#so i hope my favoritism is clear in how lovingly i have drawn him instead <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[to-illustrate-the-stars]

happy birthday to the cat lover ever of all time... my worstie matoba seiji 🐈‍⬛🐈

[oddaodd]

· Wailing Teapots ·

Summary: When Tommy begins suspecting of Y/n's true allegiances he goes and questions her in her apartment only to discover a dark secret. (Angst/Fluff)

Warnings: Implications of abuse. (Nothing too graphic but just in case).

Author's note: I'm back! It feels so good to write again! My life has been a bit hectic lately, but I hope I can continue to make time for my writing because it honestly feels like coming back home after the most exhausting of voyages. Anyhow I hope y'all enjoy this and have the loveliest of days. ❤️

·

Three strong knocks on the door stole Y/n’s attention from the live fire burning in her fireplace. With quiet feet she tiptoed to the door and placed her hand on the doorknob and stood still hoping to hear something that could tell her who it was behind the door, but she could only hear her own heartbeat beating violently in her ribcage as she held her breath.

She slightly hated herself for being afraid, but she couldn’t not be afraid, not with all the letters that had been delivered to her home.

“I know you’re in there Y/n”

As soon as she recognized the voice as Tommy’s, she finally breathed again before partly opening the door a weak smile gracing her features when she took in the sight of him. Before she could ask him what he was doing there he pushed the door open and allowed himself inside.

The smile vanished from her face in an instant and she quickly closed the door. There was something different about him, something that made the hairs on her arms stand up in trepidation. His eyes didn’t look like they had done a few nights prior when he took Y/n to the outskirts of town for a walk. The kind of walk in which one shares the kind of conversations that makes people grow closer together, the kind of walk which ends with a gentle kisses and fleeting touches.

“This is a nice place” he commented taking off his peaky cap, not even sparing Y/n a glance as he began walking slowly through the apartment which though small and plain held a considerable amount of expensive yet tasteful looking knick knacks that brightened up the whole place despite the old furniture that had beed there when Y/n first moved in.

“You couldn’t have waited for a formal invitation, could you?” She asked in a light tone still standing by the door, in the hope that it could change Tommy’s odd aura, but he ignored her question all together

“Almost too nice, wouldn’t you agree?” He asked picking up a vase and examining it before finally turning to look at Y/n.

“Tommy?” She asked, not really knowing why was he acting so strange.

“I know I pay you fair wages” he began, putting the vase down fixing his eyes on the fireplace where small traces of burnt paper rested “but I highly doubt you were able to make yourself of such an array of treasures with what I pay you.”

“All of this came with me from America.” She said feeling like she ought to explain herself and though her answer was an honest one, Tommy didn’t seem convinced, nevertheless, he hummed in mocking understanding before clearing his throat .

“Aren’t you gonna offer me tea?”

“Sure…where are my manners?” she said with a nervous laugh before walking to where her stove was and putting a kettle on.

Tommy followed her closely and drew a chair from her flimsy kitchen table before sitting down and taking notice of her shaky hands as she tied around a bit in the kitchen with her back to him as he sat on her favorite chair.

“Wish you had told me you were coming, I would have..”she began as she opened her pantry to put away some bread.

“You’ve been burning letters” he interrupted, not being able to shake off the image of the paper remains.

Y/n stilled for a moment before closing her pantry, thing which he noticed.

“Yeah, I don’t have the room to keep every single letter I get ” Y/n said, a defensiveness lingering softly in her words.

“I agree” Tommy said in a cold tone “specially when you are getting so many of them. Paul tells me he delivers at least 10 a week here” he continued, referring to the mailman who after being questioned by Tommy forgot all about post confidentiality.

“They are my mother’s” Y/n stuttered out.

The teapot then wailed, making her jump slightly before going to remove it from the stove and finally turning around to go and pour Tommy a cup.

“Right” Tommy said, his eyes not leaving Y/n’s figure as she poured the tea.

“Yeah, she’s ever so passionate about plants, been telling me all a-a-about her new greenhouse.” She continued pressured by Tommy’s heavy stare and silence.

Tommy offered a small cynical smile that Y/n didn’t see, she didn’t want to look at him. She felt like crying for she realized just then how suspicious she looked.

The sound of the chair being drawn again teased at Y/N’s ears, forcing her to look up at Tommy who was calmly walking towards her. She had never been afraid of him, but she couldn’t help but back away as he inched closer to her, her eyes widening.

“Who is Clyde Attenborough?” He asked producing another letter from his pocked like the many ones Y/n had been receiving for a while now. Same stamps and everything.

Color drained from her face at the sight of the letter and she found herself unable to produce an answer as her back came in soft contact with her pantry.

“What does he know? He asked.

“Where I live” Y/n whispered sorrowfully as a tear finally slipped down her cheek. Her eyes being for mercy.

“What have you been telling him?”

“Nothing” she answered truly.

“I bet he pays generously to know how the company works”

“I swear im not working for anyone else” Y/n stuttered, finally understanding why Tommy was so suspicious. Being his secretary, she knew plenty about the skeletons the family kept.

“Then why are you crying?” He pressed.

“Because you’re scaring me.”

Her words seemed to have an effect on Tommy for he immediately backed away, throwing the letter on the table, his back to her.

”I’m not gonna hurt you” he stated, beating himself up for corralling Y/n like that. His voice much less menacing than mere seconds ago. “Who is Clyde Attenborough?”

“I haven’t been honest with you” she finally confessed sniffing. To hell with everything.

At this Tommy turned around to look at her an unpleasant mix of emotions swimming in his eyes.

“Im married” she sobbed “Clyde’s my husband”

For the first time in a long time, Tommy was caught off guard.

“I came to Small Heath because I ran away from him, I figured he’d never find me but..” She said taking the letter in her shaky hands as if the thing were to blow off in any given second “I guess I was wrong. I-I don’t know how he found me”

She shifted her teary gaze from the letter to a shocked Tommy “I swear im not passing information” she chuckled sadly, the knot in her throat choking her a little.

Tommy stood glued in the same spot, not knowing what to do. His world had come crashing down when he began suspecting of Y/n’s alliances after Polly suggested he look into it. A pretty American girl, moving to a grey English town, taking up a job that was exhausting at best. It reminded him a little too much of Grace.

Now that he knew the truth , he didn’t feel any better.

“Is he dangerous?” He found himself asking after a few seconds of silence.

Y/n sniffed as she walked to her fireplace “I wouldn’t have left if he wasn’t” she said as she threw the letter into the crackling flames.

“Is he in Birmingham?”

“He keeps writing that he’ll come get me if I don’t go back, but im not sure” she answered.

Tommy fought the urge to go up to her and take her in his arms and instead put his peaky cap back on before heading for the door.

“I’m sorry” he whispered before stepping out of her place, The guilt of intimidating her in her own house gnawing at his insides and the newfound anger her husband created present on his drive home.

The next day Y/n noticed as she peeped out the window two men, both in peaky caps standing at the entrance of her apartment complex.

Three more days passed and Y/n was again surprised tby the sound of three knocks on her door as she read one evening.

“Its me, Y/N” Tommy’s voice flowed through the door shortly after the knocks.

Y/n quickly got off her couch and made her way to open the door. Her eyes falling on Tommy’s apologetic features.

“It’s dealt with” he said in all seriousness. The thick accent she loved so much vibrating through her ears.

As soon as she registered what Tommy had just said she let out a strained breath, her lips turned into a tired smile and a lone tear slipped out her misty eyes.

“Wanna come in?” She asked after a few seconds, feeling happier than she had felt for days.

“Is this a formal invitation?” He asked, a soft smile tugging at his lips, relieved that his antics from a few days prior hadn’t maimed Y/n´s trust.

At his question she just smiled, looking at him lovingly before taking hold of his hand and pulling him into her apartment before pressing her lips to his in a soft yer passionate manner. Without breaking the kiss, Tommy then closed the door.

·

@captivatedbycillianmurphy @peakyxtommy @nyotamalfoy @writeroutoftime @babylooneytoonz @lilymurphy03 @slytherinicequeen

[random-mha-thoughts]

Sketch (Bakugou x Reader)

Pairing: Bakugou x Reader

Anon requested: “Hi, I LOVE LOVE LOVE the way you write Bakugou. I always blush when reading one of your stories. Can you write one with Bakugou where they go to his room and they see like a journal of his or artwork of his that has poems or drawings of her? And he walks in and sees her reading/looking at what his work, and he gets embarrassed, but the reader absolutely loves it, and showers him with love? Pretty please with a cherry on top, and thank you!!”

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 1,643

Tags:  @yuki-osaki​ @liviitehe​ @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog​ @bunnythepipsqueak​

a/n: Anon, you’re so lovely, why would I say no to you?  Thank you for requesting this!  I had a lot of fun writing it!  I have another Baku headcanon request coming tomorrow so look forward to that.  I hope you all enjoy reading this, and thank you again for 900 followers~ I really need to think about a 1k special event hhh idk what I’m gonna do, does anyone have suggestions?

"You didn't make it too spicy, did you?" I tease, eyeing the plates Bakugou sets the table with.

My boyfriend smirks at me.  "No, I know how much of a baby you are."  He sets down a glass jar of orange-red paste at his place setting.  "I'll just add my own spice on the side."

"Hey, I can take a little spice, I'm not totally hopeless!" I jut my lip out in a slight pout.

Another few small bowls of side dishes are placed in the middle of the table, one of them being kimchi.  "If we're gonna be together for a while, you better get used to it."  

The thought of dating Bakugou for a long time down the line warms me up, and I find myself smiling as he fetches the large serving bowl of our main course and sets it down in the middle of the table.

"And dinner is served!"  A proud grin stretches across his face when he plops down in his seat.  "Let's eat!"

Like the gentleman he is, the blond scoops out the spicy udon soup onto my bowl first before filling his own.  The broth isn't too thick, but what slightly scares me is the orange color.  I take a spoonful before Bakugou has the chance to poke fun at me being a coward.  While the spice dances on my tongue, it mingles with the rich, slightly sweet flavor to provide a happy balance that makes the heat bearable.

"Mm, Bakugou this is amazing-"

I cut myself off when I spot the boy across from me dumping a heaping spoonful of his red paste into the broth, watching in horror as the orange color of the broth turns into an angry scarlet as he mixes the paste in. He glances up at my gawking and chuckles, "Yeah, this is how spicy I like my food, babe."

My eye twitches.  "You're a monster."

He just winks in response.  "I'm your monster."

I flop back into my seat with a groan.  "I can't tell if I'm full or I'm overwhelmed."

Bakugou throws his head back and laughs at my running nose and flushed face.  "You can't handle spiciness babe, I'm sorry.  Just look at you!"  He hands me another napkin.

"Hey, at least I'm not crying."  I gladly take it from him and swipe under my nose.  But my tongue might be burning for a while.  I tried to pace myself on the water so it doesn't look like I'm struggling too much, but I ended up drinking at least 3 cups the entire meal, and this jerk across from me is relishing my pain.

"If you had another bowl, I'm sure you would have," he unsuccessfully chokes back his chuckles.

I'm aware of the swelling in my lips and the thin sheen of sweat on the back of my neck and my hairline.  "It's not funny," I pant out a whine.  But he might not be wrong.  I gulp down the rest of my fourth cup of water and rise from my seat to help clean up.

I clear the dishes from the table and bring them to the sink, where my devilish boyfriend started soaking the dishes and the bowl.  I wrap my arms around him from behind and lean my head on his shoulder.  "Babe, do you mind if I spend the night?  I didn't bring clothes though."

He shuts off the sink and turns around to hug me at the waist properly.  "You can take one of my shirts and my shorts if you wanna spend the night."  Calloused fingers stroke my cheek before cupping my chin and bringing his lips down to mine.  Surprisingly, the few kisses he places there are quick, desperate, before he nips my bottom lip, earning a yelps out of me.  He smirks at the sound.  "Your lips are so swollen, it's like they're calling me to kiss them."

An intense blush coats my cheeks and I push away from him.  "I-I'm going to look for your clothes," I stutter and scurry off to his bedroom.

"Second drawer from the bottom," he cackles after me.

I duck into his room, patting my cheeks to calm myself.  I find his drawer and pick out an oversized black tee and red basketball shorts.  When the shirt's on, it already goes down to my thigh.  I hold the shorts in my hand, debating if I should even wear them, but I err on the side of modesty.  Bakugou's already riled up seeing me eat spicy food, I don't want to push it.

"Silly, hormonal boy," I shake my head, slipping the shorts up my legs and tying off one side of the shirt to shorten it.

Somehow, my eyes meet directly with it, the sharp corner peeking out from a slightly lifted corner of his mattress.  Being the curious - and slightly nosy - person I am, I pull the object out to find that it's a thin, paper notebook.  The cover is void of any labels; I would think it was empty if there wasn't a pen hooked into it, the clip bookmarking a page in the middle.  Without another thought, I open up to the page only to stare wide-eyed at it.

Inked onto the unlined page is a half body sketch of me smiling.  The crinkles of my eyes, the out of place hairs, the smile lines, the contours of my face and neck; every detail I didn't know someone would recognize just by looking at me is inked before me in loving care.  I flip to the previous page to see a full body drawing of me gazing absently out a nearby window, the same attention to detail paid.  More flipping showed more candid moments of me drawn onto the page.  Weightlessness blooms in my chest as I scan every inch of the notebook.

