maxwell-grant · 3 years ago

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Excuse Me what is pulp and why is it importan?

Good question! And probably one I should have answered sooner. Time to put on the historian hat for this one.

"Pulp" is a term used mainly to describe forms of storytelling that sprang out or were dominant in 20th century cheap all-fiction American magazines from the 1900s to the 1950s. The pulp magazine began in 1896, when Frank Munsey's Argosy magazine, in order to cut costs, dropped the non-fiction articles and photographs and switched from glossy paper to the much less expensive wood pulp paper, hence the name. The pulp magazines would mainly take off as a distinct market and format in 1904, when Street & Smith learned that Popular Magazine, despite being marketed towards boys, was being consumed by men of all ages, so they increased page count and started putting popular authors on the issues.

It was specifically the 1905 reprint of H.Rider Haggard's Ayesha that not only put Street & Smith on the map as rivals to Argosy, but also inspired other companies to start publishing in the pulp format. Pulps encompassed literally everything that the authors felt like publishing. Westerns, romance, horror, sci-fi, railroad stories, war stories, war aviation stories. Zeppelins had a short-lived subgenre. Celebrities got their own magazines, it was really any genre or format they could pull off, anything they could get away with.

Nowadays, although they came quite late in it's history, the American pulps are most famous for it's "hero pulps", characters like The Shadow and Doc Savage that are viewed as a formative influence on comic book superheroes. The pulp magazines in America lasted until the 1950s, when cumulative factors such as paper shortages, diminishing audience returns and the closing of it's biggest publishers led to it dying off, although in the decades since there's always been publishers calling their magazines pulp. That's the American pulp history.

But pulps are a phenomenon that spans the entire world and has a much bigger history to it, because pulps have become synonymous with cheap fiction magazines and those have a much bigger history. In America, before the pulps, you had the dime novels, the direct predecessors of the pulps, as well as the novelettes. England had it's penny dreadfuls and story papers, and continued publishing pulp-format magazines past the American 1950s, and that's how we got Elric of Melniboné. France and Russia arguably got to it first with it's 1800s coulporters, chapbooks and particularly the feuilletons which lasted all the way to the 20th century and created characters such as Arsene Lupin, Fantomas and The Phantom of the Opera. The Germans published pulp under the name hefteromane. Japan also published pulp magazines both original as well as imported, and the current "light-novel" phenomenon started off as an equivalent of pulp magazines (it's even on the Wikipedia page). China has wuxia, Brazil has cordel, Italy has gialli. There were Indian, Persian, Ethiopian, Canadian, Australian pulps and much more. Look anywhere in the world and you'll find examples of "pulp" happening again and again, under different circumstances and time periods.

Even if we stick to American fiction, it's impossible to state that all pulp heroes must come from the 1900s-1950s pulp magazines, because that forces us to exclude some of the most popular pulp heroes like Indiana Jones, Green Hornet, Rocketeer and The Phantom. Pulp may have once been a term meant to refer to pulp magazines exclusively, but it's morphed and lost structure and it's become the closest thing we have to a general umbrella term that allows us to try and consolidate these under a shared history. It's a lot, as you can see, and it's why several pulp historians that broaden their scope outside of 1930s American fiction have adopted Roland Barthes's definition of pulp as "A Metaphor With No Brakes In It", which is still the closest thing to a true working definition we have.

Why is it important? You tell me. I don't like to stake claims about stuff being "important", everyone's got their own priorities in life. Surely a lot of people would scoff at the idea of old populist fiction published in what was functionally equivalent to toilet paper having any sort of "importance". On the other hand, some people definitely want to talk big about the pulps as a cultural bedrock of fiction, something that's baked into the lifeblood of all fiction as we currently know it. Which it is, mind you, but I don't like to talk about pulp fiction's value being derived mainly from merely the things it inspired.

There is definitely a historical importance to be had in cataloguing them. According to the US's foremost pulp researcher Jess Nevins, 38% of all American pulps no longer exist, and 14% of all American pulps survive in less than five copies. Many libraries have very scant, if any, records on them, many collectors are hard to locate and are uncooperative when it comes to sharing information and letting outsiders view their collections. A lot of them are bound up in legal complications that prevents them from taking off in the public domain, and a lot of them ARE public domain but are completely inacessible as research material. And that's the American pulps, foreign pulps have fared far worse in posterity, with records inaccessible to people unfamiliar with the language or locations, many existing merely in mentions on decades-old records, and hundreds if not thousands of them being completely gone beyond recovery or recall.

Gone, dead, wasted, destroyed. They can't be found in barbershops or warehouse or bookstores, not even in antique stores. Hundreds, thousands of characters, stories and creators, gone. Time and posterity have crushed them to dust, forgotten and ignored by their successors. Unfettered by pretenses of respectability that repressed their glossier counterparts, in packages meant to be destroyed after reading, proudly announcing itself as trash. Things that should have never even lasted as long as they did have died many times now. It's heroes peripherical shapeshifters, nearly all of whom seem dead, quite dead, as dead as fictional characters can possibly be.

But they do not die forever. Many of them have, maybe most of them have, but many of them linger on.

"The strange red flickering of 1930’s fiction seems distant now. You hold in your hand the product of a time too remote to recall, and feel a slow stir of wonder. The smell of pulp pages, an illustration, an advertisement, these fragile things mark the slow hammering of time and display what it has done. About you are today’s machines, today’s shadows.

Outside the window, leaves hang against the sky, as did leaves during the 1930’s. The sound of voices are no different then than now. You hold the magazine and feel something quite delicate slipping past. These solid forms surrounding you are all insubstantial. Time’s hammer will also pass across them, leaving little enough behind." - Spider, by Robert Sampson

Many of the things people call dead are just things that have been sleeping for a while or haven't had the chance to be born. Pulp fiction is dead on the page, inert, unless your imagination breathes live to it, and every now and then, one way or another, these characters dig themselves out of dustbins. Maybe it's a brief revival, maybe it's a successful reboot. Maybe they find publishers, or maybe the public domain allows them to find new life. Maybe new creators do interesting things with them, and maybe, just maybe, they live again because some won't shut up about them online. Some curious impulse led you to me, did it not?

We all have our Frankensteins to obsess over, and these are some of mine. As someone who's lived a life perpetually restless over pursuit of knowledge, pulp has lured me like a moth to flame, because I literally never run out of things to discover within it, I never run out of possibilities. As the years pass and the public domain starts being more and more open to the public, more and more narrative real state is brought forth for writers and artists and creators to play around.

Pulp is the dark matter of fiction, the uncatalogued depths of the ocean, the darkest recesses of space. It's the box of your grandfather's belongings, the treasure you find in an attic, a body part sticking out from an old playground. It's the things that don't work, don't succeed, the things that don't fit, that are out of place. That shouldn't live and succeed, and did so anyway. The things that slither in the cracks, the shadows behind the curtain.

Aren't you interested in peering on what's behind the curtain?

The exquisite workmanship of the head, of a pre-pyramidal age, and the hieroglyphics, symbols of a language that was forgotten when Rome was young–these, Kane sensed, were additions as modern to the antiquity of the staff itself as would be English words carved on the stone monoliths of Stonehenge.

As for the cat-head–looking at it sometimes Kane had a peculiar feeling of alteration; a faint sensing that once the pommel of the staff was carved with a different design. The dust-ancient Egyptian who had carved the head of Bast had merely altered the original figure, and what that figure had been, Kane had never tried to guess.

A close scrutiny of the staff always aroused a disquieting and almost dizzy suggestion of abysses of eons, unprovocative to further speculation. - The Footfalls Within, by Robert E Howard, quoted by Stuart Hopen’s The Mythic American Culture

#replies tag #pulp heroes #pulp fiction #argosy #h rider haggard #ayesha #robert e howard #solomon kane

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debbierhea · 3 years ago

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and the world around us shatters / better call saul / wc: 2392 / kimmy jimmy omaha cinnabon reunion / special thanks to @kimberly-wexler for the beta <3

Summary:

She’d been searching. For years.

She’d been searching. For years. Hired a PI and then another. Scoured every database she had credentialed access to and then a few she didn’t. Even adopted a cat to soothe the loneliness, lull the throbbing emptiness she felt in her chest. She’d had one as a girl once, a stray really, whom she loved. But this cat was as sulky and capricious as she had become and no matter how committed she was to ignoring it, the ulterior motive of pet adoption was glaring, if not to anyone else, to her.

After three months of No. Not like this. You can’t. Leave it alone. Don’t get involved, the ill-tempered tabby was Kim’s foot in the door. It was a Thursday when she sat across from his veterinarian, cat on the exam table, and said, “I need your help.”

“What kind of help are we talking?” He eyed her, stroked the tabby between her ears.

“I’m looking for someone.” Silence followed.

“You’re gonna have to give me a little more than that.”

“You know him. Jimmy McGill.”

His eyebrows rose. More silence.

“Well, can you help me or not?”

“You know it’s not always a matter of can I help.”

Kim tilted her chin, raised her eyes to meet his, unflinching. “Does that mean you won’t help me?”

“Hm?” The cat was purring into his hand, licking his thumb. “Oh, no. Just that my price may be something you’re unwilling to pay.”

She swallowed. “That’s not possible.”

“Okay then,” he nodded, stuck out his hand. She shook it.

Now, she was wandering through a sea of midwesterners in puffy coats and mittens, dusting snow off their shoulders, chattering about the weather. She hasn’t been back to this part of the country in years and it oddly feels like a homecoming, though she stopped considering Nebraska home the moment she left. It was simply a place she had lived, never one that offered family or comfort or love. There were sparse memories of joy with the odd classmate and a fond recollection of the first grade teacher who encouraged her to read, helped her get her very own library card. But now as then, there never existed a sense of ease or belonging for her. Even so, the familiarity of the Casey’s General Store on the corner, the Runzas on menus across state rest stops, the flurries of snow reddening her nose and chilling her bones, fostered a small flame of hope deep inside. She could still recognize, even find comfort in, a place she so detested. After the passage of so many years, this place was still the same and, underneath the new high rises and parking meters and sushi restaurants, she could see the bones of this city. Maybe the same could hold true for other things in her life.

Looking over the map in the lobby, she cupped her hands before her mouth and blew into them. The chill rested deep inside her, the hope she fostered in her heart doing little to warm her weary bones. All her work was to lead to this: trudging up the tiled stairs in damp snow boots surrounded by people who knew nothing about pain, not really. Not pain like hers.

She smelled it before she saw it, curving with the second floor walkway past storefront after storefront of clothes and books and knick knacks. She had just side-stepped the man trying to give free lotion samples when the warmth of cinnamon and sugar wafted over her. Her footsteps stuttered and her gait slowed. It was like watching a car whose engine was stalling out. She was light-headed, unable to string a thought together, parse out what she was feeling in her body besides a deep urge to run. Her therapist would tell her that she wanted to run because of her fear of being vulnerable and then being left behind. Again. Kim pushed hair that had fallen loose of her ponytail behind her ear, took three deep breaths, and followed her nose.

A small line stood in front of the cash register, three or four people, waiting for a treat to get them through their holiday shopping. She contemplated her next step from across the food court. Anticipation fluttered through her, givinggave rise to goosebumps beneath her layers of knit and down. Then further, deeper, beneath the adrenaline, lived something twisting and gnawing inside of her chest. She knew this thing like she knew the location of every security camera at the Hinky Dinky or the route she took home after school when her mom got too lost in the liquor aisle to remember to pick her up. This thing she knew was fear—fear of hope, of the inevitable ache of a further bruised heart. She crossed the food court despite it.

Trying to slip back into her midwestern skin, move through this world unassuming and deferential, she stood to the right of the registers, observing the ebb and flow of workers behind the glass. Dough was being kneaded by one, another opened an oven to check the progress of the bake. A third manned the register. A second till was sat unused, cash drawer open and empty. She stood there, just outside the current of customers, twitching her chapped fingers, tapping them against the inside of her own palm. He used to tease her for it. Five minutes passed, then ten. The line grew longer. Her flame of hope was waning.

Then, a voice—a bellow, more like—broke through the low hum of conversation in the food court.

“Coming! I’m coming, Miranda!” Kim froze.

A man in an apron and mustache came through the door marked “Employees Only” and made his way to the front of the store, a full cash drawer in his hands.

“Sorry! For some reason the safe just wouldn’t open.”

Kim was drifting through the crowd, pulled toward his voice. Her eyes began to burn.

“Here are some quarters for you. I figured you might be running low.” His eyes flicked up, scanning the crowd, estimating how many rolls they should throw into the oven. “I’ll open this one up and—,” his roaming gaze stopped. “And I, uh....”

She swallowed, her throat tight, eyes glassy. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He stood, slack jawed, staring.

“Um, Miranda I—Just, uh, just take this,” he handed the cash drawer to the teenager standing next to him, eyes never leaving Kim’s. “I’ll be right back.”

His shoes squeaked as he made his way around the counter and out into the seating area of the restaurant. Kim hadn’t moved, stunned like a deer in headlights on a Nebraska back road. He seemed as though he was moving in slow motion, each step towards her an eternity, and yet it was still not long enough to prepare herself for him to be standing directly in front of her. She felt like she’d just fallen through the ice into a glacial lake. No, she hadn’t fallen. She’d jumped. On purpose. And broke through.

He stood there, inches from her; she could see the gray in his mustache. He paused, just for a moment, then said, “Follow me.”

And she did.

They weaved in and out of tables and shoppers and janitors picking up fast food wrappers off the floor. He glanced back at her once, as if he was scared she wouldn’t be there behind him, as if she hadn’t been following him, chasing him, for what felt like her whole life. He led them down a hallway, empty save for a woman waiting on a bench between two bathroom doors, one labeled with a dress, the other a tie. Kim gave her a close-mouthed smile.

Jimmy stopped abruptly, reaching for the door to the family restroom. He held it open, looked into her eyes. Kim gave the woman another glance, cheeks reddening, and walked through the door before she could think or feel or do anything that would make her stop herself. She moved towards the far, tiled wall and as she turned, heard the clicking of the door’s latch, then the lock.

He paused then, there, gripping the door handle, his head resting against its grain. His body was tense, coiled and bound and, she realized, foreign to her. Stooped shoulders, billowing polo, slight waist cinched by an apron. Even from behind, he looked bleary, posture like a drooping flower on the sill. What happened to him?

Kim was grateful for this pause he was granting her. Everything seemed to be moving at a pace she was incapable of matching, an emotional marathon she had not trained for; she never did have much emotional stamina outside of simply holding them all in, like a child holding their breath in the deep end of the pool.

Then, he turned.

He was just as unfamiliar from the front as he was from behind, cheeks a bit sallow and stippled with five o’clock shadow, wiry glasses. His nametag read “Gene.” But Jimmy McGill was still the same in his bones and in the time it takes to exhale that breath you’ve been holding under the gentle waves of your childhood pool, the split second it takes for that breath to form a spray of bubbles racing you to the surface, they were in each other’s arms.

Centered on the yellowing, speckled tile, they grasped at shoulders and elbows, knees knocked, tears fell. Finally, Kim slipped her arms around his ribs and clutched him to her chest, nails digging into cotton and, beneath, soft skin. His face caught between shoulder and neck, he inhaled the scent of her, goosebumps rising as her puffy, down sleeves brushed against his bare arms. His hands roamed her back, skidding and sliding across slick fabric. It felt as if his hands had been frozen and he had finally found the fire he’s sought to warm them. Sneaking his right hand up and up and under the thick wool of her scarf, he hesitated just a moment before placing his fingertips to the soft skin of her neck. She gasped, a sob drawn out on a breath. His left hand pushed into the small of her back. She pulled him in tighter.

They held each other there, flushed and desperate and weepy, for a time—how long, neither could say. As the hand rubbing her back would slow, she would squeeze his middle gently as if to say Not yet and he would answer with gentle pressure between her shoulder blades. When her grip on him would loosen, his fingers would drift into the hairs at the base of her neck, pulling her impossibly closer, and she would let him. This is how they stayed, questioning and answering each other as only they could with little more than a sigh passing through their lips.

Then, Kim began to pull gently away. He stiffened the moment he sensed her movement from him, but she did not try to leave his embrace, this wasn’t her intention, not truly. She only wanted to see his dear face, maybe say hello. Placing one hand on his chest, she leaned ever so slightly back as his arms moved to circle her waist. Tears clung to his lashes and dripped from the tip of his nose. He swallowed hard as her eyes roamed his face, different but somehow entirely the same. She felt like she was back in the HHM parking garage bumming a smoke from the new guy in the mailroom. Hundreds of days and miles from then, he was still hers.

Bringing both hands up, cupping his jaw, brushing his cheekbones with the pads of her thumbs, she smiled. “Jimmy.”

At this, his eyes closed, Kim holding him tenderly in her palms. He hasn’t heard that name in years. When was the last time he thought of himself as anyone other than Saul Goodman? Saul the criminal defense attorney. Saul on the run. Saul posing as a Cinnabon manager. More tears fell free.

Removing his hands from her waist, he held her delicate wrists, one in each hand, his thumbs mimicking her caress across his skin. She gave the slightest tilt of her head and he answered with a reed-thin voice, a sad smile, “It’s you.”

She knitted her perfectly arched brows, that tell-tale wrinkle emerging between them, her eyes soft and wet, red-rimmed. She bit her lip and began to shake her head, never removing her gaze from his. After a moment, she smiled again, smaller this time, lips closed, and slipped one hand smoothly into his, the other onto his shoulder, not willing to break contact.

“Sorry it took me so long.”

More tears welled in Jimmy’s eyes as he rolled them to the ceiling, heart aching.

“Kim…I…”

“I know.” A pause. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Baby, I know.”

From shoulder back to his neck, Kim guided Jimmy with her hand, resting his forehead against her own, meeting in the middle, holding him there.

“Oh god—” a sob broke from deep in his chest.

Kim stroked his neck, shoulder, face, back. Jimmy wept.

Tears darkened the collar of his polo shirt and the tremors running through his body prompted Kim to wrap herself around him once more, burying her nose in his neck, focusing on the sickly-sweet scent of yeasted dough rising, cinnamon, and icing sugar over the pain so fierce living in the main between her arms.

As all things do with time, his sobs became weaker and fewer, until his breathing returned to a shallow, exhausted inhale, sniffly exhale. Kim lifted him from her shoulder and he raised his eyes towards hers. Her lips twitched, and then she brought them to his cheek. One, then the other, over and over, like salve to a wound she covered his drying tear tracks with her lips. Gentle and soft, like the flap of a butterfly’s wings did she kiss him. And then, she centered herself, hand threading into his hair, she moved to his lips.

“Kim,” he whispered, a breath from her lips.

“Yes?”

“What if you’ve come all this way to find someone who…doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”

Again, Kim knit her brows and shook her head. She placed her right hand over his heart, lifted her shoulders gently in a shrug.

“It’s you.”

#better call saul #bcs #mcwexler #my fic

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pixzyn · 3 years ago

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NECROMANCER|CHAPTER ONE:THE FORBIDEN TOMB.

Aot was supposed to be taking his classes like every day, but instead he was in another of his treasure hunts and this time they did not settle for the small and boring tombs of the valley of the kings, but a secluded tomb in a forbidden place, the valley of the nameless kings. Kings whom once practiced magic, an art prohibited by their nation.

Once they arrived at the entrance of the sanctuary they were going to loot, and before entering, they took the bothering to see the architecture of the place, which like any building in the desert, was beautiful. Hieroglyphs on every corner of the walls too old to decipher for the average citizen, but for Aot, it was like reading a children's story.

"Wow, how the hell did you find this place?"

asked inheret, Aot's personal guard-and secret boyfriend-even though they were both men themselves, the sincere love they felt for each other was genuine and even though they both knew their relationship was wrong and would never be accepted in their society, the two of them couldn't live without each other.

"From a map I found in the basement library." Said the prince without any remorse.

"You're not allowed to be there!" inherent claim.

Aot just turned his head at inheret's direction and instantly they both started laughing.

"great, another one of your weird maps." Said the soldier sarcastically as he redirected his gaze to the temple in front of them.

Aot smiled at that comment.

"What? Scared?" Said the prince between laughs.

Inheret shook his head at him, smiling.

"you wish". He exclaimed.

They both laughed and after a few moments inheret was the first to open up, he went inside the temple, took a few steps forward and when he didn't felt Aot's presence behind then inheret turned around only to find that Aot was still in the mouth of the temple with a look of concern that he tried poorly to hide. Inheret just laughed.

"What? Scared?" Those words seemed to snap Aot out of his trance and shaking his head he responded.

"You wish!"

With that said Aot reluctantly entered the temple and then the two of them made their way into the bowels of the temple.

Inheret's pov:

sometimes Aot do that, even though his body was there his mind was somewhere else, usually it just took a little jolt to snap him out of his trance but lately that's been happening to him too often and every time I try to ask about it, he just avoid the subject. I wonder what he thought, it must be something strong to put him in such a state.

Aot's pov:

I froze again, that had happened before, but I had never felt fear entering a place like this, it's not like the dead will rise from their graves, right? If it wasn't that then there would be no reason to be afraid, but I still froze. Lately I have heard a voice, something that calls me, although I always attributed it to the wind, it always blew very hard and sometimes its sound can be interpreted with voices. But today at the mouth of the grave I could hear it again and THIS TIME it was crisp and clear no longer like that occasional whisper. I haven't talked to inheret about this, I don't want him to think I'm crazy, I don't want him to worry about me.

