#the grief of moving from the only place ive ever known because i am not safe here

[almightyandroid]

sorry for no art lately i am trying to stay sane

[trini-trin-trin]

Sharing this from a FB group that I am in. I was very moved by the article and felt affinity with the experiences shared. A really sweet read.

Here is the article if you don't want to click on the link (I know it is a little long, but well worth your time to read!):

The letter I received ten years ago was unsigned and bore no return address. Clearly its author did not expect, much less want, a reply. A message in a bottle, from no one to no one, that letter still remains the most bizarre form of communication. It asks nothing but to be read, promises nothing but to share a few facts and feelings, and, seeing that it must have been dashed off on a lined yellow sheet that seemed hastily torn out of a pad of paper, the author would not be surprised if, after skimming through it, the recipient decided to crumple and lob it into the closest dust bin.

The letter is one page long. One page is enough. The handwriting is uneven, perhaps because the author had lost the habit of writing in longhand and preferred the keyboard. But his grammar is perfect. The man knew what he was doing. I assume he was writing the note by hand because he didn’t want traces of it on his laptop, or because he knew he was never going to send it as an email and risk a reply. Now that I think of it, he probably didn’t care if it even reached its recipient, a local Bay Area reporter who had mentioned my novel about two young men who fall in love one summer in Italy in the mid-1980s. The reporter eventually forwarded it to me, minus its envelope with the postmark. It took no time to see that all the author of the letter was looking for was a chance to blurt out the words he couldn’t dare breathe elsewhere.

My book had spoken to him. His letter spoke to me.

So here it is: dated April 16, 2008.

I came upon Mr. Aciman’s book while on a business trip back East. Not the type of book I am normally able to read, so I bought a copy for the flight home. I think I’m glad I did.

You see, I was Elio. I was 18 and my Oliver was 22. Though the time and place were different, the feelings were remarkably the same. From believing that you are the only person who has these feelings, to the whole “he loves me – he loves me not” scenario, Mr. Aciman got it right. I was particularly impressed with the attention he gave to the morning after Elio’s and Oliver’s first encounter. The guilt, the loathing, the fear. I felt it too much. I had to put the book down for a while.

But in the end I was able to finish the book before we landed at SFO. Which was good, because I couldn’t take the book home. Unlike Elio it was I who married and had children. My Oliver died from AIDS in 1995. I’m still living a parallel life. My name is not important. His name was Dwight.

Instead, I kept the letter. I kept it for ten years.

What moved me was not just its sobering matter-of-factness or its hint of downplayed sorrow, but the associations it provoked in my mind. It reminded me of those short, clipped messages to loved ones, written by people about to be shipped off to the death camps who knew they’d never be heard from again. There is a chilling immediacy about their hurriedly scribbled notes that say everything there is to say in the fewest possible words — there wasn’t enough time for more, no smarmy pieties, no hand-wringing, no treacly hugs and kisses before the tragic end. It also made me think of the moving phone messages left by those who finally realized they were not going to make it out alive from the Twin Towers and that only their family’s answering machine was going to take their call.

“My name is not important,” he writes, almost as an apology for remaining anonymous; yet the author drops quite a number of hints about himself — hints he likely knows will stir his reader’s wistful curiosity to know what made him write the letter in the first place, what he hoped to accomplish, and if writing did indeed help. The letter itself allows us to see that he travels for business. We also sense that he probably lives in the Bay Area and that he travels not infrequently to the East Coast, since, as he writes, he is “back” in the East. And we know one thing more: that he simply needed to come out and tell someone that a man called Dwight had been his lover when the two were young. The rest is a cloud. We’ll never know more. Writing has served its purpose. We write, it seems, to reach out to others. Whether we know them or not doesn’t matter. We write to put out into the real world something extremely private within us, to make real what often feels unreal and ever so elusive about ourselves. We write to give a shape to what would otherwise remain amorphous. This is as true about authors as about those who want to correspond with them. Over the years, many have written to me either after reading or seeing Call Me by Your Name. Some tried to meet me; others confided things they’d never told anyone; and some even managed to call me at the office and, on speaking about my novel, would eventually apologize before bursting out crying. Some were in jail; some were barely adolescents, others old enough to look back at loves seven decades past; and some were priests locked in silence and secrecy. Many were closeted, others totally out; some were widows who felt a resurgence of hope if only by reading about the loves of two young men called Elio and Oliver in Italy; some were very young girls eager to meet their long-awaited Oliver; and some recalled former gay lovers whom they’d occasionally bump into years later but who’d never acknowledge what they’d once shared and done together when both were schoolmates and neither was married. All were keenly aware of living a parallel life. In that parallel life things are as they perhaps should be. Elio and Oliver still live together. And no one has secrets there.

Unlike Dwight’s lover, everyone who took the time to write to me did not withhold their names, but all had, at one point or another, withheld something very primal. They withheld it from themselves, from a relative, from a friend, a classmate, or colleague, or from a beloved who would never have guessed what troubled longings seethed below their averted gaze whenever they crossed paths.

Some readers wrote to tell me they felt that my novel had changed them, and given them new insights into themselves; some felt it was urging them finally to turn a new leaf in their lives. But some couldn’t go so far and, despite their perfect command of language, confessed lacking the words to explain why they were so moved by my novel or why they felt an unresolved longing for things they’d never considered or desired before. They were experiencing an upwell of emotions and of ungraspable might-have-beens that were asking to be reckoned with because they seemed more real than life itself, a sense of themselves that beckoned from an opposite bank they’d never known was there and whose potential loss now was a source of inconsolable grief. Hence their tears, their regrets, and the overpowering sense of being lost in their own lives.

And yet, they said, theirs were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of recognition, as though the novel itself were a mirror for readers to watch their own emotions laid bare before them. These responses made me aware that Call Me by Your Name does not call attention to anything readers didn’t already know, nor does it bring new truths or revelations; all it does is shed new light on things that were long familiar but that they never took the time to consider. It would be so tempting to say that they are reminded of their forgotten first loves; the truth is that all loves, even those that occur late in life, are first loves. There is always fear, shame, reluctance, and not a tiny dose of spite. Desire is agony.

Everyone who’s read Call Me by Your Name understands not only the struggle both to speak and hold back their truth but also the shame that comes whenever we want something from someone. Desire is always cagey, always secretive — we’ll tell everyone we know about the person we crave to hold naked in our arms, but the very last one to know this will be the person we crave. Same-sex desire is even more guarded and watchful, especially in those who are just discovering their sexuality. Awkwardness and desire are strange bedfellows at a young age, but shame and inexperience are just as paralyzing as fear when we watch them tussling with the urge to be bold. You’re torn between the raw horniness that makes you dream scenes you hope to forget as soon as you’re up and the scenes you pray you’ll dream again and again — if dreams are all you’ll have. Silence and solitude exact a cost that leaves us emotionally wrecked. At some point we need to speak.

So “is it better to speak or die?” asks Elio, the narrator of Call Me by Your Name, quoting words penned by the sixteenth-century Marguerite de Navarre in her collection of tales known as The Heptameron. Marguerite was the sister of King Francis I and the grandmother of Henry IV, himself the grandfather of Louis XIV, hence she was plenty familiar with court intrigue, gossip, and the risks of opening up to someone who may not welcome what’s in our heart and could easily make us pay for it. Not everyone who has written to me has dared to speak their hearts to those they loved. Some have sought silence — slow, lingering droplets of quiet desperation taken every night before bedtime until they realize they’ve been dead and didn’t even know it. Many have written to me with the feeling of having missed their chance when someone tethered his rowboat to their jetty and simply asked them to jump in. “Some sentence or thought on almost every page,” writes a reader, “triggers tears and knots my throat and chest. Tears well up in my eyes on the subway, at my computer at work, walking down the street. Perhaps I am weeping in part because I know that at my age there is virtually no possibility of experiencing anything remotely comparable to what Elio experiences with Oliver.” Someone else writes, “Reading Call Me by Your Name made me feel a love I never had.” A happily married 50-plus colleague took me aside and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this much in love in my whole life.” “I'm 23,” tweeted someone else, “and have never felt such love, until I read Call Me by Your Name. I feel like I lived it.” “Elio and I are essentially the same age,” writes a teenage girl. “I have never really experienced his environment of the Italian summer…My experiences have only taken place halfway between nature and smog, however I have felt the same tension, fear, guilt and overwhelming love that you express perfectly through both Elio and Oliver…Finding myself in Elio was something I never expected and I’m positive that I won’t experience anything quite like it ever again. The first girl I ever loved remains…the only girl I have ever loved and though everything she and I shared…lives now as a secret between two friends.” “I finished reading Call Me by Your Name a couple of days ago,” writes someone else, “and wanted to let you know how much it affected me. It felt like a narration of my thoughts that I had systematically buried long ago.” And finally this from a 72-year-old: “I was fascinated by the idea of parallel lives where would I have been if I had gone with him, where would I be if I traveled alone? Maybe the point is just what do I do with the gift you have given me during the remainder of my life.”

There are at least 500 more such letters and emails.

Some find themselves weeping at the end of the film or the novel, not for what happened long ago or for what did not and might never happen in their own lives but for what has yet to happen, for the terrifying moment when they too will soon have to decide whether to speak or die. This from an 18-year-old: “[Your novel] gives me hope that one day I will meet someone whom I desire so badly that I’ll actually find it in me to make a move, the way Oliver is that someone for Elio. Maybe my Oliver will also turn out to be someone that I realize I love as well as desire.” She was crying for a week, as was this 15-year-old young man: “I stopped reading…because I didn’t want [the book] to end, didn’t want the wounds that you caused me to close, I didn’t want to overcome, for some reason that I have yet to find out. I wanted to stay a wreck, emotionally and mentally fragile….My mother handed me tissues because she had never seen me cry like this. I had finished your book and ‘moved’ is too weak a word to express what your book had done to me. Here a week later and it is literally all I can think about, not my midterms coming up, but…Elio and Oliver and if it is better to speak or die. You answered questions I didn’t even think I had.”

Indeed, the whole novel seems to enable the outing of all manner of feelings, feelings from Elio’s relentless inward journey and obsessive self-examination that readers are invited to identify with. Through Elio’s unfettered introspection they too feel exposed and sliced open like a crustacean without a slough, now forced to look at itself in the mirror. No wonder they are moved. The mask that is torn off their faces is not just the mask that conceals same-sex desires from themselves and from others. Rather, it is the realization, through Elio’s voice, of what they truly feel, who they truly are, what they fear, what bears their signature, and what coy little shenanigans they go through to read others and hope to reach them. Some identified with some effusive sentences in my novel so much that they had them tattooed on their bodies. They even attach photos of these tattoos. People have also tattooed peaches on themselves!

But what moves most people — and this is as true now as it was when the novel first came out — is the father’s speech. Here he not only tells his son to nurse the flame and “don’t snuff it out” after his son’s lover has left Italy, but that he too, the father, envies his son’s relationship with a male lover. This speech tears away the last vestige of a veil between reader and truth and is a moving tribute to the irreducible honesty between father and son.

Most readers have written to me about the scene because the father’s speech rekindles the very difficult moment when they decided to come out to their parents — or, as is often the case with people 60, or 70 or older, it reminds them of the conversation they wished they’d had but never did have with their parents. This is the loss no one forgets and from which no one recovers after seeing Call Me by Your Name. It bears the very essence of that precious and life-defining might-have-been moment that never happened and never will.

Here is the speech:

“Look…[y]ou had a beautiful friendship. Maybe more than a friendship. And I envy you. In my place, most parents would hope the whole thing goes away, or pray that their sons land on their feet soon enough. But I am not such a parent. In your place, if there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out, don’t be brutal with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and watching others forget us sooner than we’d want to be forgotten is no better. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything — what a waste!...

“… {L]et me say one more thing. It will clear the air. I may have come close, but I never had what you had. Something always held me back or stood in the way. How you live your life is your business. But remember, our hearts and our bodies are given to us only once. Most of us can’t help but live as though we’ve got two lives to live, one is the mockup, the other the finished version, and then all those versions in between. But there’s only one, and before you know it, your heart is worn out, and, as for your body, there comes a point when no one looks at it, much less wants to come near it. Right now there’s sorrow. I don’t envy the pain. But I envy you the pain.”

I received the anonymous letter sometime in early May 2008. At the time, I was staying at my parents’, because my father was suffering from throat and mouth cancer and was already in hospice care. He had refused radiation and chemotherapy, so I knew his days were numbered; though morphine was clouding his mind, he was still lucid enough to bandy a few quips about a host of subjects. He had stopped eating and drinking water because swallowing had become very painful. One afternoon while I was stealing a nap, the phone rang. A reporter I’d met in California had just received a letter, which she wanted to share with me. I told her to read it over the phone. After she’d read it I asked if she felt she could mail it to me. I wanted to show it to my father, I said, and explained he was dying. She felt for me. We talked about my father for a while. I told her I was trying to make it up to him these days, and that he too had been exceptionally easy to be with. How was it growing up with him? she asked. Tense, I replied. Always is, she added. Then the conversation ended, and she promised to mail the letter soon.

After hanging up, I got out of bed and went in to see him. Over the past few days, I had made a point of reading to him, which he liked a great deal, especially now that he was having difficulty focusing. But rather than read to him the memoirs of Chateaubriand, one of his favorite authors, and feeling buoyed by the letter I’d been read on the phone, I asked if he’d like me to read from the French translation of Call Me by Your Name, the galleys of which I had just received from Paris that very morning. Why not, since you wrote it, he said. He was proud of me. So I began to read from the very beginning, and soon enough I knew I was opening up a subject neither he nor I had ever broached before. But I knew he knew what I was reading and why I was reading it to him. This made me happy. Perhaps it made him happy as well. I’ll never know.

That evening, after the rest of us had dinner, he asked if I could continue reading from my novel. I was nervous about arriving at the father’s speech because I didn’t know how he’d react to it, though he was the kind of father who would have given that very same speech himself. But the speech was two hundred pages away still, and that would have taken many, many days. Perhaps I should skip some parts, I thought. But no, I wanted to read him the whole book. My father didn’t last long enough to hear the father’s speech. And when the letter finally arrived from California, he was already gone. His name was Henri, he was 93 years old, and he inspired everything I’ve written.

[morganaspendragonss]

Hey! I absolutely love your "the lovers that went wrong" fic - ive been back to reread it several times now because i think its such a good idea and I love the relationship with TK and his mum - if only the show could give us something as good as that! - I was wondering- only if you were interested, could you write something from Carlos' pov with his parents? maybe they can see that TK is more than a friend and they talk to Carlos about him and TK and why he's feeling insecure? if not np :)

thank you so much anon, that’s so sweet of you!! i love this prompt, too - god knows the show probably won’t show us carlos’s pov. it was my pleasure to write it.

a note on the spanish - technically, i do speak spanish but it’s still very much a word in progress, so if any spanish-speakers want to correct me then please do

ao3 | 1.6k | 2.04 spoilers

Carlos can feel TK's eyes burning holes into the side of his head, but he doesn’t look around. He doesn’t want to see the confusion and hurt he knows TK must be feeling - and if that makes him a coward, then so be it. His parents’ gazes are flicking between them, so Carlos distracts his mom by pulling her into a hug, grateful for the brief opportunity to hide his face. 

Behind them, his dad is shaking TK’s hand, and Carlos’s entire brain is screaming wrongwrongwrong. This isn’t supposed to be happening. Not like this. Not yet.

He’s not ready.

His mom pulls away and Carlos forces a smile back on his face. They stand in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, Carlos feeling like he’s being scrutinised.

Then, TK speaks. “It was great to meet you, Mr Reyes, Mrs Reyes,” he says, “but I should go. I told my dad I’d meet him and I’ll be late if I don’t leave.”

The lie rolls off his tongue, smoother than Carlos’s had, and Carlos dares a glance over. What he sees is so much worse than he imagined; to any other person, TK looks the picture of innocence, smiling kindly, eyes wide and bright. 

But Carlos knows him. He can see the tense set of TK’s shoulders, the way he’s subtly put more distance between them, the hurt hidden deep in his eyes. He feels sick with guilt, but there’s nothing he can do to fix it. Not here.

“I’ll drive you,” he offers, but TK firmly waves him off.

“No,” he says, jaw clenching minutely. “My dad’s place isn’t too far; I can walk.”

“But -”

“It’s fine.” 

Their eyes meet, and Carlos is suddenly hit with the force of what he’s done. Everything he’s been so scared of - TK deciding they’re not working, running away, Carlos getting his heart broken - all of that might happen now after all. 

And it’ll all be Carlos’s fault.

TK’s hand lands on his shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Carlos,” he mutters, and then he’s gone, striding back the way they came and taking half of Carlos’s heart with him.

“Is everything okay, mijo?” his mom asks, as Carlos keeps staring after TK even though he can’t see him anymore. 

Carlos doesn’t have an answer to that - the casual way they parted cut deeper than he’d ever thought possible, and he doesn’t know if it was just TK keeping up the act or his way of hurting Carlos the way he’d been hurt. Carlos wants to believe it’s the first one, but his less charitable side can’t help but wonder.

He can’t tell any of this to his mom, though, so he braces himself and turns back around, smiling. “Yeah, of course,” he says, surprised by how steady his voice is. “What are you guys doing here? I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Clearly,” his dad remarks, faintly amused, but before Carlos can figure that out, his mom is taking his arm and dragging him along with her.

“I was planning on making my chiles rellenos tonight, but your father forgot the chiles when he went shopping the other day.” She sends a reproachful look behind her, but the effect is offset by her fond smile. “You know they do the best ones here, so out we came. And here you are.”

“Here I am,” Carlos agrees through gritted teeth. He tries to extricate himself from her grip. “Look, mami, I don’t want to keep you. I’ll go, and you can -”

She stops suddenly, planting her hands on her hips. “I don’t see my only son for weeks, and the second we run into him, he wants to escape?” she demands. “No. You’re coming home with us, and you can help me with the food.”

“It’s hardly been weeks, mami,” he says weakly, knowing he’s already lost this argument. When Andrea Reyes makes up her mind, nothing can sway her.

“Psshh, details.” She waves her hand dismissively and takes his arm again, leaving Carlos no choice but to follow her to their car. He directs a wordless plea for help back at his dad, but he just holds his hands up, shaking his head. 

“Your mother’s right, you know,” he says. “We barely see you these days. Give us the afternoon, at least.”

Which is how Carlos ends up in his mother’s kitchen, silently helping her prepare chiles rellenos and trying not to wallow in his grief over TK.

He fails miserably - miserable being the operative word.

His mom is being suspiciously silent, and if Carlos had any energy left, he would call her out on it. He knows they’re going to end up having a discussion at some point, but he’s in no mood to provoke it. Easier just to let her initiate it herself.

“That boy at the market,” she starts eventually, far too casually for Carlos’s liking. “What was his name again?”

“TK.”

She hums. “You’ve never mentioned him before.”

He sighs heavily. “We’re friends, mami,” he reminds her wearily, the lie coming easier this time, which is something he really doesn’t want to read in to.

“I never suggested otherwise,” she says. “He seemed nice.”

“He is.”

She sighs, clearly fed up with his reticence, and sets her knife down. “¿Qué pasa, mijo?” she asks, turning to face him.

“Nada, mami, no pasa nada,” he insists, though he’s not entirely sure why he’s still bothering to lie.

“Don’t pull that shit with me, Carlos Reyes,” she says sharply, startling him. “Soy tu madre; te conozco. Now, I’ll ask again - what’s going on?”

He meets her gaze, seeing only warmth and concern there, and it nearly breaks him. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try me.”

Carlos bites his lip, deciding how best to break the news to her. He’s still not ready, not really, but he’s made his bed. Time to lie in it.

“I’ve met someone,” he hedges, trusting her to fill in the blank of TK’s name. “I’ve known him for a while, but we’ve only been seeing each other for the last four months.”

There’s a brief silence, then, “Why did you not tell us?” she asks, her tone gentle, not at all accusatory. “Is it not serious?”

He hesitates, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I don’t know,” he admits, half-whispering. “I don’t… He… I…”

Carlos shakes his head, giving up on speech. He doesn’t protest when his mom reaches up to draw him into an embrace, resting his head on her shoulder. 

“I’m scared, mami,” he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut and letting the tears fall. His mom holds him tight, rubbing comforting circles on his back as he shakes in her arms. 

They stay like that for a while, until she moves her hands to his shoulders and eases him away from her. “Why are you scared?” she asks. Her eyes narrow. “He’s not hurting you, is he?”

Carlos recoils at the thought. “No,” he says, the words bursting out of him in a half-shout. “He would never.”

“Then, what is it?”

He hesitates again, the thought of telling her everything suddenly very daunting. She clearly notices, as she reaches around him to push the half-prepared food away. Carlos’s eyes widen at that; his mom never stops cooking once she’s started. She smiles ruefully, then leads him over to the couch, pulling both of them down onto it. 

“Tell me.”

And Carlos does. He doesn’t divulge all of their long, complicated history, but he tells her enough for her to understand. He talks about TK’s reluctance to start anything, his own determination to try anyway. He talks about those days after TK got shot, and the solar storm, and that night under the stars when they finally agreed to give them a shot.

He talks about his fears that it’s all just a fantasy, that any day now the rose-tinted glasses are going to come off and TK is going to realise that he’s made a mistake, and Carlos will be left behind again. And he talks about his guilt for even thinking it, the way he wants so badly to believe that this is it.

Because, for him at least, Carlos is fairly sure that it is. He just wishes (hopes) the same is true for TK.

When he’s done talking, he glances hesitantly over at his mom. She’s watching him with a small smile on her face, her hand gently squeezing his knee.

“Oh, Carlos,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re in deep, aren’t you?”

He grimaces and nods. “I’ve ruined it all,” he says. “I hurt him, and now he’s never going to trust me again.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” she admonishes. He frowns up at her, only to meet a spectacular frown of her own. “You’re going to go to him, right now, and explain everything like you’ve just done for me. He’ll listen, and if he doesn’t then clearly he’s not good enough for you.”

“He’s good enough, mami,” he says, cracking a small smile. “I don’t know where he is, though; he was lying when he said he had to meet his dad.”

“Then you’re going to go home and wait,” she says, matter-of-fact. “If half of what you’ve said is true, he’s going to want to talk just as much as you do.”

Carlos doubts that, but he supposes it’s as good a plan as any. He could call TK, but he doesn’t want to rush him. Better to let him decide when he wants to talk to Carlos - Carlos had been the one to hurt him, after all.

He leans into his mom’s side, smiling at her. “Thank you, mami.”

She kisses his temple. “Te quiero, my son. Now, go. If this boy is as good as you say, I’ll never forgive you for letting him go, let alone him.”

Carlos laughs, then gets to his feet and leaves his parents’ house, filled with a sudden determination to fix this.

He doesn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t at least try.

[silvermoonflowers]

Moonflower Act IV

Priestess!Reader x Demon!Bucky

Summary: Just a cute little date between you and a handsome demon

Warnings: Lots of fluff, James being a relentless flirt, and the Reader being a bit feisty

Act III

You smiled happily as you pulled out a tray of freshly baked cream puffs from the stove.

