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jweekgoji · 10 hours ago

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I just read your d-16 obsessed with famous reader and was kind of curious to think about what he would do when he became megatron like almost yandere obsessive

anyways… ily!!

Yandere!Megatron/Idol!Reader [TFO]

tw: yandere themes, obsession, possesive thoughts. word count: ~1,7k additional: gender-neutral!reader, ex-racer!reader, decepticon!reader. a/n: I did something similar before, you can read here if you want. however I would focus on different scenario here and mostly on exploring dynamic through inner feelings (if that makes sense). i think i wrote about more violent Megs before, so i wanted to write a bit softy one.

Pretty little thing.

Always on a pedestal, standing at the centre of attention, you rarely had to think about any problems. You were always surrounded by someone who would surely worry about it and solve everything at the flick of your wrist. The only thing that was needed was to just innocently clap your optics and enlighten the rest of the crowd with your beauty.

It's hard not to get used to it.

From the moment he saw you, you were amazing. No, perfect.

It seemed like every time he watched you from afar, he was looking at the brightest star in far, far away space. No matter how far away he stood, you always shined brightest for him.

Surrounded by a crowd of fans that never gave you a moment's peace, like satellites, you always stood out in the crowd. Everything in this tiny, cramped world revolved around you.

There was nothing in D-16 that could ever catch your attention, if only for a second.

And yet, he was happy. Never having seen the real beauty of the outside world, deprived of freedom since birth, at some point you always made him feel surrounded in a field of stars.

If it was safe on the surface of Cybertron again, he would surely spend cycles watching the vast sky dotted with colourful, bright lights.

‘It's not the right place for you to be,’ he would remind you every time he gets the chance of.

Away from Iacon, albeit rotten in the filth that was left behind by Sentinel the false Prime, he couldn't deny that there, you would be much safer.

Away from Iacon, you were lost. You never seemed to belong in the company of the former High Guard. Being silver spoon fed since the moment of your creation made you more naive and so painfully obvious to everyone around. It is a miracle, that there were still someone who looked after you, even though your silly little title doesn't mean here anything anymore.

He must have hated you, you would have thought. Unlike all those who joined the Decepticon resistance, everyone here was united in their hatred for the former reign of long-abandoned leader of the Iacon. Numerous attempts to hunt down, then exterminate every last one of them, only to hide the truth will forever be remembered by those whom Sentinel Prime deemed a threat to his rule.

In turn, what really united you with the idea of the Decepticons?

Did you feel as if you had been betrayed? Were born into this world only to exist meaninglessly in the depths of of your home planet, furnished for a slow, faithless death?

Something in Megatron's gaze drew you in. It was hard to tell if it was that bloodthirsty determination to free your city from the captivity of tyranny, or that look of despair and bitterness as the newly elected Prime banished him from his own city?

Either way, you followed him that day, much to the surprise of the Decepticon leader himself.

You glanced in Megatron's direction. Battered, like a wounded dog he was clenching his teeth and sitting on an equally time-worn throne. The silver frame was dotted with many scratches and dents, and the distinguished cannon still emitted a faint hint of smoke after being sliced in half.

The three members of the High Guard always stayed close by, but it seemed that no matter how hard they tried, their words always passed by Megatron's audials, that he didn't even have the slightest desire to cast his gaze at one of them.

“We can't waste time just because you're unable to move on from the last confrontation,” Starscream hissed demandingly, red optics fixed on the seated leader beside him. “We have a chance to mount a surprise attack until they secure their position in Iacon.”

The quiet scraping of metal against hard surface barely passes your optics. Fingers dig firmly into the armrests of the throne, at the mere talk about the recent defeat.

“Makes no sense. All focus should be on finding a suitable base for the Decepticons,’ Soundwave reminds, taking a single step forward towards the jet. Now, Starscream's gaze in Megatron's direction is blocked.

“So why haven't you started on this yet?” comes another, counter question. Stepping forward to meet the officer, the former leader of the guard gives his colleague only a sceptical, stern look.

“I'm working on it,” is the simple answer, not uncommon from the Decepticon's lips hidden behind the mask.

Starscream pinches himself on the bridge of his nose, closing his optics for a fleeting moment. This is what he gets after cycles of loyal service to the Primes. Total disobedience, and their new leader is hardly battle-hardened, spending twenty-four hours wasted in a pathetic attempt to soothe the yearning spark. To believe it, and this is the brat he lost to?

“Then get on it quick!” the red and white mech clucks his tongue, after which, casts a sharp glance in Megatron's direction. “If we can't keep fighting, what was the point of all this in the first place?”

Such an arrogant, son of a glitch. Doesn't know when it's the right time to shut up. That hit only deeper, after everything that happened for the past cycles. The constant whining and demands do nothing to ease his already troubled mind. He lost everything that day, the one and only time when he felt like everything. The bloody red optics darken at the words, and a soft growl escapes from him.

So, you step up.

“Soundwave is right, there will be another time for the attack, but now the top priority is to establish a base,” you raise your voice enough to catch all the decepticons around off guard. “Let our leader sort out his thoughts instead of pressing on him.”

Who could know you can speak up?

The confused sight you received from Starscream worth it in some way. If for all of Iacon you were an idol, loved by many, the old member of the high guard had no idea about you. The majority of the decepticons probably don't know either, you imagine, but does it really matter? The only look you only wanted, was from him.

An invisible, red string of fate always seemed to be tied around your wrist when it came to the unknown, small miner named D-16. After countless days of him following you around, it would be you looking out for him. How funny.

You smile.

Not a fighter, nor even build for any hard work. Your frame is neatly polished, shining pretty in the light. Even though at first of the decepticons glared and watched you with nothing but suspicion and hesitation at first, your bright charisma always let you have your way. Good on cameras, a valuable experience even at war. Somehow, you even made friends with them. You can even remember Slipstream and Thundercracker asking you about your daily polishing routine.

The same, dark red optics always trained on you. He should be glad, at least. Wasn't he concerned about your position in his new rankings? No matter how hard he tries to act so mighty and cruel, the big bad leader of the decepticons, Megatron, is still soft.

Still shy, you can add.

He's taller, stronger. If you easily towered over him, now the silver mech is the one looking down at you. It was odd, for some time. Your alt mode is build for speed, keeping you on the road and easily avoiding any obstacles that might get into the way. But with Megatronus' t-cog now, he's no longer that scrawny mech you were used to.

It must be so confusing to him, but so satisfying. It is no point in trying to hide it. With how tight his servos wrapped around your waist, holding you suffocatingly tight against his own frame. Like you'd run away or disappear if he let go. Funny enough, you'd do exactly the opposite of it.

The last bits of his own comfort in this Primus forgotten place. With you in his arms, he feels safe and loved, even though he doesn't understand what exactly this feeling means for him. He felt like that every time he was with Orion, playing that arcade game over and over, even as a miner, it was enough for him to be satisfied.

Megatron hides his face against your neck, closing his optics. Loved when he's with you. It was never this close until now. As D-16, all he had was glimpses of you on the big screen television, some rare, closed-door nights, when lucky.

He should be happy now, he thinks. No more hiding now, just you and him together. No more of this cursed society that stood in his way. Who would dare to oppose him at this moment? Tell him he has no chances of having you this close, however and whenever he wants it?

If only you just stood still and never moved an inch. He'd put you on the pedestal you deserve to be, so he could be the only one to be graced by your own appearance. A big, nice, glassy box will be good enough to cover you from the outside world, so maybe no Prime would even dare to lay their filthy hands on you.

Your servo gently laid on his back, moving in lazy, soothing circles. Both of you don't have to say a word; it was a comfortable silence between the two. After long, long and tiring days of work, he wants nothing but to rest next to you. Let himself fall in the long deserved recharge, so the constant, painful ache in his processor would be gone.

Such a peaceful sight for you. Having him this close, right in your arms. You would never dare to bother him at such a time. Even if his servos are fully covered in deep pink energon, wouldn't it be easy to just pretend not to notice it? If there's anything you're thankful for from your past career, it is the ability to turn blind optic when it's needed.

If you can't change him, you can definitely make him worse.

#yandere x reader #transformers x reader #transformers one x reader #tw yandere #megatron x reader #yandere megatron x reader #yandere transformers one #yandere transformers x reader

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urspiritualnurse · 1 day ago

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•Pick a card. (left to right).

What roof over your head is blocking the sky?

Pile 1.

The term "I" begins to flourish and build a meaning when a child is given the space to do so.