No one's pov:

once the sunlight was dissipated by the darkness, inheret took two torches from his inventory and lit them, giving one to Aot. now with better visibility they were able to better appreciate what their surroundings looked like and like outside, the architecture inside was beautiful, both were amazed at the work of art that was the walls of that sarcophagus. Of all the hieroglyphics carved on the wall, one particularly caught Aot's attention. A large, imposing figure towered over a crowd kneeling at his feet, subdued. The man seemed to be holding a green orb-shaped object.

"Isn't that great?" Aot said without taking his eyes off the drawing on the wall.

"Wha-".

"I mean, imagine having that power? What i could do with it... I would be the most powerful person on the island continent."

"But, it's magic." inherent object

"and?". Aot replied.

"Magic is evil, it corrupts people, it takes away your identity making you just a soulless vessel."

"but it gives you power, that's the only thing that matters."

Aot looked at Inheret firmly and Inheret just shook his head in denial.

"Well, if you say so".

when he finished saying that, he just continued forward passing Aot on the way.

"tsk, killjoy" Aot whispered to himself and stood behind inheret in silence.

Both continued to advance into the dark corridors of the sarcophagus that each time, became colder with each step they took.

Aot's pov:

why is he not able to understand? With that kind of power... We would have everyone at our feet, we could be together freely, nobody would tell us what to do or how to live, we would be... -the most powerful beings in the world?... -.

No one's pov:

Aot froze, that voice again. It had never been so clear, echoed in his head like a buzzing bee.

"come close then"

Aot heard the voice growing stronger in his head again.

"Aot."

The voice repeated his name with more and more force each time.

"AOT!".

Suddenly Aot snapped back to reality only to find Inheret in front of him, calling out his name.

"I've been calling you! You froze again! Are you okay?! Maybe we should go, I don't like this place at all!"

Aot just looked around, he is no longer in the corridor, in fact now he was in a medium sized room with 3 other corridors, an old trick to catch looters that Aot knew well, only one corridor was correct the other two would only take you to certain death, do I walk while in a trance?

"Aot?" replied inheret waiting for an answer from the prince.

"Huh? Oh... Yeah... We have to go... Yeah."

They both started to go back, he had had enough of that place And above all Aot, who was distracted still thinking about that voice, he was distracted enough not to see the thin but strong and firm rope on the ground near the exit until he was already on the ground. A loud crack could be heard from within the walls of the temple. To Aot, everything was happening very fast for now on, at one moment he was on the ground and the next he was being dragged by inheret, trying to escape from the site that was collapsing at their feet, but Aot's gaze was still fixed on that room they had left. out, a green glow began to be seen from the walls that were collapsing before him. Aot just narrowed his eyes... Thinking, was that thing always there? There wasn't enough time to appreciate glitters appearing out of nowhere, Aot had to concentrate on escaping or else he would be buried, so he ran with all the strength he had. Time went from fast to slow for him, Aot couldn't believe how big that place was and how much the two of them had advanced. Hope lit up Aot and inheret's eyes when they saw the light from outside so they gave their last effort until they finally reached the outside once more, they had never felt so happy to feel the embracing warmth of the sun on their skin. And there they were congratulating each other for escaping alive as they looked at the grave that now lay on their foundations that was now not even a shadow of what it used to be.

"STOP RIGHT THERE!".

A voice called out from behind Aot and inheret.

They were both in trouble.

#Finally is done #The other ones would not be that big tho #Gosh it took me forever #minecraft #minecraft dungeons #Minecraft Aot #Nameless one

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bonesandquills · 3 years ago

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Two Sides (Darkiplier x Reader, Part One)

Warning: Angsty fluff. I took waaaay to many liberties with this story, but I hope you guys like it.

No specific gender, I think. If you see something that changes that please let me know and I'll fix it!

You had been living in the manor for quite a while now. How you got there was a matter up for debate, but debate among the inhabitants of this place usually ended with an injury and some blood. You assumed you had wandered in, but you didn't quite remember...

In any case, that didn't matter. You were as much a part of this place as Dark, Wilford, Yancy, or any of the others were. They accepted you like family, some more than others. Mark, the tall dashing owner of the manor, was the most warm and welcoming. He was referred to as 'Actor' by most of the others, and they seemed to keep out of his way. You didn't quite understand why, he seemed kind. A little egotistical, but he was always looking after you, asking how you were feeling or if you wanted anything.

You didn't ever quite understand the reason for this place, or the sort of work that Mark and the other egos did. You knew that they never strayed far from the manor.

You were on pretty good terms with just about everyone except Dark, with whom you had no terms at all. He was aloof, cold, haughty, and went out of his way to avoid contact with everyone unless it was absolutely necessary. When he spoke, his tone was quiet and melancholy, devoid of most emotion. You knew he wasn't human, most of the people here weren't. Still, he seemed odder than the rest. Maybe it was his red and blue aura that flared up when he was angry. Maybe it was his sense of always being a few seconds ahead of himself, as if he was reading a script and remembering what to say next. Maybe it was.... it could've been anything, really.

You knew, subconsciously, that he was a villain. That's what Mark had told you.

"Darling," he had said, using his favorite name for you. "I need to speak to you about something important."

You had looked at him curiously, waiting for him to continue.

"I want you to stay away from Darkiplier. He's dangerous. He's nothing but a villain, and that's all he'll ever be. He'll try to take you, try to manipulate you, and I don't want to see that happen to you."

Sure, Dark had a temper, but you'd never seen him do anything inherently evil. Still, you supposed Mark knew him best and you trusted Mark. You didn't go out of your way to avoid him, but you didn't try to seek him out either. He didn't really seem to like you either, so it all worked out.

Until... it didn't.

You started to notice things, things you would have let pass by a few times, but they continued to happen, and finally you had to admit something was wrong. Mark had been acting... wrong. He said everything as if it were a memorized line, but sometimes he would slip up. After one of these, he'd disappear into his room and refuse to speak to anyone, even you. This made you feel hurt, and alone, and you started spending more time in the Manor's library.

What had happened to your sweet, lovable Mark? Why did he now does add much time as he could away from you? Why could he now not meet your eyes?

With these thoughts running through your head, you didn't quite watch where you were going when you stepped out of the library, and crashed into someone very cold.

You stumbled back, close to losing your balance, but were stopped by a chilled hand grasping your upper arm.

"Are all humans so clumsy?" Dark said in his quiet, rumbling tone. "Or is it just you?"

You looked up at him and scowled. With Dark, you are never sure if he was teasing or actually just an asshole.

"I'm not clumsy, you ran into me."

He gave a small minuscule tilt of his head. "No. You crashed into me because you," He brushed past you into the library. "Were simply not watching where you were going."

You scowled and walked off.

Later, you ran into him in the hallway. Not literally this time, just a simple chance encounter. You made fun of the disorganized bundle of papers in his arms and he replied with some snarky remark. You grinned and parted ways.

And so this continued. You would find him in the library, or wandering the corridors, or simply sitting in the garden, all things that you liked to do. Slowly, but surely, your conversations with him became longer, further than just exchanging pleasantries. You grew to find yourself thinking about him when he wasn't around, not in any romantic sense, but just that he was someone new to talk to. You made a more conscious effort to find him, to engage in conversation.

Slowly, eventually, after many months of tentative acquaintanceship, he began to do the same. He would join you in the library, or simply accompany you on one of your walks outside the manor. He couldn't stay away long, but what time he could he spent with you.

The reason he gave, always, was that he was bored. He had nothing else to do, so he might as well spend it with you, pathetic mortal that you were. But you knew him better than to accept that as his reason.

Everyone else in the Manor was terrified of him. Not that you quite blamed them, he made quite a daunting figure. Still, you didn't mind his outward appearance, and he found that... fascinating. Comforting, perhaps.

Maybe, for all his cold resentment towards anything living, Dark just wanted someone to talk to.

"Are you even listening?"

You snapped out of your thoughtful stupor. You were walking next to Dark through the Manor gardens, and had gazed off while he was talking.

"Sorry, Dark, I wasn't paying attention."

"Obviously. So what's on your mind?"

You paused. "Nothing important."

"You, dear, are a terrible liar," He said nonchalantly. "And I hate liars. Try again."

You gave a short laugh. "I was just thinking about Mark."

You paused as you saw him tense, his eyes darkening slightly. When he saw you watching the look disappeared as soon as it came.

"Oh? And... what about him?"

"Has he been seeming... off, to you?"

You thought you heard him scoff, but maybe you were imagining it. "No, I hadn't noticed."

"Oh... well, we used to be sort of a thing, you know? I was really close, and now I think something's happened. He just seems like he's uninterested and he spends a lot of time just avoiding me. You work with him, has he said anything?"

You looked at him expectantly, but he only sneered.

"Me, work with him? Only because I have to."

You raised an eyebrow, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You must have noticed. I can't go far from the Manor."

You nodded. "Yes, you're connected to it. Mark said something about your death-"

Dark turned to you. "And how exactly did he tell you I died? What extravagant lie did he make up for you this time, hm?"

You furrowed your brow, surprised by this sudden outburst. "Mark.... Mark wouldn't lie to me. He would never."

Dark's black eyes bore into yours, but there was no malice there, not any that was directed to you at least. "Of course he wouldn't. So what did he tell you."

You gathered your thoughts, growing more doubtful by the moment. "He.... he said that you got shot. That you make William angry and he shot you."

He looked at you. "Anything else?"

"No, he said that you were brought back by the Manor."

Dark sighed and rubbed his head. "Another one..."

You did a double take. "What do you mean, 'another one'?"

"Another romantic partner, another lie, another story."

"Another... partner?"

Dark gave you a grin that seemed more sinister than reassuring. He started walking again, in his wide-paced stance and his hands behind his back. You didn't follow, thinking that this was one of his signals, meaning he didn't want to talk anymore. At least until he paused and spoke without turning his head. "Are you coming?"

You hurried after him.

"Everything you know about Mark is a lie," he said bluntly, without giving you any time to react or interrupt. "You are not the first person he has brought to this place, not the first one he has charmed with his lies." He took a deep breath. "This place is far, far older than you believe, and so are all of us. We all died several years ago."

You nodded. So far, you followed.

"We, however, were not the cause. Mark may paint himself the hero, but he is far from that." As he spoke his words grew lower and more laced with ringing static. "He killed all of us."

"But.... Wilford's not dead?"

"Yes, he is. As dead as all of us, but it didn't happen here. That's not important."

"Long ago, Mark married a woman named Celine. He was entirely devoted to her. He gave her everything. But she betrayed him, and cheated on him with his best friend, his brother. Wilford."

You felt your heart pang. Having been cheated on before, you knew how that felt.

Dark continued. "The betrayal sent him mad. He decided to get his revenge on everyone, even those who had nothing to do with it."

"What do you mean by that?"

He growled lowly. "Have you heard talk of a man named Damien?"

You nodded silently.

"He was Celine's brother. He was the Mayor of this town, before the world came crashing down around us. He didn't have anything to do with Celine and her cheating, but Mark directed all of his wrath... at him. His second brother."

"He sought to make himself the hero of the story, his broken mind not being able to comprehend the terrible things that he was doing. In his thinking, he was doing right, and we were the villains. He faked his own death, and one by one took the rest of us."

He didn't want to seem to go into detail, and you weren't going to push him. There would be time for that later, and you didn't think that this was the right state to be pushing Dark into.

"I was... forced, into this body. I share it with three other souls. I was given the anger, the means, to be the villain. So..." He spread his hands in a 'what you see' gesture. "Here I am. The villain."

Your head was spinning and everything seemed loud. "So... why did Mark bring me here?"

Dark smirked. "Don't you know? Ever hero needs a damsel in distress."

"Distress? I'm not in distress."

With these words, Dark held his head. He mumbled something under his breath, something you couldn't make out. When he looked up, any trace of the kindness or softness you had previously seen in him was gone. He gripped your wrist almost painfully, and dragged you close to him.

"Are you so sure about that, darling dear?"

#Darkiplier #Dark x reader #Actor Mark #Actor Mark x reader #Murder #villainy #Kinda a slow burn #part two coming soon

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ratinthedeadhouse · 4 years ago

Text

Forbidden Love

My heart is devoted to the one I shouldn’t love...

Fyodor x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Trying to keep it fluff.

"... A demon you say?" You question with hesitation, pale face bearing a frown as you try to put all the puzzles together. "That man is the super ability user and a terrorist that Yokohama is so desperate to catch? The very man, I spent countless evenings going to museums and libraries with? The very man with his astonishing diamond brain had helped me solve several murder cases?"

Silence settled between you and other Special Division Forces agents who glared at you with fear or utter confusion.

Nobody knew of your accidental connection with Fyodor Dostoevsky, or simply known as Demon Fyodor, and it sure was a surprise to you when your (e/c) eyes noticed a familiar face on all the screens and papers in the office with a screaming title: 'Wanted Criminal. Terrorist. Fyodor Dostoevsky. Highest rank ability user. Ability unknown.'

You honestly had no idea who the mysterious slender man was when you first met him at the museum. He looked charmingly tired, sharp purple eyes looked deeply into your soul while you both stood, rather awkwardly, near a woodblock painting that depicted the suffering of young children and women. Their weak bodies engulfed by flames, others were drowning in the peaceful veil of water. Despite the horrible scenario the colours united in harmony making you both stare at it for longer than you should have.

"The choice of the colour pallet... It mocks their suffering" you stated after a while, rather talking to yourself but hoping, subconsciously, that a curious stranger with a funny white hat would respond to your comment. To your amusement he did.

"Mhm," he nodded at first, pinching his chin like philosophers do while thinking and then slowly added: "Maybe the painter wanted to tell us that not all sufferings are recognizable at first glance. I noticed when walking up to the painting, the bright colours made me think of happiness and kindness, however, now that we stand closer to it we see that their very souls are in terrible agony" Fyodor's voice was soft like moonlight rays with a gentle touch of a foreign accent.

"I suppose... It depicts life itself. We never know how much one suffers due to the façade they’re putting" you said with a sad smile. At this very moment you looked delightful, Fyodor found a strange pleasure in watching your serious face merging into a saddened frown. And oh, he did it on purpose. He could've chosen a less explicit interpretation of the absurd painting but in his calculated mind he knew that this version would strike you the most... And he was right.

You still didn't move from the tiny painting, twirling a strand of your silky, (h/c) hair around your finger, beautiful eyes glued to the painting but your thoughts wandered far away.

It took one glance from Fyodor to understand your entire being, no matter how complicated you think of yourself - to him you are an open book, and he could not resist the urge to live the faint mark on one of those innocent, white pages.

“I apologize if my interpretations upset you, miss...” started Fyodor with a polite smile curving upon his frail face, but was interrupted by your sudden enthusiastic reply:

“Oh, please don’t apologize. One is a fool if they are not moved or hurt by art” your voice was gentle and soft and Fyodor couldn’t help but love your words.

Perhaps you two were more similar than he thought at first. In any case, enchanted by your watchful careful eyes, your smile and graceful movements of your hands, your speech and voice - he couldn’t just let you go like that, out of his sight.

A man tilted his head sideways a little, looking pleasantly amused, letting his dark locks fall upon his cheek, gently. “It seems that I found a charming lady who shares a similar view on things with me” something bittersweet hid in his words but it didn’t matter to you.

With a small, delightful laugh you move your right hand forward: “My name is, (y/n). A pleasure to meet you”

Expecting a handshake you watched as the man in a long dark cape came closer, gently grabbed your pale small hand and softly kissed the back of your hand;

“A beautiful name for a beautiful lady” he murmured watching how your pupils dilate. “My name is Fyodor. Would you agree to spend the rest of the evening in my company?”

Walking around with a stranger whom you’ve just met seemed like a ridiculous idea... But you felt safe around him, although his eyes were dark as a bottomless well, you agreed but made a promise to yourself to stay on guard. However, he cast away all your suspicions in just a few hours.

You became good friends, discussing ancient Myths and modern poetry embarked on philosophical journeys sitting in the dim corner of the library simply enjoying the presence of each other. He even played his cello for you under the mocking bright moon. His words and the depths of thought sometimes caught you off guard however, you were able to track his line of thoughts and in return challenged him with your endless and charming affection.

Fyodor never learnt what the word love truly meant. He could explain its psychological and physiological effect but never experienced it himself. He was in absolute control over his feelings and that is why he felt confused when you would meet him with a bright, loving smile that changed into a slightly concerned frown when you noticed dark eye-bags on his face. Why did you notice it? Why did you care? Who gave you the power to capture his heart so suddenly and so... wrongly?

For the first time in a long while, Dostoevsky felt as if he made a dreadful mistake. At first, he thought of you as a pawn. Easy to move and easy to get rid of. But you reminded him of himself... yet you were so much better! Despite your intellect and wittiness, you had a warm, loving heart, that even accepted a demon like him. It all changed when you finally opened up to him about your placement of work. That’s when he realised how forbidden your relationship would be. Soon you would find out anyway about his identity, his goals and... it would wound you. Deeply.

Soon he stopped coming to the museum where you two would usually meet. You remember that day. You took his favourite tea from the shop and held it in your cold hands while the hot drink burnt your fingers.

‘He will never come again’

You felt as if you lost a piece of your heart. But you never cried about it and kept all the memories of the mysterious man named Fyodor close to your heart, or rather what was left of your heart.

But now it all makes sense. The puzzle is complete. You stand in the room full of your colleagues who proceed to glare at you in silent amusement and your heart leapt in ecstasy. The adrenaline rushed through your blood as your cheeks turned red - you felt like the main character of your own story, engaged in a forbidden relationship with the demon himself.

You didn’t care about the consequences but on entering the Special Prison for the restrained Ability Users, shadows of doubt crept within your heart.

��Please wait here, ma’am. You sure you want to interrogate him?”

“Yes”

“In terms of emergency, we won’t be able to assist you immediately... ”

“I understand”

The heavy door was shut behind you, a metal desk was drilled into the floor and so were the chairs. No windows - just solid rock walls that reminded you of a medieval dungeon, except there were no cracks at all. Finally, you heard footsteps and another door before you was opened.

“Good afternoon, Fyodor,” you said in a strict tone trying to hide your excitement as much as you could.

His lilac eyes widened in surprise, thin lips parted as he watched you right there before him. In his head, he tried to process why you came out of your way to see him? Did he not abandon you back then? Did you not realise what a hateful creature he was?

“(Y/n)... Why are you here?” he questioned curiously.

You were now completely alone in the interrogation - underground cell. He watched you come closer to him with a soft smile looking with kindness into his soulless eyes...

“Why, you ask? Because I love you. That is the only concept you failed to fully understand. Monsters have hearts as well, they just need to learn how to love” words fell softly from your rosy lips while Fyodor closed his eyes and chuckled to himself.

“Talking to you is pure joy (y/n)! Love is the ultimate atonement of all human sins. Even a Devil needs someone to love him at the end of his immortal life...“

“... Angels did fight for Faust’s soul at the end, despite all his reckless deeds” you added referencing the work of a German poet, Goethe.

Fyodor sighed. He reached his slender cold hand towards you and you grabbed it without hesitation.

“Will you be... my angel, (y/n)?”

You nodded raising your bright eyes at him. A soft kiss was placed upon your forehead before he hugged you letting you bury your face in his shoulder. You were like a blooming flower in his deadly grip... but he would never hurt you. Ever.

People say the forbidden fruit is sweet... But is it so for the forbidden love that burns like fire?

lmao part 2 is gonna be saddddd (if I get the motivation to even write it)

#bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs fyodor #fyodor bsd #fyodor imagines #fyodor dostoevsky bsd #fyodor x reader #bsd dostoevsky #bsd imagines #bsd fanfic #fyodor fluff #fyodor fanfic #bsd reader #fyodor x y/n #bsd y/n #we stan the rat lord

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lucif5er · 4 years ago

Text

AssassinKatsuki x PrinceIzuku

Katsuki doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting in this cell. Was it weeks? Months? He can’t tell anymore. Days and nights have merged together to turn into one big blur. Finally, a guard arrives and tells him he’s been bought, by the prince of course. The prince he’s meant to kill.

He was hired to kill the prince, soon to be crowned king of Musutafu. They offered him a hefty sum, enough for his family to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. It was an offer Katsuki couldn’t refuse.

Izuku Midoriya was rumored to purchase prisoners and turn them into his slaves. Apparently, the bastard went through a new slave every month then they disappeared. Everyone around the kingdom has heard the rumors of the prince who kills his slaves once they were no longer useful to him. He was nicknamed Deku, fitting for a useless prince.

Getting imprisoned was the perfect way to infiltrate. The guard, a tall man with duo-colored hair and a scar on his eye walked him to a small room. “You must shower before meeting the prince. Everything you might need is in there.”

Katsuki could only scoff at the smug bastard. Once he was finished and changed the guard was already waiting for him at the door. He escorted him to what must have been the prince's room but stopped before the doors.

“Your majesty is waiting for you.” the guard says.

Katsuki pushes the door open and he spots a small man sitting on the bed. If this is the prince he’s definitely not what he was expecting.

Wild green curls sprout from his head which is filled with freckles that seem to be never-ending. When he turns to look at him, Katsukis breath catches in his throat. Big green eyes stare at him and he smiles so brightly at him Katsuki has to keep himself from looking away.

“H-hi um I’m Izuku but you probably already knew that uum so you’ll be working as my attendant so um well” the man starts mumbling while his cheeks and ears slowly turn pink “and well please take care of me,” he says as he bows.

“Are /you/ the prince they call Deku?” Katsuki asks and he can’t help the distaste in his voice.