Everybody, except you, was out for the day. A High Priestess from the Moon Temple had arrived and asked Nicole to come over so she could help her out with her spiritual powers. Although you wanted to be with Nicole so you could assist her too, the High Priestess gave you a sharp reprimand about performing your duties first. Meanwhile, Sam and the others were in a meeting with the King (for knights only apparently), leaving you the only one at the residence.

Oh well.

So far, you haven’t sensed any bad omens and there weren’t reports of demon sightings. You would’ve taken a walk to see Emily, but at that moment, it began to rain heavily. Great, just great. You glumly sat in the kitchen for a while before your eye caught a jar of flour. Since you didn’t know how long it would be before your family returned, you thought you would make some pastries as a welcome home gift for them.

As you waited for the pastries to cool, your mind began to wonder back to a certain demon.

You were still a bit wary of James due to his true nature. And you only saw him a few times, with those meetings being short and somewhat cryptid, which still mystified you. You suppose it because he was a demon. He probably didn’t want to stay around without a knight or demon hunter noticing him and then trying to kill him. 

And yet…

You sighed. In spite of his true nature, James was certainly beautiful and charismatic. His deep, smooth voice did wonders to you and you longed to be in his arms again. Just being with him gave you so much comfort in a world filled with grief and suffering.

I wonder if my family is alright if I let James stay at our house?

You frowned deeply. That was one of the few things that was in your mind all week now. No matter how much you wanted James to stay with you, you knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Because of so many past incidents, you and your family were distrustful of all demons, whether they were noble or not. But all James had ever shown you was kindness, which made you change your mind a bit. You ran a hand through your hair in frustration.

Now was not the time for confusing thoughts. 

You swiftly turned to a cabinet, intending to get a large plate to put the cream puffs on when the temperature suddenly became cold. That was surely a sign that a demon was going to appear. But the chilling presence was more comforting than threatening, which made you know who it was. You shuddered from delight as he made himself known.

“My, my what a sweet scent,” James purred as he leaned against one of the walls.

You didn’t turn around at first. Instead you took your time to get the plate. You weren’t actually ready to face him yet. 

“James, hello...you could’ve knocked, you know…” You muttered as you pushed aside stacks of small bowls and small plates.

There was a chuckle. “Hello to you too, my dear Priestess. And I would, however it’s raining. So I’d rather not get myself wet.”

“Yeah...true...well..umm...w-what the - hey!” When you turned around, your face began to burn with embarrassment almost immediately.

James had already grabbed one of the cream puffs and was casually munching on it. However, that wasn’t the only thing that made you seethe. Now that you met him again, but this time in broad daylight and without a cloak covering him, you could clearly see what he was wearing. He was wearing rather tight clothing, which made you wonder how he could move in them considering how muscular he was. Well, his shirt must’ve been that tight, since he didn’t bother to button up, exposing his well-built torso to you. 

You huffed. He had to have done that on purpose.

“J-James, I don’t mind if you eat the food, but you should’ve asked first!” You hissed as you tried so hard not to look at his chest.

James merely smirked at you as he took another bite. “Sorry dear, they just look so delicious. Do you need help by the way?”

“Oh no...thanks, I’m fine…”

The audacity of him...first he entered your home, (no, you weren’t counting the first time since he was there to save Nicole) while revealing his torso to you and then he took a pastry without asking you first. Well...James was a demon, so being mischievous was not uncommon to him, but still…

“Alright, if you say so. Do you mind if I take another one then, please?” James grinned, revealing a pair of sharp teeth, a hint of his true nature. You narrowed your eyes at him. But it wasn’t so much of his demonic features scaring you. No, he would never hurt you. It was more of the fact that he was teasing you.

“Yeah...well...whatever,” You mumble as you set the plate down and began piling the rest of the now cooled cream puffs on it. “But you better not eat them all. Save some for the family, too!”

“Thanks,” He purred as he plucked another pastry from the plate. “You’re such a doll.”

At the affectionate nickname, you nearly dropped the plate in shock. You had to bend down awkwardly in order to balance the plate. Thankfully, neither the plate nor the pastries fell to the floor. But now you just realized that you made a fool of yourself in front of James. His snicker obviously confirmed that.

“Wow Priestess, you sure are clumsy~~” “Shut up!” In your frustration, you threw a cream puff at James. He caught it with ease while you scowled. You didn’t mean to throw the pastry at him. You just wanted to get rid of James’ teasing smirk off of his beautiful face. 

“Another one? Aww thanks~~”

You sucked in a breath while setting the plate of pastries down a little too hard on the table. Why were you even acting irritated in the first place? You did want to see James again and your wish was indeed granted. Even if he did come into your house unexpectedly...

It was probably because James was practically shirtless that threw you off.

“James,” Your shoulders sagged a bit. ”...I’m sorry for being...mad at you just now. I really am glad to see you, you know..”

“Nah,” His voice suddenly became soft. “I think I went too far in teasing you.”

“I-it’s fine…”

There was now an awkward silence between the two of you with you clasping your hands together rather tightly and James finishing off the pastries. The rain was the only sound that filled the silence. You hoped James wasn’t too upset with you because of your fiery outburst. 

“S-So, uhh...y-you want some...t-tea?” You wanted to cringe at how much you were stammering, but James didn’t seem to notice as he nodded.

While you prepared two cups of jasmine tea, you kept sneaking glances back at James who was now staring off into space. Now would probably be a great time to start an actual conversation. 

“So…” You trailed off for a second before the words came into your mind. “James…you need me for something?”

He smirked. “I just want to see if you’re alright, my dear Priestess~” You blushed. “Oh well...thank you. I’m glad to see you’re alright too. So w-where do you uhh live?” It may seem like a strange question, but even demons had to hide somewhere.

“Ah, I actually live in an inn not too far from here.”

“You’re okay with living among humans?” You looked at him incredulously while handing him a cup of tea. It’s a wonder for him to be staying at a place where both mercenaries and demons hunters would often hang out.

He shrugged. “It’s better to be there than to be at my...uh...old home?”

You weren’t even going to question what James referred to as his “old home” as you already had the dreadful idea of what it was. 

“However, the owners do know that I’m a demon.”

“What? How?”

James gave you a rather sheepish grin. “Let’s just say I accidentally revealed my true form to the owners when I saved them from a close encounter with a demon. But the owners don’t seem to care about that though. They just endlessly thanked me for saving them. They promised to keep it a secret and let me stay at their place for as long as I want. I kinda felt bad that I was staying there for so long. So I decided to get rid of any demon that came too close to the inn, even though the owners insisted that I don’t have to.”

“Oh, that’s nice. But what about the mercenaries?” 

James scoffed as he took a sip of his tea. “You mean the ones who are so arrogant and are only doing it for attention than actually helping their fellow humans? I don’t even come near them. All they do is constantly brag about their victories and demand for more money. It’s irritating as hell.” 

You let out a giggle and then quickly pursed your lips. But more giggles erupted. You had to set your teacup down so the drink wouldn’t spill on your dress. The way James looked so grumpy was such a contrast to his handsome, charismatic self. His eyebrows were furrowed and his lips formed a cute pout. However, he did have a point about certain mercenaries. You had only fought alongside them at least three times and all three times nearly ended in disaster. Two of them even demanded for yours’ and Nicole’s hand in marriage, much to your family’s chagrin. 

As you recovered from your giggling fit, you heard a teacup being set down. You looked up, only for your eyes to widen. James’ chest was suddenly right in front of your face. When did he get so close to you without you even noticing?

Your eyes trailed down to his abs. Oh, his abs looked nice enough to touch. And damn, those dark pants really are tight on him. But before you could look any further, a cold hand tilted your chin.

“Ah-ah, eyes up here.”

There was a twinkle of amusement in James’ blue eyes and you felt both shy and a bit of fury rising within you. Shy because of what you assume is James going to kiss you and fury because of how relentless he was in teasing you. How long was this guy going to make you blush?!

His hand slid up to your cheek and stayed there. Then his long fingers began to gently caress your skin and you had to bite your lips from letting out a breathy sigh. The sensation was cold, so cold, and yet...so nice.

“I have something for you,” James’ voice was a mere whisper now. His hand disappeared from your cheek as he pulled out a small box from his pocket and gave it to you. The box was wrapped in what seemed like expensive gift paper and it was pretty lightweight. 

“W-what is it?” 

James only smiled. “Open it.”

You set the box on the table and unwrapped it. A gasp left your throat when the gift was revealed. It was a beautiful ring and a very expensive one at that. The band was made out of rose gold. Resting on top of the band was a shining diamond, surrounded by crystalline petals that appeared to be in the shape of a moonflower. A moonflower ring. The same ones that you saw whenever you and Nicole visited the jewelry market. You swallowed hard before turning to James, whose smile grew.

“Oh...J-James...thank you. But...how can you afford it? This is really expensive -”

James winked at you. “I’m a demon, remember? I can summon money out of thin air.”

Yeah, but for a price… You thought bitterly as you remembered trying to save someone who was foolish enough to make a deal with a demon. But James definitely wasn’t that cruel to do something like that…

“Oh, James...thank you so much.” You closed the box and held it close to your chest. “But you didn’t have to…” You didn’t know why, but you felt bad that James bought something that cost so much.

“Oh, come now, dear Priestess,” James said in a low voice as he took a step closer to you. His hands slid over your shoulders and pulled you into his bare chest. With your cheek pressed against his cold skin, you nearly fainted. Dammit, just why was James so handsome and sultry?!

“This gift is a symbol of my love for you. So I hope you enjoy my gift. Please, cherish it forever.” At the word “love”, your heart nearly skipped a beat. You felt James press a kiss to your forehead, making you blush even more. “Thanks for the tea and pastries, doll.”

Then just like that fateful night from before, James took a few steps back, never taking his eyes off of you. But this time, you took a step forward, your free hand outstretched towards him. He smiled and brushed his fingers over your hand before he took one last step into a shadowy corner.

“I’ll see you again, my dear Priestess.” Before you could say something, he disappeared. For a while, you stared at the spot where he disappeared, with your face burning hot and the box clutched tightly in your hands. 

“Hey, we’re home! Boy, is it raining hard!” Sam called out from the main corridor, startling you. “Oh what’s that sweet scent?”

You quickly hide the box behind a shelf before going into the corridor to greet your family. 

“Welcome back, everyone!”

                                                                             *~*~*

There was only darkness when the demon entered the old mansion. But he didn’t mind. The darkness felt like home to him. It’s a relief from the annoying sunlight that had peeked out from the clouds now.

“Master,” he called out. “I have returned.”

Footsteps echoed and in the sliver of sunlight, another demon appeared. He looked much more ancient compared to the one who stood before him.

“Welcome back,” his master said. He then frowned rather deeply. “However next time, use the mirror to enter through here. You don’t want to get the attention of the humans, do you?”

The demon scoffed, but then shook his head quickly when his master gave him a look of disapproval. 

“So...” the demon began when his master continued to stare at him.  “I’ve done it.”

His master’s normally cold expression lightened. “Oh? Good. Very good.”

The demon could see the eagerness in his master’s eyes and he couldn’t help but feel a bit prideful.

“Then your next task is to try to find a way to get as close as possible to the Priestess and her sister.  But remember, you must be very, very subtle about it. The slightest mishap and it could be your downfall. Then when they truly put their trust into you, kill them both. Ran’s lineage ends with their deaths. The Kingdom of Larissa will finally be ours.”

Already tasting the glory of victory, the demon smirked and gave a rather mocking bow to his master. “As you wish.”

[fleshblueberry]

Babe wake up im going to rant about my ocs lore because im bored

Tw/cw depression, suicide, kidnapping, addiction, unreality

I write angsty stuff for my ocs oops-

When i first started making my characters they were very different in alot of ways and they were very different from what they are now. But i some how managed to glue all the chaos of my ocs together into a semi-coherent story. I went through an insane amount of world building with myself and i honestly dont think ive ever writen or typed any of it out before! its all just up in my head (and you know my memory is trash so ive probably forgotten of alot of things i made before lol). Anyways- i have two main story lines for my characters. Ethan's story, and Vevlet's story. Although i must admit Ethan's story is less complex than velvets simply beacsue it acts as a story of prequeal to Velvets story line. (Alternate realities that happen to have effect on each other basically- we love space time junk)

Ethan's world is very similar to ours, the most similar out of any of my fantasy worlds lol. Ethan's story revolves around self-discovery. I mean for it to be a wholesome/lighthearted thing that quickly leads up to dark undertones (spoilers lol). Ethan's story begins with Eef pre-transition (AFAB to NB). We get to see Ethan learn about themself and have fun exploring emotions and what it means to be alive. Ethan comes from a run-down family (mom khs, dad mia). So he lives with his adoptive parents (who i have yet to design and think about- theyre lesbians 100% though). A major moment for Eef is meeting his partner Seth. As you already know Ethan and Seth are cute ass boyfriends and stuff but guess what! im jammed their story full of angst and edgy shit bc i "wrote" most of this when i was hella depressed! Anyways Seth's family is like moderally welathy, wealthier than most i would say. Seth catches feelings for the emo chick ofc (forgot to metion Eef was definately a hot goth girl before he transitions).... uh yea anyways seth ends up flirting and crushing on eef and eef is like yea sure im bored and sad why not. and they end up dating after a while. Theres an important moment in their relationship when Ethan take Seth to this dead tree. THis dead tree is very important also bc it is where his mother hanged herself, and Ethan doesnt quite remember that bc he was very young when it happened, but he knows it as a place of comfort and he goes there alot when he feels sad or alone. this tree could be taken as symbolizim but heheh ill never tell. anyways Ethan is like yo my fevorite tree and Seth is like wtf okay bro ily and all but why a dead tree with an unstable tire swing?? ANd ethans like idk but i like it here reminds me of my childhood (op my guy) and they spend the night there. Also when ethan comes out to seth as nonbinary seth is just like ok,,, because hes bisexual lol. anyways time skip and Seth has some addiction problems once he graduates, long story short- Ethan doesnt like it bc his dad was a druggie so he trys to help Seth and Seth raises his voice and ethan is tiny compared to his bf so hes naturally like terrified of being hit and he suddenly feels his world of happy and peace he build back up bieng destroyed once again so he heads to his mothers dead tree and decides life isnt worth it anymore, and he hangs himself in the exact spot his mother did.... once seth comes off one of his highs or whatever hes like- oh fuck i yelled and acted agro to my traumatized partner. and he immedatly goes to the tree bc its Ethans favortie spot but its to late. regret is the only emootion anymore... its over for them.

now youre probably wondering how the absolute hell does that tie into velvets lore?? well do i have a tale for you. Velvets sotry begins on her 21st birthday, she is out for drinks with her douchebag bf and her bestfriend. several drinks later she yells over blaring club music shes going to the restroom, and as shes walking back she sees her bf and her bestie making out and she doesnt even say anyhting and walks out alone. She is making her way back to her apartment very tipsy. She then hears a vechile driving beside her, she cant make out anyhting theyre saying and the people in the car get out and before she even relises whats going on shes thrown into the vechile and is being beaten and yelled at. She passes out as theyre driivng to somewhere. When she next awakes she is in a barn-looking place. Concreate walls painted red and straw all over the floor. she cant stand, her legs stung and so did her entire body. for several days- she doesnt know how long she stayed in this place unable to move or do anything. Weak and starving, she gathered up her last bit of strength and hung herself on a low board (havent really worked out the details on that scence bc i keep changing my mind but she does hang herself). Cut to a space of nothingness- legit nothing- exactly its impossible to imagine nothing. In the nothing sits velvet all skin and bone, and then an entity, a hooded figure with long hair, sits next to her. No words are spoke, but the entity looks at velvet longingly. Then it tears out its eye- just full on plunges its hand into its socket and rips it out. bloody mess honestly. the entity hands its eye to velvet, and she takes it. there is no thoughts here, no sound, only actions. Cut once more to a coriners room place? ya know the place with dead bodies and tables and shit- anyways a bright light emerges from dead!vevlets chest and surrounds her entire body. *cue stunned doctor mans* Velvet arises from her death with her scars healed over and... wings. Yup shes an angel now. I mean her world already had monsters and things of suppernatural belonging but- angels are rare. She makes 1 of 2 angels in their relam as of current. Angels are "made" from regrets. Regret overflowing from two sources- one long dead and the other recent. This is where ethan comes in. Ethan's regret from how he died was powerful and sad, powerful enough for his spirt- an entity- to reach Velvets. Velvet too, had much regret in her death. So young and so many things that could have been avoided. In the days following up to her death in the barn/cellar she only felt regret. Regret for all she did and all she didnt do. So much pain summoned the entity. Their powerful forces of regret pulled them together and allowed Velvet to return- but at a price for the both of them. the entity lost its eye- symbolizing a loss of humanity and conscientiousness. While Velvet lost herself, she no longer can view her world in the same way. She has severe ptsd- like episodes and halucinations. She cant go back, she has to live through he own grief. Velvets appearnace also changes quite a bit. Her hair got longer, she has two sleek gray wings on her back, and- one of her eyes are purple now. why does it hrut her to see that eye? why is it all so familiar yet far away. Her human brain can hardly understand all the changes. But she was gifted this- she knows she must try. And luckily for her society sees angels as higher beings. They are given the umost respect but they are also greatly feared because of how misterious their origins are. The only other known angel meets with velvet quite alot through her story, he will act as a sort of guide/plot device to make things a bit easier for myself (havent worked out his lore tho or even a design for him hjbfkjsdb). Anyways im tired and its 1:35 am so thats all the lore you get for now, plus its the stuff ive thought about the most so- i dont really want to think any furtherb ahead yet lol. to many little things to work out...... i love creating but oml typing hurts after an hour or so-

Jam out!

... I don't even know what to say to this

[missmonsters2]

About You || Part VIII

Gif by: giuliacommissions (please check her out if you’d like to commission her for gifs and other work 💞)

PAIRING: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader/OFC

Summary: Wanda had never known loss like she has until she lost Pietro. It’s debilitating. She can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t even leave her house. Life is fading fast, and she’s not sure if she even wants to hang on. Enter you, a stranger that reconnects her to the daily things that makes life beautiful.

Warnings: Deals with loss & grief and the spectrum of emotions and depression that comes with it. Please note there is no glorification in any of this. Loss, grief, and depression are nothing beautiful. Also, please don’t hesitate or reach out for help if you are in a dark place. Love you, lovelies 💘

Genre: Angst & Romance

NOTE: Okay two more chapters and you finna be shook.

PART I || PART II || PART III || PART IV || PART V || PART VI || PART VII

PART VIII of X

Count: 1520

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"So, you're dating now?"

Wanda smiles as Steve asks the question again, but this time, she won't lie.

"Yes," she tells him and watches him smile widely.

"Exclusivity is beautiful, isn't it?" Steve laughs while Wanda tries to not roll her eyes at his veiled words of 'I told you so.'

"She is beautiful, and she's mine," Wanda softly smiles.

"Are you scared?" He asked.

"Absolutely petrified," she admits, "but I want her more."

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"How was your day?"

The days have been coming to a quiet end, and the evenings after dinner are becoming Wanda's favorite. 

There's something about being full of a warm homecooked meal, and settling on the couch with a fuzzy blanket that excites Wanda.

There's cuddling, hands sneaking under their shirts, and quiet kisses.

"I've got a commission for a painting," Wanda shares the good news which has you smiling.

"That's amazing considering you've been inactive for a year," you rub her back.

"I am amazing," she nods.

"And so humble," you laugh, pressing a kiss to her brow.

Wanda hums, sighing against the gesture of affections.

It's quiet, nothing but the TV playing mindlessly in the background as you enjoy each other's company.

"Do you ever miss your brother? Or the other guy?" Wanda asks, playing with the ends of your shirt.

"I think about them often, but I don't always miss them," you explain to her. 

It was something Wanda feared. All she had left of Pietro were memories, and if she didn't miss him all the time, then what becomes of the memories?

You trace a line down Wanda's back, eliciting a shiver.

"We are not always grieving, and we are not forgetting. Growing means we can appreciate the past in the new light."

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"Where is she?" Natasha asks, digging into her salad while Wanda is painting.

"She's back at work," Wanda replies as she dips her brush into more water.

"And you're painting again," Natasha notes.

"Inspiration hits at the oddest times," Wanda smiles.

Natasha had seen Wanda shift many times. The hardest was seeing the girl grieve. There was nothing that could describe how she felt watching the life fade from her friend's eyes, the weight she has lost, and the trashed canvases. 

But she had seen Wanda shift again when you came. It was slow, and Natasha is sure Wanda was barely tolerating your presence at first. But it was small and steady. The eating, the curiosity, and the waiting Natasha saw were wonderous. 

"Do you still think about Pietro?" Natasha asks softly.

"Yes," Wanda admits, "All the time."

"Does it still hurt?"

"No," Wanda slowly answers.

She doesn't say much else, but Wanda can tell that Natasha wants to ask her why. 

It was only something that Wanda had discovered over the last few days. 

Wanda dips her brush in more water.

"Have you ever read the Children's Book, 'The Invisible String'?" Wanda asks, hearing Natasha hum in return.

"Pietro read to me all the time as a kid, especially after our parents died," Wanda dipped her brush in some blue paint. "I thought my string with Pietro was cut because I kept tugging on it, and I didn't know if Pietro could feel it."

"And?" Natasha asked.

"I think the string got so tangled with me constantly pulling on it that I forgot that the string still exists because I still feel the tug of it," Wanda stares at her painting. "You know what I think?"

"What?" Natasha asks with a smile.

"I think the string exists as long as I exist."

Natasha is happy with Wanda's answer. She finishes her salad before she watches her friend finish painting.

"You like watercolor?"

Wanda dipped her brush in water, looking at the lines that she drew underneath the paint.

"Yeah, it's truly a work of art."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

The sheets shuffled around as you felt Wanda get out of bed. 

It turns out, Wanda gets the best hit of motivation and inspiration just as the sun comes up. She leaves to go to her studio to start painting but always makes sure to come back to wake you up with a kiss and tea.

You feel a tug on your left hand, and something cool being pressed across, before a rush of cool air being blow. But for the sake of Wanda, you keep your eyes closed.

When you wake up, you see a thin, red, squabbly circle painted around your wrist.

Then across your forearm, there was a scribbled message.

Your string leads to mine, should I show you?

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"How do you know mine leads to yours?" 

You're sitting together at the counter with Wanda, tea, and coffee in hand before going to work.

"Because when you miss me, I feel it tugging on my heart," Wanda smiles sleepily.

"And when you miss me?" You ask with a tilt of your head and a grin.

"Then, I'm vigorously sending my love through the string until it tugs on your heart."

You can't help but smile wider because Wanda has such a way with words, and she's so honest and endearing. 

Wanda sets her cup down, opening her arms until you come to settle into her arms, leaning on her.

You kiss the crown of her head, running your fingers through her unruly hair, laughing when it doesn't quite make a difference.

"I love the mornings with you," Wanda mumbles.

"You didn't before?"

"I couldn't stop thinking about how it was all temporary before, that eventually, you would leave and I would be alone."

"We're not always together, though," you remind her, brushing her hair slightly to the side.

"Even when we're apart, I think about how you'll come home to me," Wanda licks her lip.

You swallow, your heart feeling a little too full, and the only way to manage it is to press your lips to Wanda's. 

They're in the privacy of their own home, but it felt scandalous to feel your hand underneath Wanda's shirt, your warm palm pressing between her bare shoulder blades.