In this pile, I see a budding you, very new to the world and your own reflection, being taught by someone whether consciously or unconsciously that their heart is your heart, their mind is your mind, their stomach is your stomach.

And since the teaching taught you that someone else is your identity and very being, I see you giving your all to that person in innocent hopes that by doing so, you are fulfilling your own needs.

Your stomach would rumble and naively you would run and feed the other person, believing their intake is what fills your belly.

When a being merges identities with another, catastrophe is bound to occur.

Doesn't matter if it's the very person who birthed you, bathed you, fed you, educated you.

You will forever remain yours.

And they will remain theirs.

And this pattern of your distorted sense of self who perceives another's anatomy, emotional need, mental pursuits, existential crisis with it all of its burden as yours.

Comes from a place of unaware hurt.

The sensation of belonging feels soothing doesn't it?

And all the crowd suggests one must belong to their own selves but what happens when you have no self that you know of?

You cling to the people you believe have a self.

You are hungry, yet the unawareness and disconnection to your own stomach leaves you in a state of repeating distress, for you can sense only your hunger but not your belly. And you repeat the sad cycle where you work hard, cook meals and varieties, run towards a person who you believe is you, or has a self that you do not, and feed them.......hoping....pleading to a power so high that the food....miraculously rests on your lost stomach instead of the ones whose mouth that you just fed.

You are thirsty, you are hungry, you are unsatisfied, you are sad, you are in need of help and support, you are in distress.......yet....all you witness is yourself repeat the miserable cycle where all that you need you find yourself giving to another......

For where is the location of your mind? For you to ever deliver a suggestion of relief.

For where is the direction of your mood, heart, spirit, and soul? For you to ever lend a hand to your own aimless self.

To feed, one must first know where the mouth lies.

You know what and where everyone else's entirety lives.

But not yours.

Until you discover your own, and connect with it.

Your hands will forever feed the mouth of another, every time the sensation of hunger rumbles in your lost stomach.

You are kind, not everyone in your place would have been so willing to give.

But your nature that was born a giver has become even more grand, so much so your aware hands cannot guide it well.

And any waters no matter how kind and quenching, if has no deep land guiding it to a direction of clarity, the waters are bound to drown what wishes to live.

Your kind heart doesn't need a dam, just a little awareness and willingness to swiftly change and alter the pace and the direction of flow.

When people say, "the world doesn't revolve around you. Or not everything is about you."

Mind you, it is.

It always has been.

It always will.

So take care of the first person you see, touch, hear, feel, connect to.

This person is the one who is bound to you by fate, tied to your flesh and bones, and is made to accompany you from birth to your death.

So yes, it is all about you.

My dear reader, everything is indeed about you.

Pile 2.

The innate creativity we all are born with, needs an environment that makes creating something fun.

But in this pile I see someone who came before you, buying a land, building a house, choosing every colors on the wall and even hand picking art to hang on those walls.

And they hold in their hands some nails, they appear rusted and unreliable and there I see you, being called by them and asked to hammer those rusty nails.

And obediently you do so, but such domineering hands and will the person holds, they stop you midway, not trusting the placement you chose, and picked apart a spot and even decided the nails placement, and then struck in the first strike by themselves.

As they urge you to continue after what they have left for you to work with.

But the nails are rusty and placed in such ways that it is bound to twist in directions that are hard for a frame to hang.

I see you doing what you've been asked to do, with diligence and intention simply to contribute and help.

But as the inevitable failure occurs, by their own misplacement and choices.

I see them blaming all of it on you, on your craftsman ship, your hands and your strength, deeming it being too much or too less, too out of control and in need of taming.

There, in you I see a withering spirit, a flower of creativity losing its colors.

As your eyes grow dull from exhaustion, and your hands tremble with anger and fear.

Your mouth itches to speak what your intelligence could gather, but....you do not.

For reasons dear to you.

And I see you never again, trying to dive in your creativity.

Sometimes creation doesn't always mean art and crafts.

It also means relationship, creating something in between two detached individuals, that brings them together.

But you do not.

The sheer idea of building something terrifies you, exhausts you.

"What is the point?" You say,

For in each released creation, there will be millions who will point out the flaws in your choices and placements.

And ones choices are a part of them.

Nobody likes hearing another reject the choices they have made.

There are million things of us that are out in the open, that we cannot hide or unrelease, such as our face, limbs, height and body structures, voice, hair, etc.

And even that we work so hard to trim and keep in check.

Because that is something already out in the open, that you cannot inhale back in, within your discreet existential pockets.

But choices and creativity, ideas, thoughts, feelings are.

They are unreleased, hidden and needs your definite yes or no, for it to ever be seen or heard by another.

So you hide.

"Being picked apart and criticized for what is seen of me is enough.

I don't want any more of me to be known."

And thus,

You live in confinement, alone even amidst a crowd.

Silent even amidst a lively parade.

But you see,

All that is in you needs a place of release.

All alone you are, and there is loneliness even worse than being someone with nobody.

The loneliness that pushes away not just the world, family, friends, lovers, but also your ownself is far worse.

For you, truly will not have anyone.

To stand infront of the mirror and find none of you reflecting back is scary isn't it?

The fear of criticism has reasonably scarred you so.

It is understandable why the thought of opening up and creating feels so jarring.

I could say to you, "leave all of those people behind who have nothing but criticism to spare." But I know it isn't that easy, for sometimes those people with poisoned tongue are often the most dearest to our heart and soul.

The thought of forsaking them or being forsaken by them, is terrifying indeed.

In such case, what else can you do?

If not, start with cleansing your own way of self speech.

I know for sure, you talk to you more than any of them ever will.

And as it is said, children pick up language, dialect and even tones from their surroundings.

And you have picked all of those, with it also their venomous way of speaking.

Clean your speech, first.

That is where you shall start.

Show and let yourself hear, what a speech delivered by kindness feels like.

Because nobody's hearing ears are a disposable empty bucket for another's vile talk to fall in.

Be generous with compliments and appreciative endearments to yourself.

You deserve it.

Pile 3.

If your world was burning, in fire ferocious and mean.

In such heated tragedy, from the smoke filled air, if emerged out a glowing hope of brush.

In sync, if the sky echoed to you,

"Whatever you shall paint, will be the fate's verdict."

What will you paint?

Anything and everything with blue I suppose, a tide, a blizzard, enormous town engulfing sea, hungry floods, rivers, ponds, rains, hailstorm.......

But I see you, dipping the brush in the color red, painting embers, erupting and angry volcano, forest fire, destructive flames......

Again and again......

As though you were once said to believe that you are a specific species, a flower so rare and in the verge of extinction, and can only survive in a weather or a land, burning with destruction.

And you live, as all should, trying to survive....and not die....not meet an early end.

So you do everything in your power, to create all of your previous environment because someone or something said, you can survive only on those conditions.

I picture a little round penguin, realizing the necessity of the cold for its kind and living from then, simply eradicating any warmth out of these lands.

Working hard to ensure, he survives wherever he goes.

Bringing in frost, in all the world's.

Regardless of the weather and breeze the specific land holds, forcing into it soul freezing blizzards so it could live, thrive, survive.....anywhere........not just live in one place and die in one.

Realizing that it wants to travel, move, see and explore, yet realizing it's own survival limitations.....

But you are not such species.

Neither are you such endangered flower.

You are a child of man, born with adaptable flesh and spirit.

No storm, no weather, no lands control you and your living.

You can thrive and survive anywhere.

But you believe you can only live in environments where you once started from.

Fire, burning world, heated violence, agitation and discomfort, struggles and teary eyes.

All of it, you think you belong there.

And you make it time and again your current reality.

For we all are indeed gifted with that said brush, whether we believe it or not.

The skies might not have declared a prophecy to us about what the brush and our hands could create and do.

But we have them in us.

So it is up to you, what do you wish to create?

You do not have to continuously live on fire.

Let the weather change, let the circumstances change, doesn't matter if for better or for worse.

Someone turning 7 if was proclaimed to bring forth disaster, should we simply stop the child from growing and changing?

Such disasters that threaten you into stopping a free spirited change are illusions meant to bring stagnancy.

No change is bad enough to be ever, locked up and avoided.

It's alright.

To try for once the color blue, paint waters that shimmers like crystals.

You are meant for more, more than what you had, more than what you have gotten used to, and more only comes when you move around, explore, for no matter how many coals you collect, 10 or thousands, if it's not something new.... a brand new discovered rock, colored pebbles, or gems even, you cannot consider the addition of the same old coal as something more.

For that is simply a cycle of repetitions.

