#snow in April when it should be spring

[jepergola]

New story today: "Easter Blizzard"

[guinevereslancelot]

sitting in a blooming garden would fix me

[oddinary4bts]

When the End Comes | ch 1 (jjk)

☆summary: Seven years after you've started dating Jungkook, long distance creates a wedge in your relationship. When the only solution seems to be breaking up, you go your separate ways even though love still lives in the two of you. Will you find a way back together, or has the end come for you and Jeon Jungkook?

☆pairing: photographer!Jungkook x lawyer!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, there is mature content in every chapter)

☆genre: breakup!au, slice of life!au, angst with a big A, smut

☆warnings: angst, like. Just angst. Curse words, Jungkook's car, mentions of Jungkook's accident, mention of reader getting kicked out in TFS, explicit content: breast/nipple play, hickey, oral sex (female and male receiving), fingering, hair pulling, jerking off, squirting, praise, pain kink (Jungkook), balls squeezing (lmao), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

☆word count: 9.4k

☆series masterpost

☆a/n: First chapter is here and it's time to CRY (I apologize in advance for the therapy bills) :') Thank you to @moonleeai for beta-ing this, you are the best <3 and thank you to @jessikahathaway for supporting me with this project, you are amazinnng

☆Read The Forgotten Spaces here, the prequel to When the End Comes! It does not need to be read to understand When the End Comes, but I think it still should be read first to have a better understanding of the characters in general!

☆Add yourself to the taglist here (if you were on the taglist for The Forgotten Spaces, you're already on the taglist for When the End Comes!)

☆☆☆☆☆

But love never leaves a heart, where it found it, found it You found it Someday, I'll fall into you That's where I'll be now when the end comes

When the End Comes, Andrew Belle

☆☆☆☆☆

Wednesday, April 19th 

                The setting sun turns the living room into liquid gold, bathing you in golden warmth that traces your features delicately from where you sit on the couch. Spring is upon you – outside, you can hear birds singing, and the gentle wind of spring carries the smell of melted snow, of wet soil and of early leaves.

You sigh. Your phone has been dead silent all day, as it’s been for weeks now, and the loneliness of it keeps the winter cold close. Always.

Jungkook said he would call. He often says it, often promises he wants to go to sleep with your voice at his ear, since he can’t sleep with you in his arms. Years ago, when he first started his job in Europe, he did, calling you every night when you got home from work and he went to sleep in a European city too far from you.

He usually leaves for a few months at a time. Never more than three, and he usually stays for a month after that before leaving again. He’s been photographing for museums all over Europe, and his latest job at the Louvres in Paris seems to have been keeping him more occupied than the others.

You’d think it’d make sense – the Louvres is the Louvres. But you miss Jungkook. Miss the early years of your relationship, when you spent almost every day together. When he moved in with you in your first apartment, the one he had found for you while you weren’t even dating yet.

A deep ache has settled inside of you this time around. Because, even if he says he’ll try, even if he promised it wouldn’t be like the last time he was away, this time is worse. Far worse. You’ve only spoken to him on the phone once since he left half a month ago, and he texts you sparingly throughout the week.

You never thought there would come a day when your relationship with Jungkook wouldn’t be what it was at the beginning. Hell, the honeymoon phase lasted for almost three years, and then you had another year before he started working overseas. The first months he had spent away had rekindled the flame, passion and desire burning through you the moment you laid your eyes on him again the day he had come back.

But distance is difficult. Distance can tame even the wildest flame, and you’re starting to believe it has tamed the flame between you and Jungkook. You hate it – every night for a week you’ve fallen asleep with a heart so heavy it felt as if you weren’t going to wake up. And every day you’ve woken up feeling even worse, and you don’t know what’s going to help anymore.

You turn your head, catching sight of the frames on the shelves by the window. They too bathe in setting sunlight, shining like the glass is made of gold. From where you’re sitting, you can’t really see the pictures, but you know them by heart.

There are the pictures from his first photo exhibit, when you were still in college. Pictures of you, of him falling in love with you and you falling in love with him. Then there are pictures of that first Christmas, and of the first time you celebrated your birthday with him. Pictures of you, of him holding you, and of his hand in yours. Pictures from when Jiho gave birth to her first child Lisa, and then a picture with you two on a camping trip with Lisa and her younger brother Charles. That trip happened two summers ago, replacing your usual annual visit to a cabin in the woods, the year after the dance crew retired. Because as much as you and your friends loved that cabin in the woods, loved the dance crew, you eventually grew out of it.

There are pictures from Heather and Bridget’s wedding last fall, pictures of your story with Jungkook as it unfolded through the years.

No new pictures have been added since that last picture in the fall, because nothing worth taking pictures of happened since then. Jungkook has been gone most of the time, and when he’s here he’s too tired to do anything, preferring staying in and cuddling on the couch as you watch hours of Netflix without ever speaking.

You see the doom. It’s been coming for you, tightening around you like a scourge. Nothing you’ve been trying to do has helped – not even the nice lingerie pictures you sent him two nights ago. Not even the letter you wrote for him, though he did have flowers delivered to you at the firm.

Your coworker Harrison made fun of you for the flowers, teasing you like he’s taken to teasing you whenever something related to Jungkook happens. Which, as much as you hate admitting, is not much anymore.

Sometimes, when he’s away, you think he’s a ghost in your life. You wish you could turn back time and go back to the night where it all started between you. The July night of years ago, or perhaps the night of the hotel roof in Chicago. You struggle to pinpoint where you’d go back, but you do believe that anything would be better than the now.

You blink away the blurriness in your eyes, taking a deep breath to steady the aching beats of your heart. You glance at your phone – your empty notification screen stares back at you, a reminder that for all he says, he’s stopped trying this time around.

You figure you could call him. Could make the effort, but you’re tired. Tired of trying when it seems like it doesn’t work anymore. And so your aching heart keeps beating in your chest, and you put your phone away to cook dinner when it’s become clear that he won’t call.

And when you go to bed, after having taken the dog out one last time, your phone still lies empty, the picture of you and him that you have as a background taunting you, haunting you until troubled sleep finds you in its hold.

Friday, May 5th

                Jungkook hates himself. Hates how every time he says he’ll call you, he ends up falling asleep. He doesn’t know why; it’s like his heart fights against his body. But tonight, he’s determined to call. He’s been meaning to show you the lights of the Eiffel tower, when the clock strikes midnight, and he promised he will tonight.

You haven’t replied to his text. He’s been feeling you slipping through his fingers for a few weeks. You barely reply when he talks to you anymore, sending one-worded answers most of the time. Maybe that is the reason why he’s been struggling to call – there’s an impending doom lingering around your relationship, and he wants to avoid it for as long as he can.

He’s been replaying your fight earlier last week on repeat since it happened. You, screaming that he said he was going to change, was going to try to call more and make more effort before he went to Paris. Him, telling you that you should be understanding, that he’s doing his best and that most nights he goes to bed before you’ve even finished work. You’d told him sometimes you wished you could hate him, as it’d be easier than loving him from afar. The words struck harder than a physical blow could have, and since then the doom has been clearer in the distance, as if it’s getting closer.

Just thinking about it hurts too much. He can’t wait for his contract with the Louvres to be done. Can’t wait to be home, and to tell you in person just how much he loves you.

He thinks his love has just been growing stronger. Through all the years, it’s just been growing inside of him, making him into a better person with every beat of his heart. The thought brings a smile to his lips, strangely enough, even though there’s still pain in his heart.

He still remembers when you first got Bam. He thinks that day is the one that made his love grow the most, until he thought his heart was going to burst in his chest. It fortunately never did, and he looks at his phone’s background quickly, needing to see you.

There you are, in all your glory. Hair a mess as you hold a tiny puppy in your arm, with your eyes sparkling like they’re holding the light of the universe. Of his universe, and it hasn’t changed. Still, today he knows if he were to see you, you still would hold the light of his universe.

After all, it started a July night seven years ago, and it’s never going to go away.

Thirteen days until he’s going to be home. And he decided to take a longer break this time around – he doesn’t have another contract yet. He’s been approached by the Victoria and Albert museum in London, but he’s told them that he likely won’t be able to go until late October.

They said they’ll be happy to have him whenever his schedule allows.

He’s yet to tell you – it’s a surprise, and he reckons your relationship terribly needs it. And he’s excited, as it means months that he’ll get to spend with you.

He’s going to take some small photography jobs back home until then, and spend the rest of his time with you, whenever you’re not at the firm. He reckons he can always meet you there for lunch – he used to do that when you first got the job at the firm where your father used to work.

Jungkook sighs, and he glances at the time on his phone. It’s almost time to call, and he’s proud he’s been able to stay up, sitting on the balcony of his Airbnb, watching the Eiffel tower in the distance.

The Louvres is paying for the Airbnb, and they really chose one of the best in the city. The view of the tower is beautiful, night and day, the architecture of it satisfying in ways he can barely comprehend. He took pictures of it through the different weathers, and he’s excited to show you when he’ll be back.

Five minutes before the clock strikes midnight, Jungkook lets out a long yawn as he goes to your profile, hitting the Facetime button. He’s told you he would call, up to the very minute, and he doesn’t want to disappoint this time around.

He watches his face on the screen as it rings. It rings and rings, and yet you don’t pick up. Something unsettling grows in his gut, and he pulls at his lip piercing in worry as he calls again when the call claims it failed to connect.

He tries four times more, until the Eiffel tower is sparkling in the distance, and your form still has yet to appear. So he looks up, watches the show and then heads to bed, each of his step feeling heavier than the last.

The next morning, he wakes up to some texts of yours.

[04:21 am] bby <3: sorry, i was out for dinner with friends from work [04:22 am] bby <3: I assume u’re asleep now? [04:41 am] bby <3: good night

For some reason, he can’t bring himself to reply.

Thursday, May 18th

                It’s been raining all week. The world, crying as if it’s coming to an end. It’s unsettling, and you miss the sunrays. Miss the warmth that they carry, because now the world seems void of any.

You’re not looking forward to going home. It’s the first time that the thought of seeing Jungkook is scaring you – you have a feeling the distance between you is more than just physical, and you’re afraid to see him.

Afraid to be faced with the fact that everything changed irreparably.

You’ve slept in his clothes every night of May. It hasn’t made you feel closer to him, has only made you feel like he’s drifting further away, like a piece of wood lost at sea, pulled away by the current. And as much as you long for his return, you fear he’s crossed a threshold now.

You fear you’re not into it anymore.

The thought has made you cry countless times. You never thought you’d get to a moment in life when splitting with Jungkook seemed to be an option. You thought you were made of forever, of an eternity built just for you. You thought he’d always be enough for you, and that you’d always be enough for him too. But when Taehyung and Jo got engaged and said that they’d marry the first weekend of September, you realized that you want that for yourself too.

You want to start growing with your partner, you want them to be around. And Jungkook just isn’t.

You’ve spoken to Jiho about it. A haunting conversation, that you’ve been replaying in your mind constantly since it happened a week and a half ago.

She came over, only to find you cradling the picture of the July night sky, the one Jungkook had given you after his exposition. She sat next to you, tired eyes surveying your profile. When you started crying, she pulled you in a hug, and held you against her chest as you sobbed.

When you calmed down, she ran a soothing hand on your back. She waited for you to patiently find your words, and when you had, they spilled from your mouth, with no dam to stop them anymore.

“I think I’m going to break up with him,” you told her. It had you chasing more tears away, hating the weakness of your heart as it broke in your chest. “I can’t do the distance anymore. I want something like you and Hobi have, like Jo and Taehyung have. I want someone to wake up to every day and… I don’t… I don’t think loving him is enough anymore.”

She offered you a sad smile, her features sober as she nodded once. “Will you regret it?”

A lone tear spilled on your cheek, holding all the answers she needed. You let it roll down your cheek, let it fall in your lap. Jiho nodded once again, understanding, and added, “I’ll be there for you.”

Your decision was made that day. You don’t think you’ll change your mind, but you’re afraid to see him. Afraid to be faced with the reality of it.

The worst part is, you think you already started getting adjusted to living without him. Hell, the distance has been a good training, so you think you’ll be okay after. It’s just the during that scares you, because you know that when he breaks, you break too.

You know how much you broke for him once. You know you’ll break again, know the first days are going to be hell, but you know that in the long term, it’s the right decision.

At least you hope so.

Jungkook texted you that he got home in the middle of the afternoon, and that he was going to take a nap. He said he couldn’t wait to see you, and you’ve had to swallow countless lumps in your throat whenever you’ve thought of the words.

You take a deep steadying breath as your shift ends, leaving you with no choice but to head home. Harrison notices your fallen features, and he offers you a kind smile.

“It’s going to be okay,” he promises.

You want to tell him he’s a liar, but all you do is offer him a tight-lipped smile in return.

*****

                The apartment in soundless when you finally reach home. Outside, the wind plays in the leaves, splashing water against the windows. It makes for a relaxing sound, yet it does nothing to relax you.

You take off your shoes by the door and drop your purse on the small table just a few steps in as Bam comes to greet you. You pet the dog mindlessly, scanning your surroundings to see if Jungkook is coming too, but it seems he fell asleep. You stop by the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water as you survey the world outside the window, hoping it holds any kind of solace. It doesn’t – the world is crying, and you think by the end of the night there’s a high chance you will be crying too.

You sigh, try to swallow around the lump in your throat but it doesn’t work. You choke on a sip of water, and startle when Jungkook asks if you’re okay.

You didn’t hear him sneaking up on you.

You turn around, the sense of impending doom growing tenfold at the thought that he’s going to be right there, in the flesh, when you set your eyes on him. And he is – a sleepy Jungkook is standing in the door of the kitchen, leaning against the frame as he offers you a small, tired smile.