It dawned on me so suddenly that tears fill my eyes in a whiplash of emotion.  Bakugou not only watches me from a distance when he thinks I'm not looking to paint this memory into his mind, but he takes the time to lovingly sketch it out into this notebook every night because he wants to look back on it.

"Babe, you-"

I snap my head towards the doorway, the ash blond frozen there as he glances at the object in my hand.  His eyes widen into saucers.  "Where did you find that?"  His voice goes half an octave higher.

"Katsuki."  That's all I can manage in my shaky voice.  A million overwhelming thoughts and emotions tumble inside me that I don't know how to start.

"You weren't supposed to see that!"  His cheeks turn scarlet as he stumbles towards me, hand outstretched to snatch the book out of my hand.

I shut it and hug it to my chest, protecting it as I examine the boy in front of me.  It hasn't been terribly long since Bakugou and I started dating, we just crossed 6 months a few weeks ago.  There are still times when I'm unsure of his feelings towards me, an insecure side of me that I can't help.  But now that I've seen this silent gesture of his affection, I see our relationship in a new light.

Bakugou groans out.  "Shit, I never wanted you to see it-!"

I throw my arms around him to shut him up.  "You idiot, I love it.  It's not creepy or weird or anything like that.  I didn't even know you saw me like this, you big lovable dork."

"Wait wait," he pulls me away by my shoulders, "You're okay with it?"

"Katsuki, you're too sweet," I laugh wholeheartedly and start peppering kisses all over his face.  "This is the most flattering thing someone's done for me, why would I hate it?"

His face turns a deeper shade of red.  "I dunno...  I don't do this for everyone, just you, I didn't know how you would react."

"Well now you know."  I let go of him to stare at another page, my chest comfortably full.  "Look how much love you put into this, I can't believe you hid this from me."

Bakugou scratches the back of his head.  "You...wanna know which one's my favorite?"

My eyes widen as he takes the book out of my hands and flips through, landing on one page near the beginning and shows it to me.  "It's rough, but it's one of my favorite memories of you."

I didn't think my heart could swell more than it already has, but it did with this one.  My head rests facing up on Bakugou's lap, my eyes closed and a lazy smile gracing my features.  One of his large hands rests on my cheek like it's softly caressing the skin.

"Say something at least," my boyfriend grumbles after a few moments of my awed silence.

I decide not to, opting to plant a kiss on his lips instead.  "I don't know how you manage to make me look more attractive than I actually am, thank you."

"Dumbass, of course you're actually this attractive."

I lean back against his chest, admiring his line work.  It's not the most artistic, but it still manages to bring out the beauty and love in the image.  "Maybe you should draw one of us together."

His eyebrows furrow together.  "No way, I did this for you, not me."

"But it would make me really happy if you did one of us together.  It makes your love look one sided when you know that's not true."

He wraps his arm around me and kisses the top of my head.  "Fine, I'll do it for you, babe."  His calloused hand reaches up to brush my face.  "But just so you know, I'm totally drawing you all flushed over spicy food because I really liked seeing you that way."

"Pervert!"

[minijenn]

HI I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL AND @oblivionsrebirth-posts EGGED ME ON SO HERE’S THIS DRABBLE I WROTE IN LESS THAN HOUR PERTAINING TO THIS ANGSTY ART I POSTED JUST A LITTLE WHILE AGO ENJOY MY SON SUFFERING SOME MORE BYE: 

Sora’s learning more and more that his Master’s favorite method of torturing him is emotional. Beatings, while leaving his body bruised and bloody, ultimately won’t break him, and Xehanort knows that. Just as he knows the worst kind of pain he can possibly inflict upon his newest vessel comes from deep-cut scars that no one can even see. From the scars that linger upon his long-torn, very close to shattering heart. 

Today’s torture unfolds in front of most of the other members, all of them more than eager to see their foe-turned-slave taken down yet another peg. Ansem finally relinquishes his iron-like grip on his arm, throwing him hard to the ground right at the feet of the Master himself. Xehanort doesn’t even have to command him to stay put; Sora can simply feel the unspoken command surging through his caged heart and imprisoned body all the same. 

“There’s no need to bow, boy,” his Master says, essentially contradicting himself. “In fact, I’d say it’s more appropriate for the rest of us to be doing that instead. After all, it’s come to my understanding that we just so happen to be standing in the presence of royalty.”

A round of confused murmurs ripple through the other members as Sora is forced to stand. He shares the palpable bewilderment of his fellow vessels as he watches Xehanort approach him, grinning coldly all the while. “Have you already forgotten, my thirteenth?” he asks, eventually stopping right behind his newest vessel. An all too familiar sense of fear starts swelling up in Sora as he wonders what unknown horror awaits him this time. “Allow me to remind you then, of a night not so long ago. A night when you were nothing less than the epitome of a prince…”

His master’s hand lightly skims his shoulder, yet strangely no pain sparks from his touch this time. Instead, Sora notices a different kind of shift, one that settles over his clothes. The dreary black coat they’d forced him into when the first brought him here is gone. Instead, he’s clad in a much more familiar ensemble, one that makes his heart fold with nostalgia and grief when he sees it. 

It’s the same, elegant suit he’d worn the night of the ball, one that had been lovingly, magically crafted by Fairy Godmother before, but by Xehanort, it’s been cruelly corrupted in just about every way imaginable. The vibrant touches and trimmings of the outfit have been drained of their color completely, leaving dull, lonely shades of whites and blacks in their place. His gloves are torn and tattered, his crimson claws tearing out of them easily. The only ounce of color that’s allowed to remain is his cape, but even then, the ruby red cloth is largely leeched of its cheery shade, half of it drenched in a fading, lifeless grey. A mirror suddenly shows up in front of him, allowing him to see the full result of his twisted attire, as well as how his eyes, gleaming garish gold, and his hair, white as frigid snow, make him look like a meager mockery of how he had on that perfect night so long ago. A night that can only ever exist in nothing more than his memories now. 

A few of the other members lightly chuckle as they take in the despair of their thirteenth member’s face. But even so, their master’s latest round of torment has only just begun. “What an honor it is to bask in your presence, ‘your highness’,” Xehanort sneers, his condescending tone clear. He suddenly places something atop Sora’s head that makes his heart sink even more: a heavy silver crown that, at one time, might have been impressive and immaculate. But instead, it's old and tainted, with just as many cracks marring its metallic surface as there are upon his own Keyblade. “There,” Xehanort steps away and for a moment, Sora foolishly thinks that might be it, that he might leave him be. By this point, he also knows he should know better. “A broken crown for a broken prince. My vessels,” he says to the other members, who are eager to get in this humiliating display. “Why don’t you take the time to show our thirteenth the proper… respect that’s due to him.”

The other vessels do so eagerly, pouncing upon him before he can even hope to prepare. Their weapons are drawn, and upon their master’s permission, they show little restraint on taking their sadistic delight out on the newest among them. To add insult to injury, each of their brutal blows come with the same sort of topical teases: 

“We are truly humbled by your ‘radiance’, your grace,” Vexen mocks as his shield slams into Sora’s back. 

“You sure are looking sharp there, ‘your majesty’,” Larxene laughs as she digs her knives into his arm. 

“But not sharp enough,” Marluxia comments before he slices his scythe across Sora’s cape, trimming it down to a short, ragged length. “Isn’t that much better, ‘your eminence’?”

“Aw, c’mon fellas,” Xigbar chuckles as a barrage of his arrows tear across Sora’s face. “I think our poor little princey here gets the point.”

And on and on it goes for what feels like an eternity until Xehanort finally commands them to stop. Until Sora’s lying on the ground, his falsely regal attire in tatters, his blood staining their black cloth red. Until his master decides to dig the knife of this awful torture even deeper, just like he always does. 

“While you certainly look the part,” Xehanort forces him to look up, even despite the black eye and bloody nose he’s sustained. “But don’t you remember, my thirteenth? There’s one thing no prince is complete without. Or in your case, two things....” 

He steps aside and suddenly Sora sees them. He sees them and his heart breaks all over again at the mere sight of them, and how much he misses them, how he knows he’ll never get to be with them again. His heart breaks even more somehow when he sees what they’re wearing. Kairi in her stunning pink ball gown, Riku in his well-trimmed suit vest. Both of them looking every bit as beautiful as they had on that night. That one, single solitary night when, for just a brief moment, he had thought everything might just turn out alright. 

How incredibly wrong he ended up being. 

Neither of them say a word to him, but the looks in their eyes say enough. They stare down at him in disgust, as if he’s a grotesque, distorted, despicable creature not worthy of their time or attention. Any trace of love that either of them might have once carried for him is gone, replaced with derision and disdain and hatred for the darkness he’s fallen into, for the monster he’s become. He reaches a shaking, clawed hand out to them, desperate for their presence, longing for even just a single gentle touch. But as they swiftly turn away from him, he’s left with nothing. No comfort, no affection, not even a single shred of dignity as he sits there, bleeding and broken, inside and out. 

“Let this serve as a reminder to you, my thirteenth,” Xehanort’s voice speaks somewhere behind him. He hardly hears it, hardly cares. But he knows that every word his master says to him is nothing less than the truth. “Let it remind you of what you used to be, and what you now are. A prince of light… fallen from his throne to become nothing more than a servant of darkness. That’s all you were ever meant to become, and now,” The edge of master’s Keyblade pushes his crumbled crown off his head. It shatters into countless broken pieces on the floor, just as his very own heart does the moment Riku and Kairi leave him, just as he’s reminded of just how much he’s lost, of what he’ll never get to have again. “That is all you’ll ever be.”

[thoughtsfromaclutteredbrain]

Hope [Handon Fanfiction]

SUMMARY: "He knows her.

It's a gut feeling, an illogical thought that passes through his brain the second their eyes interlock. She looks surprised, or even shocked, but also pained, as if she may recognize him too, but he's never been good at reading people.

It's those eyes, he can't help but think. Bright blue and striking, full of chaos and calm and love and pain and so many other juxtapositions that he can't even count them all. All he knows is that her features look sad and fragile and vulnerable and all his brain can say is that he knows her..." 

[Landon trying to remember Hope, then remembering her, and then finding his way back to her, all told through Ladon's POV, all canon compliant]

WORD COUNT: 4,364 words

Now available on AO3! Enjoy!

[Feedback is welcome. Hate will be blocked. Thank you!]

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He remembers her when he dreams.

On the edges of his mind; a vision so distant and blurry that he couldn't distinguish if it was a memory or a figment of his imagination. He wakes up feeling empty, like he's left a piece of himself back in his subconscious, trapped there and unable to escape when he opens his eyes. 

She came in snapshots. 

A laugh, echoing so far away in his that he could barely hear it, but that makes his heart race. 

Soft blue irises, too blurry to distinguish, but clear enough for him to see the pain in them. 

A voice calling his name, with so much passion and love in the syllables, in a way he has never heard before, in a way that was so familiar yet foreign that it drives him mad.

The gentle curve of lips, upturned in a smirk, amused by something he can never remember.

When he wakes up, he can feel the images haunting him, etched into his brain but impossible for him to figure out. While he sleeps, the images feel like home, but when he's awake, it feels like solving a puzzle with the wrong pieces. He can get the pieces to fit, but they never make the correct picture.

He feels like it's slowing driving him mad. 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

He remembers her when he dies.

When he stands on the pier, he can't help but wonder why. Why he does this so often, almost like a ritual he's created with himself.  Rafael would hate him if he knew, but he was thankful that this wasn't part of the paths he knew him to travel. In his wolf form, he stuck closer to the trees, hidden under the cover of leaves and night.

He tells himself he does it to silence his thoughts. To get a reprieve from pretending that he was the great savior who destroyed Malivore, from the frustration of not being able to fix Rafael yet, from the loneliness that settled into his gut, making him feel emptier than ever before. 

But if he's honest with himself, he knew he was doing it because of her. 

When he dies, she's clearer. As he jumps off the pier into the dark water, she came in visions.

He hears her voice. Not just his name, but sentences. The voice was just far enough away for him to not be able to make out the words, just far away enough that it's out of reach, that it drives him crazy.

He sees her smile. Not just a smirk, but a full, genuine smile. 

He sees her eyes light up, full of happiness and love and beauty. 

He sees a shaky hand brush hair behind her ear, 

But when he dies, he feels her, too.

He feels the heat of a soft hand cupping his face. He feels the coolness of rings around the fingers, pressing lightly into the skin of his cheeks. He feels her gentle touch grazing over his skin, making him ache for more. 

He feels the ghost of those soft lips pressing against his own. Carefully, cautiously, electrically.

As his consciousness starts to drift away from him, more comes. He smells her scent, soft and feminine and so painfully familiar that he swears he could recognize it if only he had a little more time.

As he sinks deeper, with the weight of the cinder block tied around his waist pulling him down and down, he feels the pressure of the rope replaced. Instead of the tight and unrelenting feeling of rope, he feels her arms wrapping around him, strongly but lovingly. Desperately, as if she's scared he's going to disappear if she dares to let go.

But it's not him that disappears. It's her. 

When he rises from the ashes, flames dancing on the surface of the water, he can't help but wish for a second that he could die again, if only to spend a little more time with the visions. 

But she stays trapped in his mind, stays submerged below the dark water, and he remains unable to figure out why these visions feel like the closest thing he's ever felt to belonging. 

Maybe he's going crazy from stress. Maybe she's nothing. Or maybe she's the key to everything.

He's not sure, but he's sure that he will die again, whether it was by way of werewolf, vampire, witch, monster or even his own hand. But he was okay with it, if only to get another glimpse of her.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

He remembers her the moment he sees her. 