Pile 4.

A child of man is the most moldable form of universal clay there is.

You can make anything of him.

Leave a child in the coops. He will walk out a chicken.

Whatever he is surrounded by or is told he is, he becomes.

Even if for the visible intelligence, it seems absurd to even believe.

But he indeed becomes what he is told.

Adaptability becomes curse to mankind when the one who is given the right to mold, are unreliable and distorted source themselves.

God lands a soft clay on the doors of a newfound home.

And watches from above as the owner of the place, molds the given piece into what he must, or into what believes he must.

Projecting all of who he is, the molder himself carves an image untrue to the clay.

I see in this pile, a child of man, molded as a worm with no limbs.

And he lives crawling, wiggling on the ground.

When all of his fellow kin, moves with pride, making use of their limbs and mobility.

He simply watches with yearning as the one who lives as the man they are.

Accumulates abundance, satisfaction, sovereignty, fulfilments and secure riches.

But he who thinks is a limbless worm, grows sullen with tireless, sad, envy.

What do you do when although inspiration strucks your reigning horses, but nomatter how much motivation rushes through the breed, it's worn out, immobilized legs cannot endure a mile.

Such is the case,

We think when inspiration hits we can do anything.

But for a man to write, he must have his hands in place, if not so, all the running inspiration are bound to grow tired.

Something needs to be there, a way through, like the tip of a pen, or a open end of a water pipe.

For anything to release itself, one must have a way through.

For inspiration comes to no use if you have no means for it to release itself into the open air.

And I see this pile, believing they are somehow different, taking pride in it yet at the same time grimly despising it.

Such are the sides, you believe you either are capable or incapable.

You believe you are either superior or inferior.

Sometimes we dance between both, like a fickle wind blowing left from right.

I cannot guarantee the worthlessness of standards, hierarchies.

For God, mortal, demons, spirits, also have hierarchies of their own, even planets itself loom over another with pride and the ones behind rotate with a sense of loss.

In this world, noone has to agree to what you think of yourself or what place you belong or are capable of reaching.

It is alright.

To be angry at the world for looking at you and measuring your height and reach and declaring your worth, is exhausting.

It is pointless to fight a battle you cannot win.

For your feet that walked to the place where your mind knows is a space where all gets evaluated and labeled, must be the one that is stopped and checked.

You cannot burn in rage and despair, that is the good part about being born in this labeled society, everywhere there is a written statement of what that place is.

So, when you walk towards such places that declares your worth, when it is clearly stated that very place, evaluates an individuals worth.

Who can you get mad at?

When you walk into a room where a major is inspecting potential platoons, and he says to you, "you are not suitable for war." You cannot get angry at the man who is simply declaring the specific needs that place holds.

You simply walk out such spaces.

You decide what your worth is.

And from there, don't you ever look back, or around, or up, or down.

Do not seek a direction where you can meet the gaze of someone who disagrees to what you have decided.

This fight is not worth fighting.

And dear reader, when you are inspecting your ownself, and evaluating your worth, all the anger, sadness, disappointment you have towards the world's standards and hostility towards those who can not meet it, let it guide you to become what you wished they were.

Be generous, be empathetic, be fair and have the core bones in you that stands on the belief that "all men are created equal, that such question about one's worth is in itself meaningless, that need not be asked."

Go get that bag! Go get that dream!

You child of man pretending and deluding themselves to be anything less than that.

You can and you will!

You too can hold and acquire what you see another receive and get.

For you too are a child of man.

Capable of giving and receiving.

#tarot pick a card #tarot reading #spirituality #pick a card #pac reading

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premiumbitch · 3 days ago

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THINGS TO MANIFEST - REGINA GEORGE THEMED PACK ! ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

hi luvs! I decided I'd make this regina george themed pack for the people who want to manifest themselves to be a completely different person, someone they will feel confident to be! also for the amazing shifters who can script this about themselves! enjoy :) (guys a quick disclaimer this one is sorta toxic pls don't kill me..)

⋆⛧┈┈┈┈﹤୨♡୧﹥ ┈┈┈┈⛧⋆

BEAUTY ♡ //

Your beauty isn’t just stunning—it’s legendary, like a vision straight out of a movie.

Your hair is always perfect—blonde, sleek, and flawlessly styled like you’ve just walked out of a salon commercial.

Your skin glows with that perfect tan, as if you were born to bask in the spotlight, radiant and always on point.

Your eyes are sharp and captivating—every glance is calculated, every look feels like a command.

Your lips are full and painted to perfection, as if you were born to turn heads with every smile, or lack of one.

You have that effortlessly perfect look, even when you “don’t try”—everything about you screams that it’s too easy.

Your cheekbones are sculpted to perfection, cutting through the air as if you were chiseled from stone.

You move with a confidence that can only be described as powerful, each step exuding authority.

Your outfits are always on-trend, never just good, always next-level, and always attention-grabbing.

You make every look seem effortless—even when it’s a full-on runway moment.

Your presence is magnetic, drawing eyes the moment you enter a room because you’re untouchable.

Your nails are always perfectly manicured, with a touch of flair that screams wealthy and in control.

You don't need makeup to be beautiful, but you wear it like an art form—flawlessly sculpting your face with precision.

Your voice has the perfect pitch, one that demands to be listened to—everything you say sounds like a command.

Your beauty is intimidating—so perfect it makes everyone around you question their own.

AURA ♡ //

You have an aura of total dominance, like the queen of the world who’s never questioned and never challenged.

When you walk into a room, you don’t just take it over—you own it, as if the universe is yours to command.

Your energy feels intoxicating, pulling people toward you even if they know they shouldn’t get too close.

You carry yourself with a confidence that can’t be mimicked—people feel it before they even see you.

Your aura radiates a mixture of strength, superiority, and a little bit of mystery, making you feel untouchable.

You don’t just have a presence—you have a power that can make anyone’s world stop.

People are drawn to you like moths to a flame, but they’re too scared to get burned—because being near you means being tested.

You have the ability to make others feel like they don’t matter, simply by being too perfect.

Your confidence is so fierce, it’s almost intimidating—but it’s also magnetic.

You radiate a kind of cold, calculated charm—one that makes everyone around you feel a little inferior, but they love it.

You’ve mastered the art of making people feel like they’re lucky to be in your presence—even when you couldn’t care less.

Your energy doesn’t just fill a room—it changes the whole atmosphere, as if everything revolves around you.

There’s something almost dangerous about your aura—a reminder that you don’t just play the game, you control it.

You’ve perfected the balance between beauty and power—one that makes you seem untouchable and always in charge.

People want to be you, fear you, and admire you all at once—because your aura doesn’t allow for anything less.

SMARTS ♡ //

You’re not just smart—you’re the type of clever that can manipulate any situation to your advantage.

You have a strategic mind that never misses a single detail—you know exactly how to get what you want.

You never let anyone see you sweat—your brilliance is effortless, because you always have a plan.

You don’t just outsmart people—you make them think they had the idea first, without even lifting a finger.

You know exactly what to say and when to say it, using your words like weapons to get ahead.

You understand the importance of social currency—you know who to talk to and who to ignore, all for the perfect result.

Your intelligence is wrapped in charm, making even your most calculated moves feel like sheer luck.

You never let people see your vulnerability—it’s all part of your carefully curated persona of perfection.

You can manipulate a situation with just a look, making you a master of both strategy and seduction.

You’re the kind of person who can win over any crowd, make the perfect impression, and still come out on top.

Your smarts are not just about books—they’re about reading people, understanding what they want, and giving it to them just when they need it.

You’re an expert at blending in and standing out at the same time, making people never quite know how to handle you.

You’ve perfected the art of winning—and you never lose.

You’re not just the smartest in the room; you’re the most dangerous, because you know how to play every angle.

You’re the kind of genius that people don’t even see coming because they’re too distracted by your beauty and charm.

PERSONALITY ♡ //

You’re the definition of unapologetically confident—never second-guessing yourself, and never backing down.

You can make anyone feel small without even trying—but you don’t care because you know you’re untouchable.

You’re fiercely protective of your status—and you’ll fight anyone who threatens your place at the top.

You’re a master at manipulation, but you make it look charming, as if everything you do is part of your grand design.

You know how to make people love you and fear you at the same time—because both are useful.

You can destroy someone’s confidence in seconds, but you never lose your own, because you are the standard.

Your humor is quick, sarcastic, and filled with biting wit—you make people laugh, but only at their expense.

You have a knack for getting exactly what you want, whether it’s through charm, beauty, or sheer willpower.