You’re not sure what to do at first, and when he opens up his arms for you you rush towards him, leaving the glass of water on the counter.

His embrace is familiar, warm. If he wasn’t gone for so long, you think it’d be enough to keep you here, forever. You both remain silent, and your heart beats achingly in your chest as you try to hold him closer, as if you can be one.

As if that’ll make him stay.

“Hey,” he says, voice choked with emotion.

You only hold him tighter, and tears burn behind your closed eyelids as you hide your face in his neck. He smells familiar, like home. He smells like the clothes you’ve been wearing in an attempt to gather the courage to break up with him.

You hate yourself deeply, then. You think about the years, and aren’t they enough? Isn’t the love enough?

He grabs your shoulders, delicately, to push you away. And then his hands move to your cheeks, and he’s tilting your head back to press his soft, pink lips against yours. It’s barely just a peck, and it hurts so much you think you’ll die.

“How was work?” he asks when he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours.

You breathe in slowly, and then out, your breath mingling with his in the space between you. “Long,” you answer, because it’s the truth.

“I’ll cook you dinner,” he says.

If he notices you holding your breath as your heart keeps on breaking, he doesn’t say. Instead, he pulls away, leaves you standing by the door as he moves in the room proper. You’re not sure you’ll survive a dinner with him, not when the inevitability of what you’re going to do is looming over you, like a sword of Damocles ready to cut the link between you and him.

“Okay,” you breathe out.

You sit at the table as he fishes ingredients out of the fridge – stuff you clearly didn’t buy. Which means he went grocery shopping, and you just ache so fiercely the air turns to poison in your lungs.

“Do you want to chop the vegetables?” he asks.

You gulp before nodding curtly. “Sure.”

You move closer to him as he puts said vegetables on the counter, and you grab a knife as he hands you a cutting board. It’s familiar, domestic, and it helps lessen the pain somehow. To have this moment, with him, even though your decision is made.

“You’re silent,” Jungkook comments as you finish dicing an onion.

You purse your lips, head hanging low as you reply, “I’m tired, sorry.”

He turns on the stove, placing a pan on top of it. As he’s putting oil in it, he glances at you. You barely notice from the corner of your eyes, but you still can tell he’s trying to figure how to reach you, in the dark place where your mind has gone.

“Something happened?”

No. Nothing happened. Nothing happened when it should have. Was distance really enough to kill your relationship with him?

Needing the conversation to move away from the current subject, you reply, “Not really.” Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you add, “How was Paris?”

“It sucked,” Jungkook is quick to answer. “It was a lot of work and I barely had time to explore the city.”

“Mmh,” you hum, nodding your head.

You freeze as he moves closer, taking the knife out of your hands. He forces you to turn towards him, and he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I took some pictures of the Eiffel tower for you,” he admits. “It was pretty at night. Made me think of you.”

You shut your eyes tight, and for once you win against the tears that were threatening to spill. “You did?” you let out when your eyelids finally flutter open again. “You can show me over dinner.”

“I’d rather just spend time with you for now,” he says, softly, and you hate that his big, doe eyes feel like heaven. “I… I missed you.”

You think he knows. You both know what’s coming. But you want this last moment with him, so you say, “I missed you too. Way too much.”

“You’ve been sleeping in my clothes,” he teases, but it’s lacking the usual lilt to his voice that makes you roll your eyes playfully.

“Yeah.”

He pulls at his piercing, and you focus on that because his eyes are going to read every little treacherous thought in your head, and you don’t think you’d survive that.

He doesn’t say anything else before he busies himself with putting the onion you diced in the pan. You lean on the counter to watch him cook, handing him the ingredients that you know he’ll need.

You’ve cooked together a thousand times before, and never you would have thought that there’d be a last time. You clench your jaw against the pain, and though you don’t feel hungry, you sit at the kitchen table with him to eat.

You manage to get some food down. Jungkook is an amazing cook, and you’ve always loved his food. It’s something you know you’re likely to miss, when he won’t be around anymore.

Fuck.

After dinner, you do the dishes while Jungkook brings Bam outside, as he usually does when he’s here. He’s back before you’re done, and you focus on finishing to clean the dishes, trying to ignore him.

He’s been silent through the meal, and you’ve avoided the glances he’s sent your way. But when he grabs your wrist, gently, you meet his gaze.

His eyes shine. It takes you a few seconds to register that it’s because tears are welling up in his innocent gaze, and you wish you’d die right on the spot.

“Why is it awkward?” he asks.

You purse your lips and then bite the tip of your tongue, as if it’ll help. “Can we go to bed early?”

You don’t know why you asked that question. You convinced yourself to break up right away, but then again you think you need a last time.

You need a goodbye.

He nods, blinking the tears away. His hand moves until it’s wrapped around yours, and he pulls you to the bathroom. He turns on the shower, but before he’s taken his shirt off you step in front of him, fist closing around a handful of fabric so you can pull him close.

There’s urgency in the kiss, along with yearning. It’s quick, it’s heated and desperate. You wonder if he can taste the goodbye on your tongue – does it taste bitter for him too?

Though he seemed startled from the sudden kiss, he’s quick to kiss you back, to grab your waist and pull you closer, as if that’ll make you stay. And while you kiss your mind runs with the memories – the first time you’d kissed, in that hot tub. The kiss on the hotel roof, the kiss after he’d helped you move in your first apartment.

More than that, it’s a memory from four years ago that resurfaces the most. It takes the centerpiece of the stage of your mind, and you find yourself back in your old apartment, the first one you’d ever had. The day wasn’t a special one – just a random Sunday, one Jungkook convinced you to spend in bed. He’d held you all morning, littering small kisses on the top of your head. At some point, you’d made love, slowly, lazily, as if you had all the time in the world. Halfway through it, Jungkook had stopped, resting his forehead on yours. Against your lips, he’d whispered, “Will you still love me when I’m old and grey and grumpy?”

Back then you’d laughed, before wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into a kiss. After, you’d replied, “You know I’ll never stop loving you.”

And as you’re kissing him right now, you hope he knows that you’ll never stop loving him.

His tongue swipes at your bottom lip, seeking to deepen the kiss, and you let him in. Taste the dinner in his mouth, like he’s sure to taste it in yours too. It eases the bitterness somehow, and when his large hands move to your ass, you let out a breathy sound.

He swallows it as if it’s the ambrosia of the gods, and then he pushes you back towards the counter next to the sink. The shower runs in the background as he pulls you on the counter, large hands guiding you. You instinctively spread your thighs to allow him to step closer, and then you wrap your legs around him. His hands find your cheeks again, and he kisses you fervently, hungrily, yet his touch remains gentle on your cheeks, thumbs swiping back and forth.

When oxygen becomes needed, both for you and him, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You think we can wait after the shower?” he teases, and this time it has a little bit of the usual bite.

It only hurts, because now you’re not so sure he’s aware of what’s to come. He probably only thought that it was awkward because of the distance – physical. Not because the end is coming. So you let him believe it, agree to take a shower.

You let him wash your hair, a thing he’s taken to doing six years ago whenever you take a shower together. Something about him liking the scent of your shampoo. After that, you let him wash your back, but you can’t bring yourself to do it for him. To your relief, he admits he took a shower before he napped, to wash away the airplane vibes off him. So it mostly goes unnoticed, and then you’re getting out of the shower. You barely have time to dry yourself before he’s pulling you to your room, to your shared bed.

To the bed where you’ve cried yourself to sleep every night since you’ve made your decision.

He sits you on the bed, thumbs swiping on your cheeks gently when he bends down to peck your lips once.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.

You watch him leave, thinking you should find it funny that he’s butt-naked, as you are. Yet you don’t laugh, just put a hand over your aching heart as you wait for him to come back. It hurts even more when he comes back with your heating pad, a tentative smile on his lips.

“I thought this might help,” he says as he walks over to you, offering it to you.

You look at it, not knowing what to do. “Why?”

“Aren’t you…” he trails off, motioning towards you. “I don’t know, you’ve been weird. Thought you might be on your period, or having cramps?”

He’s too sweet. Too caring. Why can’t he be like this when he’s away too?

“Oh,” you let out. “I’m not.”

He looks puzzled, and his eyes drop to the heating pad in his hands. “Oh. Do you…” He gestures with the heating pad, but you shake your head no. He looks disappointed, and he puts it on the dresser before coming to sit next to you.

There’s a moment of silence, and you glance at the TV on the wall. The black screen reflects the grey light from the rainy world outside, and you turn to look out the window next. The rain is still relentless, and the trees outside look greener, darker, though that might be because the sun set behind the clouds, and night is slowly taking over the world.

Being with Jungkook has never been awkward before, and you hate that it is right now. You’d wish for one last moment, for a memory to treasure, but now you think you might have just been selfish.

He glances at you, pulling at his piercing. “Did something happen with your mother?”

He’s trying. So hard. Doesn’t he feel the distance between you and him?

“No,” you reply.

As a matter of fact, you only talk to your mother three times a year now. Without fault, she calls on Christmas and your birthday, and five years ago you’ve started calling on hers too. Other than that, you barely even text.

“Then…” he trails off before shrugging. “Whatever. Do you want to sleep or should we watch something?”

“Can we watch a studio Ghibli movie?”

Jungkook glances at the Totoro plushie, nestled in the pillows at the head of the bed right next to Appa. “My neighbor Totoro?” You nod once. He offers you a smile, nodding his head too. “Sure. As long as I get to hold you.”

You worry at your lip, though you still say, “Yes.”

A minute later you’re nestled in his embrace, and he’s starting the movie on the TV. You barely can focus though, mind zeroing in on his naked skin against yours. You want to ask him to stop with his overseas job, to come home permanently, to build a future with you here, without distance between you and him. You want to tell him you love him so much it hurts, want to tell him the months away from him are killing you.

All you do is watch the movie as if in a daze, and halfway through it, you tilt your head to look up at him. He sees you looking, and his tongue darts to his piercing as he glances down.

Your eyes go to his lips, and you reach to steal a kiss on them. This time, it’s incredibly slow, painfully so, and his arm tightens around you as his breath gets caught up in his throat.

You rest a hand on his cheek, before sliding it to the nape of his neck to keep him as close as you possibly can. He turns his head to deepen the kiss, and you turn the other way as you push your tongue in his mouth. You gently tug at the hair on the back of his neck, appreciating its silky softness.

Committing it to memory. Remembering when it was so long he could tie it back in a small ponytail, remembering when he cut it shorter for the first time. You’d teased him saying that he was a stranger, and you reckon you’d take that stranger back again.

You’d take the sweet innocence of the third year of your relationship again over what it now is.

Once, you thought you’d always want to see the end. To be able to glance back on the past, to swim in the nostalgia of the memories that it holds. Today, as the end comes, you realize you were wrong.

There’s no beauty in the ending.

Jungkook moves until he’s hovering over you, between your legs. You wrap them around his dainty waist, and you pull him inevitably closer as your hands run in his hair, while his hold him up on each side of your face. It takes him a few seconds, but soon he leans on his elbow, and one of his hands lands on the top of your head while the other moves to cup your breast.

He squeezes gently, fingers expertly pinching your nipple the way he knows that you like it. You moan softly, desperately, and he does it harder as his tongue meets yours.

“Fuck, I missed you so much,” he says as he pulls away, and then he’s littering hot kisses on your jaw, and on your neck. He sucks a hickey on the spot that connects your shoulder to your neck, and then laps at it to ease the sting. He’s still pinching your nipple, and though it hurts you just want more.

He doesn’t disappoint. His kisses move lower, until he’s sucking on your other breast, tongue circling your nipple as it hardens in his mouth. He flicks it once, make sure it’s perched nicely on your chest before he moves to the other one, repeating the action.

Your core heats up with need, but even this demonstration of the passion between you and him doesn’t do anything against the ache of your heart. The pain wins, and you shut your eyes tightly in an attempt to focus on the sensations. To focus on him as he moves lower, slowly, pressing wet kisses on your stomach, down to your pelvis, and then on the inside of your thigh as he pushes your leg on his shoulder.

“I want you,” he murmurs between your legs, as if he’s speaking the words directly to your pussy.

“I want you too.”

That much isn’t a lie. You do want him, all of him, even though you’re aware it’s going to be the last time. So you try to disconnect mind and body, and the moment he sucks on your clit you think you succeed.

You lose your hand in the strands of his hair, tugging as his tongue starts a hellish rhythm on your clit, never once faltering as you squirm under the ministrations. When your juice is coating his chin – which you reckon doesn’t take long – he moves lower, dipping his tongue inside of you.

“So sweet,” he praises once he pulls away, just enough for you to feel his lips moving as he speaks.

“Kook…”

The nickname barely crosses the threshold of your lips, yet the grip he has on your waist, where his hands have found a home, tightens. The only indication that somewhere behind his lustful gaze, Jungkook is aching too.

“Baby…” he says back, and then he returns to press figure-eight on your clit, though this time he pushes a finger inside of you.

It curls to hit the right spot inside of you, and he slowly rubs against it, before he decides better and starts to finger you, slowly. Digit moving in and out, keeping that right arch to make you see stars in no time.

When he adds a second finger, you tug on his hair, hard. Mostly by reflex, but when he meets your gaze as you look down at him, you pull harder. His fingers remain deep inside of you as he meets your lips for a heated kiss that tastes like you, and your hand blindly aims for his dick.

He’s rock hard, as he always is when you fuck for the first time after he’s been away. You sigh in satisfaction, thumb collecting precum on his tip that you spread on his dick. Instinctively, he bucks his hips as you start jerking him off, with the tight grip you know he likes, and you make sure to flick your wrist when you go back up.