He's alone with his thoughts, which is his least favorite type of lonely. He's had his headphones in, trying to use his music to drown out all the chaos in his mind about Josie and their date and the way she was acting and the fact that he felt even more alone now than ever. 

It was only when the embers started to fall that he looks up. 

He thought he was the only one out in the park at this hour. He hadn't seen anyone else around, and surely no other phoenix's were out rising from the ashes in the middle of Mystic Falls. But as he sat there, embers started to float around him, igniting the sky with tiny flames. It was odd, yes, but he was used to odd. Odd had quickly become his new normal since he stepped through the doors of the Salvatore school. 

He feels himself stand up and turn around, his body moving on its own accord, and it's then that he sees her.

She's staring back at him, not at all concerned by the flames falling down all around her. Her hair falls over her shoulders, messily framing her face. Her expression is unreadable, full of too many conflicting emotions for him to even try to decipher them

But he knows her.

It's a gut feeling, an illogical thought that passes through his brain the second their eyes interlock. She looks surprised, or even shocked, but also pained, as if she may recognize him too, but he's never been good at reading people.

It's those eyes, he can't help but think. Bright blue and striking, full of chaos and calm and love and pain and so many other juxtapositions that he can't even count them all. All he knows is that her features look sad and fragile and vulnerable and all his brain can say is that he knows her.

God, she looks so familiar that it hurts him. Maybe she just has one of those faces, or maybe she's what he's been looking for his entire life. He can't tell. All that he knows is that he can't find the strength to look away.

She's the first to break eye contact, walking away quickly with her head down, not looking back,, and the moment is over way too quickly. 

And Landon is left figuring out why it feels like a piece of him was just ripped out of his chest when she leaves.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

He remembers her, instinctively, when he sees her again later that night.

He's on a walk, the pale light of the streetlights illuminating his way in the dark. He's coming from the Mystic Grill when he spots her. 

Or, her hair rather, cascading over her shoulders in long ribbons. She's crouched over, her elbows on her knees as she leans down to reach her bag, laying on the grass next to her. She's facing away from him, not allowing him to see her face, but he knows it's her. He can feel it. He can feel her presence calling out to him.

She's unaware he's there, that much he can tell, but seeing her stops him dead in his tracks. He feet are rooted to the ground, unable to move until he finally decides to call out to her.

"Hey," he starts, unable to think of anything else, and mentally kicking himself for not thinking of anything better. He doesn't know why he cares so much.

She sits up straight, turning to face him, greeting him with the same expression as last time, a look full of so many different emotions bleeding into each other. Shock and surprise are prevalent in her wide eyes, and he's pretty sure he sees recognition there as well.

If only he could figure out why he knows her. Why she feels so important. Why that look makes his heart crack in his chest, ever so slightly.

"Hey," she replies weakly. The word hangs in the air between them.

"We saw each other earlier," he states. He can't help but feel like this is insane, that he feels so drawn to this girl that his feet are moving without his intent, bringing him closer and closer to her. And he can't help but fear that he's wrong, that she's not the girl he thinks she is, even though he can feel in his bones that she is. "Right?"

She nods slowly, her mouth still open ever so slightly in shock. After a second, she composes herself, nodding quickly and making a face.

"Yeah," she confirms as she tears her eyes away from his for a second. When her eyes meet his again, Landon can't help but feel that her expression is softer. More vulnerable. 

"Um," she starts, and he hears the shakiness in the syllable. "I was just out on a walk to clear my head."

"Rough night?"

She seems thrown by the question for a moment, but answers before he has a chance to backtrack. 

"Yeah actually," she replies.

"Uh..." She seems to wonder if she should elaborate, making a face before she shrugs and simply states, "Relationship trouble."

Landon nods once, looking down at his shoes as he mutters, almost to himself. "Must be contagious." 

He didn't mean to say the words out loud, but he looks up at her when he does, a smile naturally forming on his face, and it's weird how comfortable this conversation feels. He's never made friends easily, especially not with beautiful mystery women. He can't explain the ease he feels around her, the magnetism she seems to have.

"Why? You too?" She asks, and normally he wouldn't open up to a stranger, but he finds himself answering anyway.

"Yeah."

By this point, he's already approached the stone bench she's sitting at, his feet having carried him towards her of their own accord as he talks with her. He sits down next to her, and he feels an overwhelming urge to sit closer than he does. 

"I met this really amazing girl, but all of a sudden, everything's super complicated."

"Huh," is all she says to that. 

Sitting closer to her, he can feel his memory stirring. He knows her. He just can't figure out why. It's as if his subconscious is refusing to let his brain in on the mystery of who is she?

When he looks back at her, her gaze has dropped from his. She looks sad when she does that, he notes, and lost in her thoughts. The sight gives him deja vu so hard that his head spins. 

"You?" He asks, and once again, she seems caught off guard by the question.

"Oh, uh..." She begins, bringing her gaze to his and away again as she shakes her head once quickly, tearing herself out of her thoughts, if only for a moment. He can't help but notice how in her head she seems to be, carefully thinking through every word she says before she says it.

And he can't help but notice the pain in her eyes, pain that seems to amplify whenever her gaze locks on his for too long. 

She chuckles, but there's no humor in the sound. It sounds so familiar, he thinks.

"Old story, I guess." She rolls her eyes as she says it, as if she thinks the whole thing is stupid. "Fell for a guy who doesn't even know I exist."

She smiles as she says the last part, but Landon has been through enough trauma in his life to know a fake smile when he sees one, and the facade she wears can't hide the tremble in her voice, anyway.

"Huh," he says, and as he keeps watching her, the mask drops instantly. Her face scrunches up, and she makes a motion as if to say what can you do? But he can see her lost in her thoughts again, the voices in her head too loud to allow her to hide her emotions. 

"That's classic," he tells her, not knowing what else to say that won't add to her evident heartbreak. He can't help but briefly think that the guy she's talking about would be lucky to be loved by her, but the thought is gone as soon as it crosses his mind.

She smiles again as she nods once, and he thinks it may actually be real this time as she lets out a small "yeah." But her eyes fall to her hands, and the sadness returns. He feels an unexplainable instinct to hug her, to bring her close and try to comfort her, and if he could only keep her talking, maybe he could figure out why it feels like he's known her his entire life, and why he feels the urge to open up to her, as if she had cast a truth spell like one he would learn at the Salvatore School. 

He can't explain it. He wants to be able to explain it. He wants to know her. But he doesn't. The feelings of closeness and familiarity does nothing to change the fact that she's still a stranger, even if his gut is telling at him to rethink it. 

"She is really great," he says instead, giving into the urge to share about himself to her. She nods slowly, like she's processing the information, like she knows what he means. He finds himself lost in his thoughts this time as he speaks, remembering why he was out for a walk in the first place, to try to sort through the mess in his head about his situation with Josie. 

"I just feel like... i want it to be perfect. And I want to be the perfect boyfriend, and shes trying to be the perfect girlfriend." He shifts his focus back to her, and she makes a face as if to show him that she's listening, or to make it look like she is. He continues anyway. 

"And it was really effortless, but now it feels... Off. I don't know." 

The softness returns to her eyes, like his words are making her feel vulnerable. He doesn't know why.

"Sorry," he mumbles, not quite knowing what he's apologizing for. For throwing all of his problems onto her, or for saying something that could cause the emotions swirling around in her eyes. Or for not being able to figure out why those eyes look so familiar. 

He looks away, looking at the milkshake in his hands instead of at her and her sad eyes that seem to break his heart. He mentally kicks himself for telling her all those things. 

"No," she tells him, seeming to understand the awkwardness he's starting to feel about opening up in that way. Landon can't figure out how she seems to be able to read him so well.

"You know, um," she continues. "A very smart boy once taught me that sometimes, you have to be brave enough to be imperfect with people."

He nods slowly, taking in her words, and seeing the way that her eyes start to fill with tears as she speaks. She smiles though, and this time it's a genuine one, a real smile that lights up all her features for the briefest of seconds. Even her tear filled eyes seem to get brighter when she smiles. 

"Even if it's scary,"  she adds, and he can't help but feels like she's reading his mind.

"Yeah," he laughs out, shaking his head at himself. It was good advice for someone he barely knew, advice that she should probably try to take to heart. The thought still terrified him, though. He blew out air and rubbed at his eyes as he lets his mind wonder about how being imperfect with Josie Saltzman would feel. 

"Of course, you're gonna have to take your own advice, and tell that boy of yours that you exist."

The words come out on instinct, coming straight from his heart without giving his brain a second to process it. He usually wouldn't be giving a stranger advice, and especially not in such a forward way, but he usually wouldn't be opening up to one, either. And ashes didn't usually rain down from the sky, and he usually didn't have a girlfriend he wanted to impress, and he usually didn't even order this milkshake. The whole night was unusual. 

And he didn't usually feel such a sense of complete peace around anybody, let alone a stranger.

I know her, his brain screams at him.

When he looks back at her, he sees a tear slide down her face. It hurts him, he feels it in his chest, as if her tears were laced with acid. It hurts to see her like that. His follows it down her face. 

Her eyes widen a bit when she realizes, and she brings her hand up to wipe it away quickly, looking away from him as she does that, not letting him see any of her emotions. It's crazy how she can be so unreadable, yet so open at the same time. It makes his head spin.

"Oh," she says. She laughs again, but it's devoid of humor. When she turns, her hair is covering her face more than before. She shrugs her shoulder, hiding her face behind the curtain of hair and her jean jacket. "I don't know about that." She can't hide her sniffle, trying her best to keep any other tears contained. 

They fall into silence, and despite him wanting to stay there forever, Landon knows he has to make it back to the Salvatore School before curfew. He wasn't planning on getting on the new headmaster's bad side so soon. 

"I hope your night gets better," he tells her, and he truly means it. Whoever she is, she doesn't deserve the heartache she's feeling. 

She nods once, muttering out a "thanks" and giving him a quick smile. 

He can't help but feel like something's missing. He's suddenly aware of the milkshake in his hands. He still doesn't even know why he ordered it in the first place. It's not much, but it'll have to do.

"This'll help," he states, dropping the milkshake onto the bench between them. "Peanut butter blast, whipped cream on the bottom. It's probably all melted by now."

"Oh." She reaches out slowly, carefully grabbing the cup and tilting it so she can see it as he stands up. Even as he turns away from her, he feels the urge to keep talking.

And so he does.

"I don't even know why I ordered it," he says. "I didn't have any of it. I didn't want a milkshake. It just seemed..."

He doesn't know how to end that thought, still mildly confused. So he doesn't, shrugging softly at her instead. She gives a sad smile and shrugs back, seeming to understand something in the silence he doesn't even understand himself. 

He starts to walk away, but not before making sure to tell her "thanks for listening." She gives him a face back, one that he can't tell if it's positive or not. 

If it's negative, he doesn't want to know. So he walks away instead, and he can't explain why it feels like he's walking away from something important. 

Or someone important. 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

He remembers her as soon as she steps off the bus. 

She looks different in the daylight, without the streetlights illuminating her blue eyes. 

She looks younger, he thinks, with her hair in the braids instead of falling around her shoulders. And there's a feeling in his gut, seeing her in the black and red Timberwolf uniform; a feeling like she doesn't belong in it. 

Her eyes lock onto his instantly, and her gaze traps him in place. He can't do anything but stare back at her, his mind frantically searching through his every thought trying to make sense of her. Her stare has him paralyzed in a way he's never felt before, captivated so completely that there's nothing he can do but be completely at the mercy of her beautiful sad eyes. 

It's both thrilling and terrifying.

Josie snaps him out of it. Her voice cuts through his head easily, centering him and bringing him back down to reality. 

"Do you know that girl?"

He doesn't know how to answer. No, wants to leave his lips. The simple answer. The true answer. But every cell in his body responds with a yes, so loud that he almost feels like he's shaking.

"Not really," he says, a happy medium between his brain and his body. "Just, uh, we shared a milkshake once."

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

He remembers her, again and again; the sight of her feeling new and entirely familiar every time.

He remembers her when he feels Josie's jealousy, and sees how her presence is bringing out the worst parts of her. 

When he finds out she's both a werewolf and a witch. He knows that's something he should be more freaked out about; it's not that he's not freaked out about it, but it feels way more normal than it should. 

When he realizes Rafael has feelings for her, and he feels the strongest, most unexplained sense of deja vu he's ever had in his life

He remembers her when he rises from Lizzie stabbing him, fresh off his death and with her face right in front of him. He can finally connect the mystery girl from his dreams and deaths as her, but still can't place how or why he was getting visions of her if he hadn't met her until just a couple weeks ago. He asks her, but all she tells him is for him to get back return to Josie.

And then it finally happens.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

He remembers her. Really, truly, with every fiber of his being. 

He remembers serving her milkshakes at the Mystic Grill. Dancing in the nighttime. Kissing her for the first time in the cell. He remembers singing to her in her room. He remembers making out with her in the motel. He remembers loving her, and the feeling that she gave him every time he was in her presence. A feeling that he's decided must be what home feels like. 

But most of all, he remembers her sacrificing herself. He remembers her killing him, knowing that he would never let her throw herself into the Malivore pit if he was alive to try to stop her. He remembers waking up alone, and feeling a indescribable feeling of loneliness ever since.