You can make someone feel like they’re your best friend—and the next moment, make them your biggest enemy.

You love being in control of everything—and when you aren’t, you find a way to be.

You know the power of being feared, and you wear it like a badge of honor.

You are the ultimate influencer—with just a few words, you can change the course of someone’s life.

You exude power in every move, from the way you walk to the way you speak.

You’re not just admired—you’re revered, and everyone knows it’s not just because of your beauty.

Your personality is like a hurricane—chaotic, fierce, and impossible to ignore, leaving a lasting mark wherever you go.

hope you guys enjoyed! requests are appreciated! lmk if you want anything! <3

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somepsychopomp · 10 hours ago

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Meet the AU: Stolen Son

So this all started with me writing down an idea for another fic at 3am and forcing myself to stay up until I finished drafting the general premise.

SUMMARY: After the events of Ruthlessness, Poseidon is furious that he's yet to properly extract revenge against Odysseus of Ithaca. But instead of waiting ten years, he decides to punish the foolish little king in an entirely new way.

The sea god seeks out Telemachus and befriends him, pouring his desperately desired paternal affection upon the young prince. All so he could rob Odysseus of any chance to raise his own child, knowing that having Telemachus defer to another man over his blood father would hurt worse than even death.

(For context, you can read my first post for this AU here! + an extra tidbit or two)

Now for the fun stuff! I've got lots of extra ideas & minor plot threads brewing, so I've put a few below:

What about Penelope?

In case you were wondering, Penelope never trusted Poseidon. (Still trying to decide on his false name for this AU just give me time)

She was suspicious from the beginning because his initial proposal was just too good to be true. Why would a supposedly esteemed scholar from Athens come all the way to rocky, weather-worn Ithaca to tutor the prince of a small and somewhat humble nation? And for almost no pay whatsoever- just a room to sleep in and food each day.

At first, Penelope suspects that maybe Poseidon is a disgraced scholar driven out of the city or kicked out of his school. She doesn't outright refuse his offer to tutor Telemachus, though. She's only curious as to what the catch is. So she has the servants report to her about Poseidon's ability to teach. For the first few weeks/months, all they say is that he's a rather peculiar man. It's not that he seems unable to teach things like oratory and writing, but that he has little interest in it. What he excels at is history and religious studies, both useful to a growing prince. So Penelope lets him stay a while longer.

When Poseidon approaches her and suggests taking the boy out for his first hunt, Penelope's hackles raise as she detects what could be an assassination attempt, and a poorly disguised one at that. So she sends a few men after Poseidon and Telemachus, having them watch from afar to ensure nothing goes wrong. (Poseidon is aware of their presence and is extra careful to appear as a benign tutor with his pupil's best interest at heart.)

After her son is safely returned to her, her men report no signs of foul play or insidious intent. She doesn't start to trust Poseidon after that, not yet, but she calms down a little. Penelope knows there's something not quite right with this man, but she still can't figure out what it is.

Spoilers: she figures it out eventually. By the time Telemachus is like 12-13 and the suitors are starting to get out of hand, Penelope learns just how much her son cherishes the company of his teacher. Poseidon has gone above and beyond, teaching him about taming and riding horses & sailing- more useful skills for a prince to know. It also means they've spent quite a lot of time together over the past few years. Telemachus is a lonely boy without friends his own age and is a rather sensitive soul; his world revolves almost entirely around his mother and his tutor.

One night, Penelope risks venturing through the halls without her handmaidens or what few guards remain after most of the men left for war. A terrible nightmare woke her from her sleep, something about a dark shadow ensnaring her son. Fearing it might be an omen, she rushes to his room to find the door ajar. Inside, Telemachus is crying softly as someone holds him in the moonlight.

"Don't leave me," Telemachus murmurs, "Promise you won't."

Penelope watches with bated breath.

Poseidon pets her child's hair, "My boy, why would I ever leave you?"

Telemachus sniffles. Penelope knows how hard he tries to hide his fears in front of her. He's at that tumultuous age where his head is starting to fill with all sorts of nonsense thoughts, things like not wanting to appear weak in front of her.

Though... she can't blame him, especially when duplicitous men scavenge their halls and look upon the royal family with hunger. But he cannot hide his gentle heart from her, no matter how hard he might try.

Telemachus says, "I don't think I could stand it. Please! Don't leave me, don't go away like he did."

And Telemachus hisses with such venom that Penelope almost staggers back in surprise. She knows exactly who he's talking about.

Penelope expects Poseidon to reprimand her son, to tell him it's improper for a prince to speak ill of his lord father. But Poseidon only chuckles, his voice full of warmth, "No, no. You know me, Telemachus. Have I not stayed by your side these past few years, your faithful companion? How could I ever be heartless enough to abandon you?"

Penelope has heard enough, the rage building in her throat as she becomes more than tempted to throw the door open right then and there. But no, she waits until early morning to summon Poseidon and tell him that his services will no longer be needed.

She's found the catch- Poseidon wanted to win her son's affection and approval from the very beginning, to steal the place of Telemachus' father. Perhaps he even expected Telemachus to eventually advocate for his mother to marry the man! How disgusting, how foul. Penelope demands that Poseidon leave before the sun is fully risen or face death. There will be no time for goodbyes.

It will hurt her son, who was as much a victim of this man's ploy as she was. But Penelope knows this is the right choice.

Poseidon puts up a bit of a fight, arguing with the queen until he's escorted out of the palace. At last, Penelope thinks this is the end of him.

When Telemachus wakes up, curious as to where his false father is, he rages and cries the way she expects him to. Penelope is as silent as stone as Telemachus wails and cries about how unfair and cruel she is. It hurts very much to see her son so distraught, even more so when Telemachus refuses to accept her embrace, and it hurts the most as he runs away from her in contempt. But she did the right thing.

What she doesn't know is that Telemachus is well aware that his long-time tutor is in fact the god of the sea. He runs down to the water, calling out to Poseidon for the fear that his mother has angered him.

Poseidon appears before him and Telemachus throws himself into the god's arms.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"For what?" Poseidon asks, combing his fingers through the prince's hair. "I've always known that your mother never trusted me. I suppose she had every right, I hardly spoke a truth about myself in her presence."

He chuckles softly, wiping the tears from Telemachus' eyes. Poseidon smiles. "She might have gotten rid of (insert his alias here), but I have every intent on keeping my promise to you. I will not be leaving any time soon, Telemachus. Not like Odysseus did."

From then on, there will be no need for false names or faces. Poseidon will whisper directly into Telemachus' mind, or appear in his dreams, or mask his presence from all others. Always with him, always watching over him.

Next up, the Big Man:

To be completely clear, Poseidon went into this plot w/ zero intention to ever become attached to Telemachus in any way. He just wanted to warp this young boy's mind to become loyal to him alone.

Granted, Poseidon isn't a trickster by nature, but he was willing to shower Telemachus with a few blessings and gifts here and there, a few loving touches for this obviously touch-starved child, etc. There were even a few moments where Telemachus was being super annoying to him and Poseidon was tempted to gouge out his eyes as the easy way out, but he resisted every time. That's pretty good behavior by his standards.

However, as a man with many children of his own... Poseidon found himself conflicted more than once.

Ex. He could easily dispose of all the suitors by turning them into fish, horses, or sea foam. It would make Telemachus' life much easier and he'd certainly feel extremely indebted to Poseidon for such an act, but Poseidon also kind of needs the suitors to stick around.

The suitors pose a constant, tangible threat. Having them alive and intact gives Poseidon something to protect Telemachus from. So the choice presents itself: he can choose to eliminate them all in a single moment and reap a huge amount of appreciation from Telemachus at once, or slowly sculpt the boy's mind over the course of years. Though known for his rash temper, Poseidon chooses the latter option.

After all, his true goal is for Telemachus to be completely and utterly devoted to him by the time Odysseus shows up.

And yet... there's this one suitor that drives him insane. He's big, burly. Much stronger than most of his ilk, a foreigner from a nearby island who's heard tale of an open throne up for grabs. Poseidon doesn't even know his name but this one particular suitor goes out of his way to torment Telemachus on the daily.

Note- this is before Antinous shows up, with Telemachus being approx. 13-14 years old

Now, Poseidon is all for letting his children fight their own fights. Yes, he will go far out of his way to avenge them, but he believes in letting his offspring learn to defend themselves. But unlike the other suitors, who mostly ignore Telemachus or go as far as to sling some insults, this mammoth suitor feels himself justified in hitting Telemachus and taunting him by asking if he'll hide his injuries from his mother, or go running to her in tears.