He grunts against your lips, and his fingers start to move inside of you again. You don’t know when they stopped, but you know that he’s grown impatient now, and he’s unforgiving. When he pushes his thumb against your clit so that he can rub it at the same time, you moan unashamedly loud, another sound that he swallows like a man starved while his lips move against yours.

You time your ministration on his dick to those of his fingers on you, and soon enough a knot forms at the pit of your stomach. It grows impossibly tight impossibly quickly, and when Jungkook moans in your mouth you lose it, the knot uncoiling as your orgasm finds you.

He fucks you with his fingers through the high, through every wave of your orgasm, your legs shaking as he keeps going until you squirt.

“Good girl,” he praises as you cry out his name, your grip on his dick growing tighter. It has to hurt, but obviously Jungkook likes pain, so he only bucks his hips, seeking for friction.

It brings you back to the present, to this bed, and you return to jerking him off as his fingers leave you empty. He brings them to your mouth, makes you lick them clean until he’s satisfied and pulls them away. He kisses you, languidly, and your tongue dance with his as he grunts from a particularly skilled flick of your wrist.

“I want to suck you,” you say in between kisses, and he doesn’t let you do it for a time.

He’s too focused on your mouth, and you reckon you want him to keep going at it. To trap you in this moment with him, so that it may never end.

So that you may never have to break up with him.

“Can I fuck you first?” he asks, bucking his hips once more. “I want to feel your tight pussy swallowing my cock.”

“I want to suck you,” you insist as he’s sucking a new hickey on your neck.

He pulls away, meets your gaze with a lazy smile on his lips. “Well then of course.”

In another world his comment would have made you laugh, but the only thing it does is make you push him until he’s lying on his back and you’re kneeling next to him.

You look down at his dick. It’s just as pretty as you’ve always thought it was, with the brownish base to the tip that’s currently flushed red with arousal. Precum makes it glisten in the dim light from the world outside, and you let a blob of spit fall on it to add some lubrication to your jerking off.

When you feel ready, you bend down to lick a stripe along his dick, from base to top, following the thick vein. He groans, and he puts your hair in a makeshift ponytail so he can watch as you swirl your tongue around his tip.

The taste of his salty precum fills your mouth, and you hum in contentment. You wrap your lips around his tip, sucking hard once before teasing his frenulum with your tongue. Your free hand moves between his legs, and you grab his balls, massaging them gently.

They’re already tight, and you know he’ll come if you suck him for too long. You still can’t resist, and you take him as far as you can, swallowing around him so he can feel your throat constricting on him. It makes him moan out your name, which in turns makes you moan against him.

“Fuck, baby,” he lets out.

You move up until almost just his tip is in your mouth, before going all the way in once more. And then you start bobbing you head up and down in a quicker fashion as you drool on your chin, your spit coating his dick.

You squeeze his balls once, not daring to do it for longer than a few seconds. You don’t want him to come, so you let go soon after, hand moving to his thigh. You find the hard knot of his scar, and you lightly trace it with your fingers, almost instinctively.

Another part of him that you want to commit to memory. His scars – they made him into the person that was right for you. You hate that distance undid it, wish you could turn back time but alas it’s impossible.

So you focus on his dick, moving your hand away from the scars. He doesn’t let you suck him for a lot longer. Soon, he pulls you away by the hair, bringing you to his mouth instead. You kiss him as you climb on top of him, and right as he pushes his tongue in your mouth, you grab his dick to align it with your entrance.

Even though he fingered you before, he still stretches you as you sink on him, and you let out a broken moan as you dig your nails in his shoulder, where your other hand has been holding you up since you climbed on him.

You sink down until he’s fully imbedded inside of you, and then you rest your hands flatly on his chest, feeling the muscles of his pecs under your palms. You meet his gaze, hating how he’s looking at you carefully. For a moment, you both don’t move, taking the other in, and you’re struck with the realization that maybe he does know. Because his eyes are infinitely sad, infinitely pained, but when he blinks you think you might have imagined it.

You’re going crazy. You used to be able to read him like the back of your hand, but it seems the pain in your heart is keeping you from doing so, from picking up the book where you left off. Perhaps because you’ve gone blind, or maybe you forgot how to read altogether.

Jungkook feels like a stranger.

“Baby,” he lets out.

“Jungkook…”

He wets his lips, and then brings you closer. Forces you to bend down until he’s wrapped his arms around your waist. He starts moving, incredibly slow, and says, “I just want you close.”

It hurts too bad, and you hide your face in his neck. He tightens his grip around you, and after that all that can be heard in the room is your heavy breathing, mingling with the sound of the TV.

He feels healing, as much as he’s breaking you. Or you’re breaking yourself, you don’t know anymore. You wish to stop time, to interrupt the chronology of it, until all that’s left is this moment in time.

You know you can’t.

Jungkook doesn’t stop moving for a long time, as you let out breathy sounds against his neck. He’s not grunting anymore – you don’t think you or he are enjoying this, right now.

“I really want to suck your dick,” you murmur against his neck, lips tickling him.

“You’re not into this.”

Of course he’d sense it. You wrap your arms around his neck as he slips out of you, and you refuse to move for a little eternity.

“I’m okay,” you lie.

“Stop saying that you are,” Jungkook answers, and his voice has taken a cold tone. Maybe because he’s freezing – you don’t think he’d purposefully speak to you like that. “I know you aren’t.”

“Kook…”

He says your name, a loving plea that could have changed the ending, if the months hadn’t passed.

“We need to talk,” you breathe against his neck.

You think you hear his heart breaking. Like a car wreck: it’s so loud you don’t think you’ll make it out of the crash. Only, he did get out of it once – you can only hope he’ll get out again.

He runs his hand on your back, loses it in your hair. He’s gentle, infinitely so, tracing your body to remember you by when you’re gone. At least that’s what you think it is.

“Yeah?” he lets out with a small, quivering voice.

A tear spills from your eye, falling onto the soft skin of his neck.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

He holds you tighter, turning his face so that he can press a kiss to the side of your head. It’s a desperate move – it holds the weight of the universe.

“I…”

He never finishes the sentence. His words are lost to him, and you steel yourself for the glimpse you’ll give him. And when you do, you see his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I can’t do the distance anymore,” you tell him.

He nods once. “I’m staying until November.”

He blurs behind your tears, and they roll down your cheeks freely. You don’t try to dry them, and neither does he.

“But then you’ll go again.”

He doesn’t need to say anything to that, because you both know it to be the truth. His reply is physical: his arms let go of you, falling on the bed on each side of him.

You move to sit next to him, instinctively grabbing a blanket to hide yourself. Jungkook shuts his eyes before pressing the heel of his palms against his eyelids. As if that’ll stop him from crying, from shattering into thousands of little shards that will go by the wind.

The end has come. It’s upon you, it’s right this instant in time. You think you’ll forever hate this moment – will you ever recover?

“It’s just better for both of us,” you say, your voice breaking into a sob on the last words. You wish you could be stronger, but you break too hard for him. “It’s been so hard and… we both don’t try anymore.”

“I’m staying until November,” he repeats. He sounds choked, and when he pushes himself up, allowing you a glimpse of his face again, you see that he too is crying. “Please.”

“Kook…”

“No but…” he stops, laughs a laugh that turns into a sob. “I tried.”

“You didn’t.”

Maybe he did. Maybe to him he did, but it wasn’t what you needed.

“You don’t get to tell me I didn’t,” he says and he scoffs, pain laced with his next words. “When I tried, you were the one that was unavailable.”

Because you were already done then, you realize. It’s a startling realization, and you wish it wasn’t real. But it is, as real as the rain lashing at the window, as the agony in Jungkook’s gaze.

His doe eyes are pained, tormented, and you wish you could ease it. Comfort him, but you’re the source of the torture now.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to say.

He looks at you for a time, holds your crying eyes, and then he loses it, hiding his face in his hands as sobs rock through him. You’re shaking like a leaf where you’re sitting, and you feel like you’re going to be sick.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out.

“We can make it work,” he tries.

You’re shaking your head no, sobs racking through you too, when he glances at you. “We can’t. We tried, Kook. We tried and it didn’t work.”

“It’s the distance,” he says. He dries his cheeks, sniffles hard. “What if I drop the job?”

“It’s your dream,” you remind him. “Don’t.”

“I don’t give a shit about this dream if it means losing you,” he insists.

Your expression is apologetic, and suddenly your eyes clear up. Too much – the clarity in your mind feels dizzying.

“It’s too late.”

The words fall like a meteorite – you think they hit harder than the one that killed the dinosaurs, millions of years ago. They hit him so hard you think they disperse the pieces of his heart to the four corners of the Earth.

You want to be selfish, you want to keep a piece of him for yourself, to remember him by, but you let him go. You have to, if you want to make it out alive.

“Come on,” he pleads. “We’ve been through so much…”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”

There’s finality in your voice, and he hears it just as well as you do. You think he’ll fight more – Jungkook never backs down from a challenge – but to your surprise he goes incredibly still.

“Nothing I can do or say will make you stay, huh?”

You shut your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He goes cold then – like hell. Empty, freezing over, and he steps out of bed to grab some clothes in his luggage that he’s yet to unpack. You watch him, watch the last tears on his cheeks falling as he bends down. No new ones join them – he’s retracted somewhere inside of himself, probably in an attempt to protect himself. You’re not sure he’s aware of the coping mechanism, but you can recognize it.

He was in that same place when you met him again the year after his accident, before you started dating. Once, he told you that you were the one to rescue him from it.

Who will rescue him now?

You start crying again, and you force yourself to get out of bed. To grab some clothes as he’s zipping his luggage after getting dressed.

“Stop,” you tell him. “I already have plans to go stay with Bridget and Heather.”

He stops moving, and then slowly gets up. He glances at the door of the bedroom. Bam is looking through the small gap, and he gently pushes on the door to open it wider.

“What about the dog?” Jungkook asks, sounding so detached you can barely recognize him.

It breaks you even more. You’re selfish – you wish he’d fight more. You wish he’d convince you to stay, but now he looks like he doesn’t even care anymore.

You probably deserve it.

“You can keep him,” you say, as you struggle to put your clothes on, hands trembling so much it makes you lose your fine motricity. “When you-“ A sob breaks the sentence. “When you leave again I can take him in.”

Jungkook nods, and then he glances towards the television. The movie is still playing, yet it’s nearing the end now.

Everything comes to an end.

“Fuck,” Jungkook curses loudly, and he moves to the bed, grabbing the remote so he can turn the TV off. He then looks at the bed. “You’re leaving with those?”

“Jungkook…”

“You’re fucking leaving with them?”

He’s motioning to Totoro and Appa, and you cry some more as you nod. “Okay. Yes. I’ll come back later for the rest.”

“Okay.”

There’s an immense silence then, as you finish putting your clothes on. As you go to the closet, where you’ve already packed a duffel bag with stuff for a week. Jungkook scoffs when he sees it, and it almost makes your legs give out under you.

“You weren’t going to give me a chance, were you?” he asks bitterly, reproachfully.

“My decision was made,” you answer with a small voice. “I just… it’s too hard.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

You know Jungkook often hurts others when he himself is in pain. It’s something he said he didn’t want to do anymore, a side of him he told you he hates. You’re not surprised to see it come to the surface right now – you don’t think he’s ever gotten his heart broken like this before.

So you’re not surprised when he adds, “We should have broken up when we fought on the phone. Because why was I so fucking stupid to think you still loved me?”

Your heart breaks. It’s been breaking, but now it’s different. Burning, throbbing pain takes over the beating organ, and you struggle to breathe. The air is boiling in your lungs, and it’s so fierce you feel it in every inch of your body.

“I do,” you tell him. “It’s not because I don’t love you…”

He laughs. He bursts out laughing, and it’s a little crazed, a little scary. “Right. Yeah. Tell that to yourself.”

In that instant, you remember when you’d told him you loved him for the first time. At his art exhibit, choked on emotions you thought you’d always know. You don’t know them anymore, but he’s wrong.

You’ll always love him.

“Kook…”

“Will you fucking stop calling me that?” he asks, and he finally meets your gaze again.

“Sorry…”

He sighs loudly, tongue poking at his cheek. “Are you leaving now?”

It’s weird – the way he says it reminds you of your mother when she kicked you out years ago. It reminds you of the early days with Jungkook and you don’t think you can move. You’re stuck in the spot where you’re standing, watching him as he watches you.

When his gaze breaks and he lets out, “Please”, you finally start moving.

First to the bed, to grab Appa and Totoro, and then towards the door.

You push the door open, and Bam wags his tail as you walk out. You’re crying again – you’re not sure you ever stopped – but the sight of the dog makes everything worse. Because it’s not only Jungkook you’re losing, it’s Bam too.

It’s your life. You’re losing everything that matters to you, in an attempt to save yourself. In an attempt to find something better for yourself, something that won’t ache for months at a time like being with Jungkook now does.

“Hey, Bamie,” you say, and you hold the plush toys away as he tries to bite into Appa’s paw. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You bend, and you let the dog lap at your cheek, as if he can dry your tears. When he stops to look at you curiously, head tilted to the side, you press a kiss to the top of his head. You can’t move for a time and, as if sensing it, Bam remains entirely still too.

He only moves when you stretch, and it’s to press his body against your legs, as if trying to stop you from leaving. Tears cascade down your face, and you tell him you’re sorry, too. You repeat that you’ll see him soon again, hoping that it’ll help, and then you’re walking around him. Walking towards the door, walking towards the crying world outside.