He can't help but be mad at her. It's an instinct, and a feeling so strong, he feels like it might consume him. Not only at the fact that she had sacrificed herself and left him alone, but at the fact that she had been back and hadn't come to find him. Come back to find anyone. He thought she was past the lone wolf mentality., but he should've known she was more stubborn than that,

He can't find it in himself to speak to her about it after initially confronting her. The whole situation is hard, messy and unbelievably complicated, not only with the fact that she had disappeared, but that he had started dating Josie while she was away. He knows in his mind that there was no malicious intent behind it; it can't be considered cheating if he didn't know Hope existed, but he can't escape the guilt that seems to be running through his veins. 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

He remembers his love for her. 

Once the anger dissipates and his brain is working normally again, that's the only conclusion he can come to. He's loved her since the moment he laid his eyes on her. Since the moment he spoke to her. And impossibly, he loved her when he didn't even know she existed. 

When she was just a vision, a flash of features in his mind. When she was just the faintest, distant memory in the deepest recesses of his mind.  When all that he had was the empty blackness of death, his love for her remained. He loved her even when he was dead, and with that realization, he knew that love was the only emotion he would be able to feel for her as long as he was alive, or dead. 

As long and he exists, so does his love for her. 

And so he comes back to the school when Lizzie asks him to, even if that means having to break Josie's heart, and he feels his heart break a little too, because this just doesn't feel fair to her, to him, to anyone. She doesn't deserve the heartbreak, he knows that, but he also knows that she doesn't deserve to be lied to, and any second he spent trying to pretend that his feelings for Hope were gone would've just been a second where he was lying to one of the best girls he had ever meant. 

He's terrified when he goes to meet Hope, because that's what happens when he confronts things. He may have phoenix resurrection powers that gave him a newfound confidence in battles, but it does nothing to help him work up his nerve for confronting his feelings. And worse, he just really doesn't wanna lose Hope. He can't lose her, not after he just got her back.

So when everything is resolved, and he sees that sunshine smile under the Christmas lights, and he kisses her lips under the mistletoe, Landon can't help but think that if he ever does actually die, the feeling of Heaven would surely pale in comparison to the feeling of kissing Hope Mikaelson. 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

I really can't believe there's not more Handon fanfic around, so I had to contribute to the cause. I've been watching Legacies since ep 1, but I really have fallen head over heels in love with Handon this season. I think they've entered my Holy Trinity of ships with Karamel and Malex now, and I'm not hating it at all.  Hello! This has been sitting in my drafts for so long, so I thought I'd finally finish it and have it be my first fic back. I’m so sorry I haven’t written in so long. There’s more info in the AO3 notes as to why if you care to know.  Anyway,  I love Handon so much, and I had so much fun writing this fic. 

[Feedback is welcome. Hate will be blocked. Thank you!]

[thesoftdumbass]

sweet as can be

detective Bucky Barnes x baker Reader

Word count: 2.3K

Warnings: None? I don’t even think there’s language, you can correct me if I’m wrong

Summary: Bucky Barnes has no idea what to do for his daughter’s 12th birthday party. That is, until he meets you. 

Inspired by this ask that I sent to @bucky-plums-barnes for Daddy Wednesday!

masterlist 

Bucky Barnes looks once more to the computer sitting in front of him before groaning and dropping his forehead onto the desk in agitation. His daughter’s birthday is in five days and he had put off planning for too long because of work. Closing the case involving a string of high-end robberies had been put on priority and Bucky was too preoccupied to focus on putting together an awesome party for his little girl.

Last year his ex hosted Becca’s birthday party, so this year was his turn, and Jude and Wesley’s joint party would be planned by Dot. Bucky knew he had to do great for this party, not only because his daughter wanted to impress her friends as all twelve-year-olds do, but also because he wanted to one-up his ex-wife. It’s not like Bucky and Dot had a competitive relationship, but sometimes it’s nice to feel good about his parenting skills.

Dot and Bucky started dating in high school, both taking an interest in the other automatically when they met through the astronomy club. After they graduated and went on to college, they found themselves suddenly with a baby on the way. They were in love, so marriage seemed like the best option. A baby girl, a wedding, and a twin boy and girl later, and Bucky and Dot realized that they were just going through the motions. Knowing that they had fallen out of love, their relationship ended with an amicable divorce, shared custody of their children the only thing connecting them now.

Bucky shakes himself out of thoughts of his past with Dot, turning his attention back to Google. Having waited so long to even browse for decorations, he hadn’t had the thought of ordering a cake before now. Presently, looking through different websites and making calls to various bakeries, Bucky is thinking he may have to figure something else out for last minute. Maybe Bec would like a pizza cake?

Bucky’s brooding is interrupted when his partner at the precinct comes over and knocks on his desk to get his attention, sitting down on the tabletop when he looks up.

“Hey Barnes, what’s with the pity party,” Natasha asks with a smirk painted on her red lips.

James lifts his eyes to Nat, a dreadful look crossing his face. “I’m the worst father in the world,” he mutters after a moment. When his friend laughs he points a glare in her direction that has startled many perps into talking, though Natasha is completely unaffected by it. “I’m sorry, is my misery amusing to you?”

“And you call Rogers dramatic.” She says and rolls her eyes fondly, her laughter dying down after a minute. Her face going back to passive, Nat sends a look his way. “James, you’re not the world’s worst father and we both know it. I mean, you never met my parents.” With a shrug, Nat stands up and walks around the desk, sitting down in her own chair on the other side.

Bucky sighs and drops his head, knowing that what she said about him is true. “It’s just that Becca’s birthday is so soon. She’s turning twelve and I know that’s a hard age. I wanna make it special for her, but I waited too long to start planning.”

Bucky hears Nat mumble something about men and procrastinating, which he opts to ignore. Instead, he looks down at the list of tasks that he scribbled on a piece of notebook paper. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing strands out of his eyes.

“I need to figure out what the theme should be, but the cake is what I’m worried about most. Every bakery I’ve called or looked up needs at least three weeks in advance for specialty cakes.”

Natasha nods her head, thinking for just a moment before her eyes brighten with an idea. “Give me a minute, I know a guy.”

Bucky knew better than to ask. Nat would give him the information when she wanted and not a minute sooner, so he went back to his computer, switching tabs to a website devoted to party planning to look for decoration ideas.

A few minutes later a notebook is tossed down in front of the detective, startling him out of his trance. He glances down at the scribbled address and name, then up to his partner standing with a hand on her hip. When he raised an eyebrow in question, Nat nods her chin at the paper. “That’s the bakery that will make Becca’s cake. They’re not very busy right now, so you should be able to order a cake and it will be ready by the party.”

Looking back down, James runs his fingers over the corner of the paper, thinking. “Brooklyn Bake Shop, isn’t that where Sam works?” When he receives a nod in return, Bucky’s face lights up in a smile. “Oh, that’s where you got those awesome cupcakes that you brought in for New Year’s! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

“I believe it,” Natasha mutters, but Bucky sees a mix between a smile and a smirk on her face when he looks up wearing a faux offended expression. She rolls her eyes at their typical teasing banter, flicking Bucky on the forehead. “Get over to the bakery, Barnes.”

“Right! I’m on it,” Bucky says, tearing the paper from the notebook and folding it up in his pocket before grabbing his jacket and taking off.

Pulling round pans of cake out of the oven, you transfer them to a rack so they’ll cool before you can ice and decorate them. Taking a second to breathe, you lean against one of the counters and pull your phone out of your apron. You see a text from Natasha, a close friend who is also dating the co-owner of your bakery, Sam.

Nat: Hey is it alright if I send a customer your way? They need a cake by Saturday.

You smile down at your phone, appreciating that Natasha is always thinking of you, sending business your way.

You: No problem. I’m not too busy with orders right now, and I have some free time this afternoon if they need a consultation. Send them by!

You receive a confirmation text from Nat and pocket your phone and clean up the kitchen, then grab your cake sketchbook. You take it with you to the front of the store, deciding to help out at the display case while you wait for your new customer. You finish helping one of your regulars with picking out an assortment of cookies and send her to the cash register to check out, turning to the next person in line.

You take in the man standing in front of you, chin-length chestnut brown hair pushed behind his ears and scruff over the lower half of his face making his light blue eyes pop. Your eyes move lower and you can’t help but notice how fit he seems, the muscles in his chest and arms demanding attention from beneath the dark blue button-up shirt that seems just a tad tight. You shake yourself out of it after a moment, clearing your throat and hoping the man didn’t notice you practically ogling him, though the hint of a smirk on his face tells you otherwise.

“Hi and welcome to Brooklyn Bake Shop, what can I help you with today?”

“My friend recommended your bakery,” he says casually. A sample cake in the display case catches his attention and as he leans over to take a closer look at it your eyes are drawn to the badge hanging from a chain around his neck, making a light bulb go off in your head.

“You must be Natasha’s friend,” you point out and he straightens up, looking over at you with narrowed eyes. You gesture to the badge that is still visible sitting atop his broad chest and his face relaxes with understanding.

“Yeah, Nat told me that I can order a cake. I couldn’t find anybody else that can get it done by Saturday, so she really saved my life by giving me your information.” You nod your head and hum but when you don’t say anything else the man gets a brief panicked look on his face. “You can make one by Saturday, can’t you?”

You’re unable to stifle the small giggle that rises within you at his show of distress. “Of course I can get a cake done by then. My name is Y/N, I’m part-owner of the bakery.”

Relief shows itself all over the man at your words, and a genuine smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “I’m Bucky.”

“Well, why don’t you sit with me and we’ll talk about your cake, shall we?” Bucky nods and you walk around the counter, leading him to the small sitting area in the corner of your shop. Two comfortable chairs sit together with a side table nestled between them as a place to go over cake designs with clients and you sit in the chair on the right, nodding for him to sit in the other seat when he hesitates briefly. As Bucky takes a moment to get comfortable you grab a pencil, opening your sketchbook to a new page.

“Let’s start with the basics, what type of event are you ordering the cake for?”

“My daughter’s birthday party.”

You nod, writing that down. “What can you tell me about your daughter,” you ask brightly. You watch as Bucky’s face lights up before he is giving you a characterization of his daughter.

“Rebecca is my oldest girl, and I’ve also got twin 9-year-olds, Jude and Wesley. Becca turns 12 on Saturday and I’m hosting her party, I just got really busy with work and didn’t start planning until, well, today.” Bucky looks down, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks and you smirk softly. “Becca likes taking photos, she carries one of my old cameras around with her everywhere. She’s great in school, especially history and science. Becca’s favorite thing is space, she loves when I take a drive out of the city so we can watch the stars, and she says she’d like to be an astronomer one day.” An adoring smile lifts Bucky’s lips at the thoughts he is sharing and you have to contain the ‘awww’ welling up in you.

Watching Bucky as he talks lovingly about his daughter, you try to keep your mind on the business at hand and not on this sweet and caring man that you’ve just met. It doesn’t hurt that he may be the most attractive person you’ve ever seen.

No, you mentally shake yourself out of it, he’s a customer. Just go back to discussing the cake.

“So what kind of theme should we fit the cake to, does your daughter have a preference?”

Bucky brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck, embarrassment taking over his face. “I haven’t picked out any decorations yet, and Becca said she wanted it to be a surprise,” he says and you try not to let yourself focus on the way he bites his lip shyly.

You nod, thinking to yourself for a minute. “You said she loves space, how about an astronomy-themed cake? I have a few ideas…”

The rest of your afternoon is spent with Bucky, designing the cake, choosing flavors and fillings, and you even brought your laptop out of your office to look up decorations to fit the party theme that he had agreed with, sharing the links with him. After closing your computer and sketchbook, you stand from your seats and you stretch your arms up, having been sitting for too long. Bucky chuckles and follows your lead, his back cracking noticeably, making you giggle along quietly.

“Thank you for seeing me, I was starting to panic about disappointing my little girl,” he says to you after a moment.

“I doubt you could do that, Bucky. And it’s my pleasure.” The smile on his face reflects your own and you duck your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, your new customer speaks up again. “Do you mind if I stop back by the counter and pick up a few treats to go?”

“Of course not,” you say, but the time on your watch grabs your attention as you walk toward the counter. “Shoot, I have a rack of cakes to ice, and then I should get started on bakes for the morning. Sam can help you if that’s okay.”

You grab the attention of your business partner with a wave and he walks over as Bucky nods. “That’s fine, Y/N, thanks again for helping me. I’ll see you on Saturday?”

Your heart thumps at the thought, but you only nod and hum in affirmation before disappearing into the kitchen to pick back up on your tasks.

Sam looks on in amusement as his friend watches you walk away, a near-dopey smile on the detective’s face. Bucky hears a throat clear and immediately looks to Sam in irritation, only to see the baker shaking his head in faux disappointment with a smirk on his face.

“What, Wilson?”

Sam chuckles at the scowl Bucky now wears, a gap-tooth smile lighting up his face. “Nothing, Barnes.”

Bucky mumbles a disbelieving “sure” under his breath before leaning back down to check out the offerings set in the display case. “Can I get an assortment of 6 cupcakes and a dozen chocolate chip cookies?”

Eyebrows raise amusedly. “Feeling a little peckish, there, Buck?”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m taking these back to the station for everybody. Make sure to put some of those French toast cupcakes in there for Natasha, I don’t want her to kill me,” Bucky says, his tone suggesting that he’s kidding...kind of.