Poseidon has seen this sort of behavior in countless other royal houses before. A prince is only desirable if he's your son, otherwise he's better off dead & unable to fight you. (And even then, he's also seen plenty of instances of patricide/filicide)

After having bottled up his temper for so long, Poseidon snaps and devises a particularly cruel fate for this brute. He waits until all the suitors have gotten themselves drunk late at night. While no one is watching, he spirits this pathetic man away and drops his off at the stables. At such a late hour, no one else is present to witness the man cry out in terror as his fingers fuse together and his neck elongates, as his body becomes covered in hair and a tail sprouts from his rear. What was once a man is now a bucking, screaming horse. A rather fine one, large enough to be put to the field or before a chariot.

It thrashes in its stall until Poseidon snaps his fingers and ropes fly, trapping the stallion and preventing him from escaping. Once that's done, he slips into Telemachus' room to wake him up, promising a special surprise.

He takes Telemachus down to the stables and presents him with his new horse! It'll be his to tame and train, a fine gift for a growing boy such as he. But Telemachus is disturbed by the way the beast breathes heavily, constantly crying out as if in pain.

"Yes, it is a bit temperamental," Poseidon says, "Such is the case with many horses that were once wild. But its will can be broken, and it can be made yours."

Telemachus is confused as to why Poseidon wants him to hurt such a beautiful creature. Especially his own scared animal.

Poseidon says, "This is a skill you need to learn, Telemachus. Mercy is for the weak. To protect yourself, you must be ruthless."

Telemachus hardly understands what Poseidon means, not until he's handed a knife with a sharp, curved blade. His eyes widen and the horse shrieks as if it too recognizes what such a thing is for.

"I... I don't know if I can," Telemachus says.

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder. "Listen to me. Either you break this beast tonight, or it will fight and resent you for the rest of its life. Strike now, while you still have the upper hand. Turn this stallion into a gelding."

Telemachus looks up at Poseidon, his lower lip quivering, "You promise this is the only way?"

Poseidon smiles upon him, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes, "I would never lie to you, Telemachus."

"What if I'm not strong enough? What if I don't do it right?"

Poseidon closes his hand around Telemachus' own and says, "Then I will show you how. Come, let us do this together."

Once the deed is done and Telemachus has been safely put to bed, Poseidon strokes the gelding's cheek with false sincerity and chuckles without warmth.

"You thought you were broken already, but your fate has only just begun. If the boy wishes to ride you, he will ride. If he wants to put you to work, you will work. And if he ever tires of you and sends you off to be sold, you will be sold. You are his now, and I look forward to seeing how you fare under my child's ownership."

Extras:

Poseidon teaches Telemachus how to fight but it's not structured or formal training like Athena would. It's literally like "Okay child, here's a knife. Try to stab me as hard as you can."

When Telemachus eventually does manage to stab him, he immediately bursts into tears but Poseidon is lowkey a little proud like. Look at this child. He's only 12 and he's managed to stab a god! That's so cool.

Poseidon sends some of his other children/denizens to check on Tele whenever he can't. Ex. He'll send hippocampi to watch Telemachus as he walks along the shore/swims in the ocean, Pegasus to fly over the forest as Telemachus hunts, or Arion the immortal horse to watch the prince from land.

Amphitrite is like 80% certain Telemachus is actually Poseidon's child despite his adamant refusals. Which is weird because he was never hesitant to admit to any of his other illegitimate children, and in fact loves many of them openly. She doesn't really harbor any ill will since hers is more like a political marriage or one of convenience. She's just confused why Poseidon is seemingly embarrassed or shy to admit he has yet another mortal son. Maybe she even visits Telemachus in his dreams and is endeared by him, leaving a pretty pearl behind as a gift.

#epic the musical #epic odysseus #epic telemachus #telemachus of ithaca #poseidon epic the musical #penelope of ithaca

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mamiya-a · 2 days ago

Text

Playing dangerous

Mother Miranda/reader

Warning for explicit content.

Chapter 15: Alone

Summary:

You receive an unexpected call.

It's humiliating. The ugly, uncomfortable, dirty feeling in your body, growing with every passing second. It gathers like lumps deeply within your veins, cutting the freedom of your bloodstream. History is cursed to repeat itself, over and over again, yet why is it that for all the differences in the picture, this sickening feeling continues to rage inside you. It's stupid, it's so stupid. Miranda is not selfish, Miranda is not a man, Miranda is not the one to cheat.... Miranda is not Philip. However her late strange behaviour has started to resemble your ex-boyfriend's character a little bit too much. The woman who is more loveable than anyone is now as cold as the first flakes of snow, already falling on the bare roads outside.

Winter brings stagnation and an unpleasant, uninvited change.

After long days and nights of contemplation, you alone have come to the conclusion that your professional relationship with the blond woman is now long over. There's no point in shying away. You love her. Your every act is born of the fact that your thoughts are occupied solely by her. More than once you've caught yourself daydreaming of a peaceful life with her where you can call her your own without any problems. And the ways Miranda talks back to you made you think she's just as obsessed with you as you are with her. But that emotion is too twisted for her taste.

As if guessing your intentions of declaring passionate love, Miranda suddenly changed her demeanor towards you. A few days, maybe a week ago you woke up naked and alone in your bed. The familiar dull ache all around your forehead greeted you instead of a good morning kiss. You could physically feel your brain throbbing with every thought and guess as to why exactly Miranda was gone, despite the clear memory of the night before shared with her. The world didn't exist for you then, time had stopped. There was only Miranda. But just before those fatal words slipped from your lips - the entire room filled with darkness and the face of the woman beside you slowly evaporated from your sight.

The products of the unpleasant scene revolved around you and Miranda as the protagonists of the tragedy, with the small difference that one had no idea what play she was in and the other skillfully spelled its end. From that night on, Miranda began to behave differently. And that's what annoyed you the most - when she did things without explanation, in those moments you wanted to destroy her. Hate and love fought an uncomfortably long battle every day you spent with her.

It all started quietly enough. On this gloomy, headache-inducing day, you barely saw Miranda in her own house. She spent her time in the basement, where you didn't want to go. At some point, of course, she came out to make something to eat. You took advantage of her exposed figure in the kitchen to stand behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, and plant a soft kiss on her neck. You wanted answers, you wanted to know why the woman had left you alone. But Miranda just slipped out of your grasp, asking you, not in a gentle voice, to not bother her. That night, she refused to participate in her favourite bedtime cuddles. And you only became angrier.

Her coldness was strangely resembling Philip's acting the moment you acknowledged his cheating. So then naturally, fear of that exact outcome came to mind.

In the days that followed, her symptoms of ignoring and distancing only increased. Her gentleness was gone, along with the pleasant voice with which she always spoke to you. Miranda refused to touch you or let you touch her. She reverted to her original behaviour - to that rainy night when you first appeared at her door. She was still domestic, but behind her forced smile was something uncomfortable for both of you - and yet unspoken. The anger was already in the marrow of your bones when you decided to try something as a last attempt at intimacy.

Her bed was as huge as ever, except you were freezing cold. Of course, you could easily blame Miranda for your discomfort. Winter was coming, in your room -her room there was no air conditioning or any type of heating , and the woman lay with her back and only her back to you , all the way at the other end of the bed. With an irritated grimace you slowly made your way towards her. She didn't flinch when your hands started to wander down and up her body, beneath the covers, yet a hissing sound easily came out of her throat. A fair warning.

"Are you mad at me for something, Mira?" - you asked her, not knowing if you liked the way her body shivered slightly, affected equally by the use of her little name and the press of your chest against her tender back.

"No." - was the short answer, without explanation. At least you were sure she meant it. If you'd done anything to her, she would have told you. You were confident that you knew Miranda well. How wrong you were.

"Then what's going on? You've been acting strangely for days." - your words caressed the skin of her ear as your hands moved slowly down, finding her nightgown particularly long, uncharacteristic of her. As your fingers slipped underneath it, Miranda turned her head and gave you a mischievous look. Your movements stopped on the soft skin of her thighs. She just shook her head, clearly rejecting you. Your eyebrows knitted together, forming a thin line of displeasure between them. You wanted her, you'd always wanted her, because her feelings were exactly the same, but now... "Are you really all right?" - you pressed a palm to her forehead. - "Are you sick? You've never refused me..." - and that confused you - she has always been the one thirty for sexual intimacy.Her jaws tightened, clearly showing her discomfort. - "not in the mood...or are you just unable to perform because you're maybe...indisposed?"