The smaller man looks down as if ashamed and nods. “That's just a nickname b-but if that’s what you’d like to call me it’s no problem.” He says as he scratches his arm.

“Okay, Deku what is it that you would have me do? Will I get some type of training?”

Deku looks up and he's smiling again. “Oh well, you sort of j-just need to keep me company.”

“Tch so what am I like your fucking call boy or something?” and Katsuki feels disgusted at the words. Never would he have thought the prince stooped so low as to taking advantage of his servants before killing them.

Deku flinches at the words but takes a few steps closer to Katsuki anyways. “N-no of course not. I-I would never. Y-you will just be like a friend.”

Katsuki barks out a laugh that echoes through the room and when he turns to look at Deku he’s red all over and looks like a strawberry.

After a week of being Dekus “friend”, he learns that the prince is a nerd. He reads countless books and talks Katsuki’s ear off every day, from sunrise to sundown.

On the 7th day, one of the other servants disappears and Katsuki remembers he can’t be swayed by this monster in disguise, he has a job to do after all.

But on his way back to his servant quarters he hears one of the other servants talking about the one who disappeared.

“Prince Izuku took her back home last night. She was so happy. I’m going to miss her so much.” the servant girl says.

“I know Ochako but soon you’ll get to go too. You know we have to give the prince some time or we’ll get caught.” Katsuki recognizes Iida's voice right away. He’s the servant who helps Deku with his studies.

“I know I know Tenya. The prince is too kind for his own good.” Ochako says.

Katsuki didn’t mean to eavesdrop but he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Deku took the servant girl home? He freed her? There's no fucking way. So Katsuki stalks his way to Deku's room and doesn’t even bother knocking.

When he swings the doors open he sees Deku standing in front of his mirror, shirtless. His torso and back are covered in bruises but his arms...Katsuki is shocked at the scars on Deku's arms, they looked old but his skin looked mangled as if his skin was chewed up until the point of no repair.

Katsuki sucks in a breath and Deku turns holding a blanket to his body.

“Waacchan. Y-you scared me. I thought you were going to bed” Deku says with a look of mortification.

“The fuck happened to you Deku?” Katsuki asks as he moves to grab Dekus' blouse, holding it up for him to put his arms through it.

“O-oh it’s nothing I was just training with my father,” he says as he hisses at Katsuki’s light touch

“This seems like a little extreme don’t you think nerd?”

“Father says it’s character building for the future king”

Katsuki simply humms at his response.

As days turn into weeks Katsuki learns of Deku's garden which he tends to every day. Of his secret spot in the library that holds his favorite books. He learns of the constant abuse that is inflicted on him by his father.

But the kindness in his voice when he speaks to his servants or ‘friends’ as he calls them never leaves. He learns that in secret Deku sends provisions to the villages whom his father steals from. He learns that he is far too kind and gentle for his own good and Katsuki can’t help but grow angrier because how will he fulfill his job like this?

And every 7th day of the week Katsuki waits for him in his chambers with healing tools for his never ending cuts and bruises and burns. And he waits for Deku to break down because he can’t fathom a life like his but it never comes.

Deku only sits with his head held high and a shy look on his face as Katsuki tends to his wounds with the lightest of touches.

“Kacchan do you miss your family?” Deku asks him one night. This night Deku's wounds are the worst he’s ever seen them and Katsuki can’t help the rage that fills him.

“Why do you care?”

“H-huh oh I was jus-“

“I know that you free your servants” Katsuki doesn’t mean to sound so angry but he can’t help it. “I know you fake their death and send them away. Are you going to send me away too?” and it comes out as a whisper.

Deku just sighs. A look of indignation on his face. “My father is a cruel man, Kacchan” and Deku looks so sad, so fucking sad that Katsuki wishes he could kill every fucker that put this look on his face.

“Soon Kacchan will be home. I promise” and for the first time, Katsuki sees tears. They stream down freckled cheeks.

“Oi nerd whats with the tears”

“It's because it hurts Kacchan” Deku says with a small smile on his face

“Hah?! You get beatings on the daily and this is what hurts? The beatings getting to your head now?” Katsuki says with a grin.

“Ah, I really just wanted to see Kacchans smile.”

As Katsuki wipes a stray tear away and rests his forehead on Deku's he realizes that he may love this man, because the scent of bell orchids that he can smell when he’s near him, he very selfishly hopes that he’s the only one who ever smells his scent. Only him.

Katsuki’s love is slow, but even hearts of stone can long for something more. So it is, that Deku and he gradually move closer to one another as the days wore on, tiny fractions of an inch at the time, so slowly that even someone who was paying attention wouldn’t notice.

And when Katsuki starts feeling impatient, sometimes when the waiting is unbearable he finds himself moving entire inches at a time and he takes and takes and takes. Takes from Deku because he is always willing to give. He gives everything to Katsuki, bending to his touch.

—————————

“Lets leave this place Deku”

Deku pauses his watering and turns to look at Katsuki. “Leave?”

“Yes. Somewhere far away. Where no one can find us”

They stood there for a long time under the light blue sky until Deku finally spoke.

“We can’t leave my mother and-and our friends”

“They’re not your friends they’re your servants Deku”

“Maybe” Deku says with a sad smile “but Kacchan is my friend right?”

Katsuki sighs and takes Dekus hand and presses a soft kiss to it. “Yeah Deku but only me okay?”

“Of course. I love Kacchan the most.” Deku beams at him and in this moment Katsuki exists for a while in a state of blissful glow but the pressure of all this light is crushing his bones into powder. It’s too much.

Katsuki always believed that there was no such thing as too much love that it’s warmth was a comfort from which we never tire but when love turns to obsession it consumes itself. The flame that nourished becomes angry, merciless, an all consuming blaze that now leaves him confused by the chill in the air and the hate left behind.

——————

“The king has requested your presence” the guard whom he now knows is named Todoroki says.

Katsuki rises from his cot and walks out the door. “I can get there myself half’n’half” he says without turning.

When he arrives to the throne room /he/ is sitting there. But Katsuki does not see a king, no. He sees a tyrant, a murderer, an abuser. Hisashi Midoriya, the devil incarnate.

“It has been nearly 4 months and you have yet to complete your job Bakugou” the king says.

“I changed my mind. Keep your gold” Katsuki spits out.

“Oh? Then maybe you need a better incentive” he says nonchalantly.

Katsuki sneers at him. “I won’t do it you bastard. I’m leaving.”

“Tell me, do you think you can get there before your village burns to the ground?”

Katsuki’s eyes widen and he grits his teeth “You wouldn’t!”

“Are you willing to sacrifice hundreds for one person?”

“You fucking bastard I’ll kill you”

“Maybe one village isn’t enough. Well. There are always more villages.” And he laughs. The bastard has the audacity to fucking laugh. “You may go now but make sure you think about it. The coronation is coming soon.”

Katsuki leaves the throne room unbeknownst to the man standing just outside the door.

Please, God, Katsuki thinks, and then realizes that he had no idea what he was asking for. Please what? Please don’t let what happened happen? Please don’t let him take Deku away? Please don’t let me feel this way anymore?

Please take away this awful thing inside me.

——————

“You asked me if I missed my family” Katsuki says as he wraps yet another cut on Dekus arm.

Deku looks up at him with wide eyes then they turn sad but filled with understanding and already shiny with unshed tears but his soft smile doesn’t leave his face “Is Kacchan ready to go home now?”

He looks away, willing his own tears to go away but Deku sweeps him out of his chair and dances him around the room while Deku laughs in his arms, his movements smooth and graceful as ever.

Katsuki hugs him tight and the pressure on Dekus cuts must be hurting him because he whimpers but yet he doesn’t pull away.

“I can’t take you with me Deku”

“I know you can’t love”

“I’m sorry”

“Me too Kacchan” Deku says at his shoulder, but Katsuki hardly hears him. With one sudden movement he reaches out and thrusts the blade in his back.

“I will always love Kacchan the most” Deku breaths.

He just holds him there as Dekus body grows limp. When Katsuki dares to look at his eyes again they are no longer green, and he realizes that he didn't have a word for the color they were anymore. The color was bleeding and leaking out of his world in mere seconds.

And suddenly he hears it, in the heavy stillness of that wretched palace, the heavy pounding of boots through the corridors and the echoes of the shrieks, all running towards the direction of the training room.

“THE KING HAS BEEN MURDERED”

Katsuki wails.

He weeps until he can only lay next to him, motionless, with his lips almost touching Dekus, he closes his eyes and breaths. Wishes he could’ve told him that he was the closest thing to true love he had ever known.

But maybe he just wasn’t close enough, not this time, not this way. Maybe next time around, the universe will be kinder to them and Katsuki won’t be a monster and Deku won’t fall in love with him.

#bakudeku #bkdk #katsuki x izuku #bkdk fluff #bkdk au #bakugou katsuki #bkdk angst #dkbk #mha izuku #bnha izuku #katsudeku #decchan

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inlovewiththefictionalcharacters · 4 years ago

Text

COERCION AND HAVEN

CHAPTER - 1 : THE DARK ALLEY

Pairing: (dark) Steve Rogers x Reader.

Warnings: MCU Spoilers, Non-con, Dubious content, Kidnapping, Stalking, Obsession, Sexual themes, Language.

*****

<-Prev chapter

*****

It was just another normal day for Steve. After going on a run, he returned back to the now reconstructed compound of the avengers. Having doing nothing to do after making sure that there aren’t any pressing matters- any matters at all, he decide to randomly scale New York. Possibly Brooklyn or Manhattan, he wasn’t decided yet. Maybe taking random strolls through the streets of New York will provide him some source of entertainment. Sam was god knows where, Bucky these days, preferred to be holed up in his room and the same went on for that day and Steve already knew that Nat and Wanda went on a shopping spree and he’d rather jump from the top of the tower rather than going with those girls. Leave it to them to take days for buying stuff.

That’s how he found himself, going to Brooklyn. He spent most of the time strolling through the streets, trying to find anything interesting. Years have passed since he was thawed from ice and it still astonished him how a place can change that much within a couple of years, or decades to be more exact. Current day Brooklyn doesn’t even remotely resembled the Brooklyn he grew up in. Buildings here, buildings there, buildings everywhere – some in places where the roads used to be in his time. Spending some time in Prospect park and then in a local library for hours, he got on his bike again.

By the time he proceeded to Manhattan, it was dark. With a cap on his head, he strolled through central park and when he found an empty bench with no human in the vicinity, he took a seat there and removed his cap with a sigh. People were relatively happier than they were after the first snapped happened. They got their loved ones back, those who got dusted. Maybe the first snap made people realize the importance of having people around them, to have someone to take care of, to have someone who can take care of you, to have a shoulder to lean on. It was like reality slapped right across everyone’s face when half of the population got dusted.

Words can’t describe how Steve felt when all those people whom he lost in the first snap returned back. Happiness filled him when all of the returned back and when Thanos got defeated this time, relief flooded him but concern overtook after looking at the extent Tony was injured. Luckily Tony healed overtime and now everything is fine and alright.

But Steve can’t help but feel the hollow inside of him. It was like a deep, endless pit. All these years, he thought that it was because he was a man out of his time, because he no longer has the people whom he loved with him, the people whom he cared for and the people who actually cared for him. But he got Bucky back, made new friends - friends who will save each other with their life.

Then he thought that maybe it’s because of Peggy, not having his first love with him. But after visiting her back in time, he realized that they were never meant to be and he no longer lived in the past, fretting over the thoughts of how he would have lived if he didn’t get stuck in ice for all those decades. He still didn’t know what to do.

Staring at nowhere in particular, he let his mind go haywire with all his thoughts. And then, he broke out of his thoughts and stood up. He spent enough time at the Central Park that day. He went back to wandering the streets of Manhattan. And just like that, within what felt like minutes, he was already wandering streets of the not so classy and kept areas of Manhattan.

The streets weren’t neat and tidy like those he wandered earlier. He even spotted occasional graffiti here and there on the walls. A few of the streetlamps didn’t work and one of those that actually worked or used to kept flickering. Then there a few cigarette buds here and there. No doubt, one can find druggies and crack heads or junkies or whatever people these days call them in this side of Manhattan.

He wasn’t sure if he should venture more or just leave and head back to the compound when he heard some movement nearby. It wasn’t just movement. It sounded like struggle and Steve knew it. Quietly and cautiously, he followed the sound which led him to a dark alley. For normal human, it would have been impossible to look at what’s happening in that darkness, but for a super soldier like him, there were additional perks that would work for these cases. Within seconds, he could make out shapes and figures and saw someone dragging another person while the latter seemed to struggle. The lamp in the alley crackled to life only to go off again and it kept flickering like that, giving Steve a clear view of what’s happening.

A gruff, rugged man was literally dragging a woman towards the wall while the woman struggled to get out of his hold. Steve could also see the said man’s rotten teeth when he sneered at her and slammed her head sideways, making her whimper in pain. The woman, tried to fight back but it seemed impossible for her. She was about to get mugged and possible something worse.

“Hey!” Steve yelled from where he stood, immediately catching the man’s attention.

“Leave the lady alone” he ordered the man.

The man, in response, sneered at Steve “Or what are you gonna do, prick?”

Steve threateningly took a step towards them.

“Final warning. Leave the lady alone” he ordered.

The man pushed the woman down and took a few steps in Steve’s direction, but not before trying to kick her in her stomach, but before he could do that, Steve lunged at him and punched the man, square in his face, knocking the man out. His body fell in a heap beside the woman, who was standing up, taking the wall’s support.

He helped her stand up and retrieved her bag that was on the ground. The woman looked scared and a bit disoriented, Steve has noticed.

“Ma’am?” he called her, but the woman looked at the now unconscious dickhead in fear, like he would suddenly wake up and attack her, yet again.

“Ma’am? Ma’am!” he called her again, this time catching her elbows and shaking her a bit, making the woman to snap her head in his direction.

Within a moment or two her eyes widened in recognition. Who on earth, at least, who in the states couldn’t recognize Captain America?

“C-Captain America?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Steve just smiled softly at her in response.

“Are you alright, miss?” he asked her and the woman nodded.

“Y-yes. Yes, I’m alright” she said.

After a moment, as if something dawned on her, she said “I- I-.. I-uh… Thank you for saving me, sir” while Steve kept looking at her for any injuries on her.

Steve smiled softly at her in response.

*****

Next chapter ->

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natromanxoff · 4 years ago

Text

I wasn’t sure about posting this at first but as it is already shared publicly and I have come across with it on Pinterest, I decided that it would be okay. So here is a story of a fan about Jim Hutton:

“ON 23rd of March, there was a Queen Tribute band concert in Goresbridge and my boyfriend told me that Jim would come as well. He admitted that he had arranged with Stephen for Jim to come along. The concert was in the pub called The Spirit Store. What a great name for spiritual meeting, I thought. When I entered, Jim sat at the table with Stephen, Jascqueline, her sister Valeria and other family friends. There was nowhere to sit, so we just stood by the table for a while. When I looked at Jim, he appeared somewhat fragile and tiny, like a man who could easily be overlooked. He didn´t look anything like those photos portraying him in the books.

After a while, there was a free seat by the table and everyone, including Jim, moved in order for us to sit down. It was just one place and my friend Mike wanted to take it. He got up fast but they all stopped him. Jim measured Mike up and down and told him, "Perhaps you should let the lady sit here, you cavalier!" Embarassed, Mike got up from his chair and offered it to me. I got the honorable place alongside Jim. Being a woman sometimes has its advantages! Jim welcomed me with heartfelt "Hi". At first I was nervous, but after a while I felt relaxed and enjoyed Jim's company. I was aware of his behavior, gestures, laughter, and tried to absorb his energy all at once. It was easy to talk to him about anything and everything.

I wanted to know the man Freddie loved so much, so I guess I started giving him many questions.

"Jim, are you still in touch with Phoebe?" Jim looked at me closely and began to talk to me with interest. "I haven´t really been talking to him for a long time. I know he had a hotel in Dubai, then he sold it, and he's in Prague now. He also bought something overthere and I think he's going to settle down there." When I heard about Prague, I jumped up excitedly and told him that I was from there. He smiled a little, though the coincidence like this didn´t overwhelm him as much as me.

He relished glass of Budwaiser and smoked Ultra light Silk Cuts. He offered me one and lit it up for me like a real gentleman. It seemed he wanted to continue talking. We both made fun of the ultralight effect of his cigarettes, which would probably piss off every orthodox smoker, Freddie for sure! He then demonstrated jokingly, how to properly smoke them. He inhaled all the smoke by sucking in his cheeks and widening his eyes, as if he should soon burst like an inflated toad. None of us resisted and we both burst into a mad laughter. I told him about my visit to Munich and meeting Barbara. He smiled and listened, then he rolled his eyes up to heaven and stated that she is one hell of a crazy woman. I totally agreed, and added, that also alcoholic one. It was surreal to talk about mutual aquaintances together, people we both knew. I also mentioned my visit to New York club and I could see how he returns nostalgically into his memories. Then I also tried to make him remember my friend Allison, who told me about him in the first place.

"About nine years ago she visited you in London". He couldn´t remember and admitted, that since then a lot of people have passed through his life and many of them he never saw again.

I continued. "She showed me several of your photos and in one of them you were holding Freddie's portrait that you bought at the auction". Suddenly he jumped up and said he knew whom I mean.

I showed him my miniature box containing a stone and talked about it with almost patriotic pride. "It's a stone from Logan Mews that I had to dig out from under the threshold of his house, because there was nothing else to take." Jim laughed out loud, this time without any hindrance and doubt that I was totally crazy. I also laughed because I knew I sound like nuts. He remarked with smile from ear to ear that I was pretty crazy. "Yeah, I'm crazy, and I'm proud to be. Who isn´t...and by the way.....why not?" I smiled at what I just said, because that´s what Freddie would say, to defend himself. Jim then talked about the medallion that Freddie had given him for his birthday. He said, there were three miniature pictures inside. "The first is that of Miko ", he said gently, looking up at me to make sure I knew who he was talking about. "In the other one is Freddie" ... he continued with kind of fervor and love. Something deep inside me shivered. "In the third one," ... he didn´t answer yet, when I jumped into his monologue ...."Tiffany," I blurted out.

"My mom's photo," he finished his sentence. (and I prayed he didn´t register my answer).

It was nice to hear him remembering like that. He opened up in front of me the way I never dreamt of. I think it was nice for him to share these beautiful moments and to talk about things that meant so much to him. "This rock is my good luck charm. I have been listening to Queen since I´m twelve and I also work in the Fan Club's office. We celebrate his anniversary every year. When I went here, I was kidding with my friends that I might meet Jim Hutton in Ireland... and here you are, sitting right next to me. That´s my dream come true", I said all emotional.

"How do you know Stephen?", he inquired after while.

"I go out with Vinnie and they are good friends" He eyed my boyfriend and indicated that he knew who he was.

"I was annoying the two of them and was constantly asking them to bring you", I smiled.

"Oh, Jacqueline wanted me to come, alright" Jim smiled at the thought. Then he talked about the music talent competition, in which they were selecting the best imitators of Queen.

"What music are you actually listening to?" I wondered.

"I have no favorite, I'm listening to almost everything. Even a radio".

"And do you still have Zig and Zag?"

He only sighed and said in a sad voice that they had both died since then.

"And do you have any other cats?"

"Yeah, I have seven others now," Jim smiled. This number didn´t surprise me. The old habits are hard to kill.

"Do you still keep up the gardening, Jim?"

"Constantly," he said with a loving smile and amusedly showed me his hands dirty from the clay and covered in sores. For God's sake, he must have been gardening a few minutes before going to a concert!, I thought to myself. A complete garden maniac.....

We were joking on the account of the band that was supposed to start playing long time ago, but somehow did not. He told me it would be nice to get drunk, so we didn´t know how terrible they were. That really made me crack up. He could be so funny.

He joked and emphasized to everyone around the table, that instead of a concert he could have been at home watching his favorite movie. In the same breath, he admitted that he was curious about their performance and that he hadn´t been out in ages.

He leaned over to me and confessed, that now he lived a life completely cut off from the rest of the world.

"We are basically the same, I am basically like him. Now I just enjoy loneliness and privacy. I don´t go out anywhere except my garden". I immediately knew whom he was referring to in his speech.

I said that I had discovered his house in Palatine and apologized when I saw his slightly concerned look. I said I was just little curious.

He then recalled a few of his encounters with the fans. One day there was an unknown car with a couple of strangers that arrived to his house. They came all way from Vienna and they found him by questioning people in a town! Not a hard thing to trace him, he said, as every cab driver in the area knows him pretty well. One local newspaper even published a photo of his house, and although they gave a wrong address, a lot of people had found him.

That made me laugh, because I knew what it means to be a devoted fan.

"On the other hand, it's nice to know that someone is constantly looking after you and giving you the feeling that all this is still alive," I added with a smile.

"Jim, do you still have your Volvo?"

"You mean the one that Freddie gave me?.....No, I don´t have it few years now, I´ve swapped it for a new one," he smiled.

He was all too gallant all the time, always lighting my cigarette.

He also wondered how long I would stay in Ireland, so I said that only another half a year.

"And you wanna come back here?" He asked suddenly.

"Oh, I'd love to. I'm trying to find a job either in Carlow or Kilkenny," I said enthusiastically.

Then I fell silent, looked at him and assured him "Definitely."