Sam chuckles and gathers the requested items, packaging and ringing up the purchase. Bucky leaves the shop with armsful of snacks, and hope that he may not have failed his little girl after all. Now it’s just up to him to assemble the rest of the party.

part two 

A/N: I’ve been sitting on this one for a while! I don’t know yet if this is going to be a series, but I definitely have at least a second part in the works, who knows when I’ll finish and post it haha. I hope you enjoyed reading, please leave feedback if you’d like to see more from me! Love y’all 💜

If you’d like to be notified when I post something new, message me or send an ask and I’ll add you to my tag list!

permanent tags: @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester @mad-girl-without-a-box @cd1242 @space-helen @izzy10718 @feelmyroarrrr @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse @vulcanaeris @killerbumblebee @kjs-s @starshiphufflebadger @goingknowherewastaken 

marvel tags: @izzy10718 @shortbty14 

[cedarmoons]

handle with care

hello i don’t go here but i finished this game only a few days ago and i also have 0 self control, so here, have 5k of pre-game post-fire asra/mc angst!! wanted to practice my arcana characterizations, b/c bleh, they hard. i will also be taking prompts for the arcana if interested! (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ prompt list(s) | kofi

He credits himself for this much: he does not cry, after he finds her.

He pulls her from the flames, and carries her back to the shop. He never looks back, not even when he thinks of Ilya, running back into the inferno for a tyrant who’d never done anything for them, and Nadi’s wide eyes reflecting orange as she shouted for water, water—

Water.

He glances down at her and tears burn his eyes, blinding him. Suddenly, the charms keeping her weightless in his arms give out, and he staggers, falling to his knees as Vesuvia’s citizens fill the streets, drawn by the commotion at the palace. He manages to press against a wall before falling to his knees and clutching her limp form to his, clenching his jaw to fight off his tears until his teeth ache. His fingers bury in her deep blue hair, blue like the night ocean she so adored, once a thick heavy braid but now choppy and short because that bastard had cut it all off—

He feels smooth scales slide across his skin as Faust wriggles out of her hiding place from under his tunic sleeve. Her tongue flicks out, brushing his throat. Go. Asra. Go.

“Right,” he whispers. 

Her head lolls against his chest and he squeezes his eyes shut, breath hitching. He casts a charm again, lifting her with ease, and the expression on his face must be a sight, because the villagers all part around him, providing a clear path to the alley that leads to their shop. A few shout questions at his back, but he does not answer any of them.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to get to the shop. He doesn’t know how long it takes to carry her upstairs, and fill the bath, and remove the melted, ruined outfit from her skin. Some parts of her outfit stick to her body, leaving red marks behind that he heals with a kiss. It is only once she is in the wooden linen-lined tub that he allows himself to weep. Faust curls around him, but it’s not enough.

Asra reaches for her again, burying his nose in her hair as he sobs. Her hair smells of smoke and ash and death, not her usual favored oil mix of rosemary and peppermint. He can even hear in his mind’s ear her voice, low and throaty, as she explains—it promotes clarity of mind and concentration. He can see her slight smirk, her mouth draped half in shadow, as she shuffles her deck in her hands. Also, it smells nice.

Her deck is gone, too, burned away in the flames.

With trembling hands, he washes away the soot that coats her body. He washes the dirt and ash from her face and hair, uncaring of the water that sloshes over the tub and wets his tunic. He touches the scars on her body, scars that she had never explained and now perhaps never will, scars that are too deep and too old for him to soothe away with his touch. He runs his fingers through her too-short hair, biting his lip as he imagines it as it should be: tied into an immaculate braid, swinging around her hips with every movement.

She’ll be devastated if she—when she wakes up.

He mutters a curse under his breath and rests his forehead atop her head, fingers tightening on her shoulder. “Please come back,” he whispers. “Please.”

She remains silent and still, the only evidence of her life the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Asra swallows, hard, blinking away the stray tears that cloud his vision. Faust nuzzles his cheek as he gets his hands under her body and lifts her out of the tub, drying her with a simple spell and setting her gently on the bed. He stares down at her face, eyes closed and mouth slack, and clenches his jaw. After a moment, he turns away, to rifle through the variety of storage in search of her favorite pajamas.

That was her: tossing clothes haphazardly, or dumping laundry into their hammock in the corner instead of using it as the napping spot she’d intended it to be, or even just stuffing them in any open drawer. But every month, the day before the new moon, she would burn eucalyptus leaves and make him help her clean the shop and house above.

His gaze travels to the ebonwood dresser across the room, where a wooden box full of multi-colored incense sticks sits on top, each box lovingly if not skillfully labeled. A piece of parchment is tucked under it. His throat closes, and after a moment he rises from where he’d been kneeling beside a basket to pick it up.

Asra,

Don’t forget—masquerade tonight. Wear agate. Lucio will Just in case.

He had. She hadn’t even had to tell him; something in him had known that he would need the luck.

Asra takes a sharp breath, putting the parchment away as another tear falls, slipping down his cheek, followed by another, another, until he is sobbing openly. He covers his face with his hand, using the other to lean on the dresser, as Faust curls around his arm and hums soft encouragement. After a moment, he takes a deep, shuddering breath and lowers his hand, wiping at the wet skin under his eyes.

She needs him now. He can grieve later.

When he finally finds her favorite pajamas, it’s in the very last drawer, under a mismatched batch of scarves, shawls, and a leather bag full of different gemstone jewelry. He removes his agate ring and drops it into the bag with shaking hands, then gathers up her pajamas and returns to her side.

She is like a limp doll as he dresses her, and he ignores the sickening churn in his stomach as he pulls her paisley shirt over her head and guides her feet through the loose pant legs. Once she’s dressed and safe in their bed, Asra sits by her side, taking her hand in his. He presses his thumb to the underside of her wrist, counting each pulse of her heart. Faust slithers down his arm to coil atop her stomach, lifting her head and tilting it at him.

“She’ll be okay,” he murmurs to Faust. “She… she has to be okay.”

He doesn’t know what he’d do without her. He doesn’t… he doesn’t even want to think about what he’d do without her.

Still, despite his forced self-assurance, he does not drop her wrist. Each beat under the pad of his thumb assures him that she is still breathing, still alive, still capable of waking. But his hands are shaking, and all he can smell is smoke and when he looks at her choppy hair he thinks of the tears on her face when she’d collapsed into his arms—

Asra. Faust stretches out her head, rubbing her scales against his arm. Breathe.

He does. He inhales until his lungs strain inside his chest, and lets it all out, slowly. Slowly, he hears her voice in his ear, chiding but amused. Or you’ll waste this meditation practice. In, and out. Balance.

Balance.

He breathes until he’s no longer shaking, no longer wanting to storm back to the palace and making absolutely certain that Lucio was dead. He holds her wrist in his and glances down at her face, eyes widening when he sees that her face is tight with tension, her brows furrowed and nose scrunched. He lifts his other hand, brushing the backs of his knuckles down her temple, and concentrates.

He sends a wave of calming energy over her, just as he had practiced a thousand times under her watchful eye, and the knot inside his chest loosens when her expression calms as well. He allows himself a small smile, and brushes the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “I’m here,” he whispers to her, just in case she could hear, wherever she was. “You’re safe.”

She does not move, or give any indication that her sleeping soul had heard. He stays with her through the night, his thumb never leaving her pulsepoint. Faust eventually falls asleep on her stomach, and though his eyelids are heavy, he refuses to sleep. He’ll be there when she wakes up.

He will.

He only notices how much time has passed when the first trappings of dawn slant through the window, casting gold upon the floor, orange where it filters through the gauzy red curtains that do little to block out the light. Even then, he stays by her side, as the sun passes through the sky and she does not wake. Slowly, Faust begins to uncoil from her tight circle atop her stomach, and she lifts her head to stare at him, tongue flicking out.

Eat.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, keeping his eye on her. Faust slithers over his arm, curling around him, and squeezes his wrist, her head bobbing insistently.

Eat!

“I can’t,” he says, tone sharpening. He softens at once, apologizing with a scritch under Faust’s chin. “I’m sorry, Faust, but I can’t. What if she wakes up and I’m not here? I won’t let her wake up alone.”

Watch.

He lowers his gaze to Faust, waiting, but she only stares up at him. It takes him a few moments to realize what she means. “You’ll watch her for me?” he asks, allowing a soft smile. “Hoping for chin scritches when she wakes up?”

Faust slithers up to his shoulder, radiating reassurance and confidence. Watch, she repeats. Eat. Sleep.

His smile fades and he looks down at the wrist in his hand. “All right,” he finally agrees. “But just for a little while.”

Faust slithers down to resume her old space at once, curling in on herself. Asra glances down at the wrist encircled between his fingers and carefully lifts her hand, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm. One last time, he smoothes away the deep blue hairs, but it takes him a long time to take a breath and stand, and an even longer time to let go of her. He crosses the room to the hammock in the corner, weighed down with four different throw pillows. Once he’s settled, he turns his head toward the bed, where Faust is still resting atop of her still form.

Faust flicks her tongue at him. Sleep!

Asra huffs a laugh and settles further into the hammock, getting comfortable. Still, he can’t help but glance at her out of the corner of his eye every once in a while, and it takes a long time for him to relax enough to actually sleep. He calls out to Tiamat in his dreams, hoping he’ll be able to get answers that way, but she does not answer his call, and the night is eerily quiet. His sleep is dark and dreamless, showing nothing but the stars of the night sky.

When he finally wakes again, late in the day, she still is not awake, though Faust maintains a watchful eye over her. Faust meets his anxious gaze, her head tilting, and her tongue flicks out. Eat.

Asra laughs. “I’m going, I’m going.”

He takes a stick of jasmine incense from one of the boxes on the dresser, then goes into the kitchen. He finds the kitchen incense holder, an elongated pearlescent dragon with glittering garnets for eyes, and places the incense stick between its wings. Once the stick is burning, filling the kitchen with the soothing scent of jasmine, he gets to work, rummaging around the kitchen to find what he needs. There’s a glass bottle full of goat’s milk in the charmed ice box, and butter. Taking those out, he finds some rice, cinnamon, and sugar.

Rice pudding. Her favorite. When she wakes up, he’ll be by her side, a steaming bowl of rice pudding waiting for her, and everything will be okay.

The rice pudding is almost done, and the sun almost set, when he feels Faust perk up above him, sending him a wave of excitement and anticipation. His breath catches and he looks up, though of course all that he sees is the warped floorboards of the attic above him. His hands start to shake, and he sets down the mortar and pestle, trying to calm his racing heart.

Asra! Faust calls, and he drops everything to sprint toward the staircase, taking it two steps at a time. He rounds the last step, heart racing, and stops at the top of the stairs. She’s awake, utterly still as she stares at Faust, who is still sitting on her belly. Asra watches her throat jerk as she swallows, fear naked in her eyes.

Why is she afraid?

Faust seems to sense it as well, because she quickly shimmies off, dropping to the floor and slithering toward him. He bends down to scoop her up, looking back at her as Faust moves to curl around his shoulders. She stares at him, wide-eyed, and moves backward, back pressing against the wall. Is she—scared of him? Why?

Asra approaches her slowly, and a short, sharp whine escapes her—a sound he has never heard from her before. He stops at once, swallowing the lump in his throat, and holds his hands out, palms up. “Hey,” he says, quietly. “Are you all right? Do you remember what happened?”

As she stares at him, her breathing picks up, quickly becoming short, ragged gasps. Her fingers knot into the sheets and she hunches her shoulders, trying to keep herself as distant and as far as possible. He can see her eyes, shining with unshed tears, the second time he has ever seen it.

There is no recognition on her face. No indication that she knows where she is. That she knows who he is.

No. No, no, nonono—

Asra’s legs almost give out as he approaches her, slowly, palms still held out. She tucks her knees against her chest, cowering from him. His chest burns at the sight, his lungs tight, refusing to draw in breath. She doesn’t remember him, she doesn’t know him, she’s forgotten everything—but he can’t leave her alone like this, panicked and confused. He won’t.

He sits on the bed, as far away from her as possible, and when he blinks twin tears run down his cheeks. “You’re safe,” he whispers, fighting the urge to pull her close and hold her. She’s still tense, still wary; he makes no sudden movements as he lowers his hands to his lap. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Faust rubs her scaled head against his cheek, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

What else has she forgotten?

“Are you hungry?” he asks, opening his eyes once more. She no longer looks frightened, just… confused. Can she understand him? Has she forgotten how to talk? He takes a deep breath and rubs his stomach. “Hungry?” he repeats.

Her brows knit together as, hesitantly, she places her hand on her stomach, repeating his motion. “Hun…” she whispers. “Hun-gree?”

Asra nods, forcing a small, gentle smile, even as something breaks inside him. “Hungry,” he agrees. He lifts his hand, and Faust slithers onto his wrist, wrapping herself around the length of his forearm. He slowly extends his arm toward her—thankfully, she does not recoil from Faust as she had when she saw him, but she does not reach out, either. After a moment, she lifts her hand, her silver gaze flicking to him. He offers another small, encouraging smile and nods.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and holds out her hand, which Faust slides onto slowly, her tongue flicking out against her skin every once in a while. Once Faust is off of his arm and entirely in her arms, he exhales, meeting her gaze again. “Faust,” he says, nodding toward his familiar.

Her eyes dart down to regard the snake in her arms, and she lifts a shaking hand to run a finger down the length of Faust’s back. Faust lifts herself up, swaying forward, and her tongue flicks out to brush against her nose. Her nose wrinkles at once, but she laughs, a soft, hesitant sound that almost breaks him.

Her old laughter, though rare, had never been hesitant—loud, and brash, and likely to go on for minutes if the joke was good enough. Once he’d had her laughing so hard that nothing came out of her mouth except wheezing noises, and she had clapped to show her delight, tears in her eyes. That had been a good day.