Jungkook follows behind, silent as ever, hands lost in the pockets of his sweatpants, eyes lost in the void. You put down your stuff by the door, put on a light coat and grab your keys. You store them in your coat pocket, and then head to the door, to put on your shoes.

Every step feels like lead, like death, and you just keep crying. It only stops when you meet Jungkook’s gaze, when you’re ready to leave.

Or as ready as you’ll ever be.

“So that’s it?” he asks.

“That’s it,” you agree, and you wish you didn’t. Wish those weren’t the words you said.

He nods once, looking like he’s burdened with a great fatigue. “Alright.”

You want to scream at him to say more, but he doesn’t. Only stays silent as he looks at you, doe eyes so big. His waterline is wet again, and he’s got red splotches all over his face. He’s fighting the tears this time around and you wish you’d give him a reprieve, wish you’d be able to leave but, once again, you’re rooted in your spot.

Maybe because you still have more to say.

“Thank you for…” You pause, take a deep, shaking breath in. “Thank you for the years. I had a lot of fun with you.”

“Please go.”

You nod once, and then you turn around. It occurs to you that your hands are full, and you look at the doorknob as if it’s foreign. Jungkook must have noticed, because he steps forward, his hand reaching for it.

He stills halfway there, with his arm right next to you. And then you hear him choke on a sob, and you drop what you’re holding to face him, to pull him into a hug.

You don’t know how long you cry, holding onto each other like this. Because the moment you’ve wrapped your arms around his waist, Jungkook wrapped his around your shoulders, and he hid his face in your hair.

You cry and cry, together. The last thing you’ll ever do together, you reckon. You wish it wasn’t the case, wish the ending was still at the end a very long road, but it’s come short tonight and it’s too late to stop now.

You break against him, holding him. He’s shaking in your arms, as much as you’re shaking in his. Both of you trembling leaves in the wake of your end. And then you fall to your demise, carried away by the wind.

You don’t know when you let go of him. Only come to your senses when you’re in bed, sometime between dusk and dawn, away from him.

You’re never going to hold him again.

Teaser | Next

☆☆☆☆☆

Pain. I'm crying again from rereading one last time before posting. Please don't hate me oop- let me know what you think of the fic! Did we like it, even though it hurts? All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2023. Do not copy, repost or translate.

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[violetsiren90]

Evergreen | Bang Chan/Reader

Pairing: wolf hybrid!Bang Chan x human!f!Reader

(A Nothing But You universe fic)

Genre: hybrid AU; one-shot; established relationship; domestic fluff; slice of life; mountain living; pregnancy

Word Count: 1689

Summary: Seasons change, life moves on - but some things stay the same.

Content Warning: PG-13 for themes but my page and all its content are 18+ (minors, dni); wolf hybrid rut; mentions of knotting and marking; mentions of rut symptoms that include insomnia and lack of appetite; deep emotions; the use of "your" and "belonging" in the sense of committed love NOT ownership; pregnancy; mentions of different states of undress; domesticity and shared domestic responsibility; homesteading; Chris being the sweetest and most caring 😭💕; Chris chopping wood 😳; mentions of food and eating; implications of sexual intimacy, parenthood

Author's Note: I guess I went and fell in love with these two. This is a companion one-shot to Nothing But You. This one-shot is a different flavor, not as soft and cozy all the way through - there are more notes here, I think. Some sweeter, some sharper, but in the end, it's still them. I wanted to peek into their lives and see how they lived and loved. 🥰

If no one has told you yet today, please know that you are so loved, and so worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

~January~

Snow burdens the branches of the pines, the bitter North wind whistling between the trees, through the darkness, and over the blanket of fresh powder shrouding the forest floor. The mountains are sleeping, but your wolf is awake.

He nearly collapses, sinking to his knees as he shuts the cabin door. You spring up from your place by the fire to rush to him, but he holds up a hand, a growl rumbling low in his chest. You freeze. Panting, he slowly raises his face. Snowflakes cling to his lashes and dust over his head and shoulders. The dusky circles under his brown eyes speak of weariness, yet their expression is dark and wild. His nose is flushed from the chill. Beads of sweat quiver on his brow.

The fever still hasn't broken.

It appeared two days ago, with other sudden changes. Christopher has grown restless and short-tempered, and won't sleep in your bed. He smells intoxicatingly of cedar wood and amber.

You've been through it all before, his annual rut at the end of winter - four days of watching him endure the throes of primal agony. He would steal away at night, to hunt, your proximity far too overwhelming for his heightened senses and desires. Unchecked he would fail to stop himself. He would take you, mark you, knot you.

He hadn't in the four years you'd shared a bed and the comfort of the other's flesh. You'd spoken of the mating rites, but he always held off, afraid to break you. So protective of you always, and without a second a thought to himself.

You respected his space, his wishes, attempting to help him navigate the torment of his natural longings as best you could.

But this year it had taken him like a wild fire. The fever wouldn't break. He wouldn't sleep or eat. And now, here he was, half frozen and shivering on the floor.

No more.

You slowly cross to pull him up against his weak protesting. You peel away his frost-damp clothes and drag his heavy frame to rest upon the bed. With his last strength he tries to push you away, but you slip under the blankets beside him, pulling him into your arms.

His eyes flutter shut as he curls against you and nuzzles into your neck, whimpering that when he wakes it will be too hard for him to hold back.

You tell him not to try.

You tell him that you need him, want him - all of him. This part too, with all the others.
You assure him softly that you're not afraid, nor should he fear to make you his...you already belong to one another, after all.

You whisper that you love him.

Christopher exhales, tears trickling down his cheeks to mingle with the sweat and melted snow. You hold him to your breast, brushing soft kisses into his hair.

Cedar wood and amber.

~April~

You shake out a flannel shirt, crinkled and bunched from wringing to hang it on the line that stretches from the side of the cabin to a young yellow birch within the clearing. You smile as you fasten it with clips. He had worn it on the first day he visited the diner. It was faded then, and it has grown more timeworn still. But the fabric is thick, the seams hand-sewn, and if the dye has begun to abandon the thread it is only ever the softer. 

Strong and soft, like him.

The warblers are singing in the branches of the white pines as they busily fashion their nests. You stroke a hand down over the little bump of your belly, musing over the nesting that has started to change the trappings of your own little home. There's still plenty of time, but Christopher's excitement has poured forth in the form of hard work, and you're certain that when your time comes he'll have stored by enough for the next three winters yet.

You hear the rumbling of his truck a ways off. He left in the wee hours, the bed loaded down with wares to sell to suppliers in town. By the time you've strung up the last piece of washing he's already at the mouth of the trail, his arms laden with flowers and parcels wrapped in brown paper. The light wash of his denim shirt brings out the early kisses of the spring sunshine on his honeyed skin.

You follow him into the house where he puts your wildflowers into a vase and insists that you sit while he tends to lunch. Unwrapping the brown paper packages you find a set of pretty maternity pajamas, a box of chocolates, and the goat's milk soap you like. 

He's already eaten half his sandwich when he sets yours down, and you tug his wrist, pulling him into a chair to prevent him from setting out to work yet again. 

When the dishes are cleared you won't let him leave. He'd work every second of every day and well into many nights if you let him. But today you want him to rest. It's a mild and lovely afternoon and the chores are done. Other things can wait.

You sit across his lap on the porch swing he built two summers before. Your arms encircle one of his as you rest your head on his shoulder. 

His lips brush your forehead as his thumb caresses the little curved scar where the slope of your shoulder meets your neck. The one that means you belong to him and no one else.

The birds sing and the swing creaks.


~July~

He calls you from around the other side of the house. You draw an arm over your dripping brow and struggle up from where you're crouched to spread a batch of plump, ripe blackberries between the screens of the drying rack. There are still so many. Some you'll turn into jam. Christopher will eat the rest. He loves them. You rest the colander still half-full with berries against the full swell of your belly, wrapping an arm about the rim to keep it in place. 

You're hot and uncomfortable these days. But, when the morning's work is through, you'll go down to the lake together to shed the day's heat in the cool, still waters. You'd been every afternoon that week. Christopher was a strong swimmer, and would stay in far longer while you sat on the shady bank with a book. When he finally quit the water yesterday, he'd never found his clothes - instead��he'd pressed you back into the lush green grass and made you sigh his name. 

As you round the far side of the cabin your eyes catch his form. He stands under the sweltering sun, stripped down to pair of fitted khaki work pants and thick suede boots. His muscular chest is slicked with sweat and he stands, panting, with his weight pressed into his right hip. He holds an axe in his hand.

His mouth pulls up at the corner and his tail swishes at the site of you. You tuck yourself against him wrapping your free arm around his damp waist. Oh how you want to swim. To hold his strong body in the dark water.

He gestures with the axe at what he's fitted together with stripped pieces of soft pine. A little cradle. He nudges it with his foot, setting it to rock. You bring a blackberry to his lips and he accepts it.

You kiss him.

Salty skin and summer fruit.


~October~

Your eyes flutter open to the sound of little cries. You sit up and stretch, blinking in the softness of the early autumn light.

You inhale deeply. Cinnamon and hickory smoke.

Outside the air is growing crisp and the leaves of the deciduous trees are blushing and abandoning their hosts, covering the floor of the wood in their pageantry. Fruit and game have begun to grow scarce as the forest prepares to enter the long slumber of the colder months. Nights require fires more often than not.

There is a small fire crackling now. A little black cauldron hangs over the flames, and you can smell the porridge simmering within. The man you love sits in a rocking chair near the warmth, a little bundle in his arms. He looks up at you as you rise and he smiles. He's been all smiles lately. In fact, you don't think the little dimple has left his cheek since he met the tiny she-wolf in his arms two weeks ago.

He says she looks like you, but all you see in her beautiful little features is Christopher. She has two tiny fuzzy ears and a darling little tale.

You reach down to stroke her fat cheek and your heart aches.

It aches from love, so much of it.

When the doctor placed her in your arms a part of your heart that you hadn't known existed burst to beating. You thought you loved the man who had knitted her inside you as much as you were able, but you had been ignorant in that respect as well. When he took your daughter in his arms and looked down on her face you thought that there wasn't room in your chest for things so vast, so deep.

You named her Hannah, for the sister her father had lost. It meant "grace".

So fitting, you think.

You move your fingers into Christopher's curls and he looks up at you. His brown eyes are soft and warm. The lovely eyes you saw that first day at the general store - the same through every changing season.

The maple and the birch will wax and wane, but not the cedar, not the pine.

Some things will remain.

And he is evergreen.
 

-Fin-

[ckret2]

👀 I want to hear more about this Bill AU

You were the very first person to send me an ask about the Bill AU, and it was an open-ended question, so I've been saving your ask special for... a fanfic. IDK how often or how much I'm gonna write actual full fic for this AU but for now, here: the first half of Bill's reunion with the Pines family. (Attempted murder included.)

(Edited 7/28/2024 - now compatible with TBOB!)

####

February 25, 2013

The vengeful demon standing in the door of the Mystery Shack possessed only four items in the universe:

Two safety pins.

A time tape tied around his waist like a belt.

And a tunic he'd fashioned himself in the style of an ancient Greek Doric chiton, folded and pinned so perfectly that the wearer must have seen them thousands of years ago when they were at the height of fashion.

Soos couldn't identify an authentic Doric chiton. All he knew was that the tourist who'd just come in looked like a short fat lady with brown skin, curly golden hair, weirdly skinny arms, bulging jaundiced eyes, and a toga made out of a bright purple children's Pony Heist bedsheet.

Soos laughed, flashing the tourist a double thumbs up. "Hey! Awesome toga. That should really be like a thing. Imagine if we all wore togas. We could just wake up, roll our bedsheets around us like a burrito, and go out!"

"Watch out, you can't tell when Big Fashion is listening in." 

"Haha. Who?"

The tourist hadn't looked at Soos once; instead, her gaze was darting around the shop restlessly.

"Are you shopping for something specific?" Soos asked with his best customer service voice. "Post cards? Snow globes? Weird taxidermy thingamajigs? Pants?"

"Where are the Pines?" the tourist asked, casting a sharp look at the "employees only" door, then the vending machine.

"Oh, Mr. Pines! The original Mr. Mystery! Heh—he actually retired a few months ago. The Mystery Shack's under new management!" Soos planted his fists on his hips and puffed up his chest. "It's me, I'm the new management."

"But where are they?" the tourist pressed.

"Uhh, he and his bro are somewhere in South America, I think? Hey, if you wanna meet him in person, his last letter said he might visit for spring break if the family can make it. First week in April."

"First week in April," the tourist muttered. She glanced over her shoulder toward the door, thoughtfully fiddling with the time tape wrapped around her waist.

"Oh, dude! I've tried to use a tape measure as a belt too! Haha! It worked great, until I bumped the button and it retracted. Yeesh. Hey, do you want a fur belt? We sell fur belts now." Soos turned away, rummaging through the new display next to the t-shirts. "They're all sustainably, ethically harvested! I bought a bunch of old rugs from the Northwest Manor to slice up."

Soos grabbed up a fuzzy pink belt. "Check it, I think this is unicorn hide or something. Bet it'd go so good with that Pony Heist toga..."

The tourist had seemingly vanished in thin air. Soos looked around. "Huh." He shrugged and stuck the belt on a shelf beneath the cash register in case she came back and decided she wanted it later.

Once all the other visitors had left for the day, and Soos was left alone to clean up, he thought back to that togaed tourist whose yellowish eyes had never stopped moving—the way she'd looked toward the door as though worried someone was following her. Soos glanced around the shop nervously. "Is anyone there?" He lifted his broom like a samurai sword. "Hello? Big Fashion?"