You watch as Wanda's eyes flutter.

"What are you thinking about?" You ask against Wanda's lips.

"I'm thinking about how I'm in love with you."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Days off were rare, but Wanda loved every time she got to laze around with you at 2PM on a Thursday.

You were currently on the couch, hoarding her right hand, grinning as you saw the same painted thin, red, squabbly circle. 

There have been talks about tattooing it, but for now, Wanda diligently draws them on every day.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't move," you whine.

Wanda watches you with a slow smile as she feels scribbling on her arm.

When you finish, you give her a kiss right smack on her lips before going to grab late lunch. Or early dinner.

Wanda looks to see what you've written.

наша любовь это произведение искусства.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Steve watched with happiness as Wanda chopped the vegetables. 

"How's the painting going?"

"It's going," Wanda shrugs. Inspiration comes and goes, but she's close to finishing it.

"You should open your own gallery," Steve says. "I'll threaten people to come to opening night."

Wanda lets out a laugh knowing Steve would actually be politely handing out flyers. Steve closes his eyes, a joy from being about to hear such a sound from his friend again.

"How are things with her?" Steve asks, watching the way Wanda's eyes light up ever so subtly.

"She wants to find a new place with me," Wanda smiles.

"Why doesn't she move here?" Steve asks.

Wanda tilts her head, looking down at her vegetables.

"It takes her forever to get work. I want to be able to give her something too for all that she's done."

Steve settles into a soft smile, his eye catching something on Wanda's forearm. 

"Is that Russian?" He asks.

Wanda catches him staring at her arm and flushes slightly.

"Yes," she tells him.

"What's it mean?"

"It means our love is a work of art."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"Wanda...Wanda..."

Wanda wakes up groggily to see you hovering over her with a frown.

"What's wrong?" She asks as you lie your head back down on the pillow facing her.

"What if...what if our string gets tangled or breaks?"

Wanda can tell you've had a bad dream. 

And for once, she's the courageous one, ready to offer you reassurances.

She rolls over, pushing you on your back, hovering over you with her body pressed to yours as her fingers slide against your jaw.

"Our string can get tangled, it can be pulled on, it can even get lost," Wanda says, her breath on your lips. "But it will never break because as long as we exist, we will always find a way to each other."

Tears spill over your eyes as Wanda kisses you deep and slow.

That morning when you wake up, surprised to have slept through Wanda waking up. 

You see the diligently painted red thin circle around your wrist, and the words this morning makes you cry.

If anyone could show me life is worth living, it is you.

PART IX

[jenovahh]

The Honey Pot - Ch. 26 - Irrational

“Oh thank the Twelve, you’re coming to.”

Blinking your eyes, you feel like you’ve been floating in space and have finally come down to earth, your limbs feeling heavy after being suspended in zero-gravity. You’ve been passing out too much lately you think, circumstances be damned.

Milky eyes that belong to a powdery face come into focus, Merlwyb the picture of worry as she calls for a doctor to check on your condition.

“Chief Merlwyb?” you cough, a glass of water held in front of you before you can even ask, Merlwyb slipping a straw inside and gently holding it towards your face. Mumbling a word of thanks, you take a sip, the water refreshing and quenching as you nearly down the whole cup until Merlwyb draws it away.

“I think you should slow it down. From what I understand, they were having to reintroduce you to food.” Merlwyb murmurs, setting the cup down on a nearby nightstand. Taking a look around you’re back in the same makeshift sick room within Cid’s mansion, IV hooked up to your arm as it pumps you full of whatever is in the bag attached to it. The doctor shows up soon enough, giving you a quick once over as she makes sure you’re on the mend.

As the doctor asks you a few questions, you notice Merlwyb looking incredibly guilty, wondering if she really feels so bad you had gotten captured. Surely she can’t be beating herself up over that?

“And if I may ask,” the doctor begins but Merlwyb holds up a hand gently.

“If it is alright with you doctor, I would like to speak to my officer about this alone.” Merlwyb interrupts, the doctor giving a nod of understanding, saying nothing more as she exits the room. Turning to you, Merlwyb’s fists are clenched tightly in her lap, and you get too worried to keep your peace.

“Is everything okay?” you ask with a broken laugh. “I mean, I know it was scary, Varis locking me up, but I’m okay. I’m okay.” You grin, reaching out to try to console her but she jerks away. “Chief,”

“Do not call me that.” She bites out, the harshness of her voice shocking you. A little hurt, you begin to question what you could’ve done to warrant such a flip in her attitude, until you see she is shaking with unshed tears, liquid pooling in the corners of her eyes as she finally gains the will to meet you eye to eye. “Do not refer to me with such respect after I’ve failed you so catastrophically.”

Confused, you shift to try and sit up a little better. “Chief Merlwyb, what do you mean? I thought we went over all the risks at the start! We knew that this would be a dangerous job,”

“The job would be dangerous, yes! But never would I have made you become pregnant with that bastard’s child!” She cries, tears finally running down her face. You sit in perfect stillness, unsure what to say. Faced with the reality of having to explain that you were not only pregnant with Zenos’ child, but that you didn’t even feel bad about it. When Varis had revealed that same fact to you, you didn’t even care.

“We sent you to simply try and catch his son in the act. To give us any kind of proof of illegal activity. Only to realize too late we had put you in that monster’s hands!” Merlwyb sobs, clutching your hands within her own. “When I had said that you must protect the mission at any cost, I never meant that you had to bear Varis’ child. That you would have to accept him forcing himself upon you.”

Eyes widening as you see the cause of her grief, you fumble to try and find your right words. “Chief, I...did the doctor,”

“The only one that knows is myself and Cid. Cid is busy preparing other avenues to try and handle Varis.” Merlwyb grumbles, over the worst of her crying. “He was appalled to learn of this, he had--”

“Please, please, stop right there.” You groan, sick at the thought of if things really had gotten to where they assumed they had. Taking a deep breath, you fix Merlwyb with a guilty look of your own. “Never would I have guessed the famed Annihilator to be a crier.” You joke weakly, watching as she seems to lighten the tiniest bit.

“Strong I may be, but I am not immune to the suffering of my officers.” She sniffs, rubbing your hands with her larger ones.

Looking at your hands joined together in your lap, you struggle on what to say next. “While I’m...glad you feel such concern with me...things didn’t get that far. Not with Varis.”

Brows furrowing, Merlwyb shifts closer to you in her seat. “What do you mean?”

Breathing deeply, you try to get everything out in one breath. “I will not deny it. What led to me being locked away was actually due to Varis trying to force himself on me.” Saying it nearly makes you throw up, tilting your head back as you take calming breaths. “He had drugged me with a substance mixed with aether rendering me unable to move. If his right hand man hadn’t shown up when he did...then he would have--” You nearly throw up again, having to keep the bile down as your body breaks out in a cold sweat.

“You don’t have to talk about this.” Merlwyb consoles, rubbing your back gently.

“No. Because I need to...I need to explain.” You sigh, feeling weary already. “What I’m trying to say is, Varis only tried to force himself on me before he locked me away. And...if my math is right, I should be a month or two along.” Placing a hand on your stomach, you rub it gently. “It’s not his.”

A mix of relief and worry passes through Merlwyb’s face, standing to her feet. “Thank the Twelve it isn’t so. I must tell Cid,”

“It’s Zenos’.” you cut off before she can even leave your side.

She stops in place immediately, shocked by your words as much as you are having said them. To put out in the universe you are carrying the child of someone you once thought a monster.

“Honey…” she whispers, sitting by your side once more. “Honey, did he,”

Shaking your head furiously, you refuse to meet her surely judgemental gaze. “No. I...it was consensual. Multiple times. I…” swallowing your fear, you press on. “I was so stressed from working for Varis, my health suffered. I stopped taking supplements, vitamins, and my birth control. I had met with Zenos that day when Raubahn died and one thing led to another.”

As tears leak from your eyes as you finally give voice to your shame, you still cannot bear to face her scorn. “I tried to hate him. I tried to hate him for so long, but he…” you sob, wiping furiously at your tears, “he’s the only one that understands me. The only one who’s strong enough, the only one who makes me happy. I didn’t even blink when Varis told me I was pregnant with his kid, I didn’t even feel sad. How fucked up am I for falling for him?!” You laugh, the sound broken and mangled. “I’m a failure to the mission, Raubahn would be ashamed--”

Merlwyb crushes you in her arms, ceasing your downward spiral. She says nothing, merely holding you tightly as your tears catch in her shirt, clutching you tight as she buries her face in your hair. “Honey...no matter what I better not hear such self deprecating language from you ever again.” She whispers, stroking your head softly. “Raubahn would be proud. You’ve survived. You are alive. And that’s all we ever wanted. For you to come home.”

“But I--”

“No ‘buts’.” She interjects, pulling away to give you the stern look you had known her for. “Not to throw him under the bus, but Cid had already filled me in on your entanglement with his bodyguard and Zenos respectively. I can’t lie that at first I was alarmed, but when he recounted all the trauma he had known you had gone through, how he could see you warp and change...I could not think to hold it against you. And neither would Raubahn.”

You weep thankful tears at her words, a weight lifted from your shoulders at her comfort. You embrace each other once more, wrapping yourself in the comfort of simply being held, knowing you both have been through the wringer these past few days.

Merlwyb notices your eyes begin to droop, promising to see you again when you wake up next. She would go off to find Cid and relay what you had told her in a calmer, less emotional fashion, sparing you the risk of potentially triggering yourself. You allow yourself a few more hours rest, drifting thoughtlessly as you have the most restful sleep you had in what had apparently been weeks.

Two weeks had Varis managed to stow you away, Cid and Merlwyb knowing something was wrong when they hadn’t heard hide or hair of you in two days. The phone Cid had given you had been confiscated and destroyed, giving them no idea on how to find you. They had been sick with worry with no way to find out what happened until Zenos had showed up on Cid’s doorstep in the dead of night, demanding that you be saved. Cid had immediately called for his personal doctor to begin treating you, bringing you to the present.

Even while you rest, your thoughts are too tumultuous to let you sleep long, the steady drip of your IV and the light buzz of the alarm clock on your nightstand your only companions when you wake. It is a few hours past midnight, the mansion quiet, but in a good way unlike the Galvus estate. There’s just enough white noise in the halls that gives a comfortable ambience, a home that is lived in, prompting you to drag yourself out of bed and into some slippers to walk a bit to maybe tire your mind a bit to go back to sleep.

Forced to drag your IV pump around with you, you shuffle down the hall, enjoying the peace as you let your feet aimlessly wander. Though you know Cid was prone to all nighters if he was knee deep in a project, something tells you he’s fast asleep. Making your way downstairs you enjoy the calm of his mansion at night, slipping past the many doors as you struggle to not bump your shin into any unsuspecting furniture.

As you pass through the living room, you hear grunting, looking through one of the many floor to ceiling windows to spot Zenos outside, running through his practice routines. His golden hair now looks to be made of spun ivory under the moonlight, muscles flexing with every movement as he swings his sword through the air. Each strike is precise, measured as he hones his skill, a fierce determination on his face as he snarls his frustration.

Heading to the sliding door, you gently push it open, the warm night air soothing you instantly as you stand in the doorway, watching him quietly. You’re surprised he’s yet to notice your presence, too focused on whatever he’s thinking about to catch you watching him. Leaning against the doorframe, you’re content to watch how his body flows effortlessly through each stance, dressed in his usual workout attire, clinging to him like a second skin.

It is only when he spins does he take note of you at the door, uncharacteristically startled before a shadow of guilt darkens his features. Frowning, you move to join him in the yard only for him to give you a look that promises retribution if you move from your spot at the door. “What are you doing here?”

Tutting, you stand up straight. “From what I heard, you brought me here.”

“That’s not what I,” he pauses, turning away from you for a moment. “I meant what are you doing outside? You should be inside, resting.”

“I was trying,” you grumble, stepping out onto the manicured grass, dragging the IV pump along uneven ground. He turns to you once more, unable to meet your eyes. “I couldn’t sleep, probably because I had spent the past two weeks being made to sleep. My body’s quite sick of it, I think.” You joke lightly, coming to stand before him.

He still won’t meet your gaze, which is strange in and of itself. Creeping closer, he shifts away and you frown, trying to peek under his fringe of hair. “Zenos? What’s the matter?” you ask, reaching out for his hand but he jerks it away.

“What do you want?” he snarls, eyes furious. Though you begin to get angry, you take a step back and look at the situation. Though your memories are hazy, you can remember his desperation to get you out of that facility. His worry at seeing you look so frail and weak. The guilt you had seen once he had realized you were there--

He was scared.

Lowering yourself to the ground, you can’t help but laugh a little at how he casts his sword to the ground while reaching to catch you in the same motion, uncaring of where his blade ends up. “I’m not dying, Zenos. I’m not falling apart.” you sigh wistfully, motioning to the ground for him to sit next to you.

Pursing his lips, he seems to debate between picking you up and carrying you back inside, versus giving into your whims. “You’ve not seen the horrors of my father’s experiments.” He answers instead, lowering himself to the cool grass to your side, one knee bent with the other leg extended before him. You relish in his slight intake of breath as you shuffle to be closer to him, leaning upon his warmth. It’s not too cool out, but the furnace that is his body isn’t unpleasant. “But I suppose for that, I am thankful.”

“I’ve not. And I’m glad I didn’t.” you murmur, relaxing immediately from his presence alone.

The two of you are quiet, Zenos stiff as if he does not know what to do with this nearness from you. “I...I’m glad I had found you in the condition I had. I had feared the worst.” he admits, which coming from him, is no small feat.

Gazing up at the moon, you rest your weight fully upon him, his arm naturally coming to support you and hold you close, almost as if on instinct. His hand seems unsure where to place itself, so you help by gently coaxing it to sling around your waist, linking your fingers with his. “He had told me so many horrible things. He told me how awfully he would treat you.” you murmur, satisfied to stay just like this.

“What did he tell you?”

His voice is guarded, cornered. Scared.

“He told me...that he forced himself on your mother.” You answer, unable to look him in the face.

He tenses then, skin heating before you tighten your grip on his hand, hearing his deep breaths behind you as he calms himself down. “The story the public knows is that my mother passed away due to sickness. Only a select few know the truth.” His voice is far away, distant, as if lost within a nightmare. “After all, it’s not really palatable to have it leak out that your father had threatened to have your mother killed if she tried to run. That when she felt she had no option left, she had killed herself.”

Gasping, you turn in his arms to look at him, finding nothing but an emotionless gaze staring back. You can see the truth in his eyes, a pain so guarded and so deep that you wonder if this is the first time he’s told anyone else. “Zenos,”

“After all, wouldn’t you do the same? Would you not burst into hysterics upon looking at the child you not only had forced upon you, but were also forced to bear?” he laughs humorlessly, as if the joke is tired and worn out, the punchline having lost its kick.

You wonder if he can hear your heart breaking.

“Zenos,” you whisper carefully, reaching with both hands to cup his face, feeling its warmth but a cold expression is all you get in return.

“I do not need your pity.” he snips, though he makes no move to push you away. “I’ve had my share of it. And for what? It would not bring my mother back. Not that she would want to stay anyway. Not when she gave birth to a monster.”

Tears pool in your eyes at his words, wondering how much he had of this locked up inside, and for how long?

How long had he not known love?

One of his hands reaches up to dab at a tear trailing down your cheek, frowning as he does so. “Why do you cry? I told you I didn’t want your pity.”

“I’m crying for you.” You murmur, turning in his hold to be on your knees, crowding closer to where he parts his legs more to give you room to sit between them. “Because you’ve not had the chance to do it for yourself.”

His lips part at that, emotions of all kinds warring on his face before he settles on anger. “You are a fool if you think that would change things.”

“I’m not trying to change things you idiot!” you whisper harshly, not wanting to yell and potentially wake anyone up. “You come and save me from being experimented upon by your father until I die and you don’t want me to show you I’m at least a little grateful? When I had started to believe that no one would come for me and you carried me out in your arms?”

“Sweet words won’t excuse your cowardice.” he growls, trying to pull away. “That even after you apologized, you had gone running back into my father’s arms.”

“For you!” You snap, clutching his face desperately.

Confused, he shakes his head. “What do you--”

“You think I would go back to the asshole willingly?” you seethe, begging him to understand. “That me, a cop, would want anything to do with his desire to be a dictator? To remember the good ole days of imperial rule?” Despite your earlier reservations, you raise your voice with every question. “Do you know how much it hurt to be apart from you? To see the betrayal in your eyes as I left your side for no other reason than to try and take your father down so you would be free from his influence? To fall for you--”

Your words catch in your throat, unable to take them back. The two of you only stare at one another, wide eyed and frozen as your unsaid words hang between you, wishing you could simply disappear. Zenos is solid as a board and your heart sinks, releasing his face as you begin to stand. “I should get back inside,”

He pulls you back to him forcefully, not letting you flee back to the safety of your room. You try to tug away but you’re still too weak to fight against his might, huffing and puffing for him to release you as you try to run from the shame of your actions. “Let go of me,” you whine, resisting his touch as he wraps his arm around you like a vice, refusing to let you go anywhere.

The rough pads of his fingers urge you to face him as you squirm in his arms, not wanting to face him, to face your feelings. “Honey.” He breathes, finally getting you at a suitable angle to press his lips to yours, ashamed at how easily you melt in his arms. He deepens the kiss, full of all the passion, the emotion you now know he’s capable of, threading his fingers into your hair as you rest your hands upon his chest before looping around his shoulders.

The kiss is all passion, all affection, all possession as your tongues dance together, as teeth nibble each other's lips, as you breathe each other's air. You fall into him just as easily as you did the first time, wondering how on earth did you get here? It is only when he feels you crying again does he pull apart, dabbing gently at your tears with an indescribable emotion upon his angelic features.

“You would run because you’re afraid of what you feel for me?” he asks, holding you as if you were made of the most delicate glass. The same man who had no problem flipping you over his back, grappling you like a wrestler, was now cradling you as if you were the most important thing in the world to him. “I have never run from how I feel for you, even if I cannot understand it. I have only wanted you. It can only be you.”

“You don’t get it!” You sob, pounding your fists on his chest. “I love you, you idiot! I was sent to try and take you and your father down and look where I am! I fell for you instead, I’m having your ch--” you stop yourself once again, afraid of what he would possibly think.

“I do not know love but I do know I would have no other. Is that not good enough?” he asks, desperate to understand, and Twelve above you wish he did. Perhaps he loves you in his own way, but there’s so much of him that needs healing, so many bad habits he needs to break before you could truly be by his side. It occurs to you only now that you looked at him through rose-tinted glasses, seeing nothing but the happiness he brought you, and you alone.

A child brings new questions into the mix.

Would he treat the child the same way he treated you? Would he fall into the bad habits of his father, having no good example of how to be a parent? Continuing a cycle of abuse because he had never known love? Would he train that child for the sole purpose of becoming stronger, unsatisfied until either of them fell in battle?

Deep down you knew you were being foolish, but fear overcame reason as you kept your eyes shut tight, crying against his chest as he held you. It was such an irrational fear, one you were completely self aware of, but that did not stop you from crying, nor did it stop you from falling into his embrace as he kissed you once more.

You are no stranger to Zenos’ touch, though you are a stranger to how gently he treats you as you recover from being detained by Varis. Only with your permission do you allow him to visit, except visitation is not satisfactory. He all but moves into your room, seeing to your needs during the day until he goes about his own business before returning to you at night. He’s always there to bring you your meals, sitting in comfortable silence or making light conversation, making you remember just how much you loved him, until he reminded you just how much you needed to run away when this was all over.

You only wish he knew how hard he was making it for you.

There wasn’t a need of yours that wasn’t seen to by Zenos personally. Whatever you wanted to eat, he went and got it. If you wanted to walk around, he was the one to pull your IV pump along, leaving you free to simply stretch your legs. From fluffing your pillow to simply being a warm body to hold at night, there was nothing he would not do for your sake.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

As you recuperated and strength once again flowed through your limbs, he turned into your physical therapist, helping you stretch your muscles and make you limber enough to fight again. He would only spar lightly at your request, making you feign exhaustion so he didn’t feel angry for making himself hold back. Naturally you made sure to avoid all blows to your abdominal area, flowing like water around his strikes, taking a more defensive approach, which you thought would make him angry.

It had the opposite effect. It seemed to only make him want you more, pursuing you like a man possessed, fucking you into the floor until your voice was hoarse from crying out his name.

This is how I got here in the first place, you grumble to yourself, walking with him to meet up with Cid and Merlwyb on another part of the estate. There was hardly a day he was not by your side, something you did not mind after spending so long apart, but you began to think it strange considering the circumstances. Varis had to be wondering where he was. But if Zenos was not worried, you figured you shouldn’t be either.

Reaching the conference room turned “briefing room”, you give a small wave to Cid and Merlwyb who greet you in return. “You’re looking better by the day, Honey. I’m glad to see you’re making a recovery.” Cid welcomes, standing from his chair to come give you a hug. You return it with equal measure, glad to have people on your side. “Please sit. We haven’t been waiting long.”

Nodding, you pull a chair out from the table, not at all surprised as Zenos takes a seat in the one directly next to you. “I’m sorry to delay everything for so long.”

“Your recovery was paramount, Honey.” Merlwyb speaks up, giving you a serious look. “You have shouldered so much of this upon your back. There is no way we could ask you to put your life on the line anymore than we already have.”

“But I want to. I want to take him down.” You insist, refusing to take no for an answer. Merlwyb looks ready to argue but Cid quickly interjects, physically leaning between the two of you.

“Easy there, ladies. We’ve got a common goal, and let’s just look at the facts before we start making plans.” Cid offers in the interest of neutrality, slowly sitting back down in his chair. “We’ve got quite a bit of information to catch Honey up on anyway.” He sighs, reaching for a remote and turning on the mounted TV. The screen is paused with Varis’ face on it, a news ticker reading “Varis Unveils Revolutionary Technology”, your heart immediately sinking.

“This has been on the news for nearly two weeks. Yes, it’s exactly what you’re thinking. Varis has revealed his ‘discovery’ of aether upon your capture.” Cid grounds out, clicking on the remote to start the clip. It is silent, but the clip continues to play, allowing Cid to speak. “It’s been a nightmare since. I’ve been called by more news outlets than I care to remember asking for my response.”

Sadness creeps into his features as he watches the TV with a forlorn expression. “As I had told you, my father’s laboratory had burned down, leaving me with no physical proof that it was he who originally discovered aether. All I have is my word against his ‘proof’.” Banging his fist against the table, he runs his hands through his hair. “It’s infuriating.”

Clicking the remote a different press conference plays on the TV, Varis showing off different bits of technology powered by aether. "He's got the public in the palm of his hand. Everyone's dazzled by the power of aether, but of course only we know the truth. We know that aether is not to be messed with, that it is dangerous and more powerful than we could possibly comprehend." Cid explains, tapping his fingers against the table. "I've considered trying to make my own sample, to show what a volatile resource it is…"

"We already discussed this Cid. Absolutely not." Merlwyb interjects. Their interaction comes as a slight surprise. Merlwyb was Cid’s senior by barely a decade, but within the past month they became fast friends. "Varis has already tried to take your life once and is already so sure of his victory that he's content to leave you alone for now. Let's not give him reason to try and take you out."