“Faust,” she murmurs.

Asra stands up, and she sees him at once, frowning at him. “It’s all right,” he says, keeping his voice soft and reassuring. “I’m going to get you some food, okay? I’ll be right back.”

She doesn’t understand him; her face is still twisted up, naked in its confusion. He hadn’t realized how expressive she truly is—she had always been rare to smile, and hid her thoughts and feelings behind a mask of indifference or grudging pride. Asra turns away, ignoring the soft protest she made, and walks down to the kitchen on jellied legs.

What had Lucio done to her? Cutting off her hair was one thing, but taking her memories? Taking her identity? Or something else he didn’t know? Asra touches his chest reflexively, biting the inside of his cheek, and forces his hand down to his side.

The rice pudding had cooled in his absence. He reheats it at once, mixing the rice and milk to ensure it didn’t get too clumpy, and grinds the cinnamon sticks until nothing is left in the mortar but fine powder. She’d always loved cinnamon. If seeing him wasn’t enough to combat whatever had happened to her memories, well, maybe her favorite food would do the trick.

He sprinkles a liberal amount of sugar and cinnamon over her bowl of rice pudding, and puts in a stick of it too, for good measure. Taking a deep breath, he grabs the bowls of rice pudding and goes back up the steps. She hadn’t moved in his absence, but Faust is curled around her bicep and shoulders, though she doesn’t even seem to notice. She’s staring at the steps, instead. When she sees him, he sees a tension in her expression ease, and hears her quiet exhale.

He smiles at her and sits on the bed, closer this time. “Told ya I’d be back. I wouldn’t leave you.” He offers her a bowl of rice pudding, the one with the extra sugar and cinnamon, and she takes it, cupping it in both her hands. She stares down at the food with a knitted brow and looks back at him, as if thinking what am I supposed to do with this?

Asra clears his throat, and, holding her gaze, says, “Eat.” He waits for her to repeat the word, eat, before taking up his spoon and scooping up a bit of the rice pudding. Holding her gaze, he brings the spoon to his mouth, closing his lips over it. She watches him in silence as he sets the spoon back in the bowl and chews. A few moments later, he touches the underside of his chin and drags his fingers down his neck, emphasizing the bob of his throat as he swallows.

He does the same thing twice more before she decides to mimic him. He watches as she scoops up a spoonful of rice pudding, chews, and swallows, watching him carefully all the while. He smiles and nods, eating his rice pudding alongside her, and she does not stop until the bowl is empty. She licks the spoon for leftovers when she’s done, something she’s never done before.

“Well done,” he says once she puts the spoon back in its bowl, reaching out to take the bowl from her. Faust rubs herself under her chin, and she reaches up to absently scratch at Faust’s head. He stacks the bowls and sets them on the dresser, next to the incense sticks, and returns to her bedside. When Faust lifts her head and stretches toward him, he reaches out without a thought, disentangling her and letting her drape herself over his shoulders.

“Faust,” she murmurs, and he nods.

“Faust is my familiar,” he says. “Do you remember her?”

Her gaze flits back to his face, and she leans forward, brow furrowing again. Asra does not dare breathe as she stops only a few inches away from him, staring at him like he’s an experiment, something unfamiliar. Remember me, he begs, silently. Please remember me.

“You,” she mutters. “You…”

He waits for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “Me,” he coaxes, but she pulls back, shaking her head and looking disappointed. When she ducks her head, a flush darkening her brown skin, Asra takes her hand in his and presses it to his chest, over his heart. “Asra,” he says. “I’m Asra.”

She doesn’t react. He swallows, hard, and ignores the sting in the corners of his eyes when he releases her hand. “Asra,” she says. He nods. After a moment, she removes her hand from his chest, and places it over her own heart. “Asra?”

Despite himself, he laughs, rough and hoarse. “No,” he says. “No. You—” he places his hand over her own and presses down, willing her to remember. He holds her gaze and says, “You are Ziah. Mizi.”

“Ziah,” she repeats. He watches her expression carefully, but there is no flicker of recognition on her face. No sign that she knows her name. It’s just another word to her.

He drops her hand, ignoring the instinct to hold her in his arms and never let go. He looks away, swallowing hard. She’ll remember, he thinks. She has to. It’ll only be a matter of time.

It is what he tells himself the next day, when he has to teach her how to walk again—gently coaxing her from the bed, allowing her to hold onto his arms with a death grip as he helped her stumble across the room. How to eat. How to speak. How to read. How to take care of herself.

It is what he tells himself before their fourth night’s dinner, when she is watching how he prepares their fresh trout—cutting off the head and tail, removing the entrails, filleting it—with rapt attention, though she had been the first to teach him anything about cooking. As an orphan, he’d contented himself with scraps. He hadn’t known anything about food until he came to her.

It is what he tells himself the morning of the sixth day, when he returns from the baker, a loaf of pumpkin bread safe in his hands, only to find her sitting in front of the phonograph she’d never used—offered as payment, once, by an old man in search of a potion to make his wife love him again. Some machine from a country out east, where railroads and vehicles powered by steam roamed the land.

Her blue hair shines in the sunlight filtering through the open window, and his breath catches at the sight. He thinks to the city outside their home, buildings and people draped in black and indigo, mourning their beloved Count’s death. Lucio had provided entertainment and relative security, and in turn, they had turned a blind eye to his cruelty and vanity.

Asra had gone out into the city wearing the most colorful clothes he could find.

“Asra,” Ziah says once she sees him, a stunning smile lighting up her face. Her teeth are a little crooked, something he’d never noticed before—before the accident, her smiles had always been small, enigmatic, close-mouthed. Now she doesn’t hesitate to laugh, to smile, and while it’s… nice, even endearing, it’s also strange, because he knows it is not her.

“Ziah,” he greets with a smile, holding up the pumpkin bread. “I got something for you. Want to guess what it is?”

Her eyes light up and her smile widens as she gets to her feet, dusting off her dark purple skirt. “What?” she asks, approaching him. Only a few days and she’s making so much progress—the first two days, all she could manage were babblings, syllables rather than words. It gives him hope. He offers it to her and watches as she gingerly unfolds the loaf, inhaling its scent. “Oh, it smells nice.”

An instant later, she winces, the bread tumbling from her hands. Asra catches it and straightens up immediately, reaching for her before pulling back. Ziah cradles her head in her hands and Asra moves away just long enough to put the bread on the counter. Then he’s back at her side, guiding her to their rickety kitchen table, helping her sit.

“Mizi, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

She shakes her head, rubbing at her temples. When she lifts her head, Asra sees blood trickling from her nose. His eyes widen and, muttering a curse, he snatches a tea towel from its crumpled place on a countertop and sits before her, carefully dabbing at the blood. She watches his face as he wipes away her blood, but her gaze is distant, as if she is staring through him rather than at him.

“Mizi?” He touches her wrist, and she jerks away, startling so badly she almost falls out of the chair. She catches herself before that happens, though, and she buries her face in her trembling hands. Asra waits, uncertain, until she lifts her head again, eyes betraying her panic. He feels helpless, sitting before her, unable to do anything as she fights her own mind.

“Asra,” she whispers. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, his voice just as quiet. He reaches out and gently touches her shoulder. “I… were you remembering something?”

He doesn’t know if he wants her to remember. Not if it means she’ll get hurt.

“It was… I don’t know. The smell.” She drops one hand to shove the pumpkin bread away. It slides across the table, slowing to a stop at the very edge. After a moment, she lifts her head, and he sees that her left nostril is encrusted with blood. Asra swallows and licks the tea towel before leaning forward. He holds her cheek steady with his left hand as he gently wipes away the drying blood around her nose and mouth. Her hands are shaking, and as he lowers the towel, he reaches for them, twining their fingers together. She glances down before looking back at him, frowning. “I don’t wish to feel that pain again.”

Asra swallows. “I don’t want to see you in pain,” he says. She blinks at him, jaw clenching, before offering a small, weak smile. After a moment, she pulls her hands away, and he releases her, dropping his hands into his lap. He watches her face, searching for hints of discomfort or pain, but her expression is placid as she looks back at him.

If she had reacted like that when she saw pumpkin bread again… he can’t imagine what would happen to her if she remembered other, more substantial memories. If she tried to remember Ilya, or Nadi.

Asra swallows and stands. She looks up, moving to stand as well, but stops when he shakes his head. “I’m just getting something,” he says, as gently as he can. Once she settles back, he goes upstairs, glancing around the familiar room. It had been hers, once, but now it is theirs—he sees Faust’s favorite pillow under the hammock, and a collection of wooden animals on a windowsill that she’d brought back for him, and scarves thrown all over the floor.

He finds her collection of gems and semi-precious stones in a Hjallean tortoiseshell end table, resting in the belly of a black enamel teapot decorated with pink and golden roses. The lid of it had gone missing years ago, and they’d never been able to find it, not even when she burned her eucalyptus leaves and spent the entire day cleaning the shop and the house above it. The pot radiates with her magic, cool and soothing, and Asra lets himself linger as he roots through the teapot. Finally, his fingers close around a smooth piece of lepidolite. He pulls it out, turning so the sigil faces him, and traces the colors trapped within the stone, clouds of silver and pink against a sea of deep purple.

She’d said his eyes looked like lepidolite, once. He wonders if she would ever remember that.

He rolls the smooth stone between his fingers, thumb brushing against the sigil carefully carved into its surface, and feels her magic swell up at once, washing a calm energy over him. He closes his eyes, savoring the feel of it, then takes a deep breath and returns downstairs.

He sees Ziah gnawing on her lower lip, tapping out an erratic rhythm on the table. Faust is curled around one of her arms, tongue flicking, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. The pumpkin bread remains where she’d pushed it away, untouched. He sits across from her, and Faust uncurls herself to slither over to Asra. Doesn’t remember, she says, and he can sense the grief underneath her words. He comforts her with a gentle stroke down her neck and lets her wriggle into his tunic, taking up her favorite position around his shoulders.

“What were you doing with the phonograph?” he asks. She blinks, coming back to herself, and glances at him. He waits, but all she does is stare, her brow furrowing in confusion until he realizes she hadn’t understood what he said. So he offers a gentle smile and nods toward the phonograph. “What were you doing?”

“What were you… oh!” Her face brightens and she laughs, standing up. He watches as she kneels before the phonograph, pulling out a thin cover made of some flexible wood. She shakes it a little, and a black disc slips out into her hands. She stands, lifting up some part of the phonograph, and sets the disc on the record player. After a moment, she moves the needle, and staticky, soft music fills the room. She gives him a triumphant grin, hands lifting to tuck the too-short edges of her hair behind her ears, and his heart breaks just a little bit more.

“So that’s what you were working on while I was out?” he asks, and her expression turns blank, eyes narrowing as she tries to puzzle out what he’d said. After a moment, she nods, though it’s clear she’s not entirely sure what he’d asked her. Asra gives her a reassuring smile, rising to his feet and joining her side. “Ziah, this is amazing.”

It is. She had had no interest in it, after she accepted it as payment for a sale; it had served as decoration, and nothing else. She had preferred the quiet, or the soft music of her kalimba. But that was before the fire. Reminded of his task, Asra lifts his hand, unfolding his fingers to reveal the blue fluorite in the center of his palm. “Here,” he says. “I have a gift for you.”

Ziah takes it, blinking, and he sees at once how her own magic works over her. The tension in her shoulders, so slight that even he had missed it, relaxes at once, and the tightness in the corners of her eyes eases. “Food?” she asks, eyeing him and rolling the stone between her fingers. Asra laughs, shaking his head and reaching out, closing her fingers over the engraved stone.

“Gift,” he says. “For you.”

Ziah grins, showing her beautifully crooked teeth, and his chest throbs, a bittersweet pain as he looks at her and thinks of his somber, solemn Master. She steps forward, her feet light and fluid as water, and offers him her free hand. “Want to move?” she asks. “I dreamed we moved to music, once.”

“Move? Do you mean dance?”

She blinks at him, eyes silver and clear, and nods, her smile fading. She does not repeat herself, a flush rising on her cheeks. Asra forces a grin and at once pulls her to the rug-covered floor, far away from their dining table. They dance to the scratchy song until she’s laughing, loud and unabashed, her arms thrown over his shoulders as he twirls them and dips her and lets her step on his toes. His heart aches at the sight, but he throws himself into this moment—refusing, for now, to think of missing memories, and missing lovers, and missing friends. All he concentrates on is her, and on her wide, crooked smile, and on making her laugh until her embarrassment is forgotten.

It’s all he can do, at the moment. Until she remembers who she is, and swears him into silence for witnessing her like this—uncertain of everything, and graceless, but smiling, the complete opposite of the solemn, stern woman he has come to know and adore over the years. He’s fairly certain that the moment she remembers, she will know that he’s seen her dancing (terrible, but he loves it anyway), and her actual smile (crooked, but beautiful), and heard her laugh more often in one week than he’s ever heard out of her in all the years he’s known her. And once she knows that, she’ll swear him to secrecy, which he knows he won’t be able to honor.

She lifts her arm and he twirls under it, returning her breathless smile when he faces her once again. When he pulls her to him she laughs and accidentally steps on his toes. Asra hides his wince and laughs with her, feeling Faust swaying along to the beat of the music around his shoulders. She’ll remember, and years from now, they’ll have a laugh about it.

And if she never remembers—

Asra spins her again and swallows, smiling when she faces him, her hands tight on his shoulders.

If she never remembers—

She’ll remember, he insists to himself. She will. It’s only a matter of time.