Nothing answered. He shrugged and kept sweeping.

###

April 1, 2013

A vengeful demon who possessed nothing but two safety pins, a time tape belt, and a purple Pony Heist bedsheet chiton stood in the center of the Mystery Shack gift shop.

Which was weird, because Soos didn't hear the door and she totally hadn't been standing there a moment ago.

"Oh hey! Toga Lady!" Soos turned to Wendy, who was picking up a few bucks working spring break while Melody visited her family. "It's Toga Lady. She came in like a month ago. The toga's cool, right? I think it's cool."

Wendy glanced up, choked back a laugh, and scrambled to grab her phone for a picture.

"So, where are the Pines?" Toga Lady asked, with an edge of impatience.

"Oh, dude, did you come all the way back here to meet them? Sorry, the Mr. Pineses couldn't make it. They couldn't get a flight out of Atlanta." Soos stopped, frowned, and pulled a water-stained letter from his pocket to double check. "Sorry, Atlantis. Something about a giant lobster attack?"

"Daryll would pick now to invade," Toga Lady muttered. "I suppose the children aren't here."

How did she know about the children? Maybe she'd visited last summer and remembered them? Like, early summer, before Pony Heist came out. Soos would have remembered the toga. "Naw, heh. They went to Roswell."

"Oh, cool," Wendy said distractedly, busy texting a picture of Toga Lady to everyone she knew. "Checking out the competition."

"Yeah, Dipper's sending me like a billion pictures of the alien museum."

"Well," Toga Lady said impatiently, "when are they showing up?"

Soos was beginning to get the impression that Toga Lady was less an admiring fan, and more one of those customers. The kind that used speaking to the manager as a threat. All the same, he said, "June first, for sure. That's when the kids get here for summer break so the Mr. Pineses are coming too. Definitely. Promise."

She rolled her eyes—one of them twitched, like she'd gotten something in it and was struggling to keep it open—but said, "All right, fine! June. What's the difference? I've waited this long." She leaned next to the door by the snow globe shelves, fiddling with her belt, as if she was settling in to wait right there for the next two months.

Soos frowned—she might drive off tourists, blocking the door like that—but said, "Oh! While you're here, I thought you might be interested in this belt." He reached past Wendy to grab it from beneath the cash register. "I didn't get a chance to show you last time before—"

He looked toward the door. She was gone. "Huh. Did you see Toga Lady leave?"

Wendy shrugged. "Wasn't looking."

"Huh." Soos replaced the belt. At least he knew when he'd see her next.

###

June 1, 2013

"What's with the belt?" Stan asked.

"Oh! It's for a regular." Soos pointed with both hands at the fuzzy pink belt peeking beneath his suit jacket. "I think she's comin' today. She wanted to meet the original Mr. Mystery."

"Hey, an admirer." Stan's chest puffed out and his grin widened. "Is she cute?"

"Uh... if you like bedsheet togas?"

"Ooh, a party girl."

"These are new," Ford said, inspecting a jar with an alien fetus floating in green goo.

"Oh, yeah!" Soos said, following as Stan joined Ford at the glass display case. "Dipper sent me like, a billion keychains of these little alien guys from Roswell. So I started filling Abuelita's empty spice jars with aliens and green jello. Cool, huh? It looks like we stole them from a secret government lab or something."

Stan laughed, slinging an arm around Soos. "Listen to this! Brilliant! I knew I put the right guy in charge."

Soos grinned goofily. "Aw, gee, Mr. Pines..."

A flash of purple caught the corner of his eye. Toga Lady was leaning next to the door by the snow globe shelves, fiddling with her belt.

Here was a chance to show off his great business instincts with Stan watching. Time to make a sale. "Oh, hey, Toga Lady! I didn't hear you come in! Still rockin' Pony Heist, huh? Hey, I've been trying to show you this belt I think you'll like..."

But she wasn't listening to him. Her gaze was fixed on the Pines twins' backs. As Soos watched, her expression darkened, and her grin widened.

The vengeful demon reached past the snow globes, seized a heavy "mysterious green crystal cluster ($250)" made of glue and broken glass, and heaved it up over his head. "Hey, Sixer!" Face contorted in a snarl of a smile, he turned the cluster over, sharp shards pointing downward. "Welcome home!"

Bill Cipher swung the glass weight down toward Ford's head.

(If you wanna keep reading, all chapters are on tumblr right here!)

[ravensraven]

A somewhat comprehensive EAH timeline

This is solely based on the show and specials. Some stuff is pure speculation but I think this is what makes most sense.

Year 1 –

Nothing

Year 2 –

Chapter 1

Legacy Day

Chapter 2 (happens right after chapter 1 – shown by Blondie’s Just Right episode happening not long after Legacy Day)

True Hearts Day (speculation: February? Assuming that EAH dates align with ours and this happens around our Valentine’s Day celebration)

Thronecoming

Chapter 3 Part 1 (Ginger in the BreadHOUSE to Faybelle’s Choice) (speculation: the forest fest festival and the outdoor movie theatre have big late spring/summer vibes. In "Ginger in the BreadHOUSE" everyone is afraid of her, while in Spring Unsprung she seems to be liked, so it makes sense that it happens before the special)

Spring Unsprung (speculation: not a lot of time passed since Thronecoming – the storybook of legends wasn’t found-, so it should fit at the end of their second year, in spring).

Year 3 –

Chapter 3 Part 2 (The Legacy Orchid to Tri-Castle-On) (The yearbook plot takes place during the whole year, starting in September and ending in June)

Way Too Wonderland (speculation: in April, not long after "Save Me Darling" - because in the episode Darling hasn’t revealed her identity as the White Knight yet)

Courtly Pleads Her Case and What’s in the Cards for Courtly Jester (after wtw for obvious reasons)

Chapter 4 (must happen before Dragon Games because in "A Big Bad Secret" Ramona just transfers into EAH)

Dragon Games (speculation: around june, giving Raven enough time to master her powers but before the year is over)

Epic Winter (speculation: also in June, in summer. Dragon Games and Epic Winter should take place around the same time, since Jackie and Northwind use the shattered mirror after the Evil Queen's escape for the Epic Winter plot, and Faybelle is tasked with fixing the school after DG, so it probably happened days after DG, if not straight up the day after. As shown in this special, they still have classes here, which might’ve been extended because of what happened during Dragon Games and the damage caused).

“There's no business Like Snow Business“ (Apple and Maddie visit Crystal’s palace so it has to come after Epic Winter)

Tri-Castle-On (speculation: it does take place in June, and it would make sense to happen at the very end of the school year, since this is also when the yearbook e-corn is planted).

Year 4 –

Nothing again

[jonnysinsectcatalogue]

False Honey Ant - Prenolepis imparis

Let's briefly revisit these mismatched individuals and be reminded of the warmer days of spring and nuptial flights. Though of different sizes and forms, the Ants in these pictures are the same specie, but are simply designed for different purposes. All the smaller winged male Ants here must do is secure a female and successfully form a mating pair with her. After that, his job is done and that'll be the end of him. At least he gets to enjoy the sun and breeze as he does so, as other species of Ants may have to venture underground to find a mate. Those that do are heavily scrutinized by queen's workers, and should he be deemed unfit, he will be carved apart and converted into food for the colony. If he's lucky, it will just be the wings that are eaten (first). Meanwhile, the swollen female has a long life ahead of her, especially when she finds a suitable colony location deep within the ground.

When the queen is ready, she will have shed her wings and shall foster a wonderful home teeming with loyal subjects and defenders by suppling an egg output thanks to the male's contribution. With a fill of resources inside her abdomen, she has all the energy she needs to facilitate a nest and the first batch of workers. Do not be confused however, she is full of fat reserves, not honey (unlike true Honeypot Ants such as Myrmecocystus spp.), hence the name "False Honey Ant". As the fat reserves begin to dwindle, however, sclerotization of exoskeleton progresses, as can be seen in the winged queen in Picture 9. As such, these young queens have time, but not unlimited time to find a home. I hope to see the nuptial flight this year if I can, but the emergence can be somewhat unpredictable. What is predictable however, is that this Ant will likely emerge earlier than other species as they are more tolerant of colder temperatures. They are so tolerant in fact, that they may even forage during winter, provided it isn't too cold and snow doesn't impede their locomotion.

Pictures were taken on April 8 and 10, 2021 with a Google Pixel 4.

[hiccanna-tidbits]

@jackunzel-time

Jackunzel Month Week 1 - The Artist and the Muse

***

You hide your eyes behind the shades Your stroke can make the climate change Your art should see the light of day (you and me a masterpiece)

You never let your colors show Lose your face when we get close I’ve seen you paint, nobody knows (you and me a masterpiece)

You’ve got an artist inside you Come drown in my navy blue Tonight let the artist inside me be you

Baby paint me like a canvas – don’t mind You’re dripping colors on the mattress tonight Dip your brush into the pallet, all mine Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Put your body where my heart is My love I’m the muse and you’re the artist Don’t stop Gotta finish what you started Oh, god Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

You make me Scream in Starry Nights The golden kiss, mysterious smile You never let the paint run dry (you and me a masterpiece)

I’m standing pose for your design Your fingertips, they reach for mine Let’s make a mess and cross the line (you and me a masterpiece)

You've got an artist inside you Come drown in my navy blue Tonight let the artist inside me be you

Baby paint me like a canvas – don’t mind You’re dripping colors on the mattress tonight Dip your brush into the pallet, all mine Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Put your body where my heart is My love I’m the muse and you’re the artist Don’t stop Gotta finish what you started Oh, god Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Baby paint me like a canvas You’re dripping colors on the mattress Drip your brush into the pallet And make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Baby, paint me like a canvas – don’t mind You’re dripping colors on the mattress tonight Dip your brush into the palette, all mine Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Put your body where my heart is My love I’m the muse and you’re the artist Don’t stop Gotta finish what you started Oh, god Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

***

People always ask her at art shows where she gets her inspiration. Come spring, the assortment of pieces she's pumped out during the darker months never fails to amaze.

Streetlights shining through blizzard flurries. Ice on early April buds. Peach, rose, and lavender sunsets through snow-filled clouds. White-topped pine forests so mesmerizing that you can practically feel the stillness and silence of the winter.

Every time, Rapunzel smiles mysteriously and cites another artist.

"He's...underappreciated. His work hasn't ever had its day in the sun. But I've seen the best of it."

She always straightens proudly at the last part. And her customers can't help but be jealous that she gets to see this mysterious obscure talent apparently hidden from the rest of the world.

It has to be hidden, or else Rapunzel's work wouldn't be so uniquely spectacular. More people would paint even the coldest and bleakest of winter nights--even with no holiday lights to shine through the darkness.

"What's their name?" people always ask, hoping to investigate the esoteric artist themselves.

"Jack Frost."

And they laugh, because they think she's just being poetic. Taking inspiration from the fabled creator of ice patterns on morning windows and vast, quiet snowscapes.

If only they could see the white-haired boy just above them, perched on a nearby lamppost and chuckling to himself. Invisible to all the world except the artists who see beauty in his work.

***

HIHI I'M SO SORRY I'M LATE

Heh, you didn't really think I'd forgotten Jackunzel month, did you??? Had a lot on my plate these last couple months but by GOD am I gonna pull through for my children!!! I've been making them November content for 3 years straight and I ain't about to stop now!!!

Anyways this song popped up on my spotify and I was like oh huh. Yeah that's a Jackunzel song all right. And then this happened!

I feel like it could be from both of their POVs, btw! Like Rapunzel is the one we think of as the artist, but Jack kinda is, too--just look what he can do with snow and frost! Art that never sees the light of day indeed ;_____; And "your stroke can make the climate change" like??? Literally Jack??? Also love the idea of him doing little frost designs on her skin and clothes ;_____; Just little reminders of her mans she can carry around for a while before they melt! Especially in the summertime, when she could really use it!!!

But "come drown in my navy blue" is very Jack @ Rapunzel, too. And Punz definitely has a golden kiss and mysterious smile akdjsuilkh

Depending on how you interpret these two and their relationship, you can pretend some of the, er...spicier implications of this song are a metaphor for like. Deep conversations and enthusiastic cuddling if you like XD

Can you imagine Rapunzel actually painting in her bed and getting acrylic all over her blankets and insisting it gives them character??? Shit would be hilarious. Jack would also thoroughly approve of the chaotic and general unhinged nature of it all ajshdksgd

I missed them!!! God, it's been too long!!!

As always, moodboard pic credits available upon request :3

[bromcommie]

Sokovia falls in spring.

Much of it is blurry now, forced into oblivion, but he remembers that part with vicious detail - the unassuming, forgettable prelude to hell; Lazarus Saturday, the intermittent tinkling of bells down their cul-de-sac and the heavy wet air while he sat out on the wide expanse of the balcony, sipping on his lukewarm coffee and sneaking a rare indulgent cigarette while the house was empty. It'd done little to ward against the chill of the morning, the kind of cold that broke him out into consistent goosebumps and seeped down into his bones, seemingly misplaced in early April. The metal railing stuck to the warm skin of his forearms when he leaned over it to peer idly down at the street, to where snow had accumulated in front of the row of brand-new luxury apartment buildings; all alike in their appearance, all that same shiny glass and metal and blinding white that had become popular in the last fifteen years, fifteen years too late in regards to the rest of the world, and that would fall apart in about as many. All laid out like a poor man's idea of opulence and a stark contrast to the unkempt street.