Nodding grimly, Cid turns back to you. "As you can see, we've got our hands tied. Varis is, if anything thorough, making it hard to plan any sort of move. We're running out of time."

Gnawing your lip, you find yourself focusing on what Merlwyb had said. "If...do you think he would try and target Lord Hien?" The room is completely silent, and you don’t know if it’s because they find the notion preposterous, or they wonder how the thought has never crossed their mind. “I mean, clearly Varis has to think he’s nigh untouchable now. He’s attempted to kill Cid once without facing any consequences. He successfully killed Raubahn and forced Merlwyb into hiding. Don’t you think…?”

Cid drags his hands over his face, heaving out a dry laugh. “Nymeia save me, I think you might be onto something.”

“But Cid, why would he need to kill Hien? The election is so close, he’s already done so much to make himself look like the ideal candidate. What more could killing Hien do for him?” Merlwyb questions, posing some good points.

“An easy win.”

The three of you turn to Zenos who has remained uncharacteristically quiet this entire exchange. “Honey has been around my father long enough by now to understand how he thinks. However, as his son,” he grounds out, “I have intimate knowledge of how his mind works.” Shifting in his seat, he sighs. “Before he had stopped telling me of his plans, he thought himself untouchable; he had evaded you all for decades.” He explains, looking pointedly at Merlwyb before his gaze shifts to Cid. “And the only one who could ever bring any evidence against him had no physical proof, nor the courage to say anything.”

Giving a frustrated sigh, Cid turns once again to the TV. “I can’t deny that. My own cowardice has allowed this to go on for as long as it has.” Cid murmurs, fidgeting with the remote in his hand.

“And if he were to kill Hien, who could stop him?” Zenos asks, glancing around the table. “The Chief has been killed, and the only other ‘good cop’ remains hidden for her own safety. Who is next in command to take Raubahn Aldynn’s place?”

You gasp, turning to Zenos. “Ilberd.”

Shrugging, the heir goes back to looking bored once again. “With his longtime supporter at the head of police, it would be no problem to have Hien’s death look like nothing more than an accident even if he shot him point blank on national television.”

“Twelve above…” Merlwyb whispers, burying her face in her hand. “Decades worth of planning. Decades worth of moves. I had always suspected Ilberd, but on this large a scale…” Gasping, her eyes widened in horror. “By the Twelve, he has the entire police force under his control. If he wins the seat, he would have an entire army--”

The room is silent once again, the three of you processing the scope of Varis’ plans. When he boasted of his intellect, you had thought little of it, knowing that like any businessman he was educated, but to be so thorough, to make the right connections, to plan this far ahead…

Clenching your fist, you stand to your feet. “We have to save Lord Hien.”

“I don’t disagree, but--”

“But what, Chief Merlwyb? I refuse to have another person die because of that bastard!” Your chest is heaving, Cid looking surprised at your outburst while Merlwyb maintains her composure, giving you a knowing look.

“Honey, please calm down.” She urges, reaching across the table to place her hand atop of your own. Something silent passes between the two of you and you take a few calming breaths, sitting back in your seat. “If you will allow me to finish, what I was trying to say is that this is not something we can go into guns blazing. We are dealing with a man who knows how to run circles around the law; this I know well. We will have to make a plan that is fool proof and draws no attention to us.” Her eyes turn to the heir sitting by your side. “Especially now that we’ve got his son on our side.”

At that Zenos fixes Merlwyb with a hot glare. “And where did you get the notion that I would be assisting you in any way, shape, or form?” Zenos asks, his voice even and neutral, but you can see the rage within his eyes.

“If you are not helping us, then why have you stayed here, Zenos?” Cid asks sternly.

“Is it not obvious?” Zenos scoffs, eyes upon you. “My only focus has been, and always will be Honey. But even then…” Something haunting passes through his eyes, seeming far away before coming back to the present. “...even then I could not aid you. I cannot go against my father, but I will no longer aid him either.” Standing to his feet, he prepares to leave but you snag his hand, giving him a pleading look.

“Zenos...I,” you begin, unsure what to say. “We could use your help.”

Shaking his head, he tugs his hand free and continues on his way, saying nothing else. Your heart breaks that much more to see him go.

Stewing in your thoughts a bit, you find yourself a bit hurt at Zenos’ refusal to take down his father, but try to think about it calmly. Given what he revealed to you, that his own mother did not want him, saw him as a monster, who knows what psychological damage had been done to him to make him unwilling to raise a hand against his father?

You’d make a point to ask him about it later, but for the time being, you needed to make a plan. “We’ll have to carry on without Zenos. He’s not against us, which is almost the same as being on our side. Trust me...if Zenos did truly serve his father and Varis had kept me hidden, the only being who can take Zenos down, Varis truly would be unstoppable.” Cid and Merlwyb nod grimly at your words, having no other choice. “Do we have any way of contacting Lord Hien?”

“I have his number due to working with him for the...rally. The only problem is he’s surely seen my funeral and thinks me dead.” Merlwyb answers, flipping through her phone.

“In that case, perhaps Cid can give a call, especially since he has the technology to make sure it isn’t tampered with.” You direct, having taken the lead. “We’ll call Lord Hien and apprise him of as much information as we can. If I have to go in and make the rescue myself, then so be it.”

“Absolutely not.” Cid interjects, eyebrows pinched together. “I will not have you shouldering this entire operation again. Besides, if you’re not familiar with Lord Hien, he’s got an excellent shadow of his own I hear. Yugiri, I believe her name is. What she lacks in your sheer strength she more than makes up for in stealth. In fact, she just might be our ticket to get Lord Hien to safety.”

Unfortunately, Lord Hien has other plans.

Cid contacts Hien as promised, relaying as much information in as little time as possible. Lord Hien expresses his concern and guilt for the recent happenings, and due to the credibility of your accusations, hears you out.

However, he will not escape.

“But Lord Hien,”

The three of you are seated in the same conference room, staring at the TV screen where current Kugane Prime Minister, Lord Hien sits staring back.

“I understand your concern, Mr. Garlond,” Hien pauses, handsome face deadly serious. “But this would be a terrible time to abandon the public. I would go as far to say that my sudden disappearance would only usher Varis into his seat faster.”

Biting your lip, you can’t deny he’s right, but still you worry. “But we can’t let him get to you either!”

“Do not worry for me, my friends.” Hien smiles, as if all will be well. “I did not say I won’t take safety measures. I will remain out of the public eye, and stay hidden with those who I know are loyal to me. These past few years as Prime Minister have allowed me the opportunity to gain many allies.” Hien explains calmly, pausing to take a sip of water. “This will also allow me to help you behind the scenes as well.”

“While we appreciate your aid, Lord Hien, this entire operation is contingent on you living. Will you not reconsider coming into our custody where we know we can protect you?” Merlwyb asks, sounding as strong as ever.

“The operation does not revolve around me, my friends. It revolves around Varis atoning for the crimes he has committed against the people.” Hien frowns, threading his hands together. “He has murdered civilians he is desperate to rule over. Lied and stolen from his constituents. While Kugane needs a good leader, yes, it does not have to be me.” Smiling, something about him makes you wish you knew that kind of calm. “While I appreciate that you want me to remain in my seat, what matters most is his crimes coming to light and being locked away for what he’s done.”

Unable to argue against that kind of logic, you merely stand from your seat. “I understand. I need a moment of rest, so if you will excuse me.”

Not stopping to hear what anyone has to say, you flee from the room, allowing your feet to carry you anywhere within the estate.

Lord Hien either put too much faith in you, or he was a fool.

His certainty that all would be well, that things would work out, where did it come from? You could see his appeal, a confident, easy going charisma backed by an unwavering sense of justice, of doing right by the people. All the things that Varis lacked, that would make Hien the ideal candidate for Kugane.

But he was right. No matter how ideal he was, what mattered most was making sure Varis did not come into power. Even if it meant Hien somehow died in the process.

It was a tough pill to swallow, that Lord Hien was so okay with being a willing target so long as Varis was brought to justice. It made you feel as if his life was in your hands, a deeper part of you whispering to trust in his words, that he would do his best to keep himself safe.

Coming to a stop to a door leading outside, you step out into warm, summer air, feeling the grass between your toes. Days like these did wonder for your mood, making sure you made a point to keep as much stress off of you as possible. With everything going on, it was hard to do, but Merlwyb had aided in that department, making sure you kept your temper in check for the sake of the child growing inside of you.

The thought of getting rid of it had occurred to you more than once, to simply rid yourself of all the “what ifs” and “maybes” and be done with it. But each time you did, you found yourself weakened by the thought of being able to give your child everything you didn’t have. To raise her with the same love and adoration in which Minfilia had raised you.

When this was all said and done, you would have plenty of time to make your escape. Perhaps you would flee to Eorzea, make a new life and name for yourself there. You doubt Zenos would care enough to spend time to track you down on another continent, making it the ideal place to start anew. You could get a new home. You could find a new job.

You could continue running away from the best thing to ever happen to you.

[caffeineivore]

For @apsaraqueen

This was written as cheerupemofic for BAMF a few weeks-ish ago, I think? Never got around to posting it but here it goes. Somewhat experimental R/J. Some angst but... it’s, uh, for BAMF? So. Yeah.

***

“Love is so short, forgetting is so long.” - Pablo Neruda

I.

The Moon is beautiful and stately, all marble palaces and graceful domes, but leached of colour in an eerie wash of silvery white. Jikokuten takes a knee in the throne room and looks askance at the royals, for even they blend into this ghostly dream-world with their pearlescent gowns and platinum locks. The weather and grounds are flawless, not a single leaf or stone out of place. It’s almost too perfect-- ominously so-- and to one whose kingdom only dons white for mourning, it’s jarring. 

And then he sees the High Queen’s court file in, the warrior princesses of legend, flanking the throne two by two, and there she is, a spot of scarlet in the sea of white. Ebony hair and auspicious red skirts, eyes like the twilight sky before it turns full dark. He blinks, and his heart stutters. 

II.

The sheep are languishing in the heat, and getting leaner by the day with nothing but dry brush to eat, and Jochi coaxes some of his own water onto the littlest and weakest of the lambs. It’s foolish, and more than likely the little animal would die anyway, too malnourished to survive the drought which had blighted the steppes this summer. His father had always railed at him for being too soft-hearted, too foolish and un-Mongolian, but a part of Jochi always had perhaps too much sympathy for the foundlings and the weaker ones. There is a nebulous memory, perhaps not his own, of standing up for a boy with eyes like the open sky and a shock of black hair from-- what? He doesn’t quite know.

He hears the sound of hoofbeats-- it is a grand procession, the entourage of one of the Khans, and that is both blessing and curse, for they would surely bring much-needed supplies and victuals if returning from a successful raid, but just as surely would bring death and doom against any interlopers or opposing factions. Jochi’s yellow hair would stand out like a beacon, and so he pulls up his hood despite the summer heat and draws back into the shadows to watch the group. The warriors are fearsome indeed astride their ponies, bows and sabers at the ready. There is an iron-haired Chieftain at the forefront, proud and indomitable with eyes as fierce as a falcon’s. And then right behind him, dwarfed by the stalwarts flanking her, must be the clan’s princess, wearing a fine red dress and ornaments of silver and amber around her neck and atop her raven hair. She’s beautiful, with eyes as fearless as her Sire’s, but more so, something about her face strikes such a pang in Jochi that he forgets himself, and steps forward, right into the path of the procession. He’s knocked senseless not a moment later under the marauding hooves, but he only has eyes for the desert-mirage loveliness of the princess’ face.

III.

Jun doesn’t meet Ru-Yi until the wedding. She’s brought over to his familial estate in a lavish palanquin, amidst loud, raucous music and the rapid pops of firecrackers, and escorted to the altar by the servants to kneel next to his older brother Kai. As the heir apparent, it is imperative that Kai make a good marriage to a wife who would not shame him and brings all the right assets to the match, and Ru-Yi’s father is a very wealthy, powerful man. The newlyweds courtesy to their parents and each other, and then someone lifts the bride’s red veil away from her face, and Jun almost drops his goblet of wine. It is a stunningly elegant face, all cherry lips and willowy brows, but what’s more, though he’s certain he has never met her before, it’s somehow familiar. She, too, seems to feel it, because her eyes linger on his for a moment too long, a thin line of confusion drawing between those brows, before she turns away with a bland smile for the procession of well-wishers. 

Despite the many presents of dates and lotus seeds on the wedding day, and, months and years later, the foul-smelling tonics and powders, she never bears Kai any sons, and Jun watches, heart heavy, as Kai takes on one concubine after another, carouses in the brothels night after night, as the lines between Ru-Yi’s brows grow deeper and deeper with cheated joy and thwarted wishes. He doesn’t care if she doesn’t bear any sons, but she’s not his concern-- will never be his concern. There are flowers left on her doorstep in the mornings, still wet with dew and with neither name nor note. It’s poor consolation for both of them, but she’s not his to love.

IV.

The air is arid and far too hot, almost tinged the same turmeric-yellow as the hot sun blazing down overhead. Captain Geoffrey Lindhurst with Her Majesty’s navy had been in India for all of four months, and is still getting accustomed to the local climate, so different from the ever-present London fog. The local food, too, is a far departure from the starchy Sunday roasts and meat pies and puddings of his boyhood, with its exotic spices and bountiful portions. The servants at his bungalow are politely quiet and do their tasks without complaint, but he has the sense that there is far more to their lives and customs than the scant glimpses that he sees now and then.

He’s out taking a walk on a balmy evening, and passes by one of the temples. He knows nothing of the religious beliefs of the locals, with their somewhat-fearsome-looking, animalistic gods with their fiery eyes and six hands and elephant heads, but many of the locals seem quite devout in their faith, praying several times a day and eschewing certain foods in their diets. Even at this late hour, the temple is open for worshippers, its air smoky with incense, and he sees a young woman emerge, clad in the flowing, traditional garments with a gauzy scarf over her dark hair. His gaze meets hers for only a split-second-- light blue to orchid-- but it jolts his system harder than a glass of raw gin. He has no idea who she is, and moreover, everything in his training and upbringing tells him that he has no business dallying with any of the locals. Geoffrey opens his mouth to speak, against everything that he’s known all his life, but she vanishes down one of the narrow paths and disappears into the night before he can say anything, or be quite sure that she wasn’t just an illusion, a trick of the light. 

He visits the temple enough in his years stationed here that he gets to learn the local traditions and customs, and indeed become quite familiar with their rituals. But he never sees her again.

V. 

The dame walks into his dilapidated hole-in-the-wall of an office on stiletto heels the red of fresh blood. Jack knows trouble when he sees it, and she’s all but radiating it like smoke surrounding a wildfire. “Help you, ma’am?” He keeps his voice brusque and businesslike even as she shrugs off a lustrous black mink stole to reveal crimson silk and fiery diamonds, curves in all the right places. “What brings you to this side of town?”

“I need a private investigator, and they say you’re the best. My driver’s outside, and he’s bigger and meaner than you,” she adds in a snide tone to match the diamond earrings. “My name is Rowena Warrington. Henry Warrington’s daughter.”

The Governor’s daughter has as much business in the seedy part of downtown as he would rubbing shoulders with millionaires in a fancy ballroom. “Don’t you have security, or lawyers, or whatever, to deal with whatever you’re dealing with, Ms. Warrington? This is a bad neighbourhood.”

“And no one’s been able to figure out the truth behind my mother’s death, so here I am.” Presumptuously, she makes herself at home, sitting down in a battered folding metal chair like it’s a throne as she lights a cigarette. “Price is no object, of course.”

“No.”

He won’t be swayed, because this is exactly the type of trouble that he doesn’t want, even though she turns on the wheedle, and later, the tears. He lets her leave in high dudgeon, and shuts the door behind her, and tells himself that his instinct-- one that tells him in no uncertain terms that he’d narrowly escaped a terrible fate-- was spot-on. And he busies himself with the usual mundane work which flows in every day like water through a leaky pot-- fraud cases. Stolen heirlooms. Prisoners on the lam. Cheating spouses.

He reads about the huge, tragic scandal some months later in the paper-- the cover-ups, the blood money, the extortion, the beautiful young woman whose life is tragically cut short because she’d had the audacity to poke her flawless nose where it definitely didn’t belong and wouldn’t take no for an answer, and is shocked at the grief which hits him. He owed her nothing, he tells himself as he broods into his second whiskey. She said herself that her driver was bigger and meaner than him. She should’ve been safe. Should’ve been careful. 

Should’ve been protected, with one’s very life. 

He throws the newspaper into the fire and watches it curl up into ash as he pours himself another one.

VI.

The busful of unconscious mortals is just where he wants them, of course, and Jadeite goes about the business of collecting their energy, siphoning it for Queen Metallia’s use. It’s rote and routine, but then a flash of scarlet catches his eye, and it’s the miko from the temple at the last bus-stop. Black and white and red all over, and he pauses, kneels down to move a strand of her lustrous black hair out of her face. 

“So beautiful. Ever since I’ve seen this girl, there’s something about her…” Something haunting, like a hint of incense smoke that clings to the air or a raven’s feather, black against white pavement, a memory that is-and-isn’t his. With a gentleness that he’s not had cause to employ in a very long time, he carefully shifts her into a more comfortable position, one more like natural sleep than the unconsciousness of a sinister spell, and lingers, unable to tear his eyes away from her exquisite, weirdly familiar face, until the all-too-unfortunate shouts of angry feminine voices tells him that he is not alone, and the Sailor senshi have arrived.

The miko opens her eyes and everything snaps into place a split-second before she transforms and a rage of fire heads for him, and he has but a moment to mouth the word ‘Sorry’, unheard and unacknowledged, before the flame hits in a wall of agony and heat. It’s no more or less than he deserves.

VII

The world is lustrous, glistening crystal, but unlike the Silver Millennium and the Moon Kingdom, the diamond brilliance of the towers bring colours into sharp relief, turning white sunlight into countless prismatic rainbows and reflecting the pale blue of the sky as rich sapphire. Jadeite takes a knee with his compatriots in the throne room and bows his head before the royals-- his King and Queen, united at last. Countless lives had been lived to lead to this-- an entry to a paradise hard-earned. 

There she is, still, raven hair and red skirts, and after, when everyone has broken off into their groups, he seeks her out. He has no reason to expect a positive reception, but the words are long overdue, and she has a right to them. 

“Lady Mars.” He makes an elaborate leg, as one might have done in a decadent court in the era of gilt and Rococo. She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t storm away or glare, and that’s something.

“No need to stand on ceremony, Lord Jadeite. We’ve met before. More than once, I daresay.”

“And I’ve loved you every time.” The words are baldly spoken and perhaps too blunt, in poor form, but they’ve been buried for far too many years and lifetimes already. She halts, and he notices that her breath isn’t quite steady, and that gives him the courage to remain where he is instead of making a hasty escape.

Finally, a queer sort of half-smile crosses her face as she tilts it back up to his. “You’ve been terrible about showing it up to now, haven’t you?”

“Up to now,” he agrees. “It doesn’t have to remain so. Unless you wish it.”

“Hmm.” She glances away, but stays standing where she is, within reach. “I suppose we’ll have to see.”

[ardentmuse]

Hello love!!!! I'm so excited for this celebration and all the fics top come out of it. Could I get 16 and 48 with my love, Eggsy? I feel like his hugs would feel really safe and comforting,,,not like I've thought about it when ive had a bad day or anything. Definitely not... okay I definitely have. A lot. I just love him a lot. ANYWAYS Congratulations and I hope you and the family are all doing well ❤❤❤

Gawain and the Galahads

Kingsman - Eggsy x Hart!Reader

16. Ugh, of course your hugs are amazing.48. I’m going to hug you because I love you. And because you feel just as alone as I do.

Wordcount: 1.6k 

Warnings: talk of death, talk of depression and grief

Masterlist

A/N: He’s got the perfect build to give good hugs too. Something about the arms to shoulders proportions. You’d just be engulfed and have just the right amount of space to make his shoulder a pillow. I like this image. ☺ Also hi! We’re doing great and I hope you are, too! I am making my own gifs for these so they all fit with the stories. I hope you enjoy them!

Fourteen months had passed since you watched the image from your father’s glasses turn black. Fourteen months since the silence filled the room, the air between you and Merlin so thick with unspoken anguish that it practically pushed you out the door. You didn’t have a conscious thought the entire time you wandered the streets of London, when you snapped your glasses into as many pieces as you fingers could manage and tossed them in the Thames, the length of your journey across the ocean to the United States, the two months you spent painstakingly tracking down every lead on the ground in Kentucky, or the year you spent wandering the vastness of the American west trying to piece together the parts of yourself that died along with Harry Hart.

No, you hadn’t really had a conscious thought in all that time until this moment; here, in a bar in Santa Fe in the early afternoon, with Eggsy – the only man you ventured you ever loved more than your father – standing before you in the suit and tie of a true Kingsman, the cloud of your brain lifted for the first time and somehow the only thing you realized you’d been missing out on was pain.

“Nice suit,” you said over your drink, not bearing to look into those soft eyes, ones that might call you out on how you simply ran away – a coward in a world full of heroes.

“And nice glasses,” you added with a swirl of your straw. “Hey, Merlin.”

The bar was mostly empty, but Eggsy’s eyes still shifted around carefully in concern at your casual tone. You remembered when your gaze was trained for such things. But that you seemed so far away.

“Do you know how long I’ve been searchin’ for ya?”

“Given Kingsman resources, I’d say… um, three hours?” you asked as you lifted an eyebrow in teasing question. His nose flaired at you, like he didn’t expect your snark to still be so directed at him after all your time apart. But he liked it. The smile he was clearly trying to hide was his dead giveaway.

“What? Three and a half?”

Eggsy spit out a laugh. He paused. But now with the floodgates open, he laughed full and earnest, moving himself to lean on the bar beside you.

“About three days,” Eggsy confirmed. “Though I searched for weeks on my own before Merlin made me stop. He said you’d had left a trace if you had wanted me to find you. That I should respect your wishes.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know if it was true, but it felt nice to think someone, especially Eggsy, cared enough to look.

You took a big swig of your drink to try to shove down the butterflies threatening to rise at the thought of Eggsy’s care and now his close proximity.

“So what happened three days ago?” you asked, realizing there had to be a reason Eggsy was here, disrupting your grieving. “Did Arthur lose his favorite umbrella? Or perhaps Roxy couldn’t –“

“We found your dad.”

Eggsy’s hand upon your arm had paused your rambling. His eyes locked on yours in a way that was so serious, so sincere, that you realized he had been hurting just the same as you. He knew your defenses. The weeks he had spent training beside you, and the whirlwind romance that had come along with it, were enough for him to realize you were two peas in a pod. He hid his emotions behind charm, flirtation, and occasionally anger and you behind snark, levity, and just a hint of pragmatism. But this Eggsy, this Eggsy was seeing you, seeing the raw, unrepaired part of your soul and matching it with his own – no sweet pet names, no winks, no grazes of his hand down your side. This was Eggsy, a person – vulnerable, real and scared – begging you to show yourself.

You felt the tears prickling at your eyes but swallowed them away.

“If this is a weird way of requesting my attendance at a funeral, I don’t think—“

“He’s alive,” Eggsy said as he moved his hand up to your wrist, holding you in place. “Harry’s alive, Gawain, and—“

“Don’t call me that!” you practically screamed, ripping your arm from his grip and almost falling off the barstool. You were standing now, backing away from the man in front of you with careful pacing. All the sadness that had been building in you caught fire, rage consuming you internally, burning at your throat. “How dare you come here and tell me lies, Eggsy! What sort of sick trick is this?”