[smokeybrandreviews]

Smokey brand Movie Reviews: Lock and Key

I have a clear and aggressive love for cyberpunk. It started, way back when i was an impressionable youth, as i watched Akira for the first time. Oh my god, i had never seen anything so goddamn brutal. So goddamn tragic. So goddamn beautiful.  It scratch the itch i began to have for existentialism and fueled my burgeoning apathy. That whole nihilistic take on society is how i was starting to see the world and it stuck. My love for this genre began to grow and embellish, as my palette for cinema and literature matured. By the late 90s, i was introduced to Ghost in the Shell and, oh my god, it was like watching Akira again for the first time. My almost-teenage rebellion acclimated to the Major’s staunch rebellion of self. Her search for what it meant to be alive, what it meant for her to BE, mirrored my own wayward path toward adulthood and i dug every minute of it. I began to search out more and more of this genre and found that post apocalyptic world of data enslavement and social dissonance lends itself to the larger human questions. The hard ones we have no answer for. I saw Akira when i was, like, 6 or 7. I’m 33 now. I still love Cyberpunk. So imagine my utter fan-boying when i found out that a sequel to one of the quintessential cyberpunk worlds ever created, Blade Runner 29, was coming out this year. My hype was real and, oh boy, did this flick f*cking deliver!

Now, before i get into my review of one of my most anticipated films of the year, i just want to take a minute and acknowledge Ana De Armas. Yo, this woman is crazy beautiful and mad talented. I saw her in Knock, Knock a while back an though she was a flash in the pan but, nah. Ol’ girl has some real potential. Here’s hoping she keeps growing in her craft. Also, my god, is she beautiful!

The Best

F*ck this movie is beautiful, like, goddamn, man. And it’s not style or substance! each frame is painstakingly framed. Each scene is lovingly cradled from one to the next. There is never a detail out of place or superfluous addition. This movie knew what it needed to be and it deftly executed as needed. Goddam the efficiency of it’s aesthetic was incredible! Roger Deakins deserves the highest of praise, yo. Bravo, sir. Bra-f*cking-o!

There is a distinct, feminine, energy running through this film. It makes sense to me that the natural pregnancy and birth of a Replicant child, one that happens to be a girl, would legitimize an entire race of artificial people. All things begin and end with women and this flick really drives that home.

But that 1980s Sean Young, tho!

I also like how the majority of the male energy is inflated, abusive, and egotistical. It’s crazy how blind men can be at times and this flick conveys that with adept subtlety.

For all of that female energy, this movie is very much Ryan Gosling’s vehicle. His K/Joe makes this film. We spend the most time with him. We learn the most about him. We see this world, this story, through his eyes. And he does a wonderful job conveying the reality of someone who c literally cannot say “no”. Who knows all of his memories are fakes. Who knows he is little more than a slave. There are some hard to watch scenes where he’s realizing certain aspects of his life and it breaks him. Not the revelations themselves but the futility to change any of them. Sh*t’s wild to see and crazy devastating to bare. Ryan Gosling is an outstanding actor and his skill, though wildly understated here, is put on showcase and this film is better for it.

But seriously tho, f*ck is this movie is beautiful!!

Sylvia Hoeks as Luv was a fantastic foil to K, in all of the ways. Her fiery temper and violent passion was in stark contrast to the distant, reserved impersonal K/Joe portrayed by Gosling. I find the best villains, the best foils to protagonists, are often the opposite because they represent who they can be if they made that left instead of right. And Luv is definitely the wrong turn. She is a real psychopath, through and through, and relishes in her acts of pure malevolence. i adored her character very much and thought it fitting she clocked out the way she did.

But that score, tho!

The Better

Of all the supporting character, Ford included, (It’s weird to call Ford a supporting character in a franchise he started but he really is) i found myself drawn to Ana De Armas. Playing a Replicant for a Replicant pretty much, her struggle to exist as a real person, as someone who could actually, physically, support her “Joe” was heartbreaking. I wanted Joi to find some joy so badly and Ana did an outstanding job conveying that yearning and futility.

The special effects are breathtaking in this movie. There was a scene where a massive, pink tinged, Joi hologram pointed at K/Joe and it was awesome. The thing is, all of that was practical! I mean, there were some color adjustments in post but that was physical. They projected Ana over a bunch of rain and had her interact with Gosling in real time and it was the most dazzling sh*t i had seen in a flick all year. And that was just ONE f*cking effect!

Harrison Ford was outstanding as his usual curmudgeon self he has, more or less, settled into playing in the autumn years of a career triumphant. It’s hard for me to separate him from Han Solo but he does a fine job reminding me that Rick Deckard is still that asshole with a heart of gold, even 30 years later.

Jared Leto also turns in another unique performance, per usual. This cat is becoming a very real actor and it’s refreshing to see. After watching him muddle through as best he could with that sh*tty Joker, it was refreshing to see him be able to make a distinct impact on a film. We definitely haven’t seen the end of his Niander Wallace and i look forward to what’s next for the character.

The rest of the supporting cast, Dave Bautista in particular, did a great job. Bautista turned in another surprisingly deep performance. Someone needs to get that guy a vehicle, fast. He deserves a goddamn marquee already! Also, someone give Carla Juri a role where she is an actual presence. I loved her in Wetlands and the little bit she has to do here, she does expertly. the fact she isn’t in more stuff is wildly disappointing!

The direction here is superb. Denis Villeneuve is fast becoming one of my all time favorite directors. He knows how to tell a great f*cking story. Sicaro was an inspired film but it was Arrival that really put ol’ boy on my radar solid. Sh*t was so goddamn emotional, it crippled me. I literally couldn’t deal with all of the questions and realities that thing kicked forth about reality, love, parenting, and relationships. I cried in my car, man. Seriously, broke down and sobbed. it was too much. That never happens. I never feel that much for a film. For his vision, his skill, to solicit such a overt emotional response out of me? brilliant. just brilliant. He’s pulled back on the emotional revelation for a more existential one in 2049 but the expert craftsmanship is still very apparent. We are watching the birth of a master right now and i am loving every minute of it.

The overall story is on point. It perfectly picks up where the Final Cut of the original Blade Runner left off. The story itself is a little concise and to the point, but it’s also the only logical evolution if you paid attention to the end of the original film. I like the hints left toward the end and look forward to another sequel, if we’re lucky enough to get a trilogy because, goddamn, i love this world!

The Good

It was fun to see Edward James Olmos and Barkhad Abdi make cameos. I kind of wanted more from those guys but i understood there was a place for them and that place was fleeting. Still, great spots.

I found the plot a little derivative. I wouldn’t say this was bad or disappointing and, indeed, the choice was made in an effort to make this flick more accessible since it deals with such heavy subject matter, but it was still a driving narrative we’ve seen before. But, goddamn, was it one helluva take on it to watch!

There was a scene at the beginning of the third act that kind of came out of nowhere. It hints at something greater on the horizon but it feels like that was an unnecessary reveal right now. Like, it was something that one would assume with everything that transpired in the film. It didn’t need to be visually quantified for the audience, i don’t think. It was all a little hand-holdy for me.

There isn’t a real villain in this film. Like, not even a little. I mean, there are insidious motivations all around but overall, it feels l like society, human society, like, WE are the real villains here and the people where’s suppose to think are the monsters, simply want what’s best for the Replicants. I like that twist, personally, but i ca see how someone new to the franchise or unfamiliar with the actual world would be put off by all of the grey.

The Verdict

This movie was so good, man. It’s everything you want in a cyber punk film. It’s everything you want in a post apocalyptic noir. It’s everything you want and need in a sequel. It expands the world, builds the lore, and gives you brand new revelations. It sets up future events but still respects the canon. The performances were inspired, if a little muted, and, goddamn is it beautiful. It never really dragged for me, even though the thing is 2 hours and 45 minutes long, which, in itself, is a goddamn miracle. This is easily the most beautiful film i’ve seen all year, i think i mentioned that before, and it was a legitimately compelling tale. Go see Blade Runner 2049. I cannot impress upon you how much you’ll be missing if you don’t. It is the closest thing to a perfect film i have ever seen, no exaggeration. Go see that sh*t!

[smokeybrand]

Smokey brand Movie Reviews: Lock and Key

I have a clear and aggressive love for cyberpunk. It started, way back when i was an impressionable youth, as i watched Akira for the first time. Oh my god, i had never seen anything so goddamn brutal. So goddamn tragic. So goddamn beautiful.  It scratch the itch i began to have for existentialism and fueled my burgeoning apathy. That whole nihilistic take on society is how i was starting to see the world and it stuck. My love for this genre began to grow and embellish, as my palette for cinema and literature matured. By the late 90s, i was introduced to Ghost in the Shell and, oh my god, it was like watching Akira again for the first time. My almost-teenage rebellion acclimated to the Major’s staunch rebellion of self. Her search for what it meant to be alive, what it meant for her to BE, mirrored my own wayward path toward adulthood and i dug every minute of it. I began to search out more and more of this genre and found that post apocalyptic world of data enslavement and social dissonance lends itself to the larger human questions. The hard ones we have no answer for. I saw Akira when i was, like, 6 or 7. I’m 33 now. I still love Cyberpunk. So imagine my utter fan-boying when i found out that a sequel to one of the quintessential cyberpunk worlds ever created, Blade Runner 29, was coming out this year. My hype was real and, oh boy, did this flick f*cking deliver!

Now, before i get into my review of one of my most anticipated films of the year, i just want to take a minute and acknowledge Ana De Armas. Yo, this woman is crazy beautiful and mad talented. I saw her in Knock, Knock a while back an though she was a flash in the pan but, nah. Ol’ girl has some real potential. Here’s hoping she keeps growing in her craft. Also, my god, is she beautiful!

The Best

F*ck this movie is beautiful, like, goddamn, man. And it’s not style or substance! each frame is painstakingly framed. Each scene is lovingly cradled from one to the next. There is never a detail out of place or superfluous addition. This movie knew what it needed to be and it deftly executed as needed. Goddam the efficiency of it’s aesthetic was incredible! Roger Deakins deserves the highest of praise, yo. Bravo, sir. Bra-f*cking-o!

There is a distinct, feminine, energy running through this film. It makes sense to me that the natural pregnancy and birth of a Replicant child, one that happens to be a girl, would legitimize an entire race of artificial people. All things begin and end with women and this flick really drives that home.

But that 1980s Sean Young, tho!

I also like how the majority of the male energy is inflated, abusive, and egotistical. It’s crazy how blind men can be at times and this flick conveys that with adept subtlety.

For all of that female energy, this movie is very much Ryan Gosling’s vehicle. His K/Joe makes this film. We spend the most time with him. We learn the most about him. We see this world, this story, through his eyes. And he does a wonderful job conveying the reality of someone who c literally cannot say “no”. Who knows all of his memories are fakes. Who knows he is little more than a slave. There are some hard to watch scenes where he’s realizing certain aspects of his life and it breaks him. Not the revelations themselves but the futility to change any of them. Sh*t’s wild to see and crazy devastating to bare. Ryan Gosling is an outstanding actor and his skill, though wildly understated here, is put on showcase and this film is better for it.

But seriously tho, f*ck is this movie is beautiful!!

Sylvia Hoeks as Luv was a fantastic foil to K, in all of the ways. Her fiery temper and violent passion was in stark contrast to the distant, reserved impersonal K/Joe portrayed by Gosling. I find the best villains, the best foils to protagonists, are often the opposite because they represent who they can be if they made that left instead of right. And Luv is definitely the wrong turn. She is a real psychopath, through and through, and relishes in her acts of pure malevolence. i adored her character very much and thought it fitting she clocked out the way she did.

But that score, tho!

The Better

Of all the supporting character, Ford included, (It’s weird to call Ford a supporting character in a franchise he started but he really is) i found myself drawn to Ana De Armas. Playing a Replicant for a Replicant pretty much, her struggle to exist as a real person, as someone who could actually, physically, support her “Joe” was heartbreaking. I wanted Joi to find some joy so badly and Ana did an outstanding job conveying that yearning and futility.

The special effects are breathtaking in this movie. There was a scene where a massive, pink tinged, Joi hologram pointed at K/Joe and it was awesome. The thing is, all of that was practical! I mean, there were some color adjustments in post but that was physical. They projected Ana over a bunch of rain and had her interact with Gosling in real time and it was the most dazzling sh*t i had seen in a flick all year. And that was just ONE f*cking effect!

Harrison Ford was outstanding as his usual curmudgeon self he has, more or less, settled into playing in the autumn years of a career triumphant. It’s hard for me to separate him from Han Solo but he does a fine job reminding me that Rick Deckard is still that asshole with a heart of gold, even 30 years later.

Jared Leto also turns in another unique performance, per usual. This cat is becoming a very real actor and it’s refreshing to see. After watching him muddle through as best he could with that sh*tty Joker, it was refreshing to see him be able to make a distinct impact on a film. We definitely haven’t seen the end of his Niander Wallace and i look forward to what’s next for the character.

The rest of the supporting cast, Dave Bautista in particular, did a great job. Bautista turned in another surprisingly deep performance. Someone needs to get that guy a vehicle, fast. He deserves a goddamn marquee already! Also, someone give Carla Juri a role where she is an actual presence. I loved her in Wetlands and the little bit she has to do here, she does expertly. the fact she isn’t in more stuff is wildly disappointing!