He'd hated it initially - hates it still, really. The cheap sterility of it, this sign of the times made palpable infrastructure that was devouring what was left of a once beautiful neighborhood, clashing with the old, dilapidated villas and steadfastly grey communist architecture. But Sandra had said, it's a peaceful neighborhood. There's a good school nearby. Sandra had said, There's a life for us here, love, and it'll be a good change of pace. Look how beautiful the view is from up here. Sandra had said: just because you grew up in exile doesn't mean Miho should.

And she was right. So a pristine-white, new-century-cold castle on the hill it was. He could still fit his dream of a future in Sokovia into a different shape, he told himself; what mattered was what was inside, anyway.

He'd watched as a gaggle of children slipped and skittered their way downhill from the international school, kicking the stray willow wreaths that had slipped off the heads of previous passersby back and forth until they'd get stuck in the muddy slush, and found himself wishing again that he'd gone with his wife and son to visit her mother in Kralyev Pole. But he was scheduled to go back to Vienna in the morning - it was a familiar rhythm by now - and Sandra had just pressed a firm kiss to his cheek and said we'll see you back home at Easter in a purposeful, loving tone that almost got lost between the distracted flurry of packing and her distant eyes.

Looking down at the murky palette of the street below he'd wished, not for the first time, that it'd all felt a little more like home. That he wasn't itching to be back on that plane out of the country the second he landed, a feeling amped up to 11 the second his family had set foot outside the building.

But then again, Novi Grad had never been his home; not really, not in any way that mattered.

He'd been in a foul mood already when his father called, the glaring absence of sound from the open double doors behind him and the grey sky pressing down over his head like a steel trap setting his teeth on edge. He'd let the phone ring and ring for almost a full minute before guilt had finally, inevitably, won over.

Their conversation had been relatively brief, caught between perfunctory and utilitarian, much like all of their other phone conversations since he'd started splitting his time between Sokovia and work abroad. They talked about the unexpected snow, about what is to be done for the anniversary of his mother's death, about whether Mihailo would like a BMX sports bicycle for his birthday. He'd tried explaining that his son still didn't really know how to ride one well - that at eight, the five-speed he already had was perfectly fine, thank you, but it's a nice thought. His father had just scoffed.

"You were never athletic as a child either, you know. Never climbed trees with the other children. Always too afraid of falling, I suppose," he'd said mostly to himself, and then, "If the kid actually had someone around to teach him, maybe he'd be learning faster."

On a different day, he might've let it slide. On a different day, he wouldn't have let the sentimental old age in his father's voice feel like a personal affront. "Nobody ever taught me, and I learned just fine."

This wasn't necessarily true. For most of his young life, Zemo had been coached by a wide plethora of professionals: French, German, Latin, shooting, violin, tennis, horseback riding, mountaineering, art, diplomacy, you name it - he'd had a teacher for every single one of the skills his parents and his surroundings had deemed necessary for a young man of his stature, and eventually, with more or less effort, he'd excelled at all of them; but never alone. There'd been Katya, the au pair that practically raised him in his childhood, young herself and lost in a foreign country and still the warmest presence he'd had in his life. There'd been Oeznik, who'd governed him with a much stricter hand than his own parents, but who had guarded Zemo's life with his own nonetheless.

It's just that things like big-game hunting and history lessons took precedence over things like bike riding and soccer, which was just as well, really. He never liked being mundane.

At the Academy it was a different story altogether. Unnoticeability, the skill of being no more interesting than the person next to him, only came later, and at a cost.

"Just make sure your Germans let you out in time for Easter," the old man'd muttered, "if they even recognize that sort of thing."

He remembers that part clearly, too, that bitter emphasis: your Germans. Like Zemo'd picked the wrong thing to do with his abundant time and money, the wrong way to employ his very specialized skill set, the wrong side of the family to lean into; like his name and heritage were something he'd picked himself and not something that was hammered into him by way of memorization, that he was taught to take pride in and embody down to the last detail. Like this mild-mannered, West-oriented young man who spoke German and a handful of other languages softly but deftly, who subsumed all his wilder impulses and hid his smoking and all his other dirty habits from his family and from the world behind a courteous smile wasn't an inadvertent yet nonetheless direct creation of the man on the other end of the line. A prince and a baron, turned a lowly gastarbeiter.

"They're Austrian," Zemo'd said simply. "Look, I have to go - Sandra and the kid just came in. I'll talk to you later."

It's not the last conversation he had with his father, but it's the last one he rememebers. Subtle judgement, the smell of smoke and cold and stale Turkish coffee and all those little clear bells, ringing, ringing, ringing: Lazarus rising, just to fall a week later.

Novi Grad falls on his son's birthday, the 11th of April, the day before Easter. It takes everything else down with it.

This was not the first time Novi Grad had fallen. Historically, this wasn't even the first time it’d suffered this extent of loss of life. But it was the first time the ruins were cauterized before something could grow from in between them like weeds out the sidewalk. It was the first time that what was lost was acknowledged as such: dead, gone, our condolences for your loss. Nothing more to be done.

There’d been excuses, of course, and platitudes spoken by the feeble remaining government, echoes of the UN and NATO and the EU he'd learned to recognize as empty long before he started working in security consulting:

We empathize greatly with all Sokovian nationals in this trying time. We’re doing everything in our power to stabilize the situation. We’re doing everything we can to never let a catastrophe like this happen again. It’ll just take a few weeks, a month, a year or two or five to rebuild, but patience is of the essence here.

We’re all very horrified, you understand. There aren’t enough resources for everyone, you see. It’s a very complicated situation, there’s no one answer here – now’s not the time to be pointing fingers. But we’re doing everything we can. We’re sure it’ll be enough.

Daće Bog. That’s what his mother used to say – like a vague handwave to ward off all the legitimate fear and anxiety before it can ever take root in her body, in her home. If she saw even a glimpse of it in her son’s face she’d take it as a clear sign that she had personally failed somehow, which would, exacerbated by alcohol and pent-up emotion, upset and anger her more than the original problem itself. Zemo'd learned how to bury and snuff out these embers of fear very quickly.

There's talk of persecution of royalist dissidents abroad - God will protect us from the infidels, you'll see. The regime changes and the country plunges into economic crisis - so what, it'll pass, God willing, and then we'll be able to return. Yet another war breaks out, nothing but a parasitic twin to the last, devouring the country from the inside out and draining off fresh blood – well, it's nothing new. it'll be alright, God willing we'll get the bastards before they get us. Crkli dabogda.

And he’d just nod his little head and allow, very neutral, very acquiescing for the tender age of nine, thirteen, sixteen - sure, of course, it'll all be fine. Much later, he'd adjust the poorly-fitted camouflage greens that would squeeze too tight around his neck and say in that same steady tone of voice into the payphone receiver, Don't worry, mama, don't worry, it'll be taken care of. Daće Bog.

That’s all she’d ever say on the topic, or any topic really. God save us, God willing, God will provide – that was her eternal refrain. Well that and, just you wait until your father gets home, if she'd perceived him to be acting up somehow - more often than not by virtue of sheer existence alone.

This was, of course, yet another half-truth - his father never really took to beating him. There were always bigger things to worry about, things that belonged to the grander picture - too wide for him to fit into as an important variable and just manageable enough to squeeze into his young body like a manifestation of a future his father was pouring all his hope and dreams into.

Either way, the fear was there. The fear of disappointing, of coming up short to the ideal of what a son should be; it was all it took to keep him in line. Father, God – they became two sides of the same coin, the same promise of impending judgement. Both instilled far more trepidation in him than comfort.

It’s only when the bulldozer finally digs up what remains of their old country estate and he can pull his father’s unrecognizable, mangled body into his lap – so small and frail, when did his father get to be so small and frail? – that he thinks: what was I so afraid of all those years?

*** Excerpt from my Zemo character study - turned out to be much longer than a snippet, but I got carried away. Still very much a WIP, but thought I might as well post it until I figure out where I want to go with it.

Translations: Daće bog - God will provide, God willing Crkli dabogda - may they all die, God willing gastarbeiter - (German) foreign or migrant worker

[jodithann827]

One Night Stand (Revised)

9/13

This chapter is rated teen/ Ao3/ @today-in-fic

Ray’s Deli

Saturday, April 17 1993

*Ding Ding*

The ringing of the bell on the door announces their presence. Walking into the small deli, Emma lodged on one hip, Scully pauses, searching. She spots him, sitting across the room at a small corner table, out of the way of the hustle and bustle of the lunchtime rush. She steadily makes her way towards him and notices a small high chair in place of where a chair should be. Her heart melts, just a bit, realizing he purposefully sought out one for Emma to sit in. He stands as she approaches.

“Hey Scully,” he greets her, a sheepish grin on his face. She thinks it’s adorable, him being cautious, not fully sure how he should act around her now. She gently places Emma into the high chair before gathering some small toys to occupy her. She then focuses on herself, removing her jacket, a lightweight spring one that she places over the back of her chair.

“Hi Mulder, thanks for grabbing the high chair for her,” she offers him a wide smile. Smiling back, he nods, but his eyes wander to Emma, they are magnetized to her face. All he can do is stare. He saw her last night, but it’s as though he’s really and truly seeing her for the first time today. She’s enchanting, the most beautiful child he’s ever seen.

“Emmy, do you remember my friend from last night? Mulder? Can you say hi” Scully prompts the child, gently combing two fingers through her hair. Emma briefly looks up, acknowledging her mother said something to her but then is right back to her toys.

“She’s pretty shy around new people,” Scully explains, grabbing a menu to decide her order. It’s a tactic and she knows it. She frequents this deli enough to know the menu by heart, but having it close gives her something to do with her trembling hands. Mulder nods in recognition and they are quickly interrupted by a well-intentioned waitress, wanting to take their orders. Once the minutiae of ordering is out of the way, they stare at each other, a bit awkwardly, not knowing who should break the silence first.

“When’s her birthday?” Mulder finally asks, unable to handle the silence. He figures it a fairly easy question.

Scully takes a sip of water before answering. “February 15th. She was born in the middle of a blizzard. Some 6 inches of snow on the ground when I went to the hospital.”

“When did you find out?” he asks without elaborating, knowing she knows.

“About six weeks after. There was a stomach bug going around, so I thought I was sick. I was training at Quantico, pushing myself to the brink so I thought it was exhaustion on top of possibly having a bug. My friend Ellen, the one who I was at the bar with that evening, she’s the one who suggested I take a test. I was floored when it came back positive.”

“We were careful, Scully,” he blurts, then lowers his head, embarrassed if anyone overheard him. He looks ashamed, but she gives him a forgiving smile.

“I know Mulder, I was there,” she tells him softly. She realizes she'd been living the life for over two years, while he was just given the information yesterday. Understandably, he needs time to comprehend, to adjust. “Condoms aren’t one hundred percent effective.” She looks at him, looking at Emma, who had abandoned her toys in favor of the crayons and paper that were within her reach.

“Look, Mulder, I know we’re in a strange situation. It is weird and difficult, and awkward as hell. It’s a life that you may or may not have imagined yourself in. I just want you to know that I am ok. Emma is okay. It took a while for us to get to this place, but we are. We are happy and healthy and living our lives. We don’t need anything,” she hopes she doesn’t sound harsh, as it’s certainly not her intention. She wants him to understand that she doesn’t need anything from him.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.

“You just did,” she smiles, her attempts at lightening the mood fall slightly flat with the arrival of the waiter and their food. Scully busies herself tending to Emma, cutting her food, and moving the toys. She turns to look at Mulder. “Of course, Mulder, you can ask me anything.”

“If you knew how to get ahold of me, would you have?” He waits for her answer, which comes immediately as the words leave his mouth.

“I never would have kept anything from you. You know, even before I found out I was pregnant, the day after we met, I went through my apartment with a fine tooth comb, looking for anything, any clue, that would give a glimpse as to your identity. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything, and it’s not like I could use the FBI database to find you, though nothing would have come up, William,” she emphasizes with a slight laugh. “I wanted to tell you so badly, Mulder. That night we had, it was amazing and I tried to deny the connection, if I’m being honest, because it terrified me. Never in a million years did I expect any of this to happen, even though she’s the best thing that has ever happened to me.” She pauses, ruffling Emma’s hair. In turn, Emma provides a fistful of pancakes into Scully’s mouth, which makes Mulder bark out a surprised laugh. Emma, understanding she did something funny, attempts to do it again, much to Scully’s amusement.

After wiping her syrupy face, Scully continues. “Look, Mulder, when you sat in that hotel room in Oregon and disclosed everything you’d been through with Samantha, well it made me realize that I couldn’t dump this situation on you, not that Em is a situation, but you know what I mean. You have so much going on with your work and your search for the truth. You said it yourself; nothing else matters–”

“But Scully,” he interrupts. She holds a hand up, indicating she’s not finished. Her voice is steady and even when she continues.

“I love my job, but Emma is my world, my everything. She comes first in my life, no matter what. I live and breathe for her and we have a pretty good life going for us. She’s not lacking anything. My intent is not for you to feel like you need to step in or step up. I’m going to leave it up to you, but I don’t want you to feel pressure. If you want to be in her life as my friend and co-worker, that’s fine. If you want to be cool Uncle Mulder, that’s okay too. If you decide that you want to be a father to her, I won’t stop you. But the one thing I absolutely will not tolerate is having her hurt by significant people going in and out of her life,” she pauses to let him digest the information and after a moment passes, she adds, “I don’t want an answer from you right now. It’s a big decision and I want you to take some time to think about it.”

He hears Scully’s words, but can’t help his continued gaze at Emma. Deep in his heart, he knows he’s already falling in love with her. He acknowledges Scully’s words with a slight nod, not trusting his voice.

“It might change our working relationship or this friendship we seem to be developing, but I’m willing to try and figure it out if it’s something you want,” she tells him.