Thinking about it you realized that Miranda has never complained about her period. Nor has she mentioned it. When this time of the month came for you she even looked stunned as if it was the first time she had heard of such a thing or rather forgotten it... She blinked a few times rapidly then turned as if she had never spoken to you and a heavy sigh filled the room.

"I don't menstruate." - now it was your turn to be surprised. Again, her words are too short and forced to count for anything close to an answer. For your part, however, you react sharply, perhaps even overreact. The way her tone sounded and her body clearly wanting to withdraw from you for no apparent reason finally pushed you over the edge.

"Oh, I'm sorry." - you hissed in her ear, pulling your hands away from her, already feeling the lack of the warmth of her skin. - "I forgot I was in a relationship with a woman twice my age." - or perhaps triple - she practically never told you.

Not that it had ever been a problem. Miranda doesn't look a year older than thirty, and though she mostly acts like that of a grandmother from the last century, she clearly still shows her desire to retain her youth too. You regretted your statement only after you took a sitting position on the bed and saw her hands ball into fists out of the corner of your eye. Miranda, however, just covered herself almost entirely with the blanket.

"If you've stopped insulting me about my age, then please, let me sleep." - her voice was firm and devoid of any tenderness, but even through her stone cold facade of ignorance you could catch a hint of regret. An emotional both of you felt in that moment. Miranda rested her head fully on the soft pillow, waving a lazy palm at you. - "An old woman like me deserve her rest." - a pause. - "Unbothered."

You didn't hesitate to leave her bedroom to lie in your own lonely bed. This time Miranda didn't come looking for you, no, that feeling of security she had was gone. You weren't ashamed to let a few salty drops of tears roll down your cheeks, just because the woman you wanted to love so much, and who wanted to love you back, was starting to act like the man who had almost denied you those false feelings.

That incident was two days ago, a week and a half since her strange behaviour began. The same has been going on for two days now, and a third is approaching, you sleep in separate beds and barely speak to each other - like complete strangers.

***** Miranda has heard countless interpretations of love and those who experience it. Rarely, of course, has any of these theories stuck with her. However, there is one in particular that is floating around in her head, lost and vague. It is said that there are two kinds of people in the world, those who give love and those who owe love. One side is easy to understand, but the other... it's hard to convert someone's feelings in a way that doesn't hurt them. It takes care and precision, and too often people fail. The tension of owing that emotion spills over into anger and an uncomfortable sense of obligation. When one does not know how to give love back eventually becomes a resentful prisoner of this paradox.

Miranda has always been certain in her role within this specific game...now, however, she feels completely lost. Meanwhile everything is too difficult, too irritating, too tiring. Yet the reason stays unclear, or rather too clear, therefore too scary for her, to be acknowledged. Never again. She says to herself over and over and over..

A bright beam of light from under the half-closed curtains manages to spill over her frowning face. She murmurs, uncrossing her legs to get up, and after a few quiet steps she completely covers her windows. Her blue eyes linger on the accumulated snow for a moment. Miranda thinks to herself that her daughters would love to play outside. But the idea sounds too exhausting to her. Of course, she could call for you, but that would only make it harder in her already bad enough situation.

With a quick spin, she heads back to her stacked desk. Her laptop is open - laughing with an evil, luminous grin, and all the papers on the wooden surface are already digging her grave. Preparing for her official entry into the new company is certainly wearing her down. Instead of her usual pack of cigarettes, Miranda finds a vase of flowers in the right corner of her desk. The plants are about to totally lose their lovely colours, ending their life cycle due to the lack of water in their vase - visibly reflecting the woman's neglect of them. Miranda doesn't even know where they came from, only recognising the pleasant smell when she enters her office. She can almost guess they were a gift from you, after all you often give her flowers.

Miranda grabs the now brown stems of the flowers and drops them into the wastebasket next to her desk in a lazy motion. The moment they hit the bottom, the door opens with a vicious bang.

"Insolent as always." -the blonde's firmer sounding voice booms through the room to your surprise. You quickly step inside, closing the door behind you, your fingers touching the key in the lock long enough to know that if Miranda really wanted to be alone, she would lock herself in. There's no point in arguing, though, her eternal excuse would always be her daughters. - "Barging in, uninvited," her eyes whiten as she sits down in her chair. - "I think I've told you more than enough times how much I hate being interrupted when I'm working."

"So you can communicate normally." - You don't fall for her bait. Try as she might, Miranda can't make you feel guilty. Not when you want her answers so badly. - "Is that what I'm supposed to do, get on your nerves?" - you take a step forward, the room shrinking, but Miranda continues to stand with her head held high. - "You've been angry with me for over a week... I want to know why."

"I'm not angry." - she scoffs in a low voice, almost mocking your satirical guess. She stretches her fingers across the surface of her desk until they make a popping sound. Her lips curl into a thin line and she looks at you with a sharp gaze. Her next sentence is a pure whisper - more for her than for you. - "At least not with you."

"Then stop this disgusting act." - you allow yourself to raise your tone to her. You watch one of her eyebrows lifts up as you swallow the lump of worry in your throat.

"This act...?"

"Oh, please, don't try to lie to me by pretending you don't know what I'm talking about." - anger leads your body blindly. Almost leaning against her desk, you press your hand against a pile of papers to get her full attention. - "Don't act like nothing's going on, like we don't share a bed anymore, like you don't refuse to talk to me or even..."

"Is it that easy to hurt my little deer?" - you see no point in lying to Miranda or yourself. The way she calls you one of your nicknames makes you weak in the knees. You mentally curse her as you realise how tightly she has you wrapped around her finger. - "I'm just busy, that's all. No need to take it so personally."

"You're always busy, Miranda." - that is the main reason you're in her house at all. Your role is to look after her children while she focuses on her work. - "But you've never acted like this. And I care because, Miranda I-" - her eyes bug out, one of her hands immediately rising to close around the base of her neck. As the familiar feeling of nausea sets in her throat- your head begins to throb with tension. After only seconds, you forget your words, breathing deeply. And staring directly at her. - "It hurts me...it hurts me when you act like this, so please, Miranda, tell me what's happening to you?"

"I think the only thing that's going on is in your head." - her sentence brings up a sharp memory of sleepless nights spent in fear of the unknown. You've already felt crazy once in this house, you won't let it happen again. Before you can fully come to your senses though, the feeling of her soft palm is already on your lower back, and you find yourself extremely close to the door. - "Why don't you go get some rest, I will allow it." - her hand presses the handle. - "The girls will understand you, and I'll try to finish here quicker so you can-"

"No." - Miranda can't even finish her thought the moment you decide she has spoken enough. You know you're physically weaker than her, but in your surprise you manage to push her arm away and lock the door impossibly fast. The metal key stays firmly held inside your palm. - "No, I will not leave until you tell me everything." - you straighten your back for confidence. - "Only the truth will satisfy me."

"Darling..." - you freeze. You know she aims to soften you with the usage of your favourite nickname. But it doesn't work as intended - your chest only tightens.

"Don't do this, not now, Miranda." - her eyes sparkle with understanding. Trusting this magical light however is dangerous. Your body transforms into a solid wall, steady covering the door, not allowing anyone to get out or in. Miranda, eventually, gives in. She murmurs something under her breath before taking an elegant step back. Her heels drag along the floor until her lower legs hit against a small sofa with curved metal elements as decorations and cozy looking reddish pillows, thrown on top of it. The woman takes her seat, chin boringly placed in her open palm. Her body swings forward and she obtains a position for observation. Her view, however, remains standing before her, eyes burning with unexplainable feeling.

"Your attitude is truly unmatched." - although there's a playful smirk wandering at the edges of her lips, discomfort can be easily spotted in her body language. The woman can barely sit still. But she endures, for the sake of this conversation. - "If you wish to root out answers that badly...then fine, have it your way."

Your chance dances around her long fingers, caressing the open hand she spreads, in order to allow you speech. Convincing Miranda is not a hard part at all. However such woman as her mighty self rarely reveals exactly what you want to hear. The battle you're marching into will surely be a hard one. Trying is more than worth it.

"I wish to know what's going on with you." - you suck in a breath, puffed air occupying your lungs. - "I wish to know what or who is... forcing you to be so distant."

"I've been thinking a lot lately." - Miranda blinks slowly, clearly showing you she's mostly still in her own head rather than her reality. She then repeats with a low voice, eyes avoiding you on purpose. - "...a lot."