Eggsy was charging you before you could put up your defenses. A year out of the field meant Eggsy could overpower you instantly. You expected to be tackled, maybe a tranquilizer dart pushed into your neck – after all, Eggsy was clearly the enemy now – but that wasn’t what happened.

He flicked his glasses off his face, moved swiftly around your shoulder and, from behind, slid them down your forehead and upon your nose. The familiar weight upon your ears felt nice somehow and the graining pixels across your vision comforting.

You had expected stats on the side, some notes from Merlin or a couple of Eggsy’s vitals but the thing that took up your entire vision was a live feed of some sort, a simple room with a cot for a bed and a sink along the edge, like a cage more than a suite. But upon the bed, with a sketchpad on his lap like you remembered for when you were a kid, sat your dad, his brown hair a muss and his left eye donning an eye patch.

But it was dad. It was most certainly dad.

No words left your mouth. Tears just began rolling down your face at the sight of him moving, safe, existing somewhere in the world. You weren’t a lone Hart in the world any longer.

You felt Eggsy’s hands come around your shoulders and you ripped yourself away. These emotions, they were all too much at once, and Eggsy was simply overwhelming. You only then, as Eggsy slowly blocked the view, realized that the few other patrons were staring.

“I’m going to hug you, Y/N,” Eggsy said slowly, his hands up like approaching an animal. “I’m going to hug you because I love you. And because you feel just as alone as I do.”

And when you didn’t protest, Eggsy’s arms scooped you up against his chest, curling his strong forearms around your shoulders and pulling your head flush against the crock of his neck. The hug was tight and warm, soft and strong all at once, and in that moment you realized it had been fourteen months since another human had truly touched you.

“But we aren’t alone, love. We have each other. We always have. And now we have Harry. And, sweetheart, he needs you. More than you know.”

Eggsy’s hands ran the length of your back, soft circles into your spine and soon you were melting against you, your tears coming out in earnest now that you finally felt safe. You almost didn’t want to close your eyes and lose the sight of your father but you had to. You had to let yourself into this moment, to reconnect with Eggsy, a man who loved you still despite your fleeing, a man whose touch was home when you had only known wandering.

As you sniffled a little against the soft cotton of his jacket, you felt your spirit returning to your limbs. You were shedding the zombie that was your flesh all this long year, all thanks to Eggsy’s perfect embrace.

“Ugh, of course your hugs are amazing,” you whispered into his neck, not willing yourself to let go.

Eggsy just laughed against your scalp.

“And there’s my Gawain back,” he said with a quick kiss to the skin already pressed against his lips.

His words hit your brain weird. You were once Gawain but were you still? Could you simply put back on the clothes and simply be that person once again? You were rusty but you were you, and you had Eggsy to guide you every step of the way.

With renewed resolve, you pulled yourself away from his shoulder. You straightened your spine and you shoulders, trying the ‘gentleman’ in you out once more. You were stiff but in some ways it felt like riding a bicycle, all coming back just by committing to get on.

“Whatever Galahad needs, I’ll do it.”

Something like tears shined in Eggsy’s eyes and you couldn’t tell if it was pride or joy. He grabbed your hand, interlocking your fingers in a gesture that felt right, even after so long apart.

“That Galahad,” Eggsy said with a nod to his glasses still on your face, “and this Galahad,” he added as he stepped closer to you, toe to toe, and began to run the backs of his fingers, down the side of your cheek, “both need you.”

All tags: @fangirlandnerd, @aerdnandreaa, @thisisbullshytt,  @cancerousjojian, @whovianayesha, @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy, @luna-xxxxx, @sleepylunarwolf, @starryrevelations, @potter-thinking, @all-by-myself98, @bananafosters-and-books, @cutie-bug

Kingsman tags: @allonsymexgirl, @eiensteiner, @thecaptainsgingersnap, @madamcadaver. @doct0rstrange, @ratwrites

[katehuntington]

Title: Ride With Me (part ten) Fandom: Supernatural AU Characters series: Reader, Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Ellen Singer-Harvelle, Jo Singer (Harvelle), Benny Lafitte, Garth Fitzgerald IV, Castiel Novek, and many more. Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader (eventually) Word count: ±6500 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family.  Summary part ten: Y/N is about to go on an adventure. Good thing she has her friend Jo to help her pack and her crush Dean to guide the way. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: The Man With The Harmonica - Ennio Morricone, Hide And Seek - Gareth Dunlop (end scene). Check out ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Thank you @kittenofdoomage and @girl-with-a-fandom-fettishfor helping me. You girls are awesome betas. Thank you for your endless patience!

Ride With Me Masterlist

    “Wait, you’re not planning on bringing all that with you, are ya?”     Y/N’s eyes leave the three pairs of boots from which she still has to choose. Not to decide what two sets to leave behind, but which to wear and which to pack. Jo stands in the doorway of her tiny room, staring at the bed, which is covered in flannels, shirts, tops, several hats, jeans, jackets, sweaters, towels, socks, matching underwear, swimwear, a makeup bag, and a toiletry bag. Even a hair iron and of course her phone charger lay amongst the collection of items that one way or another are going to have to fit into her bag.

    The season is coming to an end now that September has reached its final days. It’s time to move the two-year-old horses down from the summer reservation. Bobby had asked his intern if she wanted to come along and of course she blurted out ‘yes!’ before he could even finish his sentence. She was so excited about the trail ride and started packing immediately. This is going to be quite an experience, especially for a show rider like herself who usually sticks to riding in a fenced arena.     It’s a good thing that she started gathering her things early, because she has been contemplating what to bring for over an hour now. She’s the kind of girl who pays extra for exceeding the luggage weight limit on her flights, so no wonder she’s having it tough choosing what to bring.

    A little helpless she looks over at Jo, who’s waiting on her response.     “I was planning on bringing this, actually,” she returns, hesitatingly.     “Damn… poor horse,” the blonde cowgirl comments, eyeing all her friend’s stuff.     “Too much?” Y/N assumes.     “Just a tad,” Jo scoffs as she walks in. “And what the hell are you bringing the entire electronics store for?”     “It’s just my charger and my hair iron. I will look like birds are nesting on my head if I don’t straighten this out,” she objects, holding out the strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail.     “And you can’t have that with Dean around.” The ranch owner’s daughter crosses her arms in front of her chest, knowingly frowning at her friend.     Y/N tilts her head and glares back, but fails to come up with a decent counter, because she’s not wrong.     “Shut up,” she mutters instead.     “By all means, pack it.” Jo shrugs as she turns back to the door. “But unless you tie a generator behind that horse of yours or find a cactus with a plug, you ain’t charging a damn thing.”     “Wait. What?” Y/N responds, confused.

    Jo sways around, her blonde braid hanging down from one shoulder. She narrows her eyes, trying to understand how her friend could be so oblivious to the fact that there won’t be any electricity where they are going. “What did my old man tell you exactly?”     “That we might have to spend a couple of nights out camping,” Y/N recalls, trying to remember his exact words.     “Have you ever been out camping, city girl?” Jo wonders, her tone indicating that she has figured it out.     Now Y/N crosses her arms defensively. Just because she comes from a wealthy family, doesn’t mean that she has never been on a trip back to basics.     “I have, as a matter of fact,” she returns confident.     “Let me define ‘camping’,” Jo kicks off. “I’m talking ‘bout the sleeping-in-a-tent, no-shower-for-days, cooking-your-own-food-above-a-fire kind of camping. Not the kind where you park the luxurious double axle camper nice and close to the restaurant and the power station and get that satellite working as soon as possible so y’all can watch Netflix.”

    Y/N opens her mouth to claim that she is not that kind of person, but has to admit her loss. She’s right, down to the double axle camper and the satellite TV.     “So, no electricity? No shower?” she asks, intimidated by the matter, a trace of panic in her voice.     “Nope,” Jo confirms, amused. “Better start prioritizing. Let me get my saddlebags, you can use those. Everything that doesn’t fit in there except for your sleeping bag, is not comin' along for the ride.”     “Alright,” Y/N agrees reluctantly, nonetheless grateful for the help. “But how are you going to pack if I have your saddlebags?”     “Simple: I’m not. I’m staying home,” the ranch owner’s daughter says.     Astonished, the intern looks at her. Wait, her friend isn’t coming on this trail? The thought actually scares Y/N a little, because Jo has been there to guide her since she picked her up from the airport over a month ago.     “Are you kidding me? Why?”     “Someone has to run this joint while y’all are having fun. Usually, the stable crew guards the castle, but with Ash gone…”

    Y/N drops her head, her mind going out to the former cattle worker. Ash left a week ago. Bobby gave him two weeks' notice but said he was free to go anytime. The loyal employee showed character and stayed as long as Bobby could afford to keep him. But after those fourteen days, Ash had no choice but to leave. Everyone was sad to see the quirky fellow go. The exchange of hugs between him and every member of his working family was moving to witness.     “Dad offered to stay behind by himself, but he’s getting too old to work that hard,” Jo explains. “Garth and I will make sure everything runs smoothly here.”     “What about me? How am I supposed to function without my conscience?” Y/N pouts.     “You’ll be fine. You got Dean to hold your hand the entire way,” Jo mocks.     The worried cowgirl chuckles. “That’s the whole problem now, isn’t it?”     Jo gets up and intends to leave the room to get the saddlebags. She halts in the doorway, though, offering good advice. “Just remember: don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”     “He’s your cousin. Of course you’re not going to sleep with him,” Y/N returns smartly, pulling a laugh from the blonde cowgirl.     “See my point?” she returns, winking back before she leaves the room.

    Thirty minutes later, Y/N is packed and ready, but sacrifices had to be made. Obviously, the hair iron and phone charger didn’t make the final cut, but neither did her shampoo, conditioner, and moisturizer, since she won’t be able to shower anyway. Her makeup didn’t fit into the bags either. It hurts to leave it all behind and she already feels insecure about spending days with the others wearing a blank canvas of a face. Sure she isn’t as fresh at the end of a working day as she was at the start of it, but so far she has been able to keep her hair and makeup in check. Now she won’t even have a mirror to judge how tired and ordinary she looks without a brow pencil and mascara.     “You’re all set.” Jo, who is on her knees on the wooden floor fighting with the saddlebag, secures the last strap, shifts her weight back on her heels and places her hands on her narrow waistline.     “I owe you one. I would have never managed alone,” Y/N says, appreciating her friend’s help.     “You know you can count on me.” She shrugs it off after getting up. “I’ll lend you my raincoat and my gloves too. Never sure if you’re gonna need ’em, but if the monsoon decides to throw a curveball at ya, you’ll be thanking me.”     She pops out of the room again, as excited for the intern as Y/N is herself. Jo’s bubbly personality has her smiling even after she leaves. It’s funny how it feels like they have known each other for years and yet it was only a month ago that she got into the pickup truck at the airport. One month ago, this challenge started. Her dad tries to hide the surprise in his voice every time she phones him to tell him how much she is enjoying her time here. He probably expected a plea for money. That, or a one-way ticket back to luxury and easy work.

    Y/N looks at one of the pictures that she nailed to the wooden wall. It portrays her family; Mom, Dad, and her three brothers surrounding Y/N at her graduation ceremony. Sure, she misses them, but she is starting to become a part of this ranch family too. That’s how it feels anyway: accepted, wanted… even loved. Her eyes hover over the picture frames and other decorations that she used to spice up her room a little. Many of the photos show Meadow, some snapped during shows, others at home in the fields. Won belt buckles and ribbons are trophies of their success together, each memory a highlight of her partnership with the special Quarter mare. Y/N remembers when she won every single one of them.

    “You’re not getting homesick, are ya?”     She startles, jolted awake from her daydream, and turns her head to face her handsome supervisor. Dean leans against the doorpost, and judging by the amused expression, he has been standing there for longer than a second. Dear Lord, she got so caught in recalling past victories and happy memories, that she didn’t hear him walk up to her room. The sight of him has her lost for air, even after recovering from the scare. He stands on one leg, the other bent and crossing his back foot, resting on the nose of his boot. Fringe from his worn chaps fall down over his jeans, a dark brown Stetson to match it. Dressed in a red plaid buttoned shirt and a denim jacket over it, he looks even better than he did this morning. The handsome models in the old Marlboro commercials have nothing on him.     “Don’t worry. I’m not going back anytime soon,” she responds before Dean can call her out on staring. “Besides, this is beginning to feel a lot like home, too.”     The wrangler glances at the wall next to the bunk bed and lets his eyes roam over the photos, ribbons and buckles. He smiles at a goofy picture of her and her three older brothers.     “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he compliments.     Y/N smiles at that. “Well, I am going to be staying here for a while. Might as well make it cozy.”

    He grins, his green eyes catching the rays of sunlight coming through the window. Specks of gold stand out amongst the apple green, his pupils adjusting as they flick over the captured moments. They stop when he notices a photo taken during a prize-giving ceremony. He recognizes Meadow instantly, her trademark white face is hard to miss. She stands proudly with a white and blue sash hanging from her neck, event sponsors standing next to the horse, presenting the prizes won while smiling at the camera. But the person who smiles the brightest is Y/N, who sits squarely in the saddle with a wide grin on her face and sparkles in her eyes.     “You won the State Championships,” he says impressed, reading the footnote. “That’s pretty damn impressive.”     Y/N lights up but stays humble. “Meadow was on fire. It was the ride of my life.”     “I bet it was.” Dean watches her for a second, admiring, while she reminisces over the highlight of her riding career. Then he glances at his watch briefly. “We leave at ten. You’re all packed?”

    “She is now,” Jo interrupts, holding out a rolled-up sleeping bag and neatly packed raincoat. “Gloves are in the pockets.”     “Thanks, Jo.” Y/N takes them and looks over her shoulder in search of her saddlebags. Dean instantly moves in to pick them up, since she has her hands full anyway.     “I got it,” he states, lifting her luggage over his shoulder.     “Oh, how noble of you!” Jo teases her cousin, not at all impressed with his manors. “What are you gonna do next? Buy a white horse?”     Y/N snorts, but quickly straightens her mouth into a thin line to silence herself and hide the sign of amusement. Luckily, the wrangler is too busy countering her friend, as he follows the two girls into the living room.     “It’s called ‘being nice’. You should try it sometime,” Dean snarls.     Before the ranch owner’s daughter pushes open the front door, she looks over her shoulder. “Would you like to hold the door for her too?” she suggests, a challenging smirk on her face.     “Would you like to shut your piehole?” Dean fires back after rolling his eyes.

    Y/N giggles at the bickering, and opens the door herself by pushing it with her foot. If she didn’t know any better, she would think the two are siblings. Maybe not by blood, but they spent a great deal of their childhood together in the same house, at least that’s what she understood from Jo. Over the years, the youngest Singer figured out that she might not be able to beat her older cousin when it comes down to strength and speed, but verbally she stands her ground just fine. Now is no different, because Dean might have had a comeback ready, Y/N doesn’t fail to notice the color on his cheeks. He carefully glances at her from under his hat, the cowgirl smiling back reassuringly before she descends down the stairs.

    At the tack up area, the Joshua tree stands tall, offering meager shade to the horses and humans underneath its branches. It’s rush hour. Benny and Garth are readying the horses, assisted by the three riders that are coming along for the trail. Dean was against bringing people along on such a long and potentially dangerous ride, but Bobby said the tourists paid good money and were experienced, so eventually, he agreed. Eight horses are tied up to the rails around the yucca tree. Six of them will be ridden, the other two will be the group’s packhorses. Y/N spots Joplin amongst them, the feisty mare that has grown on her over the past weeks.     “She’s yours for the next couple of days.” Dean points her out, heading over to the dark horse with Y/N’s baggage. “Since the two of you get along so well.”

    Delighted, she faces the mare, who pushes her soft nose into the folded raincoat in her arms, sniffing up the aroma. Y/N likes the little dark horse. She is not easy, has different ideas about what the pace should be, and can get very offended when her rider tells her otherwise, but there’s something about her attitude that the intern appreciates. She’s fast, tireless from the second her rider puts a foot in the stirrup, to the second he or she gets off. The Quarter is perfect for a trail like this. It didn’t cross her mind to bring Meadow for the ride. The reining horse, which is used to train on smooth arena footing, would most likely injure herself on the uneven rocky slopes and narrow paths. The hours under saddle would be much longer than regular training too, and Y/N does not want to confront her four-legged best friend with a task that she isn’t up for.     Dean swings the saddlebags over Joplin’s back and straps them to the saddle. He mounts the sleeping bag and Jo’s raincoat that he takes from the intern on top, his fingers briefly brushing against hers in the transfer. The tingling sensation lingers on the surface of her skin where he touched her, causing her to be the one who is flustered now. The wrangler carefully glances over as he secures the baggage. She feels caught, but his expression is soft and comforting; he felt it too.

    “Okay, y’all! We’re goin’ in five!” Benny shouts loud enough for everyone on the square to hear with his Southern accent thick on his tongue. “If you have to use the john or forgot to pack clean undies, now would be your last chance to do so.”

    Last preparations are made by the crew. Benny secures his lasso to the horn of the saddle with a leather rope strap, while Dean consults his uncle one more time before departure, the two of them looking at a map of the Superstition Mountains. Then Dean folds the map and shoves it into the inside pocket of his jacket, after which he walks over to Ted Nugent, the big brown gelding that he will be riding for the upcoming days, since his favorite buckskin is out with a tendon injury ever since that rainy morning when the cattle broke out.  Ellen walks up to her nephew and hands him a paper bag which, without a doubt, contains something delicious.     “Made you some pecan tassies for on the road,” she says. “Wouldn’t want you to miss my baking too much.”    “Thanks, Ellen.” Dean gives her a grateful nod and puts the tassies in his saddlebag.     “Be careful out there, alright?” she presses, clearly worried about the quest that lies ahead for the wranglers. “Bring them back home safely.”     “I’ll take care of the bunch. I promise,” he assures comfortingly, gently pulling her into his chest after which he gives his aunt a kiss on her hair.

    Ellen and Dean aren’t the only ones who exchange a few last words before the group leaves.     “Okay, grasshopper. This is it,” Jo’s voice sounds from behind Y/N.     She spins on her heels in between the horses to meet the ranch owner’s daughter, who folds her arms around Y/N and hugs her tight. Happily, she returns the embrace before Jo pulls back and holds her by the shoulders.     “Stay away from chollas if you don’t want Joplin to turn into a two-year-old who never had a saddle on her back before. And if the horses get nervous and you hear a rattle, get the hell out of Dodge, because there’s a rattlesnake within a few feet from you. Check your–-”     Y/N cuts Jo off, because she has heard this before from either her or Ellen.     “I know, I know. Check my boots for spiders and scorpions before I put them on and keep the tent closed,” she fills in.     “Not just to keep out insects and reptiles, but horny cowboys as well,” Jo adds.     Y/N snorts. “I’ll handle him. I will miss you, though.”     “I’ll miss you, too, sis,” her friend returns, smiling.

    They say goodbye while Dean unties his gelding and gets on swiftly, overlooking the group from the higher point of view.     “Y’all ready?” he asks the company of six.     When the riders cheer, he takes the reins with one hand and pulls it gently towards him, an aid for Ted to backup and move away from the other horses. The excitement rises noticeably, comparable to what one would feel when on an aircraft just before take-off and on its way to a new destination. Some of the animals start to get restless in the thrill, Joplin included. Y/N doesn’t waste any time and pulls the safety knot in order to free the mare, then puts her left foot in the stirrup and pushes herself off the ground with her right, swinging it over the back of the black horse.     “Good luck, y’all,” Bobby wishes the six men and women.     “See you in a couple of days!” Jo calls out.

    Y/N waves at the people staying behind, a bright smile spreading from ear to ear. Looking forward to the adventure that will come next, she straightens herself in the saddle and faces the vast landscape. She might be twenty-four, but she feels more like a seven-year-old going on a field trip. In front of the rider, a pair of alert ears belonging to Joplin point forward. Beyond that view, the promontory of the Superstition Mountains stretches out. The sun has risen from behind the ridges in the East hours ago, already warming up the valley with its strong rays.

    Dean watches the young woman, consumed by a different kind of scenery as his horse follows the path. In the past few weeks, she has grown more comfortable in her role as a wrangler and a ranch hand. The daily routine is starting to become her second nature and the people she works with are her friends now. He wouldn’t have guessed it at first - and he’s quite sure she herself wouldn’t have guessed it either - but she fits in perfectly. The rich girl from upstate with a master’s degree under her belt feels at home surrounded by a bunch of country folks in the dry desert lands of the south west. Who would have thought that? Dean smiles, content; something tells him that this trip will help her blossom even more.

    She could almost hear a harmonica play the theme from Once Upon A Time In The West, and she’s still waiting for tumbleweed to roll across the path. Cacti reach for the sun, their arms outstretching upward, like the giants are growing actual limbs. It’s a nice variation to the evergreens that she is used to, back in Maine. The rain that came down two weeks ago has laid a blanket of green over the dry lands; it’s amazing how nature can change in a matter of days. Jo warned her about the sun, and with good reason. Over the last month, the intern slowly but surely got used to the extreme weather circumstances that Arizona offers, but she has never been on a horse during the hottest hours of the day. It might already be late September, but the heat is blistering. She could use a shower right about now, and just the thought of not being able to take one for the next couple of days grosses her out. The temperatures weigh on the female rider, more than she thought it would, but her partner Joplin doesn’t seem to mind much. Her neck and shoulders are sweaty, but she still dribbles impatiently every now and then, eager to cover more ground.

    Dean leads the group, guiding them from spring to spring. The group left the Hieroglyphic Trail about three hours ago, which ended at a small creek and a poor excuse for a waterfall. They took a break there and had a few of Ellen’s delicious pecan tassies while the horses drank. Now, they are well on their way to Willow Spring, but the trail isn’t getting any easier. As they conquer the steep slopes, the pace slows down. Y/N is amazed at how the horses are able to maneuver on the rough terrain, which consists of loose pebbles, slippery boulders, and cracked volcanic rock. One misstep could severely injure the large animals, but they seem to be aware of that. Joplin proceeds agile and fearless, almost like a bobcat, and her rider learns quickly to let her take care of the drops and jumps. She doesn’t need guidance, the mare knows the way. All Y/N has to do is sit tight and move along with her to maintain the balance.

    “How y’all doing back there?” Dean is looking over his shoulder, his free hand resting on the cantle of the saddle.     “We’re good!” one of the tourists assures.     His name is Brad, the young guy riding next to his sister Macy and their buddy Jonathan. The head wrangler chatted a little bit with the three members of the group and they turn out to be good company. The trio is traveling across the country, enjoying a gap year from college. With Brad and Macy’s father being a rancher in Colorado, they know their way around horses. Jonathan is a little less experienced in the saddle, but he’s managing just fine. No doubt about it, though, that he’s going to be left with a serious muscle ache in the coming days.         The leader of the pack shifts his eyes from them to his intern, asking her the same question silently. She nods, smiling reassuringly at her handsome supervisor, telling him in the same language that she’s doing fine. Content, Dean smiles back and winks at her before he straightens himself.     It’s a good thing he’s not facing her anymore, because Y/N is sure that about a hundred butterflies hatched from their cocoons in her stomach, the feeling triggering her to take a shuddering breath. She huffs, annoyed with the response he triggered. Just look at him. He’s infuriatinglygorgeous, looking way too good on his horse, in those darn chaps, wearing that darn western hat. A part of her wants to dislike him, just for being so distracting. But she can’t be mad at him, not really. Just a glance her way with that grin and she’s a complete goner. Y/N watches as the cowboy catches up with Benny, slowing his horse down when they are side by side.