“Scully,” he says, finally finding his forgotten voice. She looks at him, her skeptical gaze searing into Mulder’s memory. He pushes forward with his request. “I’d like to spend the day with you ladies if that’s okay. Scully looks at Emma, who’s polished off most of her pancakes, at least the ones she didn’t feed to Scully, smiles, and nods.

Scully Residence

Saturday, April 17 1993

Exhaustion. He feels it from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Every body part aches and he feels as though he could sleep a million hours. But his heart is full, bursting at the seams. He nurses a beer as he sinks further into Scully’s couch and thinks about the day he had. Once they’d finished lunch it was decided that an adventure to the local park was needed. At first, Mulder was hesitant. Mr. ‘willing to jump into any dangerous situation that crossed his path’ was nervous about playing with a small child. He’d sat back and watched Scully interact with her daughter; his daughter; their daughter. She’d pushed her on the swing, crawled up the plaything, down the slide, and chased her around the woodchips. He wasn’t sure who his eye was drawn to more, Emma or her mother. He would have been content to sit there all day, just watching them in their blissful happiness.

Out of the blue, Emma toddled up to him, grasped his pinky finger, which dwarfed her microscopic hand, and attempted to pull him to the swings. “Push,” she demanded with a giggle. Mulder had looked at Scully, looking for permission. The mega-wat smile on her face was all he needed. He lifted Emma, placed her on the rough material, and started pushing. He was overcome with joy, as well as astonishment. He couldn’t believe how light and little she was. She clapped her hands and squealed with the delight of a child on a summer day each time Mulder’s hand connected with her back. Every so often, he would turn to face Scully, needing assurance that he was still doing okay, and each time he was rewarded with a smile.

After their romp at the park, Mulder suggested a quest for ice cream, which delighted Emma. He wasn’t sure if more of the melted cone ended up in the little one’s stomach or on her face and clothing. The icing on the proverbial cake was when Emma decided to reenact feeding Scully and Scully ended up with melted chocolate ice cream on her face and in her hair, and though she tried to be annoyed, she laughed right along with Mulder and Emma. Without thinking, Mulder took a napkin and dapped at the sticky substance on her cheek. He couldn’t get over how natural the day had felt.

Squeals of delight brought him back to the present. Scully was bathing Emma, possibly unsuccessfully if the sounds coming from the bathroom were any indication. It sounded more like an exuberant playtime. What am I going to do, he thinks to himself while he waits for them to finish. Knowing he has a monumental decision to make, he takes another sip of beer. It’s a two-fold problem. No, problem isn’t the right term because any fool would be lucky to be in his shoes. But it was an issue he had to address, sooner rather than later. He’s a father, and nothing would change that. Emma had already captured his heart with her soft eyes, warm smile, and joyful attitude. If it was just about Emma, his choice would be easy. But who’s he kidding? None of this is easy. There’s Emma, and then there’s Scully. He’d be lying to himself if he admitted he didn’t think about that night often. How easily they communicated that night, how much fun they had, and how mindblowing the sex was. He was also really enjoying working with her on the X-files. She challenged him in ways he’d never been challenged before. She made him think and work for his theories. How sustainable would the partnership be? Would he be able to be a father to his child and just be a friend to her mother? There were so many questions racing through his mind.

“I started to put her down,” her voice startles him. He turns to see Scully, holding a pajama-clad Emma. “She keeps saying ‘Mudder’ so I’m thinking she wants to say goodnight to you.” Emma reaches out her arms to Mulder as Scully comes closer and Mulder’s arms automatically lift to receive her.

“Goodnight sweet Emma,” he nuzzles into her cheek.

“Night Mudder,” her sweet voice carries through the room. She yawns and snuggles into his chest, her eyelids heavy and her thumb going straight into her mouth.

“Do you want to put her to bed?” Scully asks in a hushed tone. He nods and stands, ever so carefully, a man holding the most precious gift, and follows Scully to Emma’s room. He places her, softly, into her crib. Instinctively, he kisses his fingers and then places them onto Emma’s cheek, before smoothing her hair out of her face. They carefully back out of the room and retreat to the front of Scully’s apartment, Scully, in search of a glass of wine, and Mulder, in search of his half-finished beer.

Once enveloped in the couch, Scully lets out a monstrous yawn after giving Mulder a shy and apologetic smile. “I love her so much, but she can be exhausting at times.” Mulder gives her a skeptical glance and redacts her statement. “Okay, all of the time.” Mulder nods approvingly.

They sit in silence for a while before Mulder praises her. “I don’t know how you do it, Scully. I barely survived the day.”

“You get used to it and it helps that she is a good girl. My family helped out a lot in the beginning. They still help a lot since I am working more now,” she explains.

“Will you…” he starts but trails off. He hesitates, watching her sip her wine.

Sensing his trepidation, she gives an encouraging nod. “What, Mulder? Ask me, it’s okay. I told you I would tell you anything.” Her voice is soft and reassuring.

“Would you feel comfortable enough to tell me about her birth? I don’t mean the details, you don’t have to share those, but maybe just the experience?” Scully is taken by surprise. The request is the furthest thing she thought he would ask. Smiling, she nods and takes his hand. Then she begins.

[evenasyoungastheyare]

Good Saturday morning (here), afternoon there.

Movie share - I watched this older movie (2016) last weekend (on Netflix) - Maudie. It was about a Canadian folk artist. I'm sure that is what caught my interest.

If/when I make it to Halifax, Nova Scotia I will have to look the house up. Imagine living your day to day surround by all of this bright artwork on everything you could get your hands on to paint. (I might need a sleeping mask.)

Have you watched anything interesting lately? Is so, please do share. An artist I should look into? We have had a mild winter here. (Other parts of my country have been blasted with snow.) As we head into spring and our gardens wake up, I look forward to your photos.

Enjoy your weekend. Take care. W

Hello W,

Thank you so much for such a sweet message and I am very sorry it took me a week to answer. I was a little bit sick and then I was too busy.

Yay! I hope I will have time to watch the film it looks great. Unfortunately, I didnt watch any new films last two weeks. We were talking about authoritarian regimes and we watched The Death of Stalin and with the second class we watched probably my favourite adaptation of Dracula Bram Stokers Dracula directed by Coppola. It was fun. We will do some analysis of the film next week. What kind of movies do you like? I think I could recommend you some.

Oh my! The weather here is crazy. Today was april weather. Sunny, then rainy then came snow and then was sunny again. Flowers and trees are blooming. Everything is quite forward this year.

By the way, I need some beauty mask too :D.

My dear W, take care.

Have a beautiful day!

[musubi-sama]

Amazing Grace

This isn't edited, it's hardly coherent. But this is 2.7k words on what happened 17 years ago as I experienced it and how it's the weight I still carry today.

4/16/2007

TW: School shooting, video links of a poem reading and a piece of music.

Snow. It was snowing. In Spring. How weird is it, that of all the days, that this Monday when the flowers are trying to bloom and the trees are spreading their wings, that it is snowing. What a beautiful sight to see. My quiet campus blanketed in the serenity of a late and fluffy snow.

Grabbing my laptop and stuffing it into my bag, opting for a heavier coat this morning. Slipping my phone into your pocket as you make your way out of your dorm suite and off to your advanced freshman chemistry class. Stepping outside and taking in a deep breath, the chilly air feels good in your lungs.

Mornings are always bustling, but you don’t notice that it’s calmer on this morning. You miss the hushed whispers and skittering students and staff getting back to their dorms and offices at 9:30 am. Instead, you pull out your cell phone and call home.

“Can you BELIEVE that it’s snowing today? Oh, there was an alert sent in email saying there was a police call to a dorm, but it was handled. Yeah I’m safe. But this snow, it’s April! How crazy!” your mother requests you call your father just to check in. He would be worried otherwise.

“Hey dad, yeah there was a police alert about something in one of the dorms, but they said it was handled. SNOW ohmygosh it’s SNOWING!!”

The budding bushes are covered in ice. The walkways and staircases were slick and uneasy. Better be careful crossing the drillfield, don’t want to slip and fall!

Hey, why are there flashing blue lights back there in the academic buildings? Why is there a cop SUV in front of Buruss Hall and why is that cop pulling out a shockingly large gun?

Don’t pay it any mind. This is a big school, a school with a full police department because any number of things can go wrong or they’re training or…

Why is it so quiet over here? You know classes aren’t typically over for another 10 minutes, but it should be busier this time of day.

Hm, the lecture hall is mostly empty. Where is everyone? Is that an email? Is class cancel-no that’s the professor walking in right now. At least class isn’t canceled, it sure would be frustrating to cancel a 10:10 am class at 10 am.

Oh, there is an email.

ACTIVE SHOOTER SITUATION. SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY

Wait, when did that arrive? 9:50 am.

What the fuck did you see walking to class? What the fuck was that. Is that why the lights were flashing?

Fortunately one of your classmates was several steps ahead of you and already pressing your professor for answers. No one knew what the questions were other than if we were safe. Your professor was the department chair, surely he had a better line to finding an answer than waiting for another email to arrive?

You figure that we can distract ourselves with frivolous viral videos in the meantime blasted on the hall’s projectors.

But who cares about oh my gawd shoes and being kind to Brittney when the emails start to arrive about how there are dead students in the dorms and in the lecture buildings. Please let us out. Please let us run to our dorms and our apartments and to our families both found and blood.

Finally, we receive the “all clear” email and we rush back to our rooms.

Buildings are locked, suite doors typically left open to foster community are shut and locked.

Stumbling into your room, no one is home. But you have a message from your roommate that she is with her boyfriend and they are leaving soon for her home. You check your other messages. Your instant messenger is blown up from every contact asking if you’re safe. Oh good, everyone is safe. You even logged into that Facebook website to check on friends. Wait. What did they say? Who?? Oh no, and an email from your Band Director.

Gutted. Your head sinks to your desk, you’re slumped over in pain. He was mere weeks from graduation. 3 degrees. Honors for all. A light, a bright smile, a comforting hand. He just complimented your socks at the blood drive in….that dorm. Just a few weeks ago. What happened. Why is Stack dead.

One of your friends in the next suite comes over, you share an embrace, shoulders and arms as tissues.

“We should get food. Come with me?”

You drag yourself and a few other friends in the neighboring suite with you down the stairs to the closest dining hall. The award-winning food is bland, you’re not hungry. You all sit in relative silence trying to figure out what to say, who to look at, how to process. Returning back to your dorm, you friend invites you to his suite. You sit on the couch with others, your upperclassmen friends, all from band. All with stories extolling how wonderful Stack was. You agree to leave your computers alone and step away from your email for a few hours. You watch TV, do anything to distract yourselves. You think someone might even be having sex in the next room.

By dinner time someone brings by food they picked up off campus and everyone picks at it. At this point people have come and gone all day, with some saying their farewells as they choose to go back home until school opens up again.

Checking your email again, you see a long list of updates adjusting the death toll. The names of known victims. The gunman. Why does the number keep going up? Is it really over 20? What happened. You read a heartfelt email from your band director. You let yourself go, crying in your dark dorm room under your lofted bed. Tomorrow there will be a service for the community to gather. Those still on campus are suggested to attend in uniform and to stick together, there is comfort in the group.

Sleep is fitful that night.

Waking up, you have a missed call from home. “I heard classes are canceled. Do you want to come home?” offers your mother.

“Um, hold on. Let me check my email,” you climb down off your bed and open your laptop. Another name you recognize pops up in your email. “Please I want to go home. Erin died.”

She was your very first roommate. You moved out of her room before Spring semester because your friend had a spot open up in her suite and it was nicer accommodations. You didn’t really get to say goodbye to her. She was a good person. Energetic, smart, made friends everywhere.

“Your father and I are on our way, NOW.”

Unzipping the bag containing your marching uniform, you put it on with the same reverence as always, the comfort of knowing you are part of a larger group. One that is sharing the burden of this trauma. 330+ shoulders to cry on.

You make your way, linked in arms and hands with your friends as you head to the service. Extra security, the President of the United States is joining to make a statement. If you’re honest with yourself, you don’t care that he is here. What a load of good it is after the fact.

Groups of students in shared apparel holding each other, chants of school cheers ringing out in solidarity. You get swept up in the fervor. It’s never felt this intense, and you’ve been on the football field when it really counts.

Nikki Giovanni reads a poem and it strikes every one of your hearts with passion. The entire gymnasium silent, save for sniffling and crying.

We are Virginia Tech. We are sad today, and we will be sad for quite a while. We are not moving on, we are embracing our mourning. We are Virginia Tech. We are strong enough to stand tall tearlessly, we are brave enough to bend to cry, and we are sad enough to know that we must laugh again. We are Virginia Tech. We do not understand this tragedy. We know we did nothing to deserve it, but neither does a child in Africa dying of AIDS, neither do the invisible children walking the night away to avoid being captured by the rogue army, neither does the baby elephant watching his community being devastated for ivory, neither does the Mexican child looking for fresh water, neither does the Appalachian infant killed in the middle of the night in his crib in the home his father built with his own hands being run over by a boulder because the land was destabilized. No one deserves a tragedy. We are Virginia Tech. The Hokie Nation embraces our own and reaches out with open heart and hands to those who offer their hearts and minds. We are strong, and brave, and innocent, and unafraid. We are better than we think and not quite what we want to be. We are alive to the imaginations and the possibilities. We will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears and through all our sadness. We are the Hokies. We will prevail. We will prevail. We will prevail. We are Virginia Tech.

And then, all at once. She finishes and an eruption of gratitude. Shouts, and cheers. In that moment, we start to heal.