"Well after almost two weeks I hope you've come up with a solution to your problems." - you cross your hands in front of your chest. A defensive pose. - "or am I mistaken?" - it's at the tip of your tongue to propose your aide, yet you remain silent after the last few words. Miranda's smile dies just as the tension in the room begins to thicken up. It's suffocating.

"If I asked you to leave here, to forget about everything connected with me or my daughters...would you do it?" - Miranda completely stuns you. To the point you almost drop the key from your already sweating hand. Although you shake your head, almost violently, she just keeps on talking, keeps on asking you...to leave? - "Would you, little deer?"

"Why?" - seems like the only reasonable question. As the million possibilities, endless thoughts about the happening start to pour into your mind like a vicious waterfall, your hands begin to shake. The feeling is inescapable. Fear, sadness, anger, or perhaps a bit of everything at once. Too much for the possibilities of a singular person. - "Why?" - you repeat. - "I don't understand...if I have done something at least tell me, don't you...what... don't you want me anymore?!?"

"You're getting it twisted." - Miranda's head falls down, her shoulders quickly following. While her thin fingers cover her entire face and a sigh leaves her, you can't help but notice how unkept her nails are, implying the idea of her teeth biting at them over and over again. - "That's why I didn't want to tell you."

"Everything is...going great for us, isn't it?" - few cold drops of sweat drip down your forehead, your words becoming harder to find. You're nervous and it shows. - "Why do you want me to get away, Miranda, I don't understand-" - she doesn't even flinch, solid as stone. Your next sentence is forced and higher in volume. - "Why ruin it, why ruin us?"

"The relationship between us is more than simply complicated, my little deer." - that awful nickname again.

"But we work, don't we? Despite the odds, we are still together and-"

"I believe I've made a mistake." - Miranda seems unbothered and judging by her absolute harsh tone one might guess the shared debate is at it's end. But you know better. You swallow the moment her back hits the sofa and she glues herself to the furniture, as for needed protection. Then she looks down at you, one hand twisting the fabric of her pants. - "and that's only my fault." - a pause. - "I rushed everything and now...I feel like I'm being punished."

Furious, you're utterly furious.

"Punished?" - you roll the disgusting word with your tongue, tasting every drop of bitterness on it, every dark spot spawning in both yours and Miranda's mind. - "Are you really that ungrateful?" - immediately after your unusual outbreak, she looks her head to you, confusing forcing her eyebrows to furrow. - "Yes you're right - you rushed everything. You made me chase you into this...unknown territory, while knowing my situation with Philip and also acknowledging the fact that I've never dated women!" - at the mention of your ex boyfriend's name she scoffs, always hating to hear anything about him. It's funny how she continued to challenge with him, even though she's at the edge of probably breaking up with you. - "And...all I did was try to be good for you, isn't that right? - your arms dance with anger around you, expressing every word. - "and now you're trying to get rid of me!" - as if you're ever going to allow that.

"Is it appreciation you're seeking?" - Miranda barks back at you, deeply offended. She would lying if she didn't I admit her back was itching from irritation. She knows this conversation has escalated over small matters. Yet her pride refuses to allow her a steb back. - "Perhaps that darling boy you like to mention so much will give it to you."

Miranda has crossed a line. Both of you realise it too late.

"You have to right to even speak of him." - your tone is nothing more, but annoyed hissing. - "not when your precious Mia keeps on calling and texting you almost everyday!" - the grotesque scene continues to unravel with the mention of such evil woman. Her name strucks Miranda straight to the hearth. In her defence you've never seen her answer, and since she allows you to go through her phone - she doesn't even bother to check the messages she receives, unless they come from you of course. However, the mere fact that she hasn't yet blocked Mia is enough to drive you insane. And it's currently doing it's work perfectly.

"Mia...has no longer place in my life, and you know this."

"Do I have place in your life then, Miranda?"

"You do, of course you do..." - you have managed to touch something deep inside of her. Sure sign for this is the slight, but noticeable, trembling of her hands. Miranda wishes to pull you closer, to hug and caress you until you fall asleep and hopefully forget everything. You're certain you will indeed follow her desires, that's why you don't approach her. Her manipulative nature will ruin you. - "Forgive me, I wasn't aware you'll succeed in...affecting me in such way."

"So, am I to assume you wanted nothing more than a plaything, a pet, from me?" - a memory awakens within your mind. Miranda sitting on her bed, graceful as always, while you kneel down in her feet. What an interesting way to describe your relationship. She mentions her past...'pets' and you get upset, believing you're her new one. Then, out of fondness, you allowed this comment to slip past your consciousness, however now...you see right through it.

"No." - firm, but surprisingly genuinely sounding answer. Miranda shakes her head as if offended. - "I do think... I treated you like one, but darling that's not the case with you." - with each of her words you get more and more certain the woman doesn't really know what she wants. Well, you are definitely something she desires, yet is also afraid of admitting so. How exhausting. - " I often get too overwhelmed from my work and my obligations and there's nothing I desire more than...to just forget about everything for a while." - her eyes lift up to meet yours, her voice melancholic and sweet like singing birds.- "You're a perfect distraction, darling. However as I said before - we're getting ahead of ourselves...and I need to think about it, about us." - she breaths out, breaking the eye contact. Then her real reason hits your hard as a rock. Yet again you manage to match her worries with your own. - "I would truly be heartbroken...if you end up being like Mia."

In other words, Miranda doesn't trust you enough to allow you to love her. Or allow herself to love again.

Miscalculated words can hurt so deeply. The cut is instant, bloody and painful. All you've done is show her love and Miranda dares to compare you to that woman with lack of empathy. You force yourself to remain calm, although the nails digging fiercely into your palms are screaming at you to slap the blonde woman across the face and run away. You partly understand her problems, you also worry about her becoming like Philip. But at least she has given you a reason to think about such possibility. Her actions confirm her words - at the moment you feel used, like the darling puppet for distraction she so badly desires.

"Do you wish to be alone?" - you ask, proposing your aide for the last time. - "Do you wish to deal with this matter alone like you've done till now?" - you bite your lips. Miranda looks like she's expecting more, like she's expecting of you to say 'or' and give her a solution. There is alone silence.

"Yes..." - she doesn't even dare to stare at you while her truthfully answer echoes around the room.

"Fine, Miranda." - you push the key back into the lock, turning it and opening the door. - "Be alone."

Upset, of course you're upset. You're even sure the word is too weak to describe your situation. The air around your small room is thick with ugly emotions, which you can't stress enough for the life of you. You're angry, yet salty tears of sorrow are still dripping down you puffy cheeks. You're tired, exhausted of everything, yet you still manage to find the energy to impatiently circle in a clear line on the hard, wooden floor, pushing any furniture in your way. So far you've broken a lamp and knocked down a few borrowed items, such as books or even clothes. You know there's no point in loosing yourself to this consuming anger, but you can't help yourself. Once again you begin to devide in two - unexpectedly the stronger part of you wants to release all of the built-up negativity on Miranda, however, there's still this inescapable feeling for the gentleness and love you so cordially desire to pour on top of her. That woman, that evil creature, that magnificent person - currently you hate and love her equally enough. Like always.

It's hell. The lonely, large mansion transforms into your prison for the last time. As if Miranda's home listens to her like an obedient puppy. You're trapped, you're out of air, your blood turns tarry black while your fingernail drag anxious lines along the skin of your arms. You're sweating, which is weird, because the whole house is freezing cold. Yet nor Miranda, or her daughters, bother to check the temperature. Then you burst out. Sharp pain occupies your curled up in a fist hand, with awful periodic throbbing. In a moment of weakness, you've managed to hit the small drawer next to your bed, strong enough to knock down few more items. One of them rolls further away from you, with an alluring sound along the floor, and with that it catches your attention.

The small bottle of medicaments Miranda has given you so long ago. Months, to be precise. Looking back at the exactly two singular pills left inside of it you can't help but think about all the unusual things happening within this mansion and its residents. Then your mind wanders to another memory. An old man behind a cash register, laughing and looking down at you as if you're his meal. He mentions something about nobody living where you currently are. So what if... you've really went insane. What if Miranda, Eva and Eveline never existed. That's exactly how your so called girlfriend makes you feel. Insane in every aspect.

Your phone rings, rooting you out of your own memories and thoughts. You blink, to assure yourself reality has hit you. For a moment you fail to locate the path of melody. But eventually your fingers reach the metallic surface of the phone and you do your best to pick up in time, although you get confused by the unknown number. A man stars to explain something, extremely fast - almost too hard to process, in your ear. But once you begin to unravel the mystery behind the soup of sentences, pouring in your system, your eyes widen in surprise and fear.