Each time he looked up into my eyes, I saw an incredibly nice person in front of me. Something in his silent expression suggested that he had suffered great deal of pain in life, but that he was now completely reconciled with his fate. Still, in his eyes shone a spark of unrelenting humor. In his company I forgot all about the world. I was happy to be able to make such an affluent and warm contact with him. The longer we knew each other, the closer we were.

When he wanted to go to the toilet, Stephen told him that the men's toilets were behind the bar and the ladies in front of the bar. It sounded like he wasn´t quite sure which one would Jim prefer.

But Jim didn´t care much and set off to the men's. I admit it made me laugh a little.

Then we continued our dialogue. I mentioned that I read both his and Phoebe's book, but that I couldn´t find his book anywhere in the stores. He confirmed that it´s out of print at the minute.

When I told him that I had stolen his book at the local library, he laughed and said that I should have asked him and he would have given me a copy, but he only had Italian version.

Finally, the band started to play. Everyone in the pub stood up and whole lot of us - as we were tucked in at the back, climbed onto the window ledges. I stood next to Jim, who remained seated.

He looked a little bit run over. I knew he was surrounded by the loneliness and I watched him with sadness. I lacked much power or words to comfort him. It was only after some wonderful songs that we both joined and got up. He could not remain sad in such a loving and friendly company for ever.

When he noticed the enormous, life-vibrant energy that only Queen music could produce in conjunction with a crowd of people singing, I think he forgot his personal pain. I could see pride in his face. He stood up and watched the band. Then he addressed me and made me come up onto the ledge above him to see better. I would not listen to anybody else, but from him it didn´t sound like an order. He wanted me to get the most out of it and it pleased me. Then we sat back and drank. Jim seemed to be getting cheerful and livelier. The more he drank, the more cheerful he was. The guys ordered him Red Bull with vodka. When I asked him if it was vodka, he claimed it was white lemonade! He put a warm glass of "vodka" on my hand, so I almost jumped out of my skin, which he thought was terribly funny.

Whatever he did, he looked at me as though I was the only person who knew what was behind his looks. His faces and funny grimaces reminded me of Freddie. He had a lot of subconsciously inherited poses and gestures from him. Even in his laughter I could detect an influence of Freddie's strong personality. He simply marked all people around him. It was not the same contagious and stormy laugh, but there was a spark of resemblance.

His niece Jacqueline, Valerie and Stephen, danced all the time on the ledge and Jim was pulling them and wrapping himself in between their legs, hugging them, clinging to them, and messing around like a little boy. It was a wonderful sight, as he was so happy and childish.

After some time, Jim lost himself in a crowd of concert goers, so I went to look for him. Without his company it felt such a sad place. It was as if he had fallen through the ground, which made me very nervous. Finally, I found him by the entrance table, where he was joking away with one old blonde, not too different from frivolous Barbara Valentin. I asked him for a photo together. At first he looked impenetrable but as soon as I threw a sad eye and smirked, he brightened up and agreed as if saying "You know you can, anything for you, darling"

His niece Valerie took our picture. He then whispered to me that he hopes I´ll send him some pictures later.

After that he announced that we are going back inside to listen to the band.

I saw them from close-up and I must say that it was much better to just hear them. They looked rather too comic with all their wigs. It was something that would make Freddie laugh too.

I told Jim that they don´t look very natural,which he agreed with, but he said he couldn´t complain about their music. He was totally right, because musically they weren´t bad and the singer had a very authentic voice.

Inside, everybody was dancing and Jim joined in and circled around them like a rogalo.

The whole pub vibrated with intense and loving energy. There was no one who would be bored. Jim then threw himself in the arms of his two nieces, who gently caressed him in his hair and embraced him. He let them take care of him, now vulnerable like a little lost child all of a sudden.

There was something deeply touching about it. He had closed his eyes and sadly lowered his head, as if his tears flowed deep inside, in his invisible world. I realized at this stage, how much he really loved Freddie. I was looking at him and I had a desire to caress him and comfort him but instead, I had to stand aside.

"You can have everything and yet feel alone", Freddie once said. But I was glad Jim had his family and friends around him, who cared and protected him. Jim was going through sorrow and joy,both at the same time, it seemed.

During one of his many shananigans, I caught him messing around with his niece's boyfriend.

He sat him on his knees and imitated sexual intercourse. It would seem offensive and utterly crazy to someone who didn´t know him. But we all did. Jim was laughing like crazy and when he finally looked at me, he seemed a little embarrassed by his behavior and gave me a look that said"I hope you won´t tell on me to Freddie"...but it was hard to take him seriously.

We both smiled conspiratorially at each other. In that sense, our relationship no matter how short-lived, was special. We understood one another in thoughts. He winked at me a couple of times, tapping my beer like an old buddy.

In one moment in particular, Jim leaned over me and whispered: "You as a fan have right to be crazy, but them" ... pointing at our dancing group of friends ... " they are fucked up", he said with smile and he began to knock his finger against his forehead. An international gesture that doesn´t need an interpreter!

Jim then went to the toilets for a while, and I, like a stray sheep, followed him through crowds of oblivious dancers. He was somewhat drunk at that time and barely retained a balance. He staggered a little like a broken tree. No surprise after god knows how many Red bulls and vodkas! I was bit afraid for him, so I supported him inconspicuously by both shoulders from behind. He went to the toilet and cared too little to even close the door behind him. If anyone was looking, he would see Jim Hutton pissing in a toilet bowl in his bright canary shirt.

At that moment they played the most touching song of all, These are the Days of our lives .... I stood by the door and listened, watching the band and waited for Jim. I don´t know why, perhaps because of the fate that brought me here, I suddenly felt terrible sorrow. I was sorry for Freddie and Jim. Tears poured into my eyes. I didn´t cry, but was very close to it. Jim suddenly appeared next to me and noticed my face. "What about those tears? I hope you don´t cry", but at this stage I was lost for words. His concern made me sad even more. Something inside me forced me to caress him. I hugged him gently around his neck and put my head on his shoulder for a moment. I wanted to let him know that I am very sorry about what happened to Freddie. He did not resist. He knew he wasn´t the only one in the world who was missing him. I looked into his eyes, and I told him a sentence that I didn´t know why I said, but I strongly felt it..."Jim, he's here, he IS here." His expression was rather confused at first. "Do you believe me?" ... I said this with a seriousness and a certain degree of self-assurance that he froze for a while. He looked thoughtful. He knew what I was talking about.

I seemed to only confirm his inner conviction. He didn´t say a word. He wiped my tear away with the edge of his hand and without warning, took me firmly by the hand and led me through crowds back to our friends. There was a lot of care and love in his touch. The music was just playing and Freddie just sang "I still love you" and I knew he did.

I didn´t want to leave, but I knew I said everything I needed to. I could not leave without saying goodbye. It would be a sin after all this to just disappear into eternity. I interrupted him from the conversation with someone else, leaned over the table and said, "Jim, I'm leaving now, so I want to say goodbye, it was great pleasure meeting you." I smiled as much as my heart allowed me to and shook his hand. He stared up and thought for a moment, and then, without any hesitance said, "We do not see each other for the last time." I didn´t know at this time how true his words were.

I thought I did not understand well, so I asked again, "sorry?" and he repeated patiently and more resolutely, "I shall surely see you again," while taking my hand into his hands and kissing it gently.

He left me in amazement. I stumbled out from there perplexed but still I could hear him talking about me to someone there. He probably said he hadn´t seen a bigger nutcase in a long time, assuming from his cute teddybear smile. Gosh I loved him so much!

The next day I learned from my friends that Jim was looking next morning for his jacket that he had forgotten in his car. Few days later, I've sent him the promised photographs. Jacquie confirmed that he called in to say he had received them allright.”

2001

“...And then I returned back to Ireland in 2004.

I had the opportunity to welcome Jim to my own home in Carlow sometime in 2006. He was Stephen´s surprise. When the door opened up, I didn´t see him at first.

Then his head popped out from the side of the door and with a laugh he emerged a bit later. He hugged me like we hadn´t seen each other for million years. What I felt at that moment was indescripable. My dear Jim back in my life and in my own house!

We all sat in the living room, Jim settled down on the sofa, I was sitting on the ground and absorbed the precious moments because I knew time spent with him was only borrowed time. Then we watched Queen videos and talked about Freddie as if he were in the next room. It was so surreal. Me and Jim agreed that our favorite video was Scandal, and he just added that Freddie didn´t like it very much because he couldn´t make any creative input in it, although he loved the song.

Then we talked about his illness, about him taking up to 40 pills a day to sustain his health and he also explained the difference between AIDS and HIV, as many people still didn´t know. We have talked so much and - above all - we laughed all night, almost at everything. It was so easy to succumb to his funny personality once again and to his heartfelt laughter. He made jokes about fancying my ex-boyfriend, whom he lied on top of on the sofa. Long time ago, I´ve sent him a letter explaining to him how Freddie has impacted my life. But I've forgotten I´ve ever written it and now I was faced with the horror that I actually have sent it. I hoped he has forgotten about it, but when Jim and I met in the corridor of our house, I couldn´t but apologize to him for that letter, and for being so daring. To my surprise, he looked at me softly with his tired eyes and assured me that my letter was absolutely fascinating. Then we were interrupted by Stephen, who was just leaving a toilet and the conversation was cut short at that point. Unfortunatelly I would never have the chance to find out what was the next thing he was about to say, because I noticed he wanted to continue, if he weren´t interrupted.

When we were saying goodbye at the door, he treated me as an old friend. He simply kissed me on the lips, which utterly shocked me and made me laugh at the same time.

He invited us back to his house to have a little party, but my ex-boyfriend was not in the perfect mood and so we politely declined, which I will forever regret!

About a year after that I bumped into Jim several times in the city where we both lived, or we exchanged text messages whenever I needed to advise what room flowers would be best for our new house. Sometimes I learnt about how he´s doing through my ex-boyfriend, who used to hang out with him and drink few pints in a night bar. Once my ex confessed how Jim told him that I was a great person and he should be happy to have me. They must have been talking about me!!!!

Then I met Jim one night in the nightclub, where he was with his friends. He spent most of his time sitting in the lounge smoking a cigarette, having fun with younger girls. Wherever he was, you heard his laughter. That night my ex-boyfriend arranged for Jim and me to have a dance together.

Jim was just dancing on the dancefloor with some older woman. I remember he had his jumper tied around his waist. I just got onto the dancefloor, he looked at me all serious and pulled me close to him. It was some tediously slow song that I can´t even remember, I just know that we were staggering from side to side like two handiccaped penguins and that made me laugh hysterically.

He was such a clown! Now, however, I consider this moment as one of the most precious memories of him. It was my night.

Back in 2009, I have learned that Jim was diagnosed with cancer. My ex-boyfriend told me how concerned Jim was when informing him. He said, he wept. At that time I didn´t know how serious the situation was and I hoped Jim will get better in no time. I believed the doctors would somehow help him out of it. I saw him a little later at work when he came to our restaurant for breakfast.

I almost served him as another customer, but when I realized it was him, I pulled myself back into the kitchen and let the other girls serve him. He never noticed. I was in such state of shock. I didn´t know what to do, how to act and what to say. He was so thin, just skin and bone. His face was sinking, his eyes full of pain, a small tube leading from his nose to the oxygen device he carried in his backpack and a small canvas hat on his head. I couldn´t believe this was Jim, whom I have remembered being so full of life and joy only half a year ago. I wanted to cry like never before. I also felt embarassed by my own cowardly reaction. I wished more than anything in my life to hug him and say I loved him. I wanted to wish him a happy Christmas. But I was scared of my own tears, which would not help him in his situation.

I wrote him a message on the phone, but he didn´t respond. And then I got the terrible news. Jim died and somehow I also missed his funeral. I took a first taxi and went at least to his months Mass and visited his grave, bringing him daffodils and little white lantern with candle. It was so hard for me. His relatives stood above his grave. I said my prayers in a minute of silence. The air didn´t move and the moon was full in the night sky. It was dark and cold all around but I didn´t care.

I wanted to see him laugh and mess around like he used to. It was as if another star had disappeared and fell to the earth. If only life could last forever.”

2006-2010

Credits to Seraphiel’s blog. Please don’t repost without credits.

#jim hutton

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writingsbychlo · 4 years ago

Text

put her together again (05)

word count; 6603

summary; mitch takes you out on a little excursion upon your request, before making a not so pleasant discovery upon return to your home.

notes; just cute. that’s it. enjoy that, before it all goes shit.

warnings; none!

Despite Irene’s warnings to stay away, and her instructions to let you develop in your own home, Mitch just couldn't find it within himself to stay away.

He missed you, he missed having company, and he’d ended up spending more than half of his time with you, or at least, that was how it seemed, as he became quickly familiar with how it felt to sleep on your couch, which was surprisingly more comfortable than his own. He wasn’t blind to the fact that you had been given an apartment that very purposefully didn’t have a guest room, discouraging him from wanting to stay, but he was used to tough-living on assignments, and as long as he wasn’t sleeping on the floor, a couch seemed like a dream.

A blanket and a pillow from the storage cupboard had found a new home with permanent placement on the shelf under the coffee table, so on every night that he chose to stay over, there was easy access to what he needed. You had out sorted the clothing the had gifted to you into a new drawer, so that he always knew how to get to it when he needed a change of clothes the following morning, and he hadn't missed the level of trust that had been rolled out to him about being given access to your bedroom to get to it.

That was your private space, that was somewhere that only the people that were most important to you should be allowed to enter, those whom you trusted with your life, and you’d granted that to him, and while you hadn't said the words, he didn’t miss their meaning.

Mitch had also put a great effort into encouraging you to go out in public, and learn where you were. While not being as fond of the idea of you wandering around on your own while everything was still a risk, he was aware that it was a witness protection area, and that you were still going to be safe going out and about here, and it did bring him a little reassurance when he was at his own home, and thinking about what you might be up to.

You now had a gym membership, no longer having to work out at home, and you’d never been exposed to such equipment and that kind of environment, and the look of pure joyous shock that had been on your face had lived in the front of his mind for over a week, a smile on his face anytime he thought about yours. Occasionally, he ventured out to the spot with you, he wasn’t much of a fan of traditional workouts, or of doing it in front of other people, but you were thriving in that environment, and he was willing to make the sacrifice just to spend time with you.

As much as he ever hated to admit that Irene was right about something, she hadn't been wrong in her conclusion here.

Her claims that putting you alone and letting you flourish as your own being, developing your ideas and your personality, you really were breaking out of your shell. For as much progress as you’d made living with him, you were reaping that in tenfold here. You had a favourite spot in the little coffee shop, and the servers called you a regular, knowing your order by heart anytime you came through the door, the little bell overhead jingling. You had ventured as far as the row of old-style looking buildings on a little corner off of the high street, and he had noticed that sometimes your fingers had paint stains on and smears across your clothes when he arrived without warning, catching the canvases of all shapes and sizes stacked in your closet and the corners of your rooms.

They reflected your moods, that much he could tell. Some were bright explosions of colours, yellows and greens and pale blue, everything joyous and fun and he liked those ones the most, always on bigger canvases as you illustrated your feelings.

Some were darker, swirls of navy and purples, slightly wonky, done in the morning light after you woke up from nightmares on the days he wasn’t just a few metres away to hold you and soothe you through the anxiety until the sun finished rising and took it all away.

He didn’t like the others, the ones that were blacks and greys, mixed with splatters of reds, and he didn’t know what prompted them, he didn’t know when you painted those ones or why, but when he looked closely enough he could see the circular stains on the canvases from dropped tears that distorted the paints. There were no shapes on those ones, just drags of brushes in frantic and erratic directions, nothing that gave you any reassurance or made sense, it was a mess that you just splayed over the surface until the white material was replaced with layers of dark oil paints to express your pain.

Painting was the best way you knew how to get out the feelings you had inside that you didn’t know how to process, something he’d learned had been introduced to you by your therapist, expanding on the simple drawings he’d had you doing while living with him.

You were making friends, sometimes you came home with a receipt from the coffee shop with two drinks, someone at the gym who you’d been spotting on the weights and going for a drink afterwards, or befriending the older lady who worked on putting books back in the library. You’d met a couple in your therapy waiting room, two men who were there for marriage counselling, and they had begun to go for lunch with you every Saturday at the local café after your sessions.

He was happy for you, he truly was, listening to you talk to him about how people at the gym had begun to ask you for advice on their workouts, and the manager had even offered you a job as a personal trainer - one that you’d refused, not quite ready for that yet - but you were still happy just to be having other people to talk to. People who didn’t want anything from you, people had had no ulterior motives in being with you other than friendship, and that was definitely something that you deserved from the world, after everything you had been put through.

That was exactly how Mitch had found himself here, stirring his coffee slowly as he watched you buzz around your kitchen, teaspoon clinking against the edge of the mug as steam curled up into the air. You were making breakfast, sleep still crawling at your features, but you were now making double the quantities you had been planning on, his arrival unexpected but you never turned him away when he knocked at your door.

There was bacon and eggs, he could smell it on the air, his stomach rumbling happily, and he was sure that he looked just as sleep-mussed as you did, he’d barely pulled on his shoes, not even bothering to change out of his pyjamas when he’d woken this morning, just wanting to get on the road and on his way to visit you.

You were spinning the tale to him all about the group therapy session you’d had, giggling as you spoke about Edith, who had an incredible dark-humour, anger issues and a God complex, and always made you laugh when you saw her. Mitch was grinning as he raised his brows a little, bringing the edge of his cup to his lips to hide his expression.

“Are you sure you should be telling me all these juicy details about your friends?”

You shrugged, turning to grin at him over your shoulder as you plated up the breakfast foods, and he almost groaned at the sights of it, stomach clenching angrily with hunger, before you were passing it over to him. Eggs, bacon, pancakes; he felt like he was in heaven, loving getting to know another person in this kind of intimate way, missing having someone to share the lazy mornings with before exhaustions had fully left his mind and he was still a little hazy in his post-sleep state. “Who else am I supposed to tell it to?”

“Fair point.” He sighed, taking the plate with a mumbled ‘thank you’ before he was grabbing for his cutlery, watching as you took the seat across from him and dug into your own food.

“Besides, Mary from the library is lovely but she can't keep a secret for anything, and Elliot and Greg love to gossip, it’s how I find out half of my gossip, and the gym is where I find out pretty much all of the other half, so I can’t tell them, because they’re who I’m gossiping about!” You grinned, dragging a piece of bacon and pancake from your fork with your teeth, and chewing happily, and Mitch simply rolled his eyes in response, but couldn't stop the curl of his lips into a smile.

“So, I’m just your Pandora’s Box of therapy tales and gym gossip about your friends?”

“Yes.” You smirked, watching as he gasped in fake offence, and he didn’t even both to cut any of his bacon, trying to force the entire strip into his mouth at once, and a droplet of grease gathered at the corner of his mouth, prompting him to lick it away as you scowled at his gross behaviour. “Despite that undignified display, you’re also my best friend. For whatever reason.”

“Does that mean you don’t gossip about me, then?”

“I would never!” It was your turn to mock him, and he grinned cheesily, repeating the action with the next piece of meat, and you groaned, tearing your eyes away from him and fixing them on your plate as you made a show of neatly cutting your food into pieces to eat. “So, are you busy today?”

“That depends on what you have planned. I’m not going to look at curtains with you again, I can still feel that old lady’s fingers on my ass.”

You snorted, almost choking on your food as you remembered the day he’d had his ass pinched by a rambunctious old woman in the curtains store, and he glanced across the room, looking at the hanging drapes he’d helped install, the entire memory tainted with that of the startling encounter. You were still snickering into your meal, smiling with every bite you took, and sipping at your coffee, the suspense killing him.

“C’mon, out with it. What kind of crap are you going to drag me through today?”

“Well, not today, technically. I was thinking more tonight.” He hummed, prompting you to go on with what you had to say, and the scraping of metal on ceramic was filling the silence as he waited for you. “Will you take me to this little jazz bar I saw?”

“A jazz bar?”

You were a little more timid now, eyes fixed on your food as you became embarrassed of your request, and he didn’t want you to feel like that, not with him. He just couldn't quite fathom why you’d want to go to a jazz bar of all places, but he was willing to do so if it made you happy.

“Sure, but if we’re going to a jazz bar then I want the full experience. I’ll be drinking aged whiskey from a tumbler with one of those balls of ice in it, and I’ll be hungover. I’m crashing on your couch, and you have to cook breakfast again in the morning.” He raised his brows at you, watching as you perked back up, nodding happily and motioning over your shoulder to the fridge.

“I have those sausages that you like.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

You cheered happily, whooping to yourself, before a comfortable quiet took over the room and you were left to finish your meals while simply soaking up the comfort of being together. There was no plan for the rest of the day, but after a few showers, and cleaning up the kitchen together, a vague plan to run some errands had been formed. You’d offered him the chance to go home several times, and yet he always refused, just as happy to wander the library with you and put back your books as he was to grab coffee with you, and go to the store to pick up a week’s worth of groceries.

If he was there when you went shopping, he got a say on the things you bought, and then he knew what there was for the days he came over to have a meal with you.

After cleaning up, on your way out, you had swung by his place, changing into something more suitable for a day of chores with you, and letting you sit in the car and flick through the music CD’s he had laying around on the backseat, bringing a blazer back out with him and a bag of things he’d need for his overnight stay, before the two of you had been off and on your way. As decided, you’d gone to the library first, a pile of books in your arms as you pushed the door open with your back, greeting the woman behind the desk and checking your books back in, dropping the stack into the returns, before making your way through the aisles.