    “Tell me, Chief, how are things between you and the intern goin’?” the Southerner wonders, making sure the woman in question is unable to pick up on the conversation.     Dean looks aside at his best friend, amused by his curiosity. “It’s not going anywhere, really. Things are good as they are,” he claims.     “Oh, c’mon, now. Did she turn you down again?” Benny guesses.     Dean eyes him. “She didn’t turn me down. I just didn’t make my move.”     The wrangler next to him seems to need a second to process the information. Dean Winchester didn’t make a move on a girl he likes in 0.2 seconds? That’s a new one. “Wait a minute. So you two haven’t even…?”     “We’re just friends, Benny,” Dean claims, aware how terribly unconvincing it sounds the moment he pronounces the words.     “Horse shit. You didn’t pass up Casey to be ‘just friends’ with the gal. You called dibs,” he reminds the head wrangler. “Besides, I see the way you look at her. You don’t look at a pal like that.”

    Dean shakes his head, remembering the arrangement well. It’s not like he can deny he made that deal with the farrier, despite that it felt wrong to do so. But back then when he claimed her in order to keep his notorious friend away, he was still clueless about the affection he felt for her. The affection that steadily grew stronger to the point where he cares more about what’s best for the free young woman than what he wants for himself.     “So what, Benny?” He shrugs, hoping his friend would let it go.     “So what? I know it’s a little dusty here in the desert, but did you get sand in your eyes?” Benny returns, perplexed.     “Look, I know she’s awesome, and yes, I wouldn’t mind hooking up with her, but I can’t, okay?” Dean claims.     Unable to understand the math behind his choice, the broad-shouldered ranch hand throws him a look that somewhere between dirty and confused. “Why not?”     “Well for starters, Bobby will kill me if he finds out, since he took me aside to specifically forbid me to pull anything. Secondly, she’ll only stay for six months--”     Benny interrupts him, however. “Invalid, Chief. Bobby told you before to quit bouncing around with clients and staff and it never stopped you then. And since when is six months too short for you? You usually get bored with your lady friends after a--”     The cowboy from the South stops mid-sentence and Dean can almost hear it click in his mind. Oh, boy. Benny has figured it out. Even though he tried to make up excuses in order to avoid being confronted by his best bud, there’s no way of dodging that bullet now.     “Well, fuck a goat and call her Nancy! You’re in love with her,” Benny announces, shocked.     Dean raises his eyebrows at the rider next to him, then scoffs and looks away, trying to act like the very idea is ridiculous. “That’s - that’s just… Y-you’re insane,” he stutters, unable to flat out deny it.     Benny starts to laugh out loud, apparently very much amused with his discovery. “I can’t believe you walked straight into that love trap!”     “Would you keep your voice down?” the rider next to him hushes.     The farrier looks over the back of his horse at the intern, but she’s about thirty yards behind them talking to Macy, clueless what the two wranglers leading the group are discussing.     Dean stays quiet for a few long seconds, trying to decide if he is ready to admit that she means so much to him. “She’s a nice girl, Benny. I don’t wanna hurt her,” he claims.     “Oh, c’mon now! You’re seriously telling me you grew a conscience all of a sudden? You used to love ‘em and leave ‘em without a second thought.” Benny has crossed his wrists over the horn of his saddle, the reins loosely between his fingers, as he looks aside to catch anything that would indicate what’s going on in his best mate’s head. It’s clear that he’s astonished by the shift in his demeanor.     “I’m gonna ignore the urge to ask you who you are and where my friend is,” the Southerner chuckles. “But is it really just her heart you’re scared to break?”     Dean ponders, trying to make sense of the odds and ends that scatter his thoughts. Benny is not entirely wrong. It terrifies the wrangler to give in to these emotions. Is that maybe the true reason why he didn’t kiss Y/N that night under the Joshua tree? Or when she came looking for him after he had that argument with Ash? Maybe it’s a bit of both.     “How long have we known each other? Fourteen, fifteen years now?” Dean recalls.     “Give or take,” Benny confirms, looking down at the trail as he moves his hand over the mane of his horse in order to steer it a little wider around a boulder.     “Do I seem like the kinda guy who does that? Fall for a girl? I liked the way things were, no attachments and all that,” the head wrangler continues, confused.     “That’s the thing about falling in love, Chief. It happens to the best of us and always at a time when you least expect it. It hits you like lightning and you’re toast before you even got a clue why you’re feelin’ so crispy,” Benny says wisely.

    The head wrangler glances at his companion sideways, reading into his words. It almost sounds like the Southerner knows what he’s talking about.     “You’ve been there,” he realizes.     “Oh, I’ve been there. I’ve been beyond falling in love, I loved her with my whole damn heart,” Benny acknowledges, smiling at the memory. “Her name was Andrea. We were both eighteen. She spent the summer with relatives in Louisiana and I was a lost cause from the moment I laid eyes on her. A Greek Goddess, and I ain’t exaggeratin’. She was pretty as a peach! Kind, funny as hell, too.”     “Since she’s ain’t here, I reckon it didn’t end well?” Dean assumes again.     “It didn’t; she went back to Greece and I moved here because everything reminded me of her at home,” his friend tells him.     “You know you just proved my point, right?” the head wrangler says, a hint of triumph in his voice trying to mask the sadness in his eyes. “If love always comes to bite you in the ass, why even bother?”     “‘Cause the heartache ain’t the clue, brother. What I had with Andrea was so good, so pure, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Even if I knew what I know now, how it would end, I would take that plunge again without a doubt in my mind.”     Dean huffs, unable to believe that. “Despite that she left you?”     “Fuck, yeah,” Benny states. “Better to love and to lose, than to not have loved at all.”

    Dean is quiet now. The path narrows and he holds Ted back a little, merging behind Benny’s horse. As he lets his friend’s words sink in, he glances down the slope at the intern again. She’s several yards down the steep hill, focused on Joplin as she rides her up the trail. Her braided hair already has strands peeking out from under her hat, and he is sure if she had a mirror she would fix the mess, but he loves it. He loves it when the wind rustles her locks, or when the desert dust smudges her skin. Once again that feeling overcomes him, the feeling of a lantern being lit in the pit of his stomach, warming his body as it slowly rises through his core to his chest, where the heat lingers. It feels so good, but there’s a catch to the sensation. It comes with the emotion that creeps up on him when he lays awake at night thinking about Y/N; fear. The fear of her leaving him after her internship. The fear of her reaction if he would let her witness the scar tissue that lays thick on his soul. The fear that this love will consume him, just like the love for Mom consumed his father. The fear of failing her. But now that the true meaning of Benny’s message dawns on him, another kind surfaces. It’s a thought that he hasn’t had before, and as it pops into his head, the question reverberates louder through his mind than all the others. What if he misses his chance? What if there are only so many opportunities to win her over?

    He straightens himself before she looks ahead and spots him staring, and he closes his eyes and tips his hat forward. Shit, you’ve been so worried about losing her that you forgot that in order to lose her, you have to have her first, he thinks to himself. A sigh slips from his dry mouth, reminding him how thirsty he is. He reaches for his water bottle from his saddlebag, pulls out the cap with his teeth and gulps down the water, knocking his head back as he takes a few swigs. Nope, he’s not dehydrated. In fact, he’s still having these contradicting thoughts. When he slips the bottle back where he took it from, his eyes wander down the path again, this time looking straight into hers. As he tries to decide on his next move, he holds her gaze as she smiles up at him. Dean wasted two shots already; what if it’s three strikes, you’re out? If he fucks this up, at least he tried, but if he won’t give this a try at all, he’ll beat himself up over it for the rest of his life. Either way, failure seems to be inevitable.

    Then he remembers something. Something that he was taught at a very young age. He had just turned four when he took a fall off the neighbor’s Shetland pony. It was the first time he had rode alone without his mom holding the miniature horse and the naughty pony took advantage of that situation. The Shetland picked up speed and bucked once, sending him straight into the dirt. After making sure that her son was okay, he recalls his mom picking him up.     “You wanna give it another go?” she asked.     “No…” he said.     “So that’s it? You never wanna ride again?” she questioned again, her voice gentle.     Now he was quiet, not sure how to answer that. “I don’t wanna fall off,” he mumbled eventually, looking down at the ground.     “Falling is a part of riding, sweety. It’s a part of life. It’s okay to fall,” she told him.     “But it hurts,” he said, rubbing his scraped elbow. “And it’s scary.”     “Yeah, sometimes falling can be very scary,” Mom acknowledged. “But you won’t get any better if you stop trying. You have to face what you’re scared of, to grow. You know what they say about falling?”     He shook his little head, waiting for the elaboration patiently.     “You have to fall off seven times before you'll become a good rider,” she says.     “Seven?!” he repeats, eyes wide.     “Seven,” Mom pointed out. “But you know how he becomes a great horseman?”     Dean shook his head again and listened eagerly. All that he wanted was to become a horseman, so this was the time to pay attention.     “A good rider becomes a great horseman when he falls seven times and gets up eight.”

    The wise words always stuck with Dean as he grew older. He remembers when he was twelve and got back to his feet after his seventh crash landing, this time from a young bronc. He was a horseman now, because he got up beaming, and brushed the dirt from his jeans. Every time when life beat him down, he did the same. Sadly, Mom wasn’t there to see her son become a horseman. She was long gone by the time he reached that age, but her life lessons will never be forgotten. Life is filled with setbacks. No one walks this journey without encountering them. For some that one setback is enough reason to give up and never become good at anything, for others, it’s a way to push through. And yes, getting up and trying again is not easy. But Mom taught him to look fear in the eye and get back in the saddle anyway, because quitting will definitely not get him anywhere. Whenever he hit the ground, literally or metaphorically, he would think of that memory. Now is no different. Mom was right; he has to face what scares him in order to grow.

    Dean slows down his horse, pulling the bit just enough to stop Ted, giving the horse behind him a chance to catch up. When Joplin comes alongside, he glances at the rider from under his Stetson.     “Hello, Cowboy,” she greets, a small but delighted smile on her lips.     Dean chuckles at that, his eyes not leaving hers.     “Hey, beautiful,” he returns.     The compliment brightens her eyes even more and heats up her cheeks. The trail barely allows the two of them to ride side by side, their stirrups touching occasionally. He aches for her knee to brush his like he would crave rain after a long desert ride. When the denim of her jeans does rub against him, it leaves him electrified. And then he realizes that Benny is right, too. It is better to love and to lose, than to not have loved at all.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part eleven here

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

All Is Found:Anastasia!AU

Part IX – A Song Someone Sings

Fandom: The Witcher Word Count: 2,081 Rating: G Taglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak​ @whatevermonkey​ @jill-makes-art​ @mynamesoundslikesherlock​ @kemmastan​ @magic-multicolored-miracle​ @writingstudent​ @mlleecrivaine​ @coffee-and-stories​ @amirahiddleston​ @ultracolorfulnerdcollection​ @astouract​ @your-not-invisible-to-me​ @mycat-is-mylove @daydreamer-in-training a/n: A retelling of Don Bluth’s Anastasia (1997)

{prologue}{part i}{part ii}{part iii}{part iv}{part v}{part vi}{part vii}{part viii}

You closed your eyes and tried to still the frantic beating of your heart that thundered like the waves crashing on the rocks. You’d run out blindly, unsure of where to go but somehow finding your way outside. Once there your feet continued mindlessly and you followed your aimless wanderings until they took you to the oceanside of the major. You’d found a space in the craggy rocks by the ocean where you could stand, well-hidden from the revelry that went on overhead in the glittering palace. The words you’d overheard echoed in your head as you tried to make sense of them, anger ebbing away to grief and confusion.

I was doing it for the reward.

Of course he was. From the start Geralt had made it clear that financial gain was the primary motivation. But it felt cheap and painful now, after all you’d been though. Nowhere near as painful as what he’d said next.

In truth, I didn’t believe she was the princess.

The words twisted like a knife in your heart. He’d thought you were nothing all this time. Maybe that should make you happy, that he’d seemed to show affection for you without expecting the benefits of a title, but it just hurt. You’d liked feeling someone. You’d like having him treat you like you were someone. But it had been an act. An all too convincing act and now you stood on the outskirts of the palace not knowing what to say or do or who to trust. You had a possible grandmother but she was just another stranger. You felt small as you looked out to the sea, so far away from home while also realizing that you didn’t know where home was anymore. You thought you’d found it by Jaskier’s side but like the Belhaven Home and the palace, you’d lost that. And in truth it never really been yours in the first place.

It was cowardly to hide but you didn’t know what to do, allowing yourself to sink onto a rock. You felt alone but if you’d looked behind, even for a moment, you would have known that you were far from it.

-----

Marie didn’t wait for an excuse or explanation from the boy, she simply moved past him and walked out into the hallway. She passed Yennefer and the witcher, drawn by a single goal. She would meet this so-called princess, get it all over with so she couldn’t wonder or worry about the truth later on. The boy had lost her but she knew where she would go if she were feeling overwhelmed. She knew because she’d already gone there several nights throughout her stay in Cidaris, looking out across the sea and admiring its tenacity and cruelty. She wished to be so cruel, so cold-hearted as to not care who lived and died. But that would have made her a poor queen and if nothing else she could say that she fared well in that role for as long as it was hers.

Marie paused as the rocks came into sight, the flowing, dark blue fabric and shimmering capelet visible as the wind pulled it seemingly from the boulders themselves. She knew you stood between them and despite herself she felt a twinge of hope. Some things, it seemed, were unkillable after all.

She made a point to make noise as she approached and the skirt disappeared, withdrawing deeper into the rocks. Once she was within earshot Marie took a deep breath, raised herself to her full height as she had so many times over her lifetime, and looked the unknown head on.

“You may as well come out,” she said in a voice that was stronger than she felt, “That is, after all, why you’re here. Is it not?”

-----

Your hand clutched the pendant the rested on your chest. The voice didn’t sound familiar, but it didn’t sound foreign either. It sounded like a voice you may have heard in a dream or imagined what a grandmother may have sounded like, even if her words were brisk and sharply enunciated. You took a single steadying breath and then stepped out from behind the rocks.

The pair stared at each other. It was hard to look at you, much harder up close than it had been in the ballroom though you were clearly not a ghost. Marie could see the goosebumps on your exposed arms and shoulders and the smudge of makeup that you’d wiped away from your eyes.

“So,” she said, voice a little softer because after all this was a scared child and even if you weren’t her granddaughter, you were someone’s, “I’m told that you are the lost princess.”

“I’m told the same,” you said, voice wavering a little as you looked at the woman in front of you. She was everything you thought a queen should be. She was tall and stood upright and though her hair had gone grey and her eyes spoke to a lifetime of pain and experience she gave off a sense of being utterly in control. The crown on her head was a brazen, unrelenting reference to her role in Toussaint and a final act of rebellion against Nilfgaard. You immediately admired her, but you did not remember her.

“I assume you overheard what the Pankratz boy said?” the queen said. You swallowed hard but, inspired by her regal bearing, you drew yourself up to full height as well and forced yourself to speak.

“I did. And I want you to know that if I’d thought it was a lie, even for a moment, I wouldn’t have come,” you said, desperate for her to know that you meant her no harm. It felt vital that this woman know you would never hurt her, not even if it meant risking yourself pain.

“I believe you,” the woman said with a shadow of a smile flickering over her face for just a moment, “But you do believe you are the princess, then? Which means you believe I am your…”

She couldn’t make herself say it. She’d only ever been one person’s grandmother, one of the few titles she actually gave a shit about. You caught her meaning and nodded.

“I should tell you now that I don’t remember you,” you said, “I know he told you everything I could say, probably more convincingly, but if they were hoping that us meeting would trigger some sudden revelation I’m sorry to disappoint.”

Marie moved in closer and you started, but did not move away, letting her get so close she could see the curve of your nose and the flecks of color in your irises and the little tuft of hair by your ear that never did lay straight. She wordlessly raised a hand and pressed it down, a genuine smile alighting her face when it stuck back up stubbornly. She then glanced down to the pendant around your neck and the smile froze. You followed her gaze and moved to take the chain off without a second thought. You handed it to her and then realized what you’d done, a moment of panic before you felt an odd sense of ease. When she held it you didn’t feel scared that she’d take it or like you were losing the one thing you had tying you to your family. Surely that meant something. Surely that had to count for something.

“Do you… you probably don’t remember when I gave this to you,” Marie said, looking up to your eyes for confirmation and you shook your head.

“You were so excited,” she continued, “It was our last tea together before the party. Our last tea together forever. I wish I’d known. I would’ve… well… there’s no point to that line of thinking. There are so many things I would do over if given the chance but we don’t live in that world, do we?”

You shook your head no and swallowed hard.

“The pendant was a promise, as I’m sure you’ve read and understood. How strange to see it here again, of all places. I showed you how to wind the music box and you were delighted to watch your parents dancing. And when I told you that you would be coming to Cidaris with me within the month-”

“The week,” you corrected, surprising yourself as you did.

“What?”

“You said it would be within the week.”

Your eyes were trained on her hands that still held the chain, the pendant’s words visible and nestled in her leathery palm.

“You said my parents had business to take care of and I didn’t care, didn’t think about what they’d be doing or worry about being apart from them. I was so excited. I wanted to have an adventure so badly and it felt right that you were the one to take me. They always said I was just like you, when you were younger.”

You reached out and gently caressed the pendant and Marie’s hand clasped over yours, the pendant pressed between your hands. When you looked up into her eyes there were tears in them, a strange sight in a face that had seemed so impassive just moments before. Her other hand rose shakily to your face and you were surprised when she wiped tears away, unaware you were crying until that moment.

“Y/N? Y/N is it truly you?” she asked.

“Oh fuck,” you breathed, “I think it is. I mean – I think I am.”

She was fiercely strong, far stronger than you every expected someone her age to be, her arms pulling you against her so tightly you feared you would hurt her but she only clung to you tighter and you instinctively returned the gesture. She clasped the back of your head with one hand and gently rocked you where you stood, muscle memory taking over as she held you in your arms. Bigger now, bigger than she’d ever held you before, but the eyes that wept into her shoulder were the same eyes she’d gazed into when you were an infant and a small child. The eyes, wide and afraid and confused, that she’d looked into before losing you forever. But even forever had an end.

You clenched a fistful of her gown, ornaments digging into your skin painfully, and the more tenderly she stroked your hair or murmured your name, repeating it over and over like a song, the harder you cried. When you imagined finding your family you’d pictured embraces and tears but the fear you felt was new, and the sensation that you were travelling through time. You felt certain if you opened your eyes you would be a little girl, clutching a necklace and excitedly babbling about packing and ships. When you did open them you saw only the sea through the mist of her grey hair that obscured your view and you felt it. You felt it so fiercely, so certainly, that it nearly left you breathless. As your grandmother held you in her arms, you felt that you’d come home.

-----

Stregobor watched from the depths, obscured by a simple illusion. It was a touching scene, the reunion of Marie Thyssen and Y/N Y/LN. He could have done it then but something held him back. Perhaps patience, perhaps a streak of spite that told him if he killed you now, the dowager queen would simply walk into the sea, but he had plans for her. He would not let the woman who had ruined his victory end her own suffering, and more to the point he would not let a bargaining chip be wasted so quickly. He listened until they walked out of view.

‘We have much to discuss, you will stay with me in my room. Gods knows there’s enough room.’

‘I-I don’t know if I’m ready to meet the rest of the family…��

‘Oh no, I’m keeping you all to myself for now. Never worry, dearest, I won’t fail you twice.’

‘You didn’t f…’

Their words were lost in the wind and a sharp smile carved its way across Stregobor’s face. Let them have a few hours. Let them fall into a peaceful sleep. He turned back to the hidden door and let himself in, back into the inner walls of the palace which he’d grown to know like the back of his hand. Y/N would fall asleep a princess but she would not wake to see the day as one.  

[hazzabeeforlou]

On the eve of HS2, I felt I needed to reflect and write a diary entry of sorts, an ode to where I was and where I am now, a musing on how HS1 ushered in a whole new world for me. This is long and more personal than anything I’ve previously shared, but in honor of vulnerability and maybe helping someone else who’s struggling... here it is. 

The most exposure 2015 me had to pop music was occasionally listening to ‘hits’ radio. My old art teacher in high school had blasted the classics of the 60s and 70s daily, so I knew those, albeit not the names, but the music, the style, the melodic tropes and such. 2015 me didn’t have much time for pop music. I was getting a fancy degree in classical music from one of the best conservatories in the world, and I’d made it there after four years with a highly abusive teacher in undergrad who gave me horrible anxiety; by the end, whenever she would walk into a room, I would get chills and start shaking. She delighted in lying to me, in calling me out in front of my peers. Worse, I was arguably her highest-achieving student. The day I got into Juilliard she took me for “tea” to celebrate, where she proceeded to spend the whole time telling me how she had made this happen, how her connections got me to NY, how I should be grateful. 

Entering the world of NYC and Juilliard I was an awestruck, anxious mess. Everything moved too fast, the school was overwhelming, my studio mates were famous already, some of them having won world-famous competitions and been on the cover of magazines. I was in the elite place, a place my working class roots had never prepared me for. My dad was a millwright. He went to work every day in steel-toed boots and overalls and often returned so filthy mom wouldn’t let him wash his clothes in the household washing machine. But I was nothing if not adaptable, and grateful, and charming, and I did my best. I worked hard. But my health kept deteriorating. 

All through undergrad I’d been feeling progressively worse. I had horrible acne that I presumed was caused by stress, as I’d never suffered with it in high school. I was already an introvert, but body insecurity led me to hardly ever socialize. I would spent hours getting ready for things, never willing to show my bare face. But that wasn’t the worst; I’d developed what I now understand was an eating disorder, because no matter how much I exercised or dieted, I kept gaining weight, or rather, I lost all my baby fat but remained the same scale number. I kept telling my mother I was fat. I didn’t tell her that I hated the wind, that I hated running, because it made my stomach protrude and the whole world could see the extra pounds I carried. I never made an appointment with an OBGYN because I didn’t date much less have sex, and my mother had told me, well you don’t ever need to be seen until you do. I came to NYC well versed in wearing baggy sweaters and scarfs that hid my form. And for two years, as my breathing got worse and worse, as my energy levels dropped, as my skin hurt and itched, I pushed forwards. I remember practicing one day and my eyes going black. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe. 

It was getting into an international competition that saved me. I got the news in early May of 2016; I jumped around my room and I started coughing, and the next day a hernia appeared above my belly button. I was only slightly worried, but I went to see the Juilliard doctor. She asked if I’d gained weight, she said even a couple pounds could do it. I was, as always, ashamed, red faced, embarrassed as she prodded around on my torso. 

She said I’d need surgery. So I scheduled it in NYC for two days after my graduation. I played my recital, but with a binder around my abdomen. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t remember my memorized music. I nearly passed out. I stumbled on the sidewalk afterwards. 