LET'S GO HOKIES *clap clap clapclapclap*

Eventually you leave and depart back to your dorms. You need to tidy up and pack, your parents will be here soon. One of your friends joins you in your room for company. It’s comforting to not be alone.

Your parents give you the tightest embrace you’ve ever felt. And they whisk you home. You’ve sent off emails to concerned former teachers and others, setting up time to meet with them over the coming week.

But otherwise you just want to sit at home and sleep in your childhood bed.

The rest of the week passes by. You visit your high school to chat with some of your old teachers and you’re reminded why they were your favorite educators. They care, they listened, they gave you space.

During the week while classes were canceled, you begin to receive updates on how the rest of the semester will play out. Ultimately you are able to take a step back from your studies and attend lectures as you feel you can handle. It’s a nice gesture. You won’t come out of this semester with the best grades, but you won’t have to worry about failing because you’re too distracted.

Returning to school is surreal. There’s a bustle and buzz of activity - with 25,000 students there always is a constant hum of people. Last week excluded. But there’s a tingle at the back of your neck. Your brain jolting into alert as soon as your parents turn onto campus. Would this happen again? Could this happen again? All of your friends stick together as the semester plays out. You spend time with them next to the volleyball courts (you’re far too clumsy to get any enjoyment out of playing), playing video games in the dorms, and just avoiding the hard stuff. You can make it this last month, one day at a time. Besides, you have plans this summer! You’re taking a road trip to Canada, leaving the country for the first time ever!

Summer, everyone departs to seek the comfort of their families and bury themselves in summer jobs and internships. And maybe that’s a good time to seek professional help? You’d rather just spend time with your fiancée, particularly in his bed and at night. That trip to Canada was refreshing and just what you needed to get your head out of the dark and stormy clouds.

Ah but your mother wants you to come home at night. So that’s how you end up in therapy, for a suspected PTSD diagnosis manifesting in your desire, as an 18 year old who is 4.5 years into dating her boyfriend/fiancée, to spend alone time in bed together. You play along because you are a people pleaser, but you do make your opinions known to the therapist. She invites your parents into your third session where you have a charged discussion. And the ultimate guidance the therapist suggests? That you are not acting out, or in an unusual manner. You sigh in relief, immediately making plans for that night.

When you returned to school in the fall, a class of victims had graduated and freshman joined a shell-shocked and scared community. One that is healing by holding on to each other, by remembering those lost. And ready to embrace the hope of the new class.

But you are forever changed. You and your Marching Virginians. You return and pass your auditions and receive a new piece of music, “Amazing Grace.” Arranged specifically for the ensemble, specifically for April 16, 2007. In the peak of the song lives a set of chords to represent the 32 lives lost. The dissonance is uncomfortable, painful, harsh. The first time you played it, you cried. We all did. But the resolution, it is warm, it is the breath after holding it in. The deep inhale you take when the tears start to fall and you let your emotions out. It is a hard piece of music, but it is a necessary piece of music.

The band took it to several dedications and remembrance events that year. They played it less and less as the years went on. It’s a special piece, reserved for those moments taken to hold space for that day. But every time, the audience gives reverence and somehow make it to the end with a stiff upper lip. After exiting the performance space, there is comfort for those who are caught in emotions.

The semesters come and they go. It gets easier, but you aren’t the same person anymore. You keep telling yourself you have it handled, the therapist at home said you don’t have PTSD. So then why are you triggered with an uncomfortable regularity? You need to get into therapy.

Oh, good for you, finally scheduling an appointment to see the school therapist. Ah, but it takes three triage visits before you can start to talk to him about anything. Momentum, farewell. You don’t open up about what is swarming in your brain. The bad thoughts, the scary ones, the tragic ones. You’re sure it’ll work itself out eventually. You famously have a bad memory, so surely you’ll just forget the worst of it?

Four years at Virginia Tech completed. But do you have a degree now? Ha, funny. You never managed to pull together enough credits to graduate so you get the participation trophy of random class credits you can take home with you and apply to some other school and attempt to get that piece of paper you came here to achieve.

Four more years later you finally have a degree. Even better, it’s one you’re proud of. Time to put college behind you and start the next step of life. Get out of the East Coast and leave it all behind. Fresh start in California, you can finally get married and live with your fiancée.

Another April comes and goes. And like every year, you run away for the day to escape your demons. It works less and less each year. At least the alcohol dulls the cries.

And 17 years later, you’re still carrying that weight. You dread April. You can’t listen to any version of Amazing Grace without falling apart. You can’t watch any scenes in a movie or video game with a candlelight vigil or similar scene. You dread the days you have to explain this to your daughter and why you are terrified of how she may want to attend school in the US.

And 17 years later, you can’t stop telling people this tragic story and shrugging it off like it wasn’t the single most defining moment of your entire fucking life and you were only 18.

It’s fucked up. And nothing has fucking changed.

[greenpanda-basicfakewitch]

Moon Magic through the year|

Moon Magic throughout the year

Certain spells work better at specific times of the year, the following list, based around the 13 ‘tree months’ of the Celtic Calender, show you when your spells have the most power.

The Moon Year

Birch Moon (24 Dec-20 Jan) Concentrate on new beginnings, ask for general luck, focus on what you want to achieve. Rowan Moon (21 Jan- 17 Feb) Focus on how to go about getting your goals, ‘spells’ involving communication and psychic work.

Ash Moon (18 Feb-17 Mar) Love spells, loved ones should be foremost in our inds in early spring its no coincidence that valentines day falls close to this month.

Alder Moon (18 Mar- 14 Apr)

Spells to aid success in your business and academic, ventures work well at this time of your, sow seeds to success.

Willow Moon (15 Apr- 12 May) 

 Focus on bringing someone round to your way of thinking, attract love or a new job or aim to make a good first impression.

Hawthorn Moon (13 may- 9 jun)

Focus on keeping a barrier between yourself and think you don’t want, aim to push away old problems, or lingering irritations.

Oak Moon (10 Jun- 7 Jul) 

Growth and fertility spells work best at this time of year, focus on building and Consolidating your wisdom. Endurance and security.

Holly Moon (18 JUl- 4 Aug)

As the days shorten after summer solstice and the moon grows in power, focus on putting bad situation behind you.

Hazel Moon (5 Aug- 1 Sep)

This is the best time of year to focus on gaining wisdom and absorbing knowledge, cast spells to heighten your senses and concentration.

Vine (2 Sept-29 Sep)

Never give up hope that you will succeed in your endeavours. This is a good time to reap the rewards of your hard work.

Ivy Moon (30Sep- 27 Oct)

As the winter months draws in you’ll need to improve your resilience and tenacity, Spells for good health are advised at this time of year

Reed Moon (28 Oct- 24 Oct)

In the depth of winter, you need to recharge as you tend to stay indoors a lot during the cold season, this is a good time to focus on both you and your home.

Elder Moon (25-Nov- 23 Dec)

The last full moon of the year represents completeness. Cast Spells dealing with closure and take stock of what you have achieved.

__________________________________________________________

Extended;

Wolf Moon: January. Work with your inner power, assess your path, deepening protection. Quiet.

Snow Moon: February. Confront truths, see your own darkness, cleaning & cleansing

Worm Moon: March. Spring Cleaning, new growth, light & Dark balance, water magic

Pink moon: April, Plant & Flower magic, discovery, growth, flow & change

Flower Moon: May. Feary magic *Celebrates life* Self Love and care, fertility

Strawberry moon. June. Nature magic, harvest, sensuality of body, self care.

Buck Moon: July, sun and fire magic, inner fire, harvest herbs.

Sturgeon Moon. August. Delight freedom, storm and weather magic, harvesting and gathering.

Harvest Moon: September. Celebrate the harvest, abundance, sharing transformation

Hunter's moon. October. Strength and endurance, protection guidance change, transition.

Beaver Moon. November. Remembrance, self-reflection, divination, visualisation.

Oak Moon: December, completion, rebirth, reflection, personal goals, renewal.

[the-quotable-alberta-hansard]

April 11, 2024

Mr. Getson: Mr. Speaker, it should come as no surprise to anyone to hear that I’m a bit of a storyteller. It’s my way to get people to think and, hopefully, do it in a nice way. When I was 13, we had a late spring. Ponds and rivers were still frozen. Snow on the ground. Cows were still in the calving pens, and calving was just wrapping up. While checking the cows, I came across a young moose calf trying to get into the water trough. The moose was sick. It was acting funny. Terrible looking coat. It was weak. We called fish and wildlife, and they said that we’re not allowed to interfere with it. They advised that it was probably lousy with ticks; he was trying to get into the water trough to drown them. We could not interfere even though we had the medication to fix the problem. That poor moose died a few days later, and it was heartbreaking. Didn’t deserve to die that way, killed by parasites. I was tasked to burn it to make sure the cows didn’t come into contact, so it was diesel fuel and a Tiger Torch as my tools for the job. I know cowboys aren’t supposed to cry, but as a young man I wept. Sadness, frustration, anger all combined, thinking how that poor animal had suffered. I burned it and that squirming pile of ticks knowing it didn’t have to die.

That memory came back to me recently when I was explaining the negative impacts of the NDP-Liberal policies that have taken our province and ruined our country’s economy. Affordability, inflation problems are not by chance. It was not just one tick that brought that moose down, Mr. Speaker. The culmination of wackadoo, woke, hard-left socialist, eco warrior, self-balancing budget, haphazard socialist spending policies have definitely taken their toll. Taxing people to change the weather in the guise of saving the environment through carbon pricing: it should be criminal.

Even with the kick in the stomach and the April Fool’s Day carbon tax joke by old Fancy Socks, I still have hope. Seventy per cent of Canada’s Premiers are pushing back, and so are the voters. They’re seeing that this is lunacy, Mr. Speaker. Even the NDP leadership hopefuls are backing away from their steaming pile of carbon tax pricing policies that they put in place. Hypocrisy or cowardice: I’m not sure what describes it best when they didn’t do anything. Premier and ministers, don’t back off. Spring is around the corner. Time to get rid of some ticks.

[pearlsoflongago]

Voices of April

Breezes, Blossoms, and Birds

Prunieurs en Fleurs/Plum Trees in Bloom by Clause Monet

The West Wind

It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils.

It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine. There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.

‘Will ye not come home, brother? ye have been long away, It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the may; And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,— Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again?

‘The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run, It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun. It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.

‘Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat, So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet? I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,’ Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries.

It’s the white road westwards is the road I must tread To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head, To the violets and the warm hearts and the thrushes’ song, In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.

-John Masefield

De Roze Perzikboom/Blossoming Pear Tree by Vincent van Gogh

Home Thoughts, From Abroad

O, to be in England Now that April 's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England—now!

And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge— That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower —Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

—Robert Browning

Song of a Second April

April this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago, Is full of whispers, full of sighs, Of dazzling mud and dingy snow; Hepaticas that pleased you so Are here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day, And shingles lie about the doors; In orchards near and far away The grey woodpecker taps and bores; And men are merry at their chores, And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep, Noisy and swift the small brooks run Among the mullein stalks the sheep Go up the hillside in the sun, Pensively,—only you are gone, You that alone I cared to keep.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

Pear Blossoms by Winslow Homer

[hunkydorkling]

Spotify's open and is playing some 70s-80s sap, overlaying my current bittersweet symphony of feelings that I thought would be kinder to me when I went to the co-working space for: a) at least one onsite bonding with the colleagues, b) to sell some stickers lol, and c) to send David off since it's his last official day with my company. I was already crying at 4PM while I was sketching some logo studies for our upcoming event's area design, and I was crying, right, then my boss comes up and talks to me about her 2019 Japan photos she happened to repost on Instagram, how a number of them were homages to The Garden of Words' beautiful framing and cinematography, how it was snowing in Spring sometime in April when it should've been cherry blossom season. Anyway, she leaves as soon as I stood up to throw out the sauce for my food.

I continued to cry-bawl-sniffle when I talked to David intimately about why he's leaving, actually, why so abrupt, how was I supposed to know he'd been feeling so desolate about being in esports for 11 years when I've only known him for about a year and some change and I feel like I've known him my whole life in such a short amount of time. He's a big guy but he wanted to cry as he tells me the lowest point wasn't because of the good people in our company, despite the setbacks and challenges, but because he needs to know all of this is worth it. And so the job offer comes to go multinational, and he's immediately validated and needed, and this goal of his, talking about it, came from the heart... but tears were still streaming down my cheeks as I dab a ball of tissue on either side.

Anyway, there's a whole segment of parting words in the smallest room we could be in out of the entire co-working space, I managed to be spoken to last, I got to hold his hand for what feels like solidarity, but I wanted him to feel? like I'm with him. Excited for him.

And then we wrapped up the workday with some soju and lemon soda, which I only managed to get about two small cups of before I started to float in tipsiness. I only got 3 hours of sleep, see. I was also beaten with so much emotion for David that I had to talk in seesaws. Now it's time for me to leave. I give everybody a hug and ended with giving him a really tight one, arms around this big bear, as he reassures me we can still talk. The way I raised my head up at him and away quickly was the only way I can say, yeah, sure. Live your life first then maybe I can consider if I should even come out to you and tell you I've had a crush on you ever since we stepped into the same bookstore after we've carried out an ocular with the team. Ever since you told me some stuff from the rule book during FG tournaments, at our actual event last September. Ever since you told me how much fun you had roleplaying as a way to amass virtual coin sometime ago, which made me laugh as we shared a drink at the tiki bar last Christmas party.

I just feel like I didn't get to properly get to know him, and how it's, I don't know, a little too late to be telling him that now that he wants to pursue his dream of changing the esports scene outside of this place. And he'll never know. He will never know I've liked a David this much the way I did/do with him.