His arms had been loaded with books, holding them all for you as you climbed up and down the steps and stools to reach the high shelves trailing from one end of the building to the other, and up and down the stairs, as this time, you curated a collection of everything from a space-travel fantasy book to a non-fiction about lions and their hunting patterns.

You had shown him your coffee joint, one you’d taken him to a few times before, but had redecorated since he’d last been, and was promoting a new set of special blends on the chalkboard menu outside, and so the two of you had ordered a small-sized version of each one, sharing them amongst yourselves as you judged the options before you. Your favourite had been the roasted hazelnut americano, while his had been the caramel macchiato with marshmallow essence, his sweet tooth shining through.

Following that, he’d taken you to the store, pushing the cart around and bumping you with it when you took too long for his liking to compare certain products, and as punishment, he’d been forced to help you unpack all the purchases, hiding away the treats he’d slipped into the basket in the backs of your cupboards and in the drawers of the coffee table that you never went into. By the time dusk had rolled around, he was pulling his blazer up his arms, a mix between smart and casual that was appropriate for the journey, skinny jeans and a henley not being fitting alone for the place you were travelling to, and he was staring up at the ceiling as he waited for you to be done.

“You ready?”

He chuffed, a snippy comment on the tip of his tongue about how it had been you that had decided you wanted to shower before going out, despite being perfectly clean, but his mouth went a little dry as he sat up, eyes widening. “Where did you get that dress?”

You looked down at yourself then, your hands clasping in front of yourself nervously after smoothing down the skirt. Dark blue, a shade that complimented you beautifully, lace along the arms and up to your neck, in what was a mock turtleneck, flaring out at the waist in a loose skirt, and it was most definitely a cocktail dress, not exactly the kind of thing he’d expect Irene would have bought for you. “My friend gave it to me. We were challenged at therapy to clear out things that reminded us of a bad time, and to give them to someone else, to make something bad into something good again.”

“That’s sweet.” He caught his breath, eyes scanning along you once again, your legs bare, and he smirked a little bit as he watched you match the elegance with a pair of sneakers, making the whole outfit seem much more fitting to you. “What did you take?”

“I didn’t really have anything, but I took one of my paintings - y’know the one with the blue and the green? That one. - and gave it to one of the people I didn’t know, but they wanted to put it up on the wall in their restaurant.”

He just nodded, licking over his lips as you reached for your coat, folding it over your arms, and he shook his head, letting out a sound to dissuade you from that course of action. “No, sweetheart, you can’t put a coat over a dress like that.” You raised your brows, before shrugging it off and following his lead, hanging it back up on the coat hooks, and he searched for your keys, tucking them into his pocket. “Besides, I told you this would be the full experience, and how am I supposed to be a gentleman and give you my jacket when you get cold if you have a coat?”

You simply grinned at him, holding the front door open and switching on the latch as the two of you left, heading towards the elevator and surrounded by soft laughs. “You’re a dork.”

“Big words from the girl who rented ten books for one weeks worth of reading.”

You gasped, turning to shoot him a little glare, but he just beamed, letting you guide him in the direction of your location for the evening. It was only a short walk, just around the corner from your building, but he could hear the music coming out all the way from a street over, lights and noise spilling from the hole-in-the-wall establishment as the two of you approached.

It was even louder inside, the sounds of trumpets and guitars sounding out, and it was mellowed out inside, low lights and leather booths with round tables in solid oak with old and chipping wood, the smell of candles and smoke hanging on the air with liquor, and it was exactly what he expected it to be. The aesthetic matched all the scenes that he had laid out in his head, what he figured a jazz bar would look like, and raucous clapping took up as the live band finished and the current song ended, a man was taking a seat at the sleek black piano in the middle of the room to keep the music going as the acts changed over.

“Drinks first, right?”

“Are you allowed to drink?” Your face screwed up for a second, before you were shaking your head, and he dropped an arm to loop around your waist, guiding you towards the bar and making sure that you kept close to him in the bustling crowds. “Well, when you’re all cleared for it, I’ll take you out for a real drink, okay?”

“Sounds good.”

“I’m still drinking though.” He flagged down the bartender, a whiskey for himself and a soda for you, ice clinking against the glasses as they were served to you. A short and stocky glass was slid over the wooden counter towards you both, followed by a taller one, fizzing and bubbling with pop as ice swirled in the liquids, and you picked it up, bringing the straw to your mouth to take a sip. “Let’s find a booth.”

There was one in the far corner, just evacuated by the previous inhabitants, and you were quick to slide into the seat, Mitch taking the opposite one, and he didn’t miss the dirty looks that were being shot your way from another pair across the room who had clearly also been intending to claim this seat as their own, but he decided that the pair of you deserved it more, so he had no guilt as he ignored them.

A new band was taking up on the stage, setting themselves up and adjusting the microphone, a woman wearing a floor-length ball gown covered in sparkles and sequins, red painted lips and neatly pinned up hair was taking a seat on a wooden stool at the front of the stage, and waiting as her bandmates all got set up.

“She looks great.” You were in awe, he could read it clearly on your face, and he couldn't help the smile he got as he watched you admire her, before your eyes were moving to scan over everybody else in the room, and he took a sip of his drink, heat flaring on his cheeks when he cleared his throat, forcing you to stop watching everyone else.

“You know, you look beautiful, too.”

You scoffed under your breath, but smiled, your head ducking as you reached for your glass to busy your idle fingers instead, and he reached his hand out over the surface, palm up in offering. His breath was held, only released with relief when you slipped your hand into his, holding on gently, and he grinned to himself, hiding it behind the rim of his glass. “I never said beautiful.”

“Maybe not, but I did.” He wasn’t sure where the words were coming from, it was a part of his personality that he was sure he’d lost a long time ago, but the squeeze of your hand in his with silent acknowledgement made his hand tighten around yours, and you fell back into a companionable silence together. “You wouldn’t look like you if you tried to be like them. I like who you are now.”

“I don’t even know who I am, Mitch. Not really, anyway.”

“Maybe not fully, but there’s a lot that makes you special, already.” You looked up at him now, meeting his eye and holding it, before you were standing up, rounding to his side of the booth and taking a seat beside him instead. Lifting his arm, he wrapped it over your shoulders, letting you curl into his side as you faced the stage, but he felt the hand dangling over your shoulder warm, the curling of your fingers around his once again making his nerves tingle as adrenaline rushed through his body, and he pulled you in a little closer. The lights began dimming, a spotlight taking up on the centre stage once again, and he could feel you tense up with excitement for it all. “Show’s starting, sweetheart. Are you excited?”

You only hummed, twisting into him a little bit, before even the messing of your fingers with his own stopped, and you were fixing every bit of your attention onto the stage.

Her voice was beautiful, one deep breath carrying the words as she sang out steadily, the instruments fading into the tune as it progressed. It had been her and her only singing to start, before the piano had come in slowly, picking up speed when a steady drumbeat joined it, and then came the chorus. It was catchy and upbeat, a difference from the beginning of the song, cheerful melodies made by trumpets and saxophones, and then the band came in to perform back up singing.

The bass was vibrating through the wooden floors, the feeling replicating that of nerves and butterflies curling in his stomach but in the best of ways, and Mitch was tapping his foot on the floor as the music played, unable to resist the urge. The crowds were cheering now, the peak of the song approaching, claps sounding out loudly, and he almost missed the soft giggle you let out as you took in the atmosphere, before your hand was leaving his, and you were clapping too.

This went on, for what felt like mere minutes but was hours by the time he noticed your excitement dwindling as you slumped into his body. You were tired now, your head lolling on his shoulder a little, and one peek through the windows showed him that the twilight you’d arrived in had faded out into the night, dark and glittering with stars, and once the current song ended, he nudged you up a little.

You sighed, before shaking your head clear, sitting up yourself from where you’d been lounging with him, and all of those patches felt a little cold as you moved away from him, so used to having you pressed up to him now, and providing him with your warmth.

“Ready to go?”

You only nodded, wiping at your eyes a little bit before getting to your feet, a little shaky in your exhaustion, and he followed after you, several empty glasses sitting on the table as the warm buzz of alcohol coursed through his veins, the two of you navigating through the crowds carefully, his hand sitting on your lower back until you were reaching the doorway, gasps of fresh air as you made it back out onto the streets.

You tugged a little on his sleeve, the two of you falling into step in the direction of your apartment.

“I hope you plan to make good on that promise to give me your jacket.”

He beamed at you, shrugging it down his arms and ignoring the chill he got, before tucking it over your shoulders delicately. Your hand found his, your fingertips tickling so lightly across his palm he had to resist the urge to flinch, but then you were weaving your fingers with his, holding his hand and he wrapped his digits around you just as tightly. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t want to go back.” He turned to look at you, your cheek pressing to his shoulder as you slipped somewhere between conscious and unconscious. “It was fun but it seems like it’d be a little boring after this. You have to do everything once, though, right?”

“I guess so, sweetheart.” You were so positive and optimistic, you had a sunny outlook on everything, a real feat for someone who came from your past, who was still in their first year of recovery from a lifetime of pain and trauma, and he was so proud of you for all the progress that you’d made. You were healing yourself, and he knew you were healing him, too. “Do you want to go and get some food? You must be hungry, you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“I can’t,” you whispered the words, letting him wrap his arm around you instead, keeping your hands locked but it made it easier for him to guide you along as your tired feet began to drag along the floor. “I have a session in the morning.”

Mitch frowned, he was certain you’d already had your therapy this week, because you’d been telling him all about it over breakfast, and you hadn't told him about getting any more assigned sessions, but maybe that was why you’d been making such good progress. “I’ll make you coffee in the morning. C’mon, I know a diner with some great food that you’d love.” He grinned, squeezing you tightly and raising his other hand to tickle at your side.

You grinned, huffing out a laugh, before shaking your head at him. “No food! Unit eight will not be at optimal performance efficiency without seven hours of rest per night.”

Just like that, the haze that had been your walk home was washed away, like ice water had been thrown over his head and his stomach clenched up angrily in a way that made him feel sick. You whined as he came to a full stop, his body rigid in his movements, and you raised your head to look at him, the awning of your building hanging overhead as you stood just outside of the doorway, but he couldn't help but stare at you, knowing that horror was flashing over his features.

“What?” You were looking at him now, curious with wide eyes, coming back to your senses as his abrupt halt had forced you to wake up a little more, and you were blinking at him, worry beginning to seep into your features. “Mitch, what’s wrong?”

“You don’t even know what you just said, do you?”

“Uh..” You thought on it, brows furrowing and shrugging your shoulders. “Not really, just something about how I need to get a good night’s sleep, I think.”

He shook his head, pulling you closer into his body as your hands were crushed between your bodies, resting on his chest as he pulled you close, and guided you through the door, a walk that was almost a shuffle as you went along, side by side. “You called yourself.. by your old title.”

It took you a minute to realise what you’d said, before you were paling a little, a look just as distraught as he’d felt flashing over your face. “You know, you’ve been making so much progress forwards, and I’ve seen you tired before, this has never happened. What’s going on?”

You looked up at him and shrugged, moving away to avoid his gaze and open your front door. The second the two of you were inside, you were kicking off your shoes hastily and leaving them in the middle of the floor, making your way to the kitchen to get away from him, and he could hear you filling up the kettle. He put your shoes and his on the shelf they belonged on, finding his blazer slung neatly over the back of the couch, and he came into the kitchen quietly, not wanting to startle you, and took a seat at the kitchen table.

His eyes flickered over the room, watching you move in your own space easily and swiftly, pulling two mugs from the cupboard. You dropped a tea bag into each, a scoop of honey following, and steam was beginning to leave the kettle as the water approached being ready. As the cutlery drawer slid closed, he saw it, he realised what was off. Your schedule was turned around, the blank paper facing upwards from the chart he’d seen you replicate and helped you make, the activities now facing inwards.

He was on his feet before he could stop himself, taking off the magnet that had pinned it up, and twisting the sheet to face himself. The first thing that immediately jumped out was that you’d managed to progress from a daily chart that repeated every day, to a weekly one, the hours down the side being replaced with days of the week.

His eyes immediately picked out the things that were expected, ‘trip to the library’, ‘grocery shopping’ and ‘dinner with Mitch’, smiley faces drawn beside them, and his lips flicked up at the corners. ‘Physical activity’ had been replaced with the word ‘gym’, and his suspicions were confirmed, the word ‘therapy’ being scrawled across the empty spots on a Tuesday, definitely not today. Then, he was studying the other things, grunting as his brows furrowed.

‘Hypno with Irene’.

He looked up, finding you already facing him, leaning against the counter and staring into your drink, a frown on your face. You were clutching the mug with both hands, a sigh leaving you as he inched a little closer. It was on there three times, on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays, definitely a new addition because the ink colour was different to the rest, and it looked fresher, like it had only been added a month or so ago.

“Does ‘hypno’ mean hypnotherapy?”

“Yes.” Your words were weak, and he let a little growl out, putting the paper back on the fridge and pinning the magnet over it, a little more aggression behind his actions that and you flinch, and he would’ve acknowledged his guilt from the action if it hadn't been for the anger clouding his mind.

He patted his pockets down for his phone, finding it tucked away, and you watched him move, he could feel your stare lingering on him as he walked away towards the door, already pushing his thumb into the contact card on the screen, and he could hear it calling as he lifted it to his ear. The second he had, he was slamming the door shut behind himself, trying to take a deep breath to calm himself down, but the feeling of rage bubbled back up as he heard the line go through.

“Do you not know what time it is, Rapp?”

“You’re taking her to fucking hypnotherapy? You’re digging around in her mind, before she even knows how to control what she gets back?” He was seething, fingers gripping his phone so tightly he worried that it might crack by his ear. “Are you fucking insane?”

“It would do you well to curb your tone, agent. Remember who you work for.”

Her tone had somehow managed to get even colder, and he knew she was right, so he bit down on his lip so aggressively that the taste of copper trickled over his tongue. “She isn’t ready for that yet.”

“That isn’t your call to make.”

“Maybe not, but there’s a pair of eyes in my fucking skull, and I can see that she’s still piecing herself back together.” It was taking everything he had to hold his tone steady and stop from shouting again, and he stopped his pacing, leaning back against the wall and working through his body methodically to try and ease his own tension.

“She is the only lead we have on taking down an organization that has been doing this for decades. She is the key, and she’s been giving us more information in the last month than we have gained in at least thirty years.”

“You’re going to break her.” His voice cracked then, and just like that, there wasn’t any more clenched muscles or balled up fists anymore, there was just the exhaustion and ache in his body, and he felt like he might collapse to the floor if it wasn’t for the wall holding him up. “You’re going to ruin her.”

“I’m taking all the necessary precautions, Mitch.”

Even Irene had eased up, and while he wouldn’t exactly call her tone soft, he certainly knew there was less venom and aggression behind it now.

“She is making excellent progress, and we didn’t dive right in at the deep end. We worked it up, but there’s a point she can’t get past. She locks up, we just need her to break through it and we will have everything we need.”

“What point?” Mitch wasn’t sure he actually wanted the answer to this, but he needed to know, to be able to help you or stop it, he just needed to be aware of what you were facing so that you didn’t have to handle it alone.

“She tried to run when she was younger, and she made it out. If she can tell us what she saw, we can track it down. But, she stops as she approaches the door, her mind won’t let her get any further than that.”

“I want to come along. Tomorrow. I’m going to be there.” The hesitation from his boss was evident, a deep sigh, and the shuffling of some papers, and he knew that no matter how late the hour was, Irene was at home doing work anyway.

“Fine. Eight sharp, at her apartment. If you’re late, we’re leaving without you.”

He smirked, glancing up at your door, but not letting on that he was already here with you, the line clicking off before he even had a chance to thank her, and his eyes rolled involuntarily at her actions, but he wasn’t at all surprised. The screen went black when he pulled it from his ear, and Mitch dragged a hand over his face, tucking the device into his pocket and opening the door up again, shutting it softly behind himself now instead of slamming it like he had done before.

Your head snapped up to him, eyes wide as you saw him come back in, and you were on your feet to meet him from the second he’d entered the room. “You came back.”

“Where did you think I was going?” His brows furrowed, your arms wrapping around yourself as he watched you, your mug almost empty, but he noticed his was now sitting face down in the sink, tipped away as you presumed him to have left.

“I thought you were angry with me, and that you went home.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” He was padding across the room and cupping your face in two large hands before he’d even had to think about it, thumbs running over your cheekbones and you stared up at him through wide and glossy eyes. “I’m not mad at you, I promise. I’m mad at Irene, and the world, but I’m not mad at you.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” He leaned in, pressing a long and slow kiss to your forehead, feeling you press back into the touch, and he grinned at the little noise you let out, sagging into his body as your arms circled his waist. He had enough space to pull away, peppering your cheeks and temples with little kisses too, until you were giggling under his hold, face screwing up, and he let you go, your face wiping against your shoulder as he watched you through his own entertainment. “Why didn’t you tell me, though?”

“Irene said it would make you upset, and I don’t want you to be upset with me.”

“I’m not upset with you, I’m just upset for you. I don’t want you to have to suffer anymore.” He sighed, trying to catch your gaze, and using two fingers to tip your chin up to find his sights. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It isn’t fun, but Irene says it’s helping people. People like me, and I can save them. I have to save them, Mitch, like you saved me.” He smiled then, watching as you lit up enthusiastically, and while it was taking a toll on you, he could sense how much you cared, and he couldn't take that away from you.

“I’m going to come with you, tomorrow.”

You grinned, leaning in enough to bump your forehead to his cheek, and you nodded against him, squeezing him tightly within your arms. When you backed away, there was a glint in your eyes, and you backed off enough to shuffle through your cupboards, pulling out a bag of dried pastas, and presenting the half-empty bag to him. “I learned how to make mac and cheese the other week, it makes me feel better after therapy, and you look like you could use a cheer up. You want some?”

“I thought you wanted to go to sleep?” He pressed, and you raised a single shoulder, dropping it back down, before turning to find a pan.

“You’re worth staying up for.”

Then, yes, I’d love some.” He was taking a seat at the table once again, and you hummed, beginning to serve up a portion for you both, fishing around in the fridge to gather all of the ingredients.

He couldn't pretend that he wasn’t nervous, or that the idea of seeing you in that state didn’t frighten him, but he knew that he had to be there for you, to help you and protect you when you were vulnerable, and so everything else slipped away.

#mitchtober #mitch-tober #mitch month #PHTA #put her together again #Mitch Rapp #mitch rapp x reader #mitch rapp/reader #mitch rapp american assassin #dylan obrien american assassin #dylan obrien mitch rapp #dylan o'brien #dylan obrien #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien/reader

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jamespotterthefirst · 5 years ago

Text

How Do I Love Thee? (Ethan x MC)

Regency Era AU

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Miss Lilac Allende) Word count: 5K Warning: More historical pining Premise: Their kiss marked the end of their medical apprenticeship, but is that the end for them? Part three of She Walks in Beauty and A Red, Red Rose.

Everything at Edenbrook reminded him of her. He could not work in peace in his own study without thinking of her torturous lips moving in unison with his, of the sinful little sighs he evoked from her, of her coy hands losing themselves in his hair.

Ethan groaned.

The clock that particular morning read well past nine in the morning, which meant his study would be desolate for the remainder of the day and thus safe for him to use. A small stab of disappointment made itself present in his chest before Ethan resolutely pushed it away. Much like he had for the past two weeks, he reminded himself that avoiding her was the best alternative, for both of them.

Ethan swallowed down the brief bout of despair that flooded him. Not seeing her was a torment, sinking in his stomach like a boulder. Seeing her and enduring the cold, determined manner in which she avoided his gaze was much, much worse.

_______________

II.

Every nerve in her body was alive with anxious energy as she traveled down a deserted hall. With a deep, steadying breath, Lilac willed herself to relax, reminding herself that business had taken him away to London. There was no possibility of running into him as she extended her stay at Edenbrook that morning.

Suppressing a sigh, she tried not to dwell on his absence.

It was true that they barely saw much of each other as of late, but having him so far away was disheartening and it made the loss of him much more tangible. It broke her everyday that went by.

Lilac startled at the sight of someone turning the corner.

Mrs. Martinez smiled kindly at her, no doubt noting her reaction but choosing not to comment on it. Instead, she said, “Thank goodness you are back, dear. And already changed out of that dreadful costume,” she motioned to the bundle of gentlemen’s clothes Lilac carried in her arms. “We can set off at once.”

She grimaced at the thought of going home. “Actually, I am staying behind to study some more.”

Mrs. Martinez sent her a knowing look. “Study?” she repeated suspiciously. “Is that so?”

Lilac’s posture became a little straighter. “Yes, Dr. Ramsey is in London and Dr. Banerji assured me his library is at my disposal for however long I need it.”

The older woman looked as unconvinced as ever. “Is this really about studying?” she asked innocuously, “Or is this about avoiding Lord Carrick?”

The name and the accuracy of her statement sent her stomach sinking. Her silence was all the admission Mrs. Martinez needed for she laughed triumphantly.

“I may be old but I am not a fool, my dear,” she chided, though not unkindly. “And you forget that I know you since the day you were born.”

Lilac averted her gaze. “I do not wish to spend any time with anyone if I could be using that time to study instead.”

“It will appease your father,” Mrs. Martinez returned. “What is so unappealing about this suitor, corazón? He is a baron, perfectly pleasant, and exceedingly handsome. Is that not pleasing to you?”