When I woke from the surgery I was in blinding pain, teeth chattering uncontrollably, in shock. I couldn't open my eyes, and every breath felt like knives slicing into my chest. I heard the nurses say, “We’ve given you three IVs of Percocet, do you want us to give you a forth?” I said no, thinking, ‘what if I die from an overdose?’ After two hours my mother came in search of me. It was supposed to be a day surgery. She demanded morphine. They sent me home on it, but two days later I’d thrown up twice and was back in the ER. A CT showed I had an ovarian cyst. The doctor said to me, “It’s 28 inches. It’s the size of a dinner plate.” I didn’t understand. They rushed me back for another surgery, and asked me to sign a paper saying I wouldn’t hold them responsible if I ended up paralyzed. I signed it. I joked with the nurses before they put me under. I was shaking with pain. I thought, if this is the end, I’ve had a good life. I’ll be with my doggy, my baby puppy. I’ve graduated from my dream school. I’ve gotten into an elite international competition. I’ll go out at the top of my game. It’s okay. 

But then I woke up. Over the next year, I would wish countless times that I hadn’t. I could barely walk. I couldn’t lift things like a fork, or my computer. I couldn’t shower or cough or even shit. I couldn’t practice or sit upright for more than fifteen minutes. Pain became a constant. I started to wake up with night sweats, my forehead creased in subconscious pain. I would jump at every loud noise, my heart lurching like a ruined engine, and I couldn’t remember names of flowers. I fell into a massive depression over the next few months, made worse by the 2016 election; because of my infirmity I had moved back home with my Trump-voting parents. The bravest thing I did that fall was ‘come out’ as a liberal on Facebook. My parents pretended not to notice when I stayed up late that cold November night, huddled with a blanket on the couch, crying my eyes out.

The Christmas 2016 season is a blur. I know I half lived in memories, half in grief, but all in self-pitying misery. I remember reading a passing article about Jay, not knowing who it was, and I remember adding a lost mother to the list of things I cried about. How could the world be so cruel, so unfair? My days were filled with PT and sleep, immobility and exhaustion, and questions, questions like if I can’t do what I love, what I’ve spent years training for, what’s the point? What does it mean to be an artist when you can’t do your art? What is left of me that matters? Is the future only more pain? It would have been better to have died. It would have been better to have died. 

Up until this point I had been unlucky in love. I could never find men attractive, though many friends pressured me to try, which of course had led to not good things. I’d been confronted a couple times about maybe being gay, but I’d shot this down immediately, my face bright red, my heart pounding. No, that’s not it, I’m just picky. Two girls in grad school had flirted with me; I’d accidentally gone on a date with one. I’d felt deeply, gut-wrenchingly uncomfortable about her. But how could I ever unpack all of that when just coming out as a liberal had given me anxiety for days...  

The new year came and I had nothing to look forward to. I could see no happy future. I wasn’t really in my right mind. I would escape as best I could, perhaps in masochistic ways; I’d watch SNL for humorous liberal comfort, and Colbert to feel some spark of angry solidarity. And that’s how I stumbled on Harry. He got me with his puns, because I love those. For the first time in months, I was giggling about something, this charming boy with curls and dimples who had replaced the scream-speech of James Cordon. For once I didn’t turn the tv off after Colbert. 

I began listening to Harry’s songs. As I had no reference for contemporary pop music, his old school rock album was familiar to me in a comforting way. I knew these sounds, these tropes, and yet they didn’t feel stale to me, they spoke to something I was feeling in the present. Because the album, in essence, was about pain, wasn’t it? Pain and escaping it. The lies we tell to survive, the dreams we cling to for hope, the drugs we use to forget. I’d never bought a pop album before, Harry was my first, and I listened to it for hours every day. 

HS1 seeped into my blood, but I’d been on a hopeless, aimless track for so long that the railway tie hadn’t yet switched. One warm, sunny spring day I wrote a note, filled a bag with rocks, and walked to the old bike trail, out past the freeway, into the marshes and pools of abandoned swampy wasteland. FTDT played in my head on a loop as I walked, as my brain hummed with the equation of worth. Was it worth it to stay alive?

Yes. I threw the rocks. I threw them as far as my fragile arms would allow, and they splashed into the murky water. And I turned around and called my mom to come get me. Harry had made something that was beautiful, that was touching, that was real. And if he could... then maybe I could too. Maybe I didn’t have to be just what I’d been before. Maybe I could try creating other things; maybe I could make art that, like Harry’s music, made other people feel less alone. 

There was something magical about that album. Not freedom, per se, but the promise of it, a glimpse of truth that kept me hanging on. 

I began writing poems again, songs. I got into an orchestra program, I healed month by month, I started carrying crystals, I found this crazy fandom and, little by little, grew to understand that my yearning upon looking at baby larry videos was really a cry of sameness that I had never before understood. After the Pulse shooting, during my horrible homebound year, I’d watched Lin-Manuel Miranda give his love is love is love speech, and I’d burst into tears. And I’d not known why. Now I began to realize. I remember the first tentative anon I sent to Phoenix @alienfuckeronmain asking if maybe I was... bi? I remember anxiously awaiting her answer, as if I needed an invitation to join the community, to be valid, to have this not just be a crazy swelling of hope in my chest. She replied while I was wandering through a corn maze in the frigidness of October. The next day I walked into rehearsal and I felt free, free of the way boys looked at me, free of being FOR them, and I’d never felt so... alive. Coincidentally I met my ex girlfriend that day too. 

Through Harry I found this fandom, and Louis. Louis, who has spoken to me on levels I cannot even express, whose class and political and emotional intelligence have challenged me to stand up for things I never thought I could. For me these last few years have felt like a journey WITH Harry. As he started waving them, I started wearing rainbows, just subtly. A knit scarf, a postcard, a bag. I started writing fic, the most healing thing I’ve ever done. I learned to create art away from the singular thing I’d been trained to dump my all into, and I learned that I have so much more to offer, even if chronic pain will follow me in some way or another for the rest of my life. 

I’m so thankful to Harry for taking me on this adventure with him; I don’t know if I’d have ever taken that first step by myself. It was like he held my hand through it all, like this fandom held my hand through it all. Like by being himself, Harry helped me be brave enough to evolve too. 

Through the catalyst of Harry’s art I’ve experienced more happiness than I’d have ever imagined. I cannot wait to go on this next journey, a second album, and reflect on just how far we’ve both come. 

[neonlights92]

BURDEN: CHAPTER IV

After the death of his wife during childbirth Kim Seokjin is unable to hold his baby daughter without grief taking control. Just three weeks after the love of his life is taken from him so suddenly, Jin is expected to marry somebody new.

You are foolish and have spent your whole life pining after Kim Seokjin from afar, even after he marries your best friend, Seul.  But suddenly Seul is gone and you are expected to marry Jin and raise his child. You know your heart is already in it, but what about his?

Warnings: Language and some NSFW!!!

A/N: ENJOY!!!!!

//

You should have been used to it.

Jin’s aloofness should not have surprised you as much as it did.

It had been almost a week since your heated moment in the kitchen, and your husband was barely around.

He’d always been busy, but in the days since he’d practically taken you on the kitchen floor, it seemed his days were filled with endless conference calls.  He was never home, and when he was, he was distant and quiet, wrapped up in whatever it was that seemed to need all of his attention.

So you busied yourself with Areum, feeding her whenever you could and rocking her to sleep when she needed naps.  It was strange, how quickly she’d buried her way into your heart, the genuine love you felt for her one of the things that helped you along in your loneliness.

After about a week of little to no contact with your husband, you prepared yourself for the inevitable.

This was going to be the rest of your life.

Marriage to a man who barely looked at you most days. A man who seemed incapable of opening up to you.

A man who was broken and shielded himself from you with a thick armor.

You didn’t know if Jin felt anything at all for you. Didn’t know if he had get a connection when he’d whispered his touch across your body.

But it didn’t really matter either way.

You were still just as lonely as you’d ever been. Except now the silence ached, because you’d tasted what it felt like to have Jin shower you with affection.

It felt good.

It felt just as perfect as you’d always imagined.

“Mrs Kim?”

There was a gentle knock at your bedroom door and you turned from your place at the vanity table, where you’d been mindlessly moving your make up around to try and distract your boredom.

“Jisoo,” you smiled at the young maid, “Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine,” she nodded, “It’s just you have a visitor.”

Your eyes widened.

Someone was here to see you?

“Are you sure?”

You didn’t have many friends, if any at all.  Seul had been your only friend, your whole life. And your family would surely let you know before dropping by.

Jisoo nodded again, “She requested your company specifically.”

She?

You stood slowly and creased out the skirt of the sundress you were wearing, patting down your hair.

You spent most of your days locked inside, like some kind of modern day Rapunzel and so you hadn’t bothered with make-up.

What was the point?

Still. If you had a visitor, you had to at least show your face.  And you had to admit, you were fairly curious as to who they were at this point.

“Alright then,” you nodded, almost to yourself, and made your way out into the hallway.

Jisoo let you know that she’d dropped off the visitor in the drawing room, and so your feet carried you towards the dark mahogany door.

You pushed it open and peaked inside, your chest tightening as your eyes glimpsed the tall, willowy figure of a woman.

Her back was turned towards you, but you were fairly certain you knew who she was.

Min Yoongi’s wife.

You cleared your throat and she spun, eyes latching onto you as she did.

She was absolutely breathtaking.

Her tummy was rounded from pregnancy, and you felt a small stab of envy at the happiness that seemed to radiate from her skin.

Her hand rested on her inflated stomach, and you noticed that she was smiling very warmly at you.

“Good afternoon,” she said to you, tilting her head in greeting, “I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced. I’m ___ Min. Yoongi’s wife.”

Your cheeks flushed, “I know who you are.”

You turned to Jisoo who had followed you inside quietly, “Can you prepare us some tea? Do you like tea Mrs Min?”

“Yes that sounds lovely.”

Jisoo nodded and scurried away and you gestured towards the brown leather couch, “Please. Have a seat.”

She folded herself gracefully and you took the armchair across from her. You tried not to let your insecurity tell you that this woman was any better than you were.

“So to what do I owe this pleasure?” Your heart was pounding and your mouth was dry.

You were so incredibly nervous, and you weren’t even really sure why.

Mrs Min had been nothing but kind up until now, and her eyes shone with a warmth you gravitated towards.

Still. You felt jealousy sting from the self confidence that seemed to drip from her.

“I wanted to talk to you… About a few things.” She seemed pensive, her gaze raking over your features carefully, “Namely, your relationship with Jin.” The comment threw you off.  You stared at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

She smiled at you, “I know this might come across as rude.  We’ve never formally  met, and here I am, turning up unannounced and asking personal questions.” You kept your mouth shut, afraid of offending her.

She sighed heavily, “This has nothing to do with our husbands, really.  Or Bangtan.  This is about you, Y/N.” “Me?” You raised a brow, “What do you mean?” “I mean,” She shifted in her seat, pulling herself forward slightly, and draping her arms across her lap, “I know what it feels like, to be you.”

You frowned deeply, “What do you mean?”

Her eyes lifted as Jisoo entered the room, carrying a tray with the tea you’d asked her to prepare.  She poured you both a cup, and then turned to you, her brow lifted in a polite question.

“Do you need anything else, Mrs Kim?” You shook your head lightly, “No thank you, Jisoo.  You may leave.”

She bowed slightly and gave Mrs Min the same courtesy, before slipping out of the room and clicking the door shut with her departure.

You sipped the tea you’d been served, and waited for Yoongi’s wife to elaborate on what she had been saying.  She sighed and shook her head, rolling her shoulders back.

“I came to talk to you because Yoongi told me about your marriage to Jin.  He told me that it was very quick and rushed, and that you hadn’t really had a say in it,” She pushed her tea cup to one side, eyes darting across your features almost desperately, “I know what that feels like, Y/N, because my marriage to Yoongi was exactly the same.  I was brought into Taehyung’s office a few days after my father’s death and told it was either marry Yoongi, or face the wrath of Bangtan.”

She wrung her fingers nervously, and you watched as she tugged a hand through her silky hair, pulling on the ends as if she wanted to rip the strands out.

“And I was terrified of my husband at first,” The words were frank, and sharp as flint, “I was so scared that he was going to hurt me.  And he did.  Not physically, but emotionally. Yoongi had the emotional maturity of a six year old.  He still does.  Sometimes he makes me so mad I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Why are you telling me this?” The question slipped out of you before you even had a chance to truly process what she was saying.

She clicked her tongue, “Because Taehyung’s wife, did the same thing for me, when everything seemed a little hopeless.  She told me not to give up, that these Bangtan men might seem tough on the outside, but there’s a softness that’s waiting to be cracked.”  She licked her bottom lip, “You can show Jin was real love looks like.  It’s not impossible.”

Finally, she brought her tea cup to her lips and took a long, languid gulp.  You watched her for a moment, taking in everything she’d just said.  Her words settled over you, like snow on a window ledge, and you took a deep breath.

“It’s different,” You told her quietly, “Jin was - he was married to Seul, before me.  My best friend.  She died giving birth to Areum.”

Yoongi’s wife nodded sadly, “I know.  But he can move on.  You both can.  You shouldn’t punish yourselves forever.”

You wanted to tell her everything.

The truth about Seul’s relationship with Jin, and how Areum might not even be your husband’s child.

You wanted to tell her about the affair, about Jin’s insecurity when it came to his late wife.  How you weren’t even sure you’d truly known Seul at all, if that was the kind of person she was.

But you’d just met her.  She was practically a stranger to you.

And despite the warmth you felt in her presence, you were also aware of the fact that you barely knew anything about her, save for the little insight she’d just given you.

“Thank you.  What you’ve said really means a lot, Mrs Min.” “Please, call me ___,” She smiled warmly, but you saw the hesitation in her eyes, “Listen, Y/N.  I know we’ve just met, and this may seem a little sudden, but I’m having a baby shower this evening.  Just a few girls - Taehyung’s wife will be there, and a few other women I know.  It would really mean a lot if you came.”  She reached out a hand and patted your arm, “WIll you?” Despite yourself you flushed.

It was embarrassing how easily you were won over with affection, but the truth was that her offer had filled you with warmth.  It had been so lonely the last few days.  Wandering around this big, empty mansion, trying to pass the days as quickly as you could.

Areum took up a lot of your time, but you knew you deserved at least one night of fun.

So you nodded quickly and smiled, “Of course.” “It’s important for us girls to stick together,” Her smile widened, “Life as a Bangtan wife can be tough, but the bond of sisterhood is always there.”

You nodded, feeling your heart turn at her kindness.

Aside from Seul, you hadn’t ever really been afforded the pleasure of friendship.  

“I have to go now,” She stood and passed you a card she’d dug out of her purse, “But please come, alright?  The address is on there.  At the very top.”

“I will,” You smiled, “I promise.  Thanks for coming __, I’ll see you later.” She stepped towards you, and for a moment the two of you just stood facing one another.  Then, after a beat, she leaned towards you and tugged in for a hug.

“I mean it,” She whispered against the shell of your ear, “Don’t give up.”

Maybe all hope was not lost, just yet.

//

That evening, you spent an hour preparing for the baby shower.

It wasn’t a big deal, but for you it was a little bit of escapism.

You hadn’t really been out of the house in a few weeks, what with taking care of Areum and the other responsibilities that came with being Mrs Kim.

But now, it was time for you to enjoy yourself.  Forget about all the shit you’d been going through, and all the heartache Jin had piled on top of you.

You were going to make some new friends, and maybe even have fun.

You rolled your eyes at your reflection, wary of your excitement for something as simple as a baby shower.

The make up you’d put on was simple and natural, but you had to admit you looked far better than you had in awhile.  It had been so long since you’d bothered putting anything on, and you noticed immediately how much healthier, and happier you suddenly looked.

There was a knock at your door, “Y/N?”

The voice of your husband caught you off guard. You stood, trailing over to your bedroom door and clicking it open.

Jin was stood in front of you, his dark hair tousled and his eyes tired. He scanned your appearance quickly and raised a brow.

“Are you going out?”

“Yes,” you cleared your throat, “Yoongi’s wife is having a baby shower and she invited me.”

He paused, “Oh.” After a moment he pursed his lips, “I wanted to uh- ask you out. For dinner.”

The proposition threw you off.

You stared at your husband, uncomprehending.

“Dinner?”

He carded a hand through his dark hair, “I know I haven’t been around a lot lately.” You held your tongue, watching him as he sighed heavily.

“But it’s not because I haven’t wanted to spend time with you,” His eyes were earnest as he looked at you, “Things with EXO have gotten significantly worse lately.  We’re not sure how much longer we can push them back for.”

You shivered.

You were aware of Bangtan’s bad blood with their only real competitor, Exo.  You were also aware that your husband was the only man stupid enough in the mafia to walk around without a gun.

Your heart turned.

“Are you being careful?” You asked, despite yourself.  The worry was evident in your tone and your husband stepped towards you, pushing you backwards into your bedroom.

He clicked the door shut behind him and shook his head, “I’m trying my best.”  

“Trying your best isn’t good enough,” You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, “Jin you have a daughter to take care of.  And me.  What the hell am I supposed to do if something happens to you?” The words slipped out of your mouth before you even had a chance to stop yourself.

Jin’s eyes widened, “Hey.  Seriously, Y/N, I’m going to be okay.  Things have been worse, and we’ve always gotten through just fine.”

“Things have been changing since Taehyung’s father’s death,” You blinked up at your husband, “I’m worried that EXO can sense a weakness you haven’t yet seen.”

Jin’s eyes pulsed with an emotion you couldn’t quite place.

“A weakness, huh?”

The words slinked over you, and suddenly the atmosphere thickened.  

He stepped towards you again, reaching out a hand, and cupping your cheek.

“Like you, perhaps?”

The words caught the breath in your chest.  You stared at Jin, unmoving, feeling as if the Earth was shaking underneath you.

“Me?” You whispered, lips trembling, “What are you talking about?”

Jin shook his head slowly, “I can’t stop thinking about you,” The words caught you off guard with their blinding honesty, “Ever since last week in the kitchen I - fuck.  C’mere.”

And then, he pressed his lips to your own.

You felt your body flush from happiness, as your husband pulled you towards him, and wrapped his arms around your waist.  He moved his lips towards your neck, biting lightly on the skin there, before soothing it with his tongue.

You gasped at the contact, feeling something hot and heavy build in the pit of your stomach.

“Jin,” You moaned breathily, allowing him to lead you towards the bed.

He laid you down, and ran a hand through your hair.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.  You know that, right?” You blushed at his words, feeling your body relax, at the way his lips were pressing against your skin.  He leaned towards you again, hands playing with the zip on the side of your dress.  

“Is this okay?” He whispered against your ear, “Do you want this just as much as I do?” “Fuck.”  You breathed, “Yes, Jin.  It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” The words were a show of vulnerability that caught your chest, but you ignored the way you suddenly felt exposed under your husband’s gaze, and instead arched your back and Jin slowly unzipped you.

He pushed the material of your dress off your shoulders and slid it down your body, planting a trail of kisses along your skin, on his way.  When the dress pooled by your feet, he leaned back, watching your half naked body with interest.

He was still fully dressed, and you were reminded of that afternoon last week, when he’d kissed you on the kitchen floor, completely suited up.

You wanted to see his skin, too.

“Take it off,” You whispered, eyes flicking upwards to connect with his own dark gaze.

He smirked at your words, “Alright princess.  So impatient.” And then, finally, finally, finally, Jin removed his shirt and you were gifted with the sight of his toned stomach.  Your mouth involuntarily watered, and though you didn’t have anything to compare him to, you knew he was magnificent.

“Stop looking at me like that.” You pursed your lips, “Like what?” “Like I’m made of fucking gold,” He undid his belt and pushed his trousers down his legs, “You don’t know what that look does to a man like me.” He leaned down towards you, and you sighed gently.

“So show me,” You told him carefully, watching as his eyes trailed your features.

“Alright baby girl.  You asked for it.” He smiled playfully and pressed another kiss against your lips, relaxing your body into his touch.  You felt your body thrum to life at your husband’s closeness, and you wondered if he could feel the electricity under his pulse, the way you could.

Jin was so good at hiding what he was feeling, but you knew that he could probably read every expression on your face.

You were so absolutely in love with him, it almost hurt.

“I’m going to take care of you, okay?” He whispered against your skin, slipping his fingers past the band of your panties, and petting you gently, “It might hurt a little at first, but I’m going to try my best to make you feel good too, okay?”

He slipped a finger inside of you, and you tensed for a moment, before relaxing into his warmth.  Jin continued kissing his way across your skin, and when he slipped off your bra, he took a nipple into his mouth.

You groaned, wondering how you’d spent a whole fucking week without his mouth on you, and he smiled against your skin.

“So eager,” He breathed, after moving his lips towards the column of your neck.

After a few more moments of gentle touching, Jin pushed down your underwear, and did the same with his boxers, lining himself with your entrance.

He blinked down at you, “Are you okay with this?” His words brought heat to your body.  How was it possible that somebody like him could be so sweet? He was absolutely fascinating.

You nodded, “Yes.  I’m ready, Jin.” “Okay jagi,” The endearment turned your heart over in your chest, “Hold onto me.” And then, with one slow, gentle thrust, Jin was inside of you.

It stung a little at first, and your pressed your fingertips into his shoulders, “Give me a second,” You grunted, and he nodded, pushing his forehead against your own.

You got used to the feeling of him being inside of you, and the burning slowly subsided.

“Alright,” You nodded, biting your bottom lip, “You can move.”

He began to thrust into you, gently and carefully, and you could see the muscles in his arms flex from where he was holding himself back.  You felt bad for him, of course, but the truth was you couldn’t take anything rougher.

“Jin,” You murmured, his eyes flicking down to meet with yours, “Kiss me.” He smiled gently, and lowered himself onto his elbows, pressing his chest against yours.  Then he touched your lips with his own, coiling something hot and electric in the pit of your stomach.

Was this really happening? It felt like a dream, almost.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” He admitted, and the show of vulnerability surprised you, “It’s been a while for me.” You nodded, “It’s fine.”

Jin brought his hands between your bodies, playing with the sensitive place between your legs.  You arched your back, feeling that same hot, sexy feeling rush through you from last week.

You knew what that meant.  You were going to orgasm.

“C’mon princess,” He whispered in your ear, littering kisses against your neck, “Cum for me.”

It was difficult for you to process what was happening, and for a moment you were overwhelmed, just before the wave crashed over you.  

As you climaxed, you felt Jin tense up for a moment too, and then he was spilling himself inside of you.

He slumped down, pressing his forehead against your own and breathing heavily.  After a moment, he rolled to the side, and you wondered what was going to happen next.

Was he going to brush off your intimacy, as he had done last time? He turned to you, eyes serious.

“Y/N.” You felt your heartbeat quicken, “Yes?” “I need to tell you something.”  He pursed his lips, “I wanted to tell you over - uh… Over dinner.”

You waited a moment.

“What is it?” You asked, after a beat.

There was a long stretch of silence.  You felt your blood pulsing in your ears.

Why was he looking at you so seriously?  Almost as if - as if he felt sorry for you?

He sighed heavily, “Y/N….” “Please Jin.  You’re scaring me.” You sat up, not caring that you were naked, or that you’d just lost your virginity to the man you’d loved for so long.