The direction here is superb. Denis Villeneuve is fast becoming one of my all time favorite directors. He knows how to tell a great f*cking story. Sicaro was an inspired film but it was Arrival that really put ol’ boy on my radar solid. Sh*t was so goddamn emotional, it crippled me. I literally couldn’t deal with all of the questions and realities that thing kicked forth about reality, love, parenting, and relationships. I cried in my car, man. Seriously, broke down and sobbed. it was too much. That never happens. I never feel that much for a film. For his vision, his skill, to solicit such a overt emotional response out of me? brilliant. just brilliant. He’s pulled back on the emotional revelation for a more existential one in 2049 but the expert craftsmanship is still very apparent. We are watching the birth of a master right now and i am loving every minute of it.

The overall story is on point. It perfectly picks up where the Final Cut of the original Blade Runner left off. The story itself is a little concise and to the point, but it’s also the only logical evolution if you paid attention to the end of the original film. I like the hints left toward the end and look forward to another sequel, if we’re lucky enough to get a trilogy because, goddamn, i love this world!

The Good

It was fun to see Edward James Olmos and Barkhad Abdi make cameos. I kind of wanted more from those guys but i understood there was a place for them and that place was fleeting. Still, great spots.

I found the plot a little derivative. I wouldn’t say this was bad or disappointing and, indeed, the choice was made in an effort to make this flick more accessible since it deals with such heavy subject matter, but it was still a driving narrative we’ve seen before. But, goddamn, was it one helluva take on it to watch!

There was a scene at the beginning of the third act that kind of came out of nowhere. It hints at something greater on the horizon but it feels like that was an unnecessary reveal right now. Like, it was something that one would assume with everything that transpired in the film. It didn’t need to be visually quantified for the audience, i don’t think. It was all a little hand-holdy for me.

There isn’t a real villain in this film. Like, not even a little. I mean, there are insidious motivations all around but overall, it feels l like society, human society, like, WE are the real villains here and the people where’s suppose to think are the monsters, simply want what’s best for the Replicants. I like that twist, personally, but i ca see how someone new to the franchise or unfamiliar with the actual world would be put off by all of the grey.

The Verdict

This movie was so good, man. It’s everything you want in a cyber punk film. It’s everything you want in a post apocalyptic noir. It’s everything you want and need in a sequel. It expands the world, builds the lore, and gives you brand new revelations. It sets up future events but still respects the canon. The performances were inspired, if a little muted, and, goddamn is it beautiful. It never really dragged for me, even though the thing is 2 hours and 45 minutes long, which, in itself, is a goddamn miracle. This is easily the most beautiful film i’ve seen all year, i think i mentioned that before, and it was a legitimately compelling tale. Go see Blade Runner 2049. I cannot impress upon you how much you’ll be missing if you don’t. It is the closest thing to a perfect film i have ever seen, no exaggeration. Go see that sh*t!

[glassslippers-and-tinywhiskers]

Even by the formidable standards of eminent Victorian families, the Bensons were an intimidating lot. Edward Benson, the family’s patriarch, had vaulted up the clerical hierarchy, awing superiors with his ferocious work habits and cowing subordinates with his reforming zeal. Queen Victoria appointed him the archbishop of Canterbury, the head of the Anglican Church, in 1883. Edward’s wife, Minnie, was to all appearances a perfect match. Tender where he was severe, she was a warmhearted hostess renowned for her conversation. Most important, she was Edward’s equal in religious devotion. As a friend daringly pronounced, Minnie was “as good as God and as clever as the Devil.”All five of Edward and Minnie Benson’s adult offspring distinguished themselves in public life. Arthur Benson served as the master of Magdalene College at Cambridge University, wrote the lyrics to Edward Elgar’s hymn “Land of Hope and Glory,” and was entrusted with the delicate task of co-editing Queen Victoria’s letters for publication. His brother Fred was a best-selling writer, well known today for the series of satirical Lucia novels (televised for the second time in 2014, on the BBC), which poked good-natured fun at the pomposities of English provincial life. Their sister Margaret became a pioneering Egyptologist, the first woman to lead an archaeological dig in the country and to publish her findings. Even the family’s apostate, the youngest brother, Hugh, a convert to Roman Catholicism, was considered a magnetic preacher and, like his brothers, was an irrepressible author of briskly selling books. All told, the family published more than 200 volumes.An exemplary Victorian family, or so it seems. But let us borrow one of Charles Dickens’s favorite literary devices and pull the roof off the Benson home to take a peek inside. It is 1853. Edward is 23 years old, handsome, determined, and already embarked on a promising career. Perched on his knee is his cousin Minnie, a pleasingly childish 12-year-old. Edward has just kissed Minnie to seal their engagement. Wait 40-odd years, lift the roof again, and we find grown-up Minnie tucked in her marital bed with Lucy Tait, the daughter of the previous archbishop, who has been living with the Bensons at Edward’s invitation. At the Sussex home where Minnie and Lucy moved three years after Edward’s death, they were joined by Minnie’s daughter Margaret, the Egyptologist, cohabiting with her intimate lady friend. As for the Benson boys, well, none of the three married, and contemporaries in the know had a pretty good understanding of their romantic feelings for men, in all likelihood never acted upon. The Bensons were, as Simon Goldhill writes in his subtle, smart book, a very queer family indeed.

What was it like to live before and during the invention of modern sexuality?

Wresting the Victorians from the prison of dour, prudish stereotypes to which their children and grandchildren consigned them is a project that has occupied scholars for more than a few decades now. Goldhill, a professor at Cambridge, has produced an insightful contribution to that effort. But even more resonant for our own times of sexual and gender heterodoxy—when ambiguity is the new frontier—is what the Bensons can tell us about the prehistory. As a great deal of queer history has by now demonstrated, the strictly defined categories of “homosexual” and “heterosexual” are relatively new: bright lines drawn across the late-20th-century sexual landscape that made “coming out” a dichotomous choice.

For the Victorians, the situation was much more fluid. A woman’s romantic interest in another woman could be seen as excellent preparation for marriage. Though sex between men was a criminal offense (in Britain, lesbianism was invisible before the law), there was, as yet, hardly a homosexual identity defined by same-sex desire. Until the early 1950s, a man could have sex with another man without thinking himself in any respect “abnormal”—as long as he steered clear of the feminine dress or behavior that marked a so-called pouf or queen. To pry off the Benson roof is to ask the question: What was it like to live before and during the invention of modern sexuality?

Of all the doings in the Benson household, the most discomfiting to our own sensibilities is Edward’s romance with Minnie. She was just 11 when Edward decided to make her his wife, though at her mother’s insistence, he agreed to delay the wedding until Minnie turned 18. In opting for a child bride, Edward was calculating as well as passionate: It would be a few years before he had enough money to marry, and here was an opportunity to mold his future wife to suit his own pious requirements. For her part, Minnie was girlishly eager to please.Domineering, moody, given to fits of displeasure, a fiend for detail, Edward was a cartoonish Victorian patriarch. His children were frightened of him. “He brought too heavy guns to bear on positions so lightly fortified as children’s hearts,” his son Fred wrote. Minnie put up with Edward’s bullying, accommodated his ambitions, soothed him when he was depressed, entertained the hordes of guests that high clerical office entailed, and only occasionally lapsed into bouts of ill health.

But there was much more going on in the archbishop’s marriage than a simple story of feminine acquiescence. Minnie’s intimate friendships with other ladies frequently tipped into romances, one of which—with a Miss Hall—caused her to prolong a trip to Germany, away from her husband and six children (ages seven months to 11 years) for half a year. Even allowing for the extravagant language in which Victorian women conducted their female friendships, Minnie’s letters to her favorites were unremittingly romantic: “Did you possess me, or I you, my Heart’s Beloved, as we sat there together on Thursday and Friday—as we held each other close, as we kissed.” Another letter to the same woman closed with equal rapture: “My true lover, my true love, see, I am your true lover, your true love.”

Edward Benson clearly understood, and to a certain degree accepted, his wife’s longings for other women. The subject was discussed by the couple, not hidden. Edward took Minnie on his knee to pray together about these stirrings. “Ah, my husband’s pain, what he bore, & how lovingly, how gently,” she wrote years later in a journal. And it was of course Edward who invited Lucy Tait, 15 years younger than his wife, to live with the Benson family. Paying homage to Edward’s generosity and to the “fullness and strength of married love,” Minnie worked to reconcile her sexual and spiritual longings. If “Love is God,” as she came to believe, then passion could exist without physical expression—though, as she acknowledged, with Miss Tait lying beside her, the bed continued to be their “own region of mistake.”

If  all of this sounds bewildering, that, for Goldhill, is precisely the point. Absolute as Victorian moral certainties appeared to be, they nonetheless permitted a great deal of ambiguity in matters romantic and sexual, even in the most respectable of families. The marriage of Minnie and Edward—“intricate, sensitive, caring, and deeply committed,” as Goldhill describes it—ran alongside her love for women. True, the complications of the Benson marriage caused some anguish on both sides and undeniably left their children confused as to the state of their parents’ feelings for each other. But to his credit, Goldhill doesn’t attempt to tidy up the Bensons’ complexities.

Like the best writers working in a biographical vein recently (many of whom eschew the conventions and certainties of biography), he uses the inner conflicts of his subjects to immerse his readers in an unfamiliar and disorienting world. He doesn’t diagnose the Bensons retrospectively and anachronistically as a family of repressed homosexuals. Instead, he dwells on the equivocations and the accommodations that could be made “within the tramlines and travails of a very conventional life.” Not least, Goldhill appreciates the Bensons’ own feat of simultaneously probing and withholding as they churned out all those books, many of them devoted to their family relations.

The Bensons’ memoiristic zeal was phenomenal—from Arthur’s two-volume, 1,000-page biography of his forbidding father, to Fred’s three volumes of memoirs and book about his mother’s life after his father’s death, to Hugh’s autobiographical musings. And that is merely a sampling of the family’s output (Arthur’s diaries ran to 180 volumes), and leaves out the novels in which they most freely worked over the incidents of family life. Yet the Bensons’ loquacity was remarkable chiefly, as Goldhill notes, for its reserve.

Arthur’s biographical avalanche gave away almost nothing about how he felt about his august parent: “His heart and mind remained, and still remain, a good deal of mystery to me.” In one of Arthur’s novels, by contrast, a small boy named Arthur writes “I hate papa” on a scrap of paper, which he buries in the garden. About the vexed marriage of the elder Bensons, Arthur and Fred were equally inscrutable. Fred managed the feat of making Minnie and Edward sound almost ordinary, describing his father’s courtship of the 11-year-old girl as a “little authentic Victorian love story.” Arthur, while acknowledging marital tensions, took refuge in constrained understatement. After Minnie got married, he wrote, she “began to experience a certain fear as to whether she could give my father exactly the quality of affection which he claimed.”

Above all else, Arthur and Fred, the two main memoirists of the family, were cagey about sex. Today, we name sexual orientations and gender identities in order to live freely; confession is the mode of liberation. By contrast, the Bensons cultivated what Goldhill terms a “highly articulate indirectness.” One way of understanding their reticence is as a queerness that was writing itself, falteringly, into being. In Arthur’s case, that seems an apt description of discretion exercised, paradoxically enough, at great length and over many volumes.

“Anyone might think they could get a good picture of my life from these pages, but it is not so,” Arthur mused in his diaries, noting (without naming) the subjects he kept in his “carefully locked and guarded strong room.” Although he dilated on the pleasures of sentimental friendships with the boys in his care, he studiously policed their platonic boundaries, rejoicing in the bronzed bodies at the swimming bath but skirting anything that smacked of lust. Was it possible, Arthur wondered, that he had “the soul of a woman in the body of a man”? Even though the term homosexual was coming into currency, he did not use it until 1924, the year before he died. And when he did use it, after a theoretical conversation on the subject with Fred, he wrote the word out—“the homo sexual question”—in a way that suggested unfamiliarity.

There’s another way of understanding reticence, though, which Fred, Arthur’s sunnier brother, supplies. Although Fred lived to see the new mores of the post–World War I world (he was the last of the family to go, in 1940), in a curious fashion he clung to his Victorian inheritance. He saw the virtue—and, perhaps more important, the utility—of reserve. It laid the groundwork for a person’s privacy. What wasn’t said and couldn’t be named allowed a latitude for action.

Fred’s enigmatic judgment about his mother’s marriage was characteristic: “If her marriage was a mistake, what marriage since the world began was a success?” Writing in 1930, Fred thought the much-deplored “Victorian reticences and secrecies” needed defending in an increasingly confessional era. They were “profitable as well as prudish.” The same year, Virginia Woolf (who had both a husband and a female lover) lamented the erosion of sexual ambiguity. Unlike Fred Benson, she was unsentimental about her Victorian upbringing, yet as the dichotomy between homosexual and heterosexual solidified, she could see what had been lost: “Where people mistake, as I think, is in perpetually narrowing and naming these immensely composite and wide flung passions—driving stakes through them, herding them between screens.”

As ambiguity and in-betweenness have rolled around again, they inevitably look different than they did to the Victorians. The Bensons expended millions of words questing after the building blocks of identity. Today, Edward, Minnie, and the kids would log on to Facebook, make their choice from an extensive ready-made menu—everything from pangender to the plain-vanilla cis man—and share the result with an army of “friends.” The irony of all this is something that no gay liberationist would have thought possible when the campaign for homosexual rights was regarded as a grave threat to the social order. Sandwiched between the fluidity of the Victorian years and the proliferating sexual and gender identities of the new millennium, the late 20th century’s straight-gay paradigm looks decidedly old-fashioned—maybe even a little stodgy.