Unbidden, thoughts of Ethan’s piercing blue eyes taunted her. It was all she could think about for the past few weeks. Her traitorous mind recalled the feel of his lips, surprisingly soft against hers, his hands clinging on to her waist, and the sound of her name in his spellbinding voice.

Lilac shook her head imperceptibly. At once, she dismissed all thoughts of the man who wanted nothing to do with her.

Mrs. Martinez waited for an answer.

“Lord Carrick is decent enough,” she admitted hesitantly. “Though I believe you and father are overestimating his interest in me. As you said, he is a wealthy, handsome baron, which makes him the most eligible bachelor in the area. He cannot seriously consider the daughter of a foreign merchant who is almost six and twenty.”

“I would not be so sure of that, dear,” her companion returned sagely. “He seems completely besotted. I would expect an offer any day now.”

Lilac allowed herself to consider that. She had been so close to being a spinster that the thought of marriage had not crossed her mind in recent years. Her plan had been to study and practice medicine, even if they both had to be clandestine.

That was all her heart desired.

At least, it was all it desired up until a few months ago.

“Could we please stay a bit longer?” was all she replied with, determined to change the subject.

Mrs. Martinez sighed, defeated for the time being. “Alright, dear,” she allowed. “We can stay for another hour. That might be all the time we can get away with before your father starts asking questions.”

Lilac nodded, already thinking of ways to turn that hour into two. After Mrs. Martinez set off for the Edenbrook gardens she loved so much, Lilac continued her journey down the hall.

The study, once the source of so much happiness, sent an icy stab of despair through her at first glance. Lilac forced it aside and began browsing through the vast collection of books.

She had just opened her selection to an interesting chapter when the door of the study opened.

“You promised me an hour, it's only been thirty–”

Lilac stopped abruptly as she whirled around, eyes landing on the tall, broad shouldered figure at the doorway that was decidedly not Mrs. Martinez.

Doctor Ethan Ramsey stood before her, hair windswept and handsome face bright from the biting breeze outside. The early September sun shining through the tall windows cast an almost inhuman glow upon him, making him appear as destructively beautiful as ever.

He looked just as shocked to see her, frozen mid stride.

The silence that followed was loaded and wildly tense.

Lilac opened her mouth, determined to break the unbearable pause. No words came to mind, however, paralyzed as she was by his presence and the way her chest ached for him.

It was debilitating and she loathed it.

Ethan, meanwhile, quietly observed her in the silence, eyes ablaze with an emotion she couldn't quite place, one that kindled a warmth in the pit of her stomach. It was as though he was struggling to decide if she was real and standing before him.

It forced Lilac to finally look away, a painful knot in her throat.

“I did not think you would still be here–” he blurted at the same time she hurriedly said, “I thought you were in London, otherwise–”

They both cut off at the same time.

Mortified and heart a thundering chaos, she wished for nothing more than to disappear into the ground.

She cleared her throat, refusing to look at him.

“My apologies, sir,” she started with as much grace as she could manage. “I only wished to borrow a book for my studies. I will be taking my leave–”

“No,” he said much too quickly. She glanced at him, instantly regretting her weakness.

Ethan was watching her, eyes roaming her face.

“You can stay, Ms. Allende,” he said and the formal mode of address sent a little pang through her.

Lilac, torn between fleeing from the heat of his gaze and the longing to finally be in his presence again, opened her mouth to argue. Ethan shook his head, perhaps knowing what she was about to say.

“I insist,” he continued, unyielding. “I have a house call with a patient anyway so you will not be disturbed here.”

Before she could protest, he picked up his medical kit from a nearby table and retreated. As the door closed behind him, the ache in her throat swelled, her heart shattering into impossibly smaller pieces.

_______________

III.

Thoughts of beautiful green eyes, appearing dim and forlorn as they fell on him, haunted Ethan when he finished that evening’s house call. He threw the empty vial into his bag with more force than necessary, desperately pushing the specter of Lilac Allende’s disdain away.

“Goodness!” his patent exclaimed, reminding Ethan of where he was. “Is my condition so severe that it inspires such an outburst from the most reserved man I have ever met?”

Slightly embarrassed, Ethan turned to the older woman who watched him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. In her frail state, the widowed baroness looked somehow smaller.

He offered her a tentative smile. “You are vastly improving with every visit, my Lady. Whatever it is you are doing to improve your condition, continue it twice as often.”

At this, she laughed, the sound almost sounding like a croak. “Then I shall double my efforts to avoid forming a scowl and laughing at the men foolish enough to wear one.” She threw Ethan a significant look.

He couldn’t help but laugh at that, the first genuine laugh in weeks. Ethan liked the baroness well enough. It was her son, on the other hand, whom he couldn’t stomach.

Almost as if summoning him with the thought alone, the door of the bedchamber opened to allow for the baron’s entrance.

Lord Carrick sauntered in with a stride that commanded respect, even if the man himself did not entirely deserve it. He was tall, though not taller than Ethan, and many women often referred to him as handsome. For a wild moment, Ethan wondered if Lilac found the baron handsome as well, before he forced himself to remember that he had no right to wonder about her thoughts.

The ever-present sneer broadened when Lord Carrick’s eyes fell on Ethan. “How is my mother?” he inquired, skipping all pleasantries. Ethan was glad for that. There was only so much social conversation he could endure and he had spent it all with the baroness.

“She has improved greatly since my last visit,” Ethan replied, unable to keep the terse edge from his voice. This seemed to entertain the baron greatly for his lips curled further in derision.

Suppressing the sudden urge to hit him, Ethan added, “However, she should continue to get plenty of bed rest in addition to the medicine I am administering for the pain.”

The baroness’s lively smile faltered ever so slightly at the words "bed rest". Lord Carrick, noticing his mother's shift, let out a bark of a laugh, loud and imposing as everything else about him.

“You will have to forgive my mother, Dr. Ramsey,” he said with a cheerfulness that was entirely too artificial to Ethan's ears. “You see, she was eagerly awaiting the grand ball we will be hosting here at Kenmore tomorrow evening.”

Ethan had received the invitation, sent out of social obligation no doubt. He had cast it aside, giving it no thought since.

The baroness gave a small delighted squeal at the mention of the event. “Dr. Ramsey, you must join us! All of the most influential families from all over will attend. It will be a most delightful occasion indeed!”

Ethan planned to avoid it for all those reasons precisely. Instead of offering empty promises, he remained silent.

The baron, on the other hand, was watching Ethan with interested, narrowed eyes, as though carefully measuring his reaction. In a tone that he no doubt believed to be casual, he said, “Yes, Doctor, you must attend. The evening promises to be particularly joyous as I intend to secure an engagement.”

Ethan remained very still, offering no perceptible reaction that would betray the cold dread coursing through him. He was not entirely sure what prompted him to respond, but he said, “I was not aware you were to be married.”

“I am,” the other man replied at once, with an acute possessiveness Ethan did not miss. “I just returned from speaking to her father and happily securing his approval.” A deliberate pause, then, “Excellent family, the Allendes. Miss Lilac Allende is no doubt the greatest beauty in the county. Don't you agree?”

But Ethan had stopped listening at the mention of her name, an icy, iron fist clenching around his insides. He could not explain away the abrupt hollowness in his chest or the way his throat constricted painfully.

“Doctor?” the baroness asked with concern.

Ethan was not entirely sure he responded. In fact, he did not remember with certainty if he said any goodbyes before he left Kenmore with haste. One minute, he was inside the grand estate, the next he was mounted on his horse, galloping at blinding speed toward Edenbrook.

Except, Edenbrook should have been the last place he should go. Everything about that place reminded him of her.

Lilac.

Soon to be engaged.

Part of him knew this would happen. How could it not? She was lovelier than anyone he had ever set eyes on. Her winning charm was bound to captivate someone eventually. Wasn't he a prime example of what those green eyes could do to a person?

But she was so much more that a lovely face and bewitching, expressive eyes. She was a wealth of compassion and kindness, bestowed freely on anyone who needed it, like the sun giving its warmth selflessly. She was a fierce, determined protector, both for herself and for those who needed a champion. She was a beautiful, brilliant mind, unyielding in its quest to learn more with the sole purpose of improving a bleak world that at times did not deserve her.

She was everything.

His mind whirled aimlessly with a world of thoughts as Ethan commanded his horse to push faster, the obliging beast increasing its speed. The hooves against the grit of the road did little to drown the pounding at his ears. He would give anything— his money, his estate, his damn sanity— to cease all thoughts of her.

And all the while, the goddamn pain in his chest refused to subside.

The biting wind whipped against his face, gray clouds swirling above with the promise of rain. He had only just begun to wonder if he would be caught in the downpour when something small blurred out of a nearby bush, blocking their path.

His horse let out a startled, deafening neigh before throwing Ethan off its back.

A sickening crunch, a wave of blinding pain, and the memory of green eyes before darkness overtook him.

_______________

IV.

The sheer terror that gripped her was debilitating as she ran through fields of tall grass and mud. Every intake of breath was a painful ache, every step arduous with trembling knees. Lilac did not know how her weightless body had the will to carry her, but it did not cease until Edenbrook loomed closer.

She halted at the grand entrance of the estate, breathless and eyes stinging with unshed tears, the note that delivered the dreadful news clutched painfully in her fist. There to greet her was Dr. Banerji, though his unsmiling, melancholic demeanor did nothing to comfort her.

“Is he–?”

“He’s alive,” he assured her solemnly.

But she did not dare to feel relieved until she saw him herself.

She discovered she was entirely wrong mere minutes later when the sight of his bandaged body brought little solace to her. Her feet carried her to his bedside with such resolve that she did not pause to apologize to the startled servant she almost shoved aside. An invisible rope tugged her to him, as it always had since perhaps the moment she met him, except this time, it would not be abated until she sat by his side.

Very gingerly, she took his uninjured hand in hers.

He was asleep, chest rising and falling gently. Lilac bit her lip to suppress an onslaught of emotion. The sight of him vulnerable and broken was a sacrilege. He should be awake, towering over her, fighting back a laugh at one of her dreadful jokes or piercing her with those eyes of his.

Ethan's handsome face was relaxed as he slept, long dark lashes fluttering with every breath he took. In this form, he looked almost peaceful save for the sling around his left arm, the bruises over his bare torso, and the bandage on his forehead already blooming with blood.

Dr. Banerji moved to tend to the wound but Lilac intervened.

“Please,” she pleaded quietly. “Let me.”

He gave her a kind, understanding nod. “I shall give you a moment with him,” he added, his benign eyes falling on their joined hands.

After Dr. Banerji exited the room, accompanied by the servants, Lilac set to work on his wound. She meticulously washed her hands in a nearby basin and carefully doused fresh gauze with carbolic acid, just like he had taught her. Very carefully, she began to clean the wound.

The sting of the acid caused him to stir, his head rolling slowly from side to side in protest. Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open.

When his bleary eyes finally focused, they found hers at once, with a flash of disbelief to see her there.

“You're here,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with disuse.

“I am,” she assured him.

His blue eyes took in every inch of her face before they closed, as if in worship.

“Did I perish?”

Lilac paused at that, caught completely off guard. “No,” she said at last. “But you suffered several serious injuries.”

Ethan laughed, the sound bitter and entirely humorless.

“It's no laughing matter,” she admonished. “You could've died, Ethan.”

Her voice cracked slightly at the last few words.

Ethan's eyes flew open at that, or perhaps at the use of his name. In her distress, she had forgotten all about proper modes of address.

As he looked at her, he seemed unmoved by the severity of the accident. Lilac's temper flared up before she could stop it, fueled by the terror of almost losing him forever.

“How could you be so reckless?”

His eyebrows shot up at that. “How is a house call reckless?” he asked patiently, almost as if asking her to explain a passage on immunization she had found interesting.

“Going on horseback at the heels of a storm? Completely senseless,” she shot back. “You could've taken the carriage, as you always do.”

“I only took the carriage when you accompanied me,” he said calmly.

A small pause in which the unspoken became evident to both. There was no need to use the carriage because she wasn’t his apprentice anymore.

As though reading her thoughts, he shook his head, the movement making him wince slightly. “I am not implying this is in any way your fault. It was simpler to go on horseback, particularly when I was only going five miles to Kenmore.”

Lilac became very still at the mention of the estate.

Moving her eyes away from his, she busied herself with cleaning more gauze with the carbolic acid. She could feel Ethan’s eyes watching her closely, sending a wave through her that made her feel feverish. It was astonishing how he always managed to do that without even uttering a single word.

“You're bleeding again,” she observed when the silence reached its peak.

Ethan said nothing as he continued to look at her. Something flickered in his eyes and she could swear he was willing her—begging her— to share something with him.

It befuddled her.

Unsure of what to say, she directed her attention to his wound.

“Don't move,” she instructed softly.

With a feather light touch, she dabbed the gash. Ethan hissed but otherwise did not protest as she worked.

“How dire is the damage, Doctor?” he asked when she began dressing the wound. He uttered the word with utmost respect and it sent a thrill through her.

Before she could manage a breathless answer, Lilac became acutely aware of how close they were from one another, close enough that a lock of her long, unpinned hair brushed against his naked chest as she worked.

Ethan's hooded eyes traced its path.

Time stood still in the dim room, the air crackling with heavy tension.

Ethan’s chest began to rise and fall in quick succession as he regarded her, making her fingers tremble. When she finished her work, she remained frozen in place, the heat of his body, the hypnotizing smell of his cologne, and the ardor of his eyes transfixing her entirely.

Very slowly and with bated breath, she moved her eyes to meet his.

He was watching her with a tenderness so pure and sincere, she was certain she would remember it until the day she died. The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed, his face tense with a pained expression. He remained unmoving, as though afraid that any sudden movement might make her disappear.

“Lilac,” he whispered, the sound so adoring, it tugged at her chest.

Her fingers, which still rested on the fresh dressings of his wound, slowly trailed down his face. Ethan closed his eyes.

“You should rest,” she whispered back.

He was already obliging, his muscles relaxing under her touch.

“Don't go,” he murmured, half conscious.

Her throat constricted with emotion as she watched him succumb to exhaustion. The thought that she could have easily lost him forever sent a fresh shock of panic through her body. If that terrible prospect had become a reality, Lilac didn’t think she could survive it.

Before she was fully aware of what she was doing, she pressed her lips gently to his forehead. The gesture felt so undeniably right that she decided then she was exactly where she belonged.

At his side.

“I won't,” she promised as sleep claimed him.

_______________

Rain pattered gently against his bedroom window when he awoke, his body feeling like lead. He groaned when he shifted on the bed, pulling at his injured arm. His head throbbed painfully, and when he reflexively reached up, his fingers touched the neat dressings of a wound.

The memories of her fingers against his skin came in a flash.

Ethan sat bolt upright, instantly regretting the action as pain shot through his arm again. He swallowed it down, eyes scanning the dim bedchamber, desperate to see her.

“She's not here,” Naveen said from the armchair in the corner of the room.

Ethan sank back into the mound of pillows, his head threatening to split open. Unsolicited, the memory of Carrick's proclamation before the accident echoed in his mind. If his mental calculations were correct, the Kenmore ball was last night.

“Right,” he said, masking all disappointment from his expression. “She is engaged now.” His chest felt oddly hollow at the words.

A brief memory of the previous day replayed in his head. Lilac, so close to him that the lovely smell of her jasmine perfume tormented his senses. His half conscious whisper, begging her to stay with him instead of going to Kenmore.

Naveen, on the other hand, was giving him an odd look that was equal parts befuddlement and concern. “That head injury is worse than I thought,” he said in response. “What on Earth are you going on about?”

“The Kenmore ball,” he said simply as though that was enough explanation. His mentor looked even more confused and slightly more alarmed. Ethan pressed on, “Tobias Carrick was going to propose to Lilac at that ball.”

Naveen's eyebrows shot up. “Well, unless Tobias Carrick is gifted with telepathy, I can assure you that did not happen.”

Ethan blinked.

His shock amused Naveen for he chuckled. “Miss Allende did not go to Kenmore last night,” he explained. “She's been at your bedside this whole time. Quite stubbornly, might I add.”

Ethan had no words, too overwhelmed by the sense of hope blooming in his chest.

Another laugh from Naveen, before he added, “And even if that poor girl had left your bedside to attend a frivolous Kenmore ball, what makes you believe she would ever accept Lord Carrick? Should I really be that concerned for your head?”

Ethan ignored this as a sudden urgency overtook him.

Last night, he had felt only half awake and nowhere near coherent enough to properly tell her what he had realized before he fell off that horse, what his heart already knew and silently harbored for many months. Coming so close to death made him realize that he had to let her know, he had to tell her what threatened to make his chest burst.

“Where did she go?”

“She said she was going to the Edenbrook gardens for– Where are you going?”

Ethan ignored Naveen's protests about bed rest.

He found her twenty minutes later after a reluctant servant helped him get dressed.

Unaware of his presence, she serenely walked down the cobblestone path, protected from the slight drizzle of rain by the thick foliage forming a lush, green tunnel. She wore a thick coat but no hat, her dark hair loosely pinned and falling in waves down her back.

Among the flower beds lining the path, she looked a lovely addition to their midst.

Lilac turned when he was mere feet away, surprise evident in her features, closely followed by disapproval. “Dr. Ramsey,” she said by way of greeting. “You should be resting.”

“I had to see you,” he told her, foregoing any preamble. He was done concealing the truth.

This made her pause briefly.

When she recovered, she said, “I was to return in a few minutes.” Then gesturing toward the estate, she added. “We can go in together.”

When he made no effort to move, she arched a delicate brow at him.

“What I have to tell you cannot be delayed.”

“What could possibly be so important that–”

“I love you.”

The three words, uttered so calmly and undeniably, adorned the long silence that followed.

Looking entirely startled, Lilac inhaled a small breath, the air catching at her throat softly.

Before Ethan could lose his newfound bravery, he continued, “From the very first moment you assessed me with those brilliant eyes of yours I became enraptured. Unknowingly, I placed my heart in your hands, Lilac, where it stayed all those months we worked together and where it remains today.”

Her beautiful lips parted, eyes shining bright with an emotion he did not dare to analyze just yet. Somewhere above them, the rainfall hastened, droplets of water drumming against the dense canopy of leaves.

“Ever since that first time you broke into my study, your passion, your fierce determination inspired me to be a better man. I was–I am willing to give you anything you wish for. Even if that means a mentor or a friend or an advocate to march into St. Bard's and demand they allow you into their medical school. Anything you want, Lilac. I will not be thoughtless enough to make the choice for you again.”

“Ethan.”

The sound of his name from her lips was like a song and he briefly closed his eyes to worship it.

“I was arrogant to push you away,” he continued, driving all his efforts at keeping his voice even. “I foolishly believed I knew what was best for you. I never once paused to ask you what you wanted. It made me no better than the people all around telling you what you can and can't be. For that, I hope you can forgive me someday.”

Another silence in which the only sound came from the rain falling softly over their heads.

Lilac stared up at him, standing perfectly still, as though taking in his every word like a breath of fresh air. Very slowly, she moved closer to him, her face giving him no indication of her intentions.

He held a breath, throat tight, heart beating wildly in anticipation. For a moment, he considered the possibility of her rejection and he instantly knew it would not matter. All he wanted was for her to know his true feelings, with no reservations and not expectation of anything in return.

After what seemed like an eternity, she moved even closer and took his hand.

“You would give me anything I desire?”

“Anything.”

Her thumb skimmed over the ridges of his knuckles. Ethan glanced down, the sight of their joined hands overwhelming him with foolish hope.

“You have already given me what I longed for the most,” she said, her face so sincere he had never been more captivated. “You have made me your equal.”

The rain was a torrent around them by now.

“All there is left is you. I want all of you, Ethan.”

“You have me.”

And that was all the encouragement she needed. Closing the last few inches between them, she raised herself on the tips of her toes to kiss him.

Though he remembered her kiss faithfully, his lips moved against hers in desperation, hoping to memorize their softness over and over again. Ethan's hands found their place at her waist, hers around his neck, their bodies fitting as perfectly as if they were designed to be that way.

They remained as such, bodies and lips pressed together, until they were both breathless.

Ethan pressed his forehead against hers.

“I know you do not wish for a husband, otherwise I’d–”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Tobias Carrick,” he explained and Lilac pulled back slightly to roll her eyes.

“I would never marry a man idiotic and presumptuous enough to announce an engagement before asking me,” she declared with such conviction that his desire for her multiplied.

“My refusal to marry him stemmed from common sense,” she continued, every word against Carrick making it far more difficult for Ethan to keep his lips from hers. “Not from not wanting a husband,” she continued. “I wish to marry only the man I am desperately in love with.”

The deliberately charged look she gave him broke a smile across his face.

He kissed her again.

_______________

Epilogue

A year later.

“A patient for Dr. Ramsey,” the servant announced at the door of their study.

After the young girl’s departure, Lilac glanced up from her notes to shoot her husband a quizzical look. “Which Doctor Ramsey do you believe they seek?”

Ethan offered her a loving and equally charming smile, one he knew had a powerful effect on her. She tried not to be distracted by it, though she failed miserably.

“Perhaps the best out of the two,” he replied. “Which undoubtedly means you, love.”

Lilac rolled her eyes and she bit her bottom lip, attempting to restrain a smile.

Her husband’s eyes fell on her mouth at the movement, that familiar spark of longing glinting in their depths. In one swift movement, he crossed the length of the study and just as quickly, he had her in his arms and pressed against his desk.

Her surprised yelp gave way to a peal of laughter.

“We’re in the study,” she pointed out, breathless. Ethan did not seem to hear her as his lips had set to work on her neck. He made it very difficult to protest. “We can’t.”