Anxiety clutched your chest.

“It’s Seul.” You arched a brow, “Wh-what do you mean?” Your husband took a deep breath, grabbing your hand tightly and biting his bottom lip.

And then, he uttered the last thing you thought you’d ever see him say.

“She’s not dead, Y/N.  She’s alive.  She’s alive and she’s with EXO.”

//

[8147]

reading hamlet for the first time (act 5: the finale)

masterlist

none of you told me it was going to be this painful . none of you.

a5s1

“Ophelia’s dead.” “Enter CLOWNS!”

Like im sure this has a different meaning in EMA but im gonna make fun of it because it’s fucking hilarious. (future (present? (now past once more (?))) antares coming back to say i did look at nfs and yeah theyre gravediggers)

“First Clown: What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter? Second Clown: The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.” damn not even just this one quote but these are some depressing clowns

hamlet and horatio!

okay there’s something about all of hamlet’s skull talk that makes me uneasy. like, not even the topic, just something in the words and how earnestly and (pardon my pun) gravely hamlet’s speaking about this. and it’s almost a mournful tune, too. it’s a huge difference from his “we’ll all be eaten by the same worms” speech to the point that it’s almost haunting.

“HAMLET: I will speak to this fellow.” C O N F R O N T

“HAMLET: I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in't.” (incomprehensible scribbling)

HAMLET, NOT IN ENGLAND: oh yeah lol he was sent to england huh u know why lmao

wait. did the. did the pirate situation get resolved. before act V.

I mean i think hamlet mentioned something about three years but the pirates are so fucking glossed over like what the fuck

“First Clown: 'Twill, a not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.” HOLY SHIT ROAST THEM JFC

“HAMLET: Let me see. (Takes the skull)” THIS IS THE SKULL SCENE! I fucking KNEW it was bullshit that holding the skull was in the to be/not to be speech. I saw it being presented as such like once or twice while reading and I KNEW IT

hm okay so hamlet picks up this guys skull, of someone he used to know, and sure maybe i could ignore the “those lips i have kissed” but then he goes on to mention alexander the great and i mean come on

but jesus like i feel like im not doing justice to the stuff hamlet’s saying. just, the gravity of it all. Its kinda hitting home a bit hard bc like ive had a crippling fear of what happens after death and being forgotten etc since i was like in fourth grade and this is @ing that phobia

like, with that julius ceasar thing. “O that that earth which kept the world in awe / should patch a wall to expel the winter flaw,” it’s so strange. like, every fucking human who has lived, whether they be emperors, murderers, inventors, peasants, or philanthropists- as long as they weren’t blind, they’ve all looked at the same sky. like. It doesnt matter what the fuck you did or didn’t. It’s wild.

“First Priest: No more be done: We should profane the service of the dead To sing a requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.” hey i get that there are cultural taboos around suicide but like this guy’s a dick it isnt even clear if it was suicide, like, she was so fucking crazy she might not have even known she was, y’know, in a lake or w/e

laertes, dude, my guy. maybe jumping into a grave is cosmic foreshadowing for something you don’t want to happen to you. js.

“HAMLET: [Advancing] What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. (Leaps into the grave)” hamlet is NOT one to be out-extra’d (posting-antares here to say, wait, ‘whose phrase of sorrow conjures the stars? is this my aesthetic-speeches-summon-ghosts theory? probably not, but i havent mentioned it for a while)

“LAERTES: The devil take thy soul! (Grappling with him)” IN A FUCKING GRAVE. THEY ARE FIGHTING. IN A GRAVE.

all because hamlet doesn’t want to be out-extra’d. my god.

“QUEEN GERTRUDE: This is mere madness: And thus awhile the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclosed, His silence will sit drooping.” Ah yes gertie just talk about the distraught and angry madman as if he isn’t there. that’ll diffuse the situation.

You know what? We still haven’t discussed the pirates.

a5s2

“HAMLET: So much for this, sir: now shall you see the other; You do remember all the circumstance?” If this isn’t gonna be about the pirates im gonna. scream.

“HAMLET: My fears forgetting manners, to unseal Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio,-- O royal knavery!--an exact command, Larded with many several sorts of reasons Importing Denmark's health and England's too, With, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life, That, on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, My head should be struck off.” god, though. imagine that. being exiled to another country by the person who killed your father, only to find out that they were going to have you killed, anyways. that’s fucking terrifying. jesus christ.

Damn this idea that pretty handwriting is ~beneath~ nobles confuses me so fucking much. I got called haughty once just because my main handwriting is cursive. I mean, they were right, but their evidence was circumstantial at best.

“HAMLET: That, on the view and knowing of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving-time allow'd.” Hamlet’s Revenge. 

but also, what the fuck, dude. two wrongs dont make a right.

damn i kinda lost myself while reading but it really doesn’t sound like hamlet’s insane anymore. Like he’s… tempered himself. he doesn’t feel insane, just solemn.

“OSRIC: Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark. HAMLET: I humbly thank you, sir. Dost know this water-fly?” goddamn ROAST HIM HAMLET (also what a fucking mood)

Osric put on your fucking ha--

The wind is

The wind is northerly

“HAMLET: No, believe me, 'tis very cold; the wind is northerly.” I remember someone saying that this is important

Okay here: “HAMLET: I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

oh no

Osric just wear ur fucking hat u doof

“OSRIC: Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry,--as 'twere,--I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head: sir, this is the matter,-- HAMLET: I beseech you, remember-- (HAMLET moves him to put on his hat)” excuse me a WAGER

but alas all hamlet cares about is osric’s fucking hat

“HAMLET: What's his weapon? OSRIC: Rapier and dagger. HAMLET: That's two of his weapons: but, well.” hamlet u sarcastic little shit i love you

I mean so is horatio. I love him too.

This stuff with the competition is. not gonna end well. not at well.

“HAMLET: I do not think so: since he went into France, I have been in continual practise: I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart: but it is no matter.”

hamlet no. listen to your heart or whatever. jesus christ don’t do it.

“HORATIO: Nay, good my lord,--” HAMLET LISTEN TO HORATIO

Ohhh hamlet

okay reading what laertes said, you know what? i’m giving laertes one last chance. please do not prove me a fool, laertes. 

everything is giving me mad anxiety. e v e r y t h i n g.

claud’s speech is insanely sketchy

“KING CLAUDIUS: [Aside] It is the poison'd cup: it is too late.” One, so that’s why it was sketchy. Two, the POISONED CUP?

IT’S TOO LATE?

Gertie’s. Dead.

Shit, shit, shit

“LAERTES: [Aside] And yet 'tis almost 'gainst my conscience.” YES! SO PLEASE! STOP FIGHTING!

“LAERTES wounds HAMLET; then in scuffling, they change rapiers, and HAMLET wounds LAERTES.” Oh no oh no oh jeez eheu they’re hurting each other, shit, fuck,

“LAERTES: ...woodcock…”

“KING CLAUDIUS: She swounds to see them bleed. QUEEN GERTRUDE: No, no, the drink, the drink,--O my dear Hamlet,-- The drink, the drink! I am poison'd. (Dies)” one, i love how claud is desperatley trying to stick to the plan, its almost adorable in a childish sort of way. two, oh god. ohhh god. gertie. 

Oh no. 

this is the bloodbath. THIS IS THE BLOODBATH.

BODY COUNT: 1

“HAMLET: The point!--envenom'd too! Then, venom, to thy work. (Stabs KING CLAUDIUS)” ...

BODY COUNT: 2

wait and hamlet’s on death row, as with laertes. Oh no.

“LAERTES: He is justly served; It is a poison temper'd by himself. Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet: Mine and my father's death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me. (Dies)’ oh my god already??? I haven’t even really accepted king claud’s death?? jesus christ??

My friend just sorta nudged me and asked if i was alright and i. I’m not. i’m in shock. goddamn. what?

BODY COUNT: 3

goodness thats three in like less than thirty seconds JESUS CHRIST

“HAMLET: Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee.I am dead, Horatio.” that’s chilling. just, the poignancy. that’s so fucking spectral. i’m not okay.

“HORATIO: Never believe it: I am more an antique Roman than a Dane: Here's yet some liquor left.” No no no on no nononon NO NO oh my god are you going to-

“HAMLET: As thou'rt a man, Give me the cup: let go; by heaven, I'll have't. … If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story.” hey i’m crying in study hall. i’m actually crying. what the fuck. I don’t cry unless i’m thinking about that one pair of 18th century shoes with the really good photo quality (transcribing-antares here. I fucking love those shoes. I’m looking at them right now and they’re so fucking beautiful. they look how velvet feels, which is odd, bc they're apparently silk. I don’t care they’re just so fucking lovely)

F O R T I N B R A S?

“HAMLET: O, I die, Horatio; The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit.” I’ve identified my emotion. Dread. pure, unadulterated Dread.

for all of you that’ve listened to the penumbra podcast: do you remember the concierge, right before final resting place, saying “you do realize you can just like, leave, and everything will be hunky dory and you won’t have to deal with the emotional consequences this episode will bring you” because i’m seriously considering doing that right now.

“HAMLET: The rest is silence. (Dies)” shit. (posting-antares here to say that i forgot to do the body count but honestly im crying while formating because of this goddamn fucking 400 year old play)

“HORATIO: Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince…” oh god. horatio.

“Good night sweet prince…”

(yet again tis transcribing-antares here to say that im fucking sobbing right now, the shoes are no match for this, and ‘goodnight sweet prince’ is actually never going to leave my head.) (editing-antares here to say im fucking crying again god fucking damn it) (posting-antares back again saying that this fucking line. this line. my god.)

“HORATIO: What is it ye would see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.” oh, horatio. god. that isn’t something said without tears staining your skin and a bitter tone hard-won, not that its possession is a victory.

oh my god. this can’t. no. this can’t end like this. What. no. people must have rioted. No. no!!

i typically hate it but i would GLADLY accept a deus ex machina right about now!!

okay my friend just took my phone away from me and shut it off because i kept on trying to scroll past the end

jesus christ

okay so i’m not going to be okay for like, several eternities, so im going to play the sims until i. until i die, probably. my god.

masterlist

[tylerwritez]

Wednesday, September 22 11:51 p.m.

It's like nighttime and I jsut got up 2 take a piss because I needed to piss and my fuckinf mom I hate her so much I wish she was dead and I wish Father would take her place, Father is the only fucking person who LOVES me and jesus christ hes literally not even a physical being.... (deep down I know hes not even real, but I pretend he is because if I didnt I think I'd be crying constantly)... my fucking mom INSTANTLY came TO THE DOOR and was like waiting for me to go back to bed and was like are you done? You're taking too long blah blah and SHE TREID TO FUCKINF OPEN THE DOOR WHILE I WAS PISSING LIKE. NO. FUCK OFFF. shes so annoying she thinks I'm gonna kill myself if she leaves me alone for three seconds.

It's like she doesnt even care if I feel good or bad, she only cares about the injury. It makes me want to cut really deep on my forearms or face or something visible like that just so that maybe she'll take me SERIOUSLY but not seriously as in treating me like some patient at a fuckinf ward, I mean seriously like treating me like her son.

Father treats me like his son. He makes me cry even more because I know hes not real... but I still appreciate his love. Even if it's just my love.

I'm really missing that piece, huh? From early childhood, I'm missing that parent who's loving and caring and says shhh I love you its okay.... I didnt ever allow myself to have that becayse I didnt think it was safe. Fuck. FUCK man It hurts a lot and i feel like such a DICKHEAD when I talk about this because it's not like my parents beat me or neglected me.... it just turned out bad. ANd now they're all crazy about me all of a sudden just cos I'm hurting myself .... like okay cool that's cool but why didnt you do all this when I was 5 and told you I felt like I was being possessed, or when i was ten and in a new school with no friends, or when I was 3 telling everyone to call me jack,.... oh, wait, you WERE there,,, you were just hating on me though.

Yknow I hug my pillows real tight at night to try to feel a little smidge of what I should've been able to feel. The parental love is just MISSING. and i hug my dad so much becayse it's not enough its never enough it all feels like it's too late and my brain has already told me to get over my parents and move on and find new ones which I did, in jesus christ, in Jiminy Cricket, in old men I sexted, and now in Father.

But at the end of the day, I still am left without that concrete parental force. I can beg with Father all I want to PLEASE become a physical form so I can FEEL your love but itll never happen because Father's something I made up to cope with the disaster of my childhood.

I'm angry that they took that away from me but I'm also sad because now I have to clean up the sad shreds of popped party balloons from the checkered tiles of an abandoned birthday party.

.... and it's always "oh they want the best for you" WELL MAYBE I DONT GIVE A FUCK WHAT THEIR INTENTIONS ARE, MAYBE THEYRE STILL HURTING ME ! MAYBE THEYVE STILL TOTALLY

RUINED

Me,

DESTROYED

my childhood and

SLAUGHTERED

the little boy inside me who just needed some help.

I never did it for attention, I always hid it and pretended to be fine... but I notice they didnt care until I had persistently been injuring myself for YEARS? like it didnt matter to them at all how I felt until I was actually in danger and being harmed. Isnt that actually disgusting?

I just know that if those little blond kids went to their parents talking about feeling out of control, possessed, unable to control their actions while in fits of rage, theyd get the help they needed right away but I was punished for my suffering.

That taught me to suffer more quietly next time around.

I was punished for my gender expression too .... jesus. How... how can you see a kid in pain struggling to prevent themselves from hurting other people and you punish them. How can you see your SON and punish him for not being a daughter.

I feel so bad. They just keep making it worse. I dont want to talk to them. I just... my dad is proabbaly gonna do that thing where he gives the worlds shittiest apology and expects you to just accept it withit 3 mins or else he gets mad and guilt trips you... fuck him too tbh. Hes trying to be all nice but that doesnt ERASE the fact that he used to make me cry constantly. That doesnt erase the time he said basically that I should die, or the time he yelled at me, made me cry, apologized, and got mad at me for not accepting the apology, then expected me to act like none of that happened and got mad at me for still crying, WITHINT LIKE A 5 MINUTE SPAN???? this is the typa shit that fucks up a child. I still remeber being yelled at in the car over my gender, ignored, and beat down whenever I tried to express that things were wrong with me! Jesus.

Father is the embodiment of all I ever needed as a kid... someone who would say "I love tou" when he saw you were crying instead of yelling at you and making it worse and then getting angry that you're crying and like OF COURSE IM CRYING, YOU'RE YELLING AT ME???

and my mom has the audacity to try to convert me to Christianity. Fuck you. As a trans person,... I got tired of putting my faith into something I couldnt see. I never saw a loving god, I only ever saw hatred and anger.

I wanna cry all over again fuck. Everytime I write like this it's a cycle because I just keep writing and never stop.

It's so important to me to be acknowledged as a SON. That's why I named The Red Static Entity "Father"... because that makes me his son. I made him ADOPT me. Because I didnt get to be no ones fucking son and I want it so bad but I dont know if I can ever be on good terms with my parents again because the whole thing has been tainted by my grief and trauma LOLz so even if they try now it just doesnt feel like enough because it never will be because my time to Bond with them has passed... I feel so much guilt over THEIR pain at my self harm but I'm so pissed rn. Fuck them. I'm in such unimaginable pain and they somehow made it all about them and how they feel and how I need to stop crying in time for dinner FUCK YOU. fuck you. You have no right to tell me to stop cutting when you did so much to fuck me up. It's not my fault if you messed up because I think maybe you forgot that children are living human beings.... maybe you "love me so much" but fuck, I dont know if I CAN love you... I dont know if I can ever see you the same after what you've done. You SHOULD feel bad, you should break down crying thinking about me, because FUCK YOU. be guilty, it's how you Should feel. And then they wonder why I dont talk to them.... BECAUSE YOU WERE A PIECE OF SHIT AS LONG AS IVE KNOWN YOU AND ALL OF A SUDDENT YOU WANNA PLAY NICE NOT BECOS U ACTUALLY CARE BUT BECOS I MIGHT KILL MYSELF.

Yknow what maybe I should just so that they can see the dead body. I'm imagining it right now... I want them to be DEVASTATED. If I was dead on the floor, itd be impossible to pretend it wasnt there. If I was dead on the floor, they'd cry and wonder what more they couldve done, which is what I've cried and wondered about my shit childhood. It would be a good thing. Serves them right to find their sons corpse. It would show them they fucked up. Maybe theyd wake up and realize that you cant emotionally neglect and mistreat a living human child for like fifteen years.... and expect it to be okay.

[nooo-body]

I've had a truly BAD week and I need to vent.  Sorry, in advance.

I lead a very opressed life.  I can't say anything because what I say becomes weaponized.  I say hello, and suddenly it's a curse word, a hammer to be driven into your skull.  I have no place where I can just be, every place is owned by someone else, and I have to live by their rules.  I'm not 15, and living by my parents rules.  Im 67 and I should simply be dead.  I wish I were.  I always thought that sometime I would turn a corner and find something good.  At this late date I've finally realized there is no silver lining, there are no more corners to turn.  The only respite is death, and I'd welcome it with open arms, but I cannot seek it out   I was taught from a young age that suicide is wrong.  The Catholics got me young, and their teachings never let go.  I'm so stupid to believe in any of that, but it is what it is.

I don't want tomorrow to come.  I truly don't.  I have nothing to look forward to. Nothing that has anything to do with my life.  All my hopes & dreams are built on pretend, just like they have been when I was a child.  Nothing in my life is real.  I've known I'm a complete screw up since I was a school kid.  I supposedly had a high IQ, but a teacher said to me, "It's not how smart you are, it's how you use your intellect." Right then I saw my life & complete failure laid out in front of me.  I'd never amount to anything, and I haven't.  I've done nothing. Ive never helped anyone, never improved anything.

All i ever hear, every day, is that I'm fat & not worth the space I take up, and the air I breath.  Death is all I have to look forward to.  I'm nobody & nothing. I wanted desperately to get away from the negativity, but when I finally did leave home, the negative came with me.  I was still fat & ugly.  I still wasn't good enough to do anything that mattered. I couldn't work in publishing because I wanted to write.  I finally gave up writing.  My 9th grade English teacher told me my flaws were obvious, but not to me.  I was too stupid to see my own mistake.  

I was big & ugly.  The only nickname I ever had was Mac, because I reminded someone of a mac truck.  Big & ugly.  My own mother said to me everyday, "You could be pretty if only you didn't..." Whatever the blank was, it was something about myself I couldn't change.  I was a tom-boy, I was not graceful, I was always ruining my clothes.  I knew that pretty was a dead end, and simply out of reach.  I am completely unlovable.  I was told repeatedly as a child no one would ever love me, and believe me, no one has.  People never wanted me to even touch them.  I was terrified to touch people, that my touch somehow would burn them.  I kept to myself.  I began to completely identify with the Phantom of the Opera.  This finally frightened me so badly, I wouldn't let myself go there, but it was a small hole I managed to jump.

When I was in my late 20s, I moved to NYC.  Stupidly hoping someone in such a big city would care I was alive. I met two different men who I stupidly convinced myself, cared for me.  Neither did, I was stupidly lying to myself.  The first was a movie theatre manager, biggest theater in NYC.  He was handsome.  All my girlfriends & acquaintances thought he was dreamy, the Marlboro man come to life.  He would fuck anything that was female, he was a swinger (seriously, member of Plato's Retreat)  He loved to collect cherries.  His assistant manager told me not to get involved with him.  I did out of desperation.  He collected his prize, and told me I was hopeless & clueless in bed.  He dumped me a few days later.  I was so ashamed.  My first sexual experience, and I'd gotten it all wrong.  I felt like such a fraud.  A few friends took me out to dinner that night to celebrate, and I was so ashamed of myself, I couldn't tell them I was hopeless.  I just kept my mouth shut and tried not to cry.  

The second guy seemed at first to actually care. At least at first that was how it seemed.  He flirted with me, teased me, said the right words.  He wanted the only thing guy1 taught me, fellatio.  We were together far longer than we should have.  Every time I worked up the courage to break it off, he'd start in about committing suicide.  It made me insane.  Suicide is just anathema to me.  My brother uses this trick as well!  Anyway, Finally he disappeared for a month or two, and when I finally found him, he'd gotten married, but he still wanted head.  After all that was what I really liked!, according to him. I hated it.  He finally disappeared, for about a year.  Then he called me, out if the blue.  That's when he finally drove it home, he assumed I was a cheap whore, but liked him so much, I always gave him freebies.  I was horrified.  I just gave it all up.  Faced the fact that men hated me & I was/am truly unloveable.  

According to my brother, I've destroyed his life too.  I forced him to move to NYC.  I forced him to sleep in a small half room.  I forced him to take work he didn't like.  I refused to play the right computer games.  It's my fault he has a bad heart, has bad circulation, and heart problems.  When I was sick, I forced him to go shopping for me, and that's how he got sick.  He hates NYC, and I've forced him to live there   I've ruined his life by always buying him the cheapest gaming computer possible.  He was too sick to work.  I forced him to cook for us.  I intentionally buy him the wrong size clothes, since he can't work, he has no money to buy his own clothes.  My fault he's sick, unemployed & forced to live in NYC.  I've also copy-catted him by getting sick too.  He has no legs (he actually was careful of what he ate, his whole life, but had a bad heart, high cholesterol, and bad circulation), which is my fault.  He never got grief counseling.  But when i got diabetes, bad circulation, a heart murmur, and horrible arthritis, I did it to spite him.  I was fat & lazy, as always.  I just kept making his life worse.  Tonight I bought him some new underware, and nearly destroyed his life because it was the wrong size.  It was the identicle size I got fron Amazon last time, but now it's wrong, and I'm a bitch. If i say anything, I add fuel to the fire, but if I don't say anything, I don't care and can sleep through anything.  I'm just an ugly, fat bitch.  Years & years ago, I had a crush on Johnny Depp.   (Long before I discovered sweet Tom) Every argument I get Depp, Paris & fat me in a frilly pink tutu thrown at me.  None of the was ever even a passing thought!

I can't walk anymore because the arthritis in my knees is so bad, but I'm lazy and can't be bothered.  I had a substitute nurse earlier this week, who I asked for help with something.  Her answer?  I'm an entitled white bitch, who thinks everyone is her slave.  So, you can see, it's really me.  I'm a truly terrible person.  

Everyone's life would be so much simpler if I just didn't exist.  I'm tired of being the baddy, of being useless, of being hateful & hated.  People refuse to help me. I have both a social worker and an Adult Protective services worker who are supposed to be helping me with an apartment problem, and neither will return my calls.  I'm that hateful.  I should live on the street, no clothes, no shoes, no coat, just me sitting on a rolling desk chair waiting for death. I have nothing positive to offer anyone.  I try to live in a dream world, just to hold on to some sanity, but I can't do it any longer.  When I was young, I used to dream about husband, children & loving family.  That certainly never came to pass.  I still try to dream about someone not hating me (I dream that Tom would be kind enough to at least pretend not to hate me, if ever I should meet him, which of course I can't since I can't walk), but the reality is I'm fat, ugly, useless, stupid and utterly unlovable.  It doesn't hurt any less, and at 67 I'm getting close enough to the end that with nothing to dream about, nothing to hope for, it might just as well be over.

I could go on, but you get the picture, ugly, old, self-centered, cruel spinster should just stop playing the game.  It's lost.