“That’s never stopped us before,” he argued, his voice a hot whisper against her throat.

“I meant because we have a patient,” she returned.

At that, he straightened and pressed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Right as always,” he murmured.

Lilac took a brief moment before parting to study him, his beautiful, chiseled face sending a rush of heat through her. Those quiet, striking eyes surveyed her curiously.

“What?”

“I love you,” she informed him.

Ethan beamed, the simple gesture making him look younger. She would never tire of the sight as long as she lived.

He pressed an adoring kiss to her hand.

“As I love you.”

_______________

Author’s Note: I want to cry with gratitude if you made it this far in this crazy, thirteen thousand word saga. (I’ve never in my life written anything this long, so you have my gratitude forever). A big thank you to everyone who read, liked, and/or commented the other two parts. Your support means everything to me. I have no words, just love for you.

Again, pardon the title. This one was named after a beautiful poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

________________

#open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #My writing #ethan ramsey fanfiction #Ethan ramsey x mc #dr. ethan ramsey #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfiction

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newnitz · 4 years ago

Text

Howl's Moving Castle & the Power Narrative Holds Over Reality

Like most 90s borns, my first anime was Pokémon. I watched the first three seasons diligently, and my tooth fairy gifts were always VHSs of memorable episodes. But like most Millennials and even Gen-X before us, my first real entryway to Japanese culture was Hayao Miyazaki. On the tiny TV screen, behind even for 2002, where my mother would watch her TV shows as she worked out, I watched Spirited Away. Chihiro/Sen's coming-of-age story and the movie's numerous themes deserves their own essay, and one I think better bloggers, vloggers and ordinary people have written before me. But after such a masterpiece, I jumped at the chance to see the next Studio Ghibli movie, Howl's Moving Castle. I rushed to the local library to read the book before it aired in the nearby city's bus station mall's small cinema. 18 years later, too nauseous for schoolwork and mooching off of my dad's Netflix account, I decided to rewatch this film. ***Spoiler alert for both book AND film*** The film itself is a staunch anti-war message, released around the same time as the invasion of Iraq, informed by Miyazaki's own childhood in the final years of Imperial Japan and the horrors inflicted on his home country to set the stage of the Cold War. The exposition includes a bombing of Sophie's hometown with...banners. The citizens of Ingary are terrified of the flying machines descending upon their skies, they expect bombs and destruction and untold death and unspeakable horrors. So when they instead get rained down paper pieces with pictures and words we are never privy to, they treat it with suspicion. They refuse to so much as touch them, since it's of the enemy. And the day after, when Ingary soldiers distribute their own country's propaganda banners, they drink it down without a second thought. Again, we are never privy to what they say. Perhaps it was meaningless. Perhaps, to the common contemporary viewer, the content would be incomprehensible. But for me, it got me thinking: What if this was the "enemy" spreading missing posters of their prince? What if this was a warning for the townspeople to evacuate, as they expect to take point there? And if it was, what the hell did it accomplish, outside of everything BUT what it tried to? The people are too scared. They see it as psychological warfare, whether intentional or not, and therefore the papers become a terrorizing presence, whether they were filled with graphic threats or pleas for cooperation, all it ended up doing is scaring the population into a deeper layer of hatred. I personally disagree with the film's apparent message, but I agree with how much of war is the matter of spinning the truth. No character represents a better allegory for spinning the truth than Sophie Hatter, the main character of the movie. The first thing we notice about her is how intricate and colorful all her creations are, while she sticks to a plain hat with minimal detail. We see her displeasure with her own appearance even when trying it on in front of the mirror. She dresses plainly for she thinks herself plain - wearing a mousy dress in both the source book and the film adaption. The book elaborates on this narrative and its subversion: In Ingary, fairytale tropes are accepted as divine truths. Sophie and her sister Lettie have had their mother die as toddlers, so when their father remarried and produced a third sister(briefly referenced in the film), Martha, Sophie and Lettie were doomed to be wicked, hideous stepsisters. But not only did their stepmother raised them as her own, but both all the Hatters were stated to be beautiful, with Lettie in particular having the entire town's male population vying for her affection in both book and film. In fact, the cunning one is the designated "Cinderella", Martha, who uses her guile to warn her half-sisters. See, another trope specific to Ingary was that the firstborn of three siblings will never find their luck - if they ever dare try, they will encounter disaster after misfortune and end up poor and miserable. According to Martha, her mother wanted to enjoy a life of luxury, so she sent Lettie to work in a bakery where she will surely find a man of her liking to start a life with, and shipped her own daughter off to be a magic apprentice far far away from her. Sophie is the only one she kept close, because she knew she buys into the tropes and will make her fortune for her, preferring the safety of her late father's shop to the dangers of the unlucky life of a firstborn. But in both film and book, this blissful avoidance of any exploration is torn away in a chance encounter Sophie has with the notorious wizard Howl. While her sister(s) are terrified for her safety, Sophie has no fear of the 'heart-eating monster' as "he only eats the hearts of beautiful girls", believing her plainness protected her. But oh, how she was wrong. Or was she? In both book and film, the Witch of the Wastes barges into the hat shop. In the book, she seeks Lettie whom Howl is taken with(like literally every man in town) and enters the shop where an overworked Sophie loses her temper at her, and mistaking the hatter for her sister, she curses the girl to become old. In the film, she's explicitly exacting revenge on Sophie, whom Howl is interested in, and follows her and invades her shop after closing time, cursing her to be ninety years old. This is supposed to devastate Sophie - rob her of her youth, beauty and health, ending her life before she started them. But in both versions, Sophie acclimates to the change rather well, constantly noticing the perks of living as an old lady - she can mumble to herself and be seen as normal, she can be assertive and commanding without being inappropriate and/or bossy, and since she has nothing to lose, she might as well go exploring the world, if only to lift the curse. To revisit this as someone who didn’t expect to have the option of growing old, this is an empowering message on its own - growing old is what you make of it. But despite subverting the Witch's narrative, Sophie remains a helpless victim of her own narrative. Book Sophie is explicitly said to be a powerful sorceress unaware of her own powers, even enchanting her hats into the client's shape with her words alone, while in the film it's only implied. But in both versions she Unconsciously Maintains Her Own Curse: She reverts to the eighteen year old in her sleep, or when something silences her insecurities enough. In the film, she's explicitly shown to de-age as she gains confidence in herself under the role of the household maid, going from the frail ninety-year-old into someone who looks and acts as a woman just past middle age - I don't think this is incidental, as many women are at their most confident at that age, when they no longer feel pressured to worry about trivial matters such as beauty and childrearing, and retreat back into the original cursed form when Howl calls her beautiful - a compliment she can never accept. In the book, Howl eventually comes to the conclusion that she likes being old and gives up trying to guide her out of it. The book takes narrative subversion even further. Remember cunning Martha? Turns out, the Hatters didn't conform to their mother's narrative either - Martha was bored by wizardry while Lettie craved it. The two concocted a plan to glamour as one another, which of course the mentor witch saw right though, and preferred Lettie's genuine interest to Martha ghosting the craft. This stings extra once Fanny is shown to be a caring mother who attacks who he thought cursed her stepdaughter - perhaps she fell for the same sort of thinking Sophie did, and wanted her stepdaughter to have the best life possible for someone doomed to fail, thought extroverted Lettie enjoyed the attention and choice of men and wanted Martha to be a powerful, self-sufficient young woman who led a life more glamorous than she did, as someone who lacked magic? That Fanny was a real parent - a well-intentioned woman who completely misjudged her children and their future? Is it possible Martha’s own narrative has poisoned her relationship with her mother, perhaps beyond repair? As for Sophie, in the book she breaks her own curse by breaking the contract between Calcifer and Howl. But the film gives it more nuance - Calcifer and Howl are clearly in a codependent relationship: In both versions Howl gave Calcifer his heart in exchange for magical powers (as well as saving the fallen star's life, depending on your interpretation of the character), but by the time Sophie employs herself at the Castle, Calcifer feels more like a slave than a powerful demon. Howl himself has his own internal struggles, and many online have made convincing cases for BPD being among them. Calcifer is an essential part of his support system. Each one of them believes that if Calcifer isn't fed properly, or gets dunked with water, they'll both die. And once Sophie does so to stop the wizened, depowered Witch of the Wastes from literally being consumed by her obsessive desire for Howl, she too believes to have killed them both with her rash actions. But they live, because Sophie's part in a time loop led her to think otherwise and refuse to give up on them. Within the film’s universe, this ties into Sophie’s innate magical powers talking reality into her perception. But I know real-life, ordinary people who’s own narratives have changed grim fates. Now, I don’t live in Ingary. I don’t believe the world around me has literal, reality-warping magic. I’m not a spiritual person. But this is precisely why Howl’s Moving Castle appealed to me - because the characters’ thoughts don’t perfectly dictate reality, but the way they act on their perceptions does. I know a man who is alive because his (now ex-)wife changed the narrative of his deathbed to one of optimism and efficacy. When I stopped trying to have my self-image reflected in the eyes of others, I transformed into a more confident, capable person practically overnight. I’m not delusional - I’m well aware of the Dunning-Krueger effect, of how reality exists whether you live in it or not. I’d like to think I live strictly within the boundaries of what is proven beyond reasonable doubt to be real.

But your spin on reality dictates your life. It can dictate parts of the lives of your close ones. But the message isn’t one of just changing your own view of a situation around you to become happy, oh no. Lettie and Martha didn’t just choose to be happy in apprenticeships they had no passion for. Sophie didn’t just relocate to some quaint cottage to live the few years that weren’t stolen from her as an old hermit. They acted to transform the existent reality within their means, but they could only do so because they felt empowered enough to question their life’s narratives.

#howl's moving castle #movie essay

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writingfortoomanyfandoms · 4 years ago

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Penny For Your Thoughts (III)

Pairing: Young!Sirius Black x Reader

Series Summary: Y/N Y/L/N has lived in the Potter household since she was eight years old. Even amongst the Potters, whom she knew loved her, she has never felt truly accepted, never felt like anything other than a burden. Until she went to Hogwarts. For the first time she had friends who weren’t forced to act as such, she had a family who loved her by choice. There, she met Sirius, the first and only person to ever truly understand what she was going through, to listen to her and not judge.

Chapter Warnings: Ummm not sure - maybe swearing?

A/N: And here’s part three! I hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think - especially if you’re on the taglist, hearing your comments always inspires me to keep on writing, so please do let me know. If you wish to be added to the taglist send me an ASK, replies to the parts asking to be added onto it won’t be responded to

The first term flew by, the days becoming indistinguishable from each other as the First Years got set more and more work. Y/N spent a lot of her time in the library, working on essays or studying for upcoming exams, often joined by the other Hufflepuff girls with whom she had formed a close friendship with - Eric having slowly fazed himself out of the group to spend more time with the other boys.

When she wasn’t there, however, she spent much of her time near the forest, often dragging Beatrice along with her in search of magical creatures, fascinated by the many species that resided in the Hogwarts grounds. Hagrid, the gameskeeper, had taken a liking to Y/N and would sometimes invite her to tea with him if he had found something that he thought she may find particularly interesting, though had so far steadfastly refused to take her into the forest with him, regardless of her pleas.

She was also accustomed - as was the Hufflepuff way - to spending a lot of time in the greenhouses with Professor Sprout, especially with Beatrice and Jessica’s love for Herbology.

James, Sirius, Remus and Peter were always together. Whenever Y/N saw one of them, she knew that the others wouldn’t be far behind - James and Sirius in particular seemed to be inseparable, much to the infuriation of the teachers.

Y/N learned the exact extent to which James found himself in trouble through the letters she received from his parents, which often included great lamentations about James’ work ethic - or lack thereof.

Y/N was happy at Hogwarts. Happier than she felt she had ever been before.

Her favourite place to sit in the library was in the back right corner. It was a table right by a window that overlooked the whole of the grounds. It was out of sight from the strict librarian, Madam Pince, which allowed more leeway for her to be able to chat quietly with her friends over whatever work they happened to be completing.

It was also quieter than other areas, on account of it being the opposite end of the library to where James and his friends would frequent on the rare occasions that they decided to do some actual work.

“I don’t know why you think you need help with this,” Liane murmured, her eyes scanning down Y/N’s potions essay. “This is completely fine,” she slid it back to Y/N over the table who sighed, still editing Liane’s Astronomy homework.

“I still think it’s verging on cheating you doing that,” Jessica told them, her nose buried in her Defence Against the Dark Arts Book.

“It’s not cheating, it's just a little… morally ambiguous,” Liane protested and Beatrice snorted.

“I’m sure that would hold up in court,” she commented, sharing an amused glance with Y/N.

“Well… to be fair, it’s not as though we’re writing each other’s essays - we’re just checking them through,” Y/N pointed out. “You really suck at writing conclusions, by the way,” she added, raising her eyebrows at Liane who shrugged.

“Never claimed to be good at it.”

Y/N pulled out a spare piece of parchment and began to re-write a conclusion for her.

“Totally not writing each other’s essays,” Beatrice agreed.

“It’s funny - I don’t remember you being so against it when you needed help doing the Potions one last week,” Liane pointed out, raising her eyebrows.

“That was different,” Beatrice scowled. Y/N tried to suppress her grin but upon meeting Jessica’s eyes across the table, both of them promptly fell into a fit of giggles.

“And you’re always telling me to be quiet in the library,” James whisper-shouted, causing Y/N to jump and glare over at where he was standing by one of the bookshelves, arms folded as he watched them.

“At least we’re actually doing work,” Y/N retorted.

“To be fair - we only come here,” he looked distastefully at the bookshelves surrounding him, “because of Remus - so one of us does work.”

“Your Mum’ll be thrilled you made friends with Remus, probably thinks he’ll be a good influence on you,” Y/N responded drily.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Y/L/N, come on - I need to talk to you.”

“No surprise there - I’m pretty great, many, many people want to talk to me at all times.”

“And we’re not some of them,” Beatrice stated, pushing her friend’s shoulder. Y/N scoffed and rolled her eyes but stood from the table and walked with James to the nearest empty one.

“What’s up?”

“Evans-”

“Did you really corner me in the library again to tell me that you had some intimate eye contact with Lily? What was it this time? Breathed the same air? Almost touched hands? She didn’t tell you to piss off?” Y/N groaned.

“I mean - ouch?” James said, looking mildly offended. “And no - she spoke to me, thank you very much,” James said, raising his chin defiantly at her.

“I’m thrilled for you, I’ll get right on the wedding preparations,” Y/N deadpanned.

“That’s not the point,” James muttered, his cheeks flushing red. “We were talking about the Christmas holidays and she mentioned that you were thinking of staying here for them.”

Y/N froze. She hadn’t intended for James to hear about her plans for Christmas yet. She was going to tell him nearer the time, when he would have less of a chance to argue with her and convince her otherwise.

“Well?”

“It was just a passing comment, Jamie,” she denied, using his nickname in an attempt to soften him up a little.

“Y/N, I know you better than anyone,” James reminded her in a low voice and Y/N found herself unable to meet his eyes, far too embarrassed.

“James-”

“Don’t stay here,” James said, his tone verging on pleading. “Just don’t.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be!” James argued and Y/N shushed him as his voice began to raise.

“We’re in the library, remember?” She whispered harshly.

“Then stop being stupid!” James retorted angrily, setting his jaw.

“Excuse you!”

“Well you are being stupid!” James insisted. “My parents will be so upset if you don’t go home for Christmas! It won’t be right!”

Y/N stared down at the table for a while, feeling the tears burning in her eyes, blinking rapidly to keep them at bay.

“Penny for your thoughts?” James asked in a gentle voice.

Y/N looked up at him with a watery smile and James gave her a sad one in response.

“I’m sorry for shouting but… I’m being serious, Y/N, you have to come home for Christmas!” He pleaded.

“But-”

“No buts!” James shouted, annoyance flaring again immediately.

“Mr Potter!” Madame Pince came storming over to their table, glowering at them.

“Sorry Miss!” Y/N butted in before James could aggravate her further but it didn’t seem to do any help and instead her murderous glare turned onto her.

“Both of you! Out!”

“But-”

“No! I said out!” She shrieked shrilly, waving her wand and gathering Y/N’s things for her from the table where her Hufflepuff friends were sitting watching the exchange in amusement. She gave her wand another wave and Y/N’s belongings were shooting over to her, chasing both her and James out of the library to the laughter of their peers.

“Nice going, dickhead,” Y/N huffed, managing to catch her bag and she glared at James.

“You can’t stay here for the holidays,” James said instead, a pained look in his eyes that caused her to feel a bite of guilt in her gut.

“I thought that was going to take longer?” A voice commented and Y/N looked over to see Remus smiling at her, standing with Peter and Sirius, sitting by the window nearest the entrance of the library evidently waiting for James to return.

“What? Getting me kicked out of the library?” Y/N retorted.

“You act like you’ve never been kicked out before, Badger,” Sirius commented, familiar smirk at the ready.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Star Boy, but I haven’t.”

“Disappointed,” Sirius confirmed with a solemn nod of his head. “But not surprised.”

“James said he was asking for help with the Astronomy Essay - I thought it would take longer is all,” Remus butted in with a placating smile in Y/N’s direction, which she appreciated.

“Yeah well unfortunately James is beyond help - a complete lost cause and when I told him that he decided to get me kicked out of the library with him,” Y/N gave James a sidelong look, attempting to hide her grin.

“Tosser.”

“I wanted to ask you something, by the way,” Sirius mentioned, looking at Y/N who raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. “What were you doing down by the Forbidden Forest yesterday evening?”

Y/N brightened at his question, a broad grin swiftly cracking her face in two.

“Hagrid was showing me his nifflers!” She exclaimed

“That doesn’t sound dodgy at all,” Sirius commented and Remus hit his shoulder lightly as Peter burst out laughing.

“I didn’t realise Hagrid had nifflers,” Remus said, looking interested at the news.

“Yeah! Some babies recently hatched so he asked if I wanted to help take care of them.”

Before any of the others could respond, Peter’s stomach rumbled loudly. James looked as though he was trying his hardest not to laugh at him.

“I guess we should start heading down to dinner,” he suggested and Y/N smiled at Peter’s bright red cheeks.

“You guys go ahead,” Y/N gestured at the four Gryffindor boys to pass her, indicating that she was planning on waiting for her own friends to leave the library. James fixed her with a warning look.

“Come on, I still need to talk to you,” he grabbed hold of one of her arms and dragged her along the corridor with him so that they were walking side-by-side together towards the Great Hall, a few metres ahead of his other friends. Y/N could feel the eyes of the other three boring into her back, wondering what they were discussing.

“Way to be subtle,” Y/N hissed and James scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re seriously considering staying here for Christmas.”

“We’re really back on this?” Y/N groaned and James glared at her.

“Of course we are!”

“Jamie-”

“No! I mean… it won’t be right without you there.”

“You’ve spent Christmases without me there before,” Y/N pointed out and James squeezed her arm, trying his best to comfort her.

“Not since…”

“I know,” Y/N breathed, shaking her head a little and attempting to collect herself.

“I figured I’d be less of an inconvenience here.”

She could feel James watching her but refused to look over at him.

“That’s not how they see you.”

“I know,” Y/N agreed, a slight smile forming. “But it’s how I see myself.”

“Evans!” It was shouted from behind them, Sirius’ loud exclamation cutting off her and James and Y/N immediately felt the heavy atmosphere between them lift. They shared an understanding look, James grinning at her nervously and Y/N nudging his shoulder in return.

“Surprised your Lily-Radar wasn’t beeping,” she teased.

“My Lilydar is working perfectly fine thank you,” James retorted. “I just figured you might want my undivided attention seeing as though -” James let out a long, drawn out sigh. “I have so many other friends now and have so little time for you anymore.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“Hey Y/N!” Lily ignored Sirius’ greeting, making her way over to Y/N’s side and linking their arms together.

“You alright?”

“Yeah! You?”

“I was fine until James interrupted my studying and got me kicked out of the library,” Y/N agreed, grinning at the distasteful look that Lily shot at James.

“I’m surprised he even knows where the library is, to be honest with you.”

“Wow, Evans, bit rude,” Sirius commented, catching up with the trio. He turned his gaze onto Y/N. “Sit with us?”

“I’m not Gryffindor.”

“So? Live a little, Badger.”

“How hard do you think it would be for me to push him into the Black Lake?”

“I think even the Giant Squid would be disgusted by his company.”

“Anyone would think you two don’t like me,” Sirius teased, throwing his arm over Y/N shoulder and she turned her head to look at him in amusement.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

They entered into the Great Hall and Y/N allowed herself to be guided by her Gryffindor friends over to their table rather than the Hufflepuff one. She could see Eric sitting there with the other boys in their year, his eyes watching her in confusion as she took her seat in between Lily and Sirius, James sitting opposite her with Remus and Peter either side of him.

The other Gryffindor girls joined them shortly after and Y/N saw her Hufflepuff friends walk into the Great Hall just behind them. Beatrice frowned over at the Hufflepuff table, her eyes glancing around the room. Y/N raised her hand to gain her attention and Beatrice beamed, saying something to Liane and Jessica before moving over towards Y/N.

“Can I sit here?” She asked Remus, who smiled and nodded his head, moving up a little on the bench to make room for her.

“Beatrice, you’re half-blood aren’t you?” Marlene asked, bringing the girl into a conversation that was being held between the Gryffindor girls. Beatrice looked over in surprise.

“Yeah?”

“Which side?”

“What do you mean?” Beatrice laughed, clearly uncomfortable. She glanced over at Y/N who shrugged, equally confused.

“Is it your mum or your dad who can do magic?” Marlene clarified.

“Oh - my dad,” Beatrice said.

“And your mum - how much does she know about wizards?”

“Does it matter?” Beatrice frowned and Marlene’s eyes widened, clearly realising what her questioning was sounding like.

“No! No of course not!” She assured her. “I didn’t mean it like that - Dorcas and I were just wondering how much muggles get to know about the wizarding world when they’re introduced to it like that.”

“My mum never had much interest,” Beatrice said, looking down at her plate and swallowing.

“Really? My parents never stop asking me questions,” Lily inputted with a laugh.

“What about your sister, though? She didn’t get any magic did she?” Alice questioned curiously and Lily’s face fell a little.

“No - she’s not particularly interested,” Lily confirmed, an icy edge to her voice.

“None of my family were either,” Y/N piped up, not thinking of the consequences her input would have, just knowing that her two friends definitely wanted the attention to move off of them.

“I thought you came from a wizarding family?” It was Peter who spoke, staring at Y/N wide-eyed. Y/N caught James’ eye and saw the concern etched into his face.

“Ah - no, I’m muggleborn.” She answered shortly.

“Then how come you know James so well?” Sirius asked and Y/N could feel the eyes of everyone at the table staring at her as she kept her eyes trained on her food, which she was slowly cutting up into smaller and smaller bites.

“Told you,” Y/N risked a glance over at him, forcing a smile. “Childhood friends.”

“My mum was always really interested to hear about magic,” Remus spoke up at last. Y/N looked up at him to see he was looking back at her with a slight smile on his face, which she returned gratefully.

“You’re muggleborn as well?” Marlene asked which made Remus laugh as he shook his head, a somewhat shy expression taking over his face, giving Y/N the distinct impression that Remus was unused to having the attention on him, especially when he was around James and Sirius.

“No - my dad’s a wizard.”

The rest of dinner passed quickly, with the Gryffindor students exchanging anecdotes about their family lives, what it was like growing up in a muggle household compared to a wizarding one - Beatrice and Y/N both remained fairly silent, occasionally chipping in when it seemed appropriate.

Sirius, to Y/N’s surprise, did the same. After being questioned by Marlene over what his family of traditionalist purebloods were like, he fell silent. This didn’t seem to go unnoticed by James either, who Y/N caught looking at both Sirius and herself with a concerned expression.

“Hey, B, you finished? I need to finish that essay.”

Beatrice looked at her in confusion, aware that Y/N had already finished all her homework but realisation dawned on her quickly and she stood from the table.

“Yeah - you said you’d help with my Astronomy one as well?”

“Of course,” Y/N could tell her smile must seem slightly strained as she stood up. “Well… see you guys around.”

They walked in silence towards their common room, about half way there, however, Beatrice turned to look at her, a sadness in her dark eyes.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

“What?” Y/N asked in surprise.

Beatrice’s smile was fixed on, humourless and Y/N saw the wetness in her eyes.

“My dad died when I was younger,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and moving her eyes to stare ahead at the corridor. “I don’t remember much about him - my sister remembers nothing at all.” Beatrice swallowed heavily and Y/N stared at her. “My mum was torn up and doesn’t like to be… reminded of him,” she was choosing her words carefully.

Despite Beatrice being a fair bit taller than Y/N, she did her best to comfort her, placing her arm first around her shoulder and then, when Beatrice let out a wet laugh, moving it instead to be placed around her waist, giving her friend an awkward side-hug as they walked together towards their common room.

“So you didn’t know much about magic growing up?” Y/N said and Beatrice nodded.

“We weren’t allowed to ask questions - the word ‘Hogwarts’ was practically banned. I don’t think Mum would’ve even told us we were witches if it weren’t for our Grandma interfering.”

“I’m sorry, B,” the dark-skinned girl rested her head on top of Y/N’s briefly and Y/N could feel her tears dropping onto her hair.

“I… I live with James.”Beatrice looked at her, pulling out of their awkward hug to wipe her eyes.

“I thought he wasn’t your brother?”

“He’s not,” Y/N rushed to confirm, her face twisting a little as she tried to think of what to say.

“I’ve lived with the Potters since I was eight? Maybe seven,” Y/N shrugged, glancing down. “I don’t remember much about it.”

“What about your family?” Beatrice asked in almost a whisper.

“I see my parents every now and then,” Y/N said, her voice monotone. “I haven’t seen my siblings much, though - it’s a long story,” she added, seeing the intrigue in Beatrice’s face.

“Are you okay?”

Y/N forced a smile at her and nodded.

“I am now.”

#sirius black #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black imagine #sirius black x reader #young!sirius black #sirius black series #sirius black x y/n #sirius black x hufflepuff!reader #marauders #marauders imagine #marauders fanfiction #Penny For Your Thoughts

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corkcitylibraries · 4 years ago

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Frederick Douglass Series | Part 2

Frederick Douglass escaped slavery as a young adult in 1838 and became an influential leader in the struggle for abolition and women’s suffrage. His dedication to and passion for the protection of human rights brought about transformations in the US constitution.

This year marks the 175th anniversary of Frederick Douglass’ visit to Ireland.

Douglass Week, which runs from 8-14 February 2021, coinciding with Frederick Douglass’ assumed birthday, commemorates this revolutionary man’s visit to Cork.

Cork City Libraries will publish a four-part series, during Douglass Week. This series will chronicle Frederick Douglass’ childhood, his experience as a slave and escape from slavery, his time in Ireland and, in particular, Cork, his two wives, his meeting with Daniel O’Connell and his achievements as an abolitionist, orator and suffragist.

Frederick Douglass in Ireland

by Mary Horgan

Frederick Douglass, 1845 – a whole-plate daguerreotype, which he had taken shortly before his visit to Ireland (from Picturing Frederick Douglass: An Illustrated Biography of the Nineteenth Century’s Most Photographed American)

In 1845, shortly after the publication of Frederick Douglass’ first autobiography Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave, Written By Himself, the American Anti-Slavery Society sent the 27-year-old, as a lecturing agent, on a very successful two-year tour of Great Britain and Ireland to forge stronger links with their anti-slavery movements and to attract new supporters to the abolition cause. Also, he was advised to leave America for his own safety. As Douglass was still considered a fugitive slave under the Constitution of the United States, he lived in the constant knowledge that he could be returned to bondage at any time. Anti-slavery societies in various parts of Great Britain and Ireland were working to enlighten the public mind on the subject of slavery as well as raising funds to aid fugitive slaves as they tried to make good their escape north on the Underground Railroad – a network of secret routes and safe houses - to free states and to Canada.

Soon after his arrival in Dublin on 31 August 1845, Douglass wrote to friends in America: “I am safe in old Ireland, in the beautiful city of Dublin.” He began his four-month visit to Ireland at the home of James Webb and his family, near Trinity College. James’ brother, the Quaker anti-slavery activist, Richard Davis Webb was a friend of American abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison and an important link between British, Irish and American anti-slavery activists. Webb was a founding member of the Hibernian Anti-Slavery Society in 1837 and had founded a printing company in Dublin, in 1828, publishing works from various philanthropic, social and political organisations. In late September 1845, Webb published the first Irish edition of Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass with a print run of 2000, which would be sold at Douglass’ various speaking engagements throughout the country. It contained the following notice of recommendation for Douglass from the Hibernian Anti-Slavery Society.

A notice of recommendation for Douglass from the Hibernian Anti-Slavery Society, Richard D. Webb, Secretary (from Douglass, Frederick. Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave, Written By Himself. Dublin: Webb and Chapman, 1845, Special Collections, UCC Library).

After a month in Dublin where he gave a number of lectures and met Daniel O’Connell, whom he greatly admired, Douglass travelled onto Wexford and Waterford before arriving in Cork. Though Cork’s 18th/early 19th century economy had benefited through trade links from the existence of slavery in the West Indies, Cork also had a committed Anti-Slavery Society (CASS). It was formed on 6 January 1826, by the Quaker, Joshua Beale, at the Assembly Rooms in George’s Street (now Oliver Plunkett Street). CASS was ecumenical in its membership; as well as Quakers and other protestant dissenters including Unitarian Presbyterians and Methodists, it also attracted members of the Established Church of Ireland as well as Roman Catholics. After the abolition of slavery in the West Indies in 1833, CASS turned its attention to working for the abolition of slavery in the American South. Its auxiliary branch, the Cork Ladies Anti-Slavery Society (CLASS) collected contributions for Bazaars organised by the American Anti-Slavery Society. The following is an appeal from Cork Ladies Anti-Slavery Society for contributions for the Twelfth Annual Bazaar in 1845.

Appeal from Cork Ladies Anti-Slavery Society

A visit by Douglass to Cork was organized by the Cork Anti-Slavery Society (CASS) and its auxiliary branch, the Cork Ladies Anti-Slavery Society (CLASS). On arrival in Cork on 10 October 1845, Douglass went to stay with Thomas and Ann Jennings and their eight children at 9 Brown Street, where he enjoyed the lively family atmosphere and stimulating discussions which helped to make his time in Cork such a personal highlight of his two year tour of Great Britain and Ireland. Thomas owned the Jennings Soda-Water Factory at 11/12 Brown Street. Brown Street is no longer in existence but at the time of Frederick’s visit, it ran through what is now the Paul Street Shopping Centre down towards the River Lee. One of the daughters of the family, 32-year-old Isabel, was Secretary of the Cork Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society and her sisters Charlotte and Hannah also attended its weekly meetings. Isabel arranged Douglass’ speaking engagements, so she was soon able to report to Maria Weston Chapman of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society that his lectures in Cork had been such a success that:

“There never was a person who made a greater sensation in Cork amongst all religious bodies . . . He feels like a friend whom we had long known, and I think before he goes we will quite understand one another”.

Her sister Jane was equally impressed writing to Mrs Chapman:

“We are a large family, my mother, three brothers and five sisters, generally considered not easily pleased – but Frederick won the affection of every one of us.”

(Letters from the Jennings family to Maria Weston Chapman held at Boston Public Library)

During Douglass’ time in Cork, nearly 250 copies of the Narrative of Frederick Douglass were sold in the city, which were on sale in bookshops such as Purcell & Co and Bradford & Co on Patrick Street. So successful was the first Irish edition that a second was published in early 1846. Douglass’ busy schedule in Cork involved at least thirteen lectures with people turning out in droves to hear him. In a series of lectures at the Wesleyan Chapel, the Court House, the Temperance Institute, Lloyd’s Hotel, the Imperial Hotel and the Independent Chapel, Douglass’ powerful oratorical skills drew a wide cross-section of Cork society. He spoke at temperance meetings as well as abolitionist meetings, where he would leave his audiences in no uncertainty about the evils of slavery. On Tuesday 14 October, he gave a breakfast speech at Lloyd’s Hotel, George’s Street, (now Casey’s, Oliver Plunkett Street) where he reminded his audience:

“You will remember that I was a slave . . . that I am still a slave according to the law of the State from which I ran, and according to the General Government of the States of North America”.

(from Cork Examiner, 15 October, 1845).

One of his Cork speeches was reprinted in an American abolitionist newspaper with the following warning:

“Southern slaveholders read the following proceeding, if you wish to know what are the feelings of the People of Ireland, in reference to your nefarious slave system.”

(from The Liberator newspaper).

During Douglass’ time in Cork, he became friendly with the then Mayor of Cork, 51-year-old Richard Dowden, a Unitarian, philanthropist and member of the Cork Anti-Slavery Society. Dowden later ran the Jennings Soda-Water Factory after the death of Thomas Jennings.

Richard Dowden, Mayor of Cork, 1845 (JCHAS, 1992)

Douglass attended the Unitarian Church, Princes Street with Richard Dowden. This church is listed as the oldest place of continuous worship in the city since it was opened in 1717. Dowden was closely associated with Father Theobald Mathew, often fundraising for the ’Apostle of Temperance’ and it was in this church that Father Mathew signed the Temperance Agreement in 1839. Fr Mathew attained national and international prominence for his temperance crusade of the 1830s and 1840s and Douglass was already a great admirer of Fr Mathew when he came to Ireland. Soon after his arrival in Cork, he attended a Temperance soirée with music, dancing and fireworks at the Cork Temperance Institute, Academy Street, to mark Fr Mathew’s fifty-fifth birthday.

Opening of the Cork Temperance Institute, London Illustrated News, 1845 www.corkpastandpresent.ie

Shortly after this, Fr Mathew invited him to breakfast at his home at 7 Cove Street, which Douglass described as being of “all of a very plain order . . . too plain, for so great a man”. Though Douglass had been teetotal for eight years, he was moved to renew his pledge to abstain from alcohol from Fr Mathew, writing:

“So entirely charmed by the goodness of this truly good man was I, that I besought him to administer the pledge to me . . . “

On 20 October, Douglass spoke at Cork Temperance Institute, on ‘Intemperance and Slavery’. Only a few years later, Douglass would be greatly disappointed in Fr Mathew. Though he was a supporter of the anti-slavery cause, Fr Mathew refused to attend anti-slavery rallies or to speak out against slavery when on tour of the United States in 1849. In Douglass’ newspaper, The North Star, he wrote: “We had fondly hoped, from an acquaintance with Fr Mathew . . . that he would not change his morality by changing his location . . . We are however grieved, humbled and mortified to know that HE too, has fallen”. Fr Mathew felt he had to prioritize his temperance crusade and that to condemn slave owners during his visit to the United States would lose his campaign much support.

Cork Examiner, 13 October 1845

This is an advertisement for a lecture titled, ‘I am Here to Spread Light on American Slavery’ at the Court House, Great George’s Street, (now Washington Street), on the following afternoon. The Cork Examiner, 15 October 1845, reported that “The Grand Jury Gallery was thronged with ladies, who seemed to take the liveliest interest in the proceedings” and went on to praise the two-hour lecture as being “one of the most eloquent and impressive discourses we ever heard”.

On Friday 17 October, Douglass delivered a two-hour lecture at the Wesleyan Chapel, St Patrick’s Street, titled ‘Slavery Corrupts American Society and Religion’ in which he was critical of different Protestant groups in America for their lack of support for the anti-slavery cause. In Ireland, he drew people from diverse backgrounds to hear him, cutting across social, religious and political divides. As well as those from the more affluent sections of Cork society, “the suffering poor”, as they were referred to by the Cork Examiner, also came in great numbers. Douglass was adept at being able to tailor his speeches to the different audiences. For instance, when speaking at the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel, he refrained from mentioning Daniel O’Connell at all, but at the Court House, where many in the audience were from the Roman Catholic working class, he extolled the man they called ‘The Liberator’, saying that they felt “more sympathy with the slave than did the other sects”.

(Cork Examiner, 15 October 1845).

Cork Constitution, 21 October 1845

Douglass’ final public appearance in Cork was at the Independent Chapel, George’s Street (now Oliver Plunkett Street) on 3 November 1845. This chapel which was built between 1826 and 1831, on the site of the old Assembly Rooms, was the chapel of the Congregationalists, who were also known as Independents because they believed in liberty of conscience and the independence of each congregation.

The remains of the Independent Chapel today behind Euro Giant , Oliver Plunkett St., www.corkpastandpresent.ie

A number of placards including one which read Céad Míle Fáilte decorated the room. Ralph Varian, the secretary of the Cork Anti-Slavery Society read an Address to Frederick Douglass:

“ . . . In the happy hours of social intercourse which we have enjoyed in your society, a further opportunity has been afforded us of becoming acquainted with the details of that abominable system of savage law, and degraded public sentiment by which three millions of human beings are held in bodily and menial bondage yoked to the oar of American Freedom. Never were we so impressed with the horrors of the system, as while listening to one, who was himself born subject to the lash and fetter . . . yet who is so gifted, as he to whom we dedicate this Address, with high [ ], intellectual, and spiritual power, together with so much refinement of mind and manners.

Allow us to say that in estimating the pleasures and advantages which your visit has conferred upon us – we value highly those derivable from your excellent Anti-Slavery work – the unpretending memoir of your escape from chattled bondage to the liberty and light of a moral and intellectual being. While perusing it, we have been charmed to the end by the power of simple truth, and warm and genuine feeling . . . “

Extract from an ‘Address to Frederick Douglass from the Anti-Slavery Society of Cork’

Cork Examiner, 7 November 1845

A verse, ‘Céad Míle Fáilte to the Stranger’ was composed for the occasion by local poet, Daniel Casey, and sung by those in attendance:

“Stranger from a distant nation

We welcome thee with acclamation

And, as a brother warmly greet thee –

Rejoiced in Erin’s Isle to meet thee

Then Cead Mille Failthe to the stranger,

Free from bondage, chains and danger.

Who could have heard thy hapless story,

Of tyrants – canting, base and gory;

Whose heart throbbed not with deep

pulsation

Oh! Why should different hue or feature

Prevent the sacred laws of Nature,

And every tie of feeling sever? –

The voice of Nature thunders ‘Never!’

Then borne o’er the Atlantic waters

The cry of Erin’s sons and daughters

For freedom shall henceforth be blended

Till Slavery’s hellish reign be ended.”

(by Daniel Casey)

In return, Douglass was moved to sing an old abolition song. In his reply to the Address, he thanked the Cork press for reporting his words, saying:

“I did not expect the high position that I enjoy during my stay in the City of Cork . . . I want the Americans to know that in the good city of Cork, I ridiculed their nation - I attempted to excite the utter contempt of the people here upon them”.

(Cork Examiner, 7 November 1845)

Mayor Richard Dowden gave Douglass a signet ring, on behalf of the city, to symbolize the relationship between Frederick and people of Cork. On the next leg of his Irish tour, Douglass sent a letter of heartfelt thanks to Dowden on 11 November 1845.

Letter from Frederick Douglass to Richard Dowden (part) (Courtesy of Cork City and County Archives)

The following is a transcription of part of the letter which is now held at Cork City and County Archives.

“I speak just what I feel – and what all who are acquainted with the facts will confess to be true, when I say that to yours and the deep interest which the Miss Jennings took in me and my mission, I am almost entirely indebted for the success which attended my humble efforts while in the good City of Cork. I shall ever remember my visit with pleasure, and never shall I think of Cork without remembering that yourself and the kind friends just named constituted the source from whence flowed much of the light, life and warmth of humanity which I found in that good City . . .

. . . I received the token of your esteem which you sent, I have it on the little finger of my right hand, I never wore one- or had the disposition to do so before, I shall wear this, and prize it as the representative of the holy feelings with which you espoused and advocated my humble cause”.

Douglass wrote of his time in Ireland as being transformative. As he was about to leave Ireland, he wrote from Belfast the following to William Lloyd Garrison:

“I have been here a little more than four months . . . I can truly say, I have spent some of the happiest moments of my life since landing in this country. I seem to have undergone a transformation, I live a new life”.

(Letter of 1 January 1846, The Life and Writings of Frederick Douglass).

Douglass continued his anti-slavery lectures in England and Wales throughout the rest of 1846 and early 1847. On his return to the U.S in April 1847, he published newspapers and further autobiographies. He provided aid for fugitive slaves. During the Civil War, he campaigned for the rights of African Americans to enlist in the Union Army. He was consulted by President Lincoln and later presidents, from whom he received several political appointments. Throughout his life, Douglass was also a great supporter of equal rights for women.

In 1887, Douglass made a short return trip to Dublin to “once more look into the faces and hear the voices of the few remaining friends who gave me sympathy and support during my visit 41 years ago”. He visited the family of Richard Webb, the abolitionist and publisher, who had died in 1872.

Frederick Douglass in Killiney, Co. Dublin, 1887, when he visited the Webb family. (from Picturing Frederick Douglass: An Illustrated Biography of the Nineteenth Century’s Most Photographed American)

On return to Washington D.C., Douglass spoke in favour of Irish Home Rule.

Frederick Douglass died of a heart attack near Washington D.C. on 20 February 1895 after attending a meeting of the Women’s National Council.

Bibliography:

Douglass, F., Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave, Written by Himself, Webb & Chapman, Dublin, 1845. (Special Collections, UCC)

Douglass, F., Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave, Written by Himself, Norton & Co., New York, 1997.

Fenton, L., Frederick Douglass in Ireland: ‘The Black O’Connell’. Ulverscroft, Leicester, 2015.

Foner, P. ed), The Life and Writings of Frederick Douglas, International Publishers, New York, 1987.

Kinealy, C., Frederick Douglass and Ireland: In His Own Words, Vol. 1, Routledge, New York, 2018.

Stauffer, J., Trodd, Z., Bernier, C., Picturing Frederick Douglass: An Illustrated Biography of the Nineteenth Century’s Most Photographed American, Norton & Co., New York, 2018.

Ferreira, Patricia J., ‘Frederick Douglass in Ireland: The Dublin Edition of His “Narrative”’, New Hibernia Review, Vol. 5, No. 1, Spring, 2001.

Harrison, Richard S., ‘The Cork Anti-Slavery Society, its Antecedents and Quaker Background 1755-1859’, JCHAS, 1992.

Jenkins, Lee, ‘Beyond the Pale: Frederick Douglass in Cork’, The Irish Review, No. 24, Autumn, 1999.

Quinn, John F., “Safe in Old Ireland”: Frederick Douglass’s Tour, 1845-1846’, The Historian, Vol. 64, Spring/Summer, 2002.

Cork Constitution

Cork Examiner

The North Star

www.corkpastandpresent.ie

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