You spare only a second after hanging up, in order to save the number, before standing up, almost too quickly as the world goes black. You're out of your depressing, lonely and half broken room without a second thought. And you run. You run through the long corridor on the second floor. Miranda's bedroom door flies open, handle hitting the wall with a loud tud. However, she's no where to be found. You look around for a while, almost panicking. Until you spot her on her balcony, in her usual chair, unmoving and looking down at the endless forest, surrounding the mansion. You take a deep breath, before opening the glass door to the outside and taking a step closer to her.

Miranda doesn't move, doesn't greet or even acknowledges you. The woman remains silent and unbothered, even after you take a firm place close to her, eyes scanning the pile of ashes next to her feet and yet another one thick cigarette between her fingers. Her usual sweet aroma replaced by sharp smell of nicotine. You've already guessed she's going to try and drown her sorrows with the help of her favourite poison. But now...you don't feel obligated to stop her. You shiver, feeling exactly how cold the weather has gotten. Miranda doesn't seem to mind it, her clothes are the same from this morning and they don't cover much. Meanwhile you're better dressed, yet still freezing. This fact it's enough to force you wait until she, herself, decides to speak first. It doesn't talk long, perhaps because of her feeling of guilt.

"Anything you need?" - Marian lazily rolls the words off her tongue, as if her mind has really gotten foggy from all the smoke. Her voice is rather violent, more harsh than usual. She doesn't lift her eyes to look at you. The horizon is more appealing for her.

"I've just got call." - you murmur out, placing your hands behind your back. - "A pretty...unexpected one."

"And?" - she asks, trying to get you to speak more clearly. Meanwhile your nose wrinkles once she takes another puff from her cigarette, more ashes falling down to her feet.

"It's my father, Miranda." - her eyebrows lift up, as if she's forcing her interest towards the topic. It makes you tighten your jaw. But you refuse to give up to your anger. - "Something happened, but they refuse to tell me over the phone. I'm...scared for him." - finally her head leans to you. - "And I need to leave immediately, so I can check." - she hums. - "You need to understand and allow me to-"

"Okay." - Miranda rushes to cut you off, her voice calm and calculated. - "That's okay, you can go see him. I'm not the one to forbid you to do so." - says the woman who literally holds you on a leash inside her house. The meaningless, short life of her cigarette finally ends and she throws it down, thin hand already seeking another one. Before she can reach her half empty box, however, your instincts click on and you quickly wrap your fingers around her wrist, holding it firmly. Miranda's lips part, ready to protest, and even after she pulls away, or rather tries to so, you don't let go.

"You're such a burden, do you know that?" - it's triggering you. Her whole act of playing hurt when she's the one to blame. And yes again, you hate to see her suffer.

"What more do you need?" - Miranda success in breaking free from your grasp. Only to fall into another trap. Both of your hands get a hold of her face, holding her head straight so she can look you in the eyes while you speak to her. There's something unusual in her blue, infinite oceans, you're not sure if fear if the right term to explain it with, but she's definitely anxiously awaiting for your next move.

Her eyes stay open even when you claim her lips without a warning. After two weeks of neglect, kissing her feels like pure heaven on earth. One, in which you wish to stay forever. But you know her lines of permission. Soon, too soon for your liking, you pull away. Only placing one last soft kiss at the edges of her lips. Miranda doesn't return your actions, nor she pushes you away. She stays still, solid and , judging by her expression, severely confused.

"After I return I'll do whatever you want." - you assure her, observing her closely, noticing her hair is not completely slicked back like usual. - "we can go back to casual dating if our current relationship is too much for you." - your thumbs begin to slowly caress the soft skin on her cheekbones. She seems a bit more relaxed, yet still trying her best ro process the happening. - "We can take it slow like you want." - you bite your lips. - "I only have one condition."

"What do you want from me?" - the familiar question burns your whole nervous system and eventually forces invisible shivers down your spine. The way Miranda leans into your touch doesn't help you at all. You don't understand why she's acting she way she is. However you're too obsessed to let go of her. Something is telling you she feels the exact same way. The sparkle in her eyes almost confirms it. She only looks at you like this when... she's admiring her precious little deer.

"I can't sleep without you, I really can't." - you're honest. In the past few days, spent in your own bed, you barely got any rest. Just endless turning and squeezing of eyes. You're even certain your dark circles are visible for her. - "Just let me have this, I won't ask you for much." - her hands lift as well, cupping your own, which are still holding her face. - "At least one night a week I can get a good night sleep, please?"

There's no answer. Miranda only hums. Then she shows her physical power by suddenly pulling you closer and shoving her head in the crook of your neck. Soon enough, her hot breath triggers a reaction as she leans to whisper in your ear.

"My children adore you, darling." - you feel how her thin fingers travel through your hair, playing with it. - "And I... don't have any desire to search for another babysitter." - with that - she releases you. Although her warning sounds confusing you manage to capture its meaning. To return. To never abandon her. She even played a card with her daughters. Miranda must be serious. She then smiles and waves you off. - "Go on now, don't make your poor father wait for you."

After nearly an hour, you find yourself outside, fighting with the snow on your shoes, while slowly making your way to the smaller car in front of the mansion. You only have a larger backpack with you, instead of fancy suitcases or unnecessary luggage. If your calculations are correct you should be back quicker than expected. It's not a few hours drive, of course, your father's hospital is far, but you doubt it's going to take you more than a day of travelling. Perhaps two, at most. You open the heavy metal door of your car, making a grimace after realising the inside of it is colder than the weather outside. You wouldn't be surprised if you end up being sick. Well, there's no turning back now. Yet...your head twists upwards, enough for you to recognise the upper body of a woman, carefully observing your departure. Her honey blonde hair wandering with the waves of wind. She looks beautiful. You suppress the need to wave her goodbye. But then you spot a smaller figure stepping closer to Miranda. The mother, like always, chooses her daughter over you. So you start your car and leave, wishing them a silent goodbye.

Meanwhile, on the balcony, Miranda panics as Eva breaks her solitude. Not over anything else, but the pile of ashes in her feet. She work fast to cover it, while also searching for a place to hide her box of cigarettes. Only to realise the said object is long gone. She's too focused on her daughter to remember your clever hands carefully stealing her cigarettes and putting them in your own pocket. Denying her from the guilty pleasure of smoking the minutes away while she waits for you. Finally, as her eyes lose visibility of your car in the distant road, she turns to Eva with a forced, bright smile. The little girl returns it and rushes into her mothers embrace. They stay close to each other like this for a while, Eva even manages to climb in Miranda's lap, earning herself a kiss on the head in return.

"Is she really leaving you?" - the girl asks, tone focused as she looks up to her parenting figure.

"She knows her way home." - Miranda answers with confidence.

In the next minute the enjoyment from the calm scene with the two happy family members burst into ruins. Eva begins to cough. Miranda's hand, which was till now playing with the girl's hair, strays away, trembling.

"Is it starting again, love?" - the woman says, placing the back of her hand over her daughter's forehead. For her unfortunate guess, Eva's skin is differently warmer than it should be. Strangely, her sickness shouldn't be striking her soon. Miranda is even sure the symptoms shouldn't be noticeable at least until next month. This awful curse, usually only appearing in a period of four months or rather three times a year, is getting more and more common. And Miranda is worried. - "How long?"

"About two weeks now..."

"And you didn't tell me?" - the sharp comment forces Eva to shut her eyes close, only to feel a kiss to her eyelid a second later. - "You know I have to write down every anomaly."

Miranda cannot risk to lose Eva again.

"You were visible upset..." - the girl murmurs, holding strongly at her mother's shirt as she stands up, carrying her inside. - "I didn't want to worry you."

"You have to always tell me, my love, always." - Eva nods her head. -"now you shouldn't fear anything, we will fix you in no time." - Miranda reassures her. Not afraid yet again to cover her hands with blood, in order to keep her most precious close to her.

*****

The hospital is just as you remember it.

White corridors, sterile hospital rooms. Doctors and nurses wandering at every corner, some pushing around patients in their beds, while others rushing into different rooms, some for emergency procedures, others just to check on their patients. The silence so easily broken every now and then by beeping sound of heart rate monitors, followed by footsteps on the hard floor. The whole place resembling epitome of health and cleanliness, but yet still feeling cold and unwelcoming. The acrid smell of antiseptic and disinfectants fills the air, assaulting the nose of any who found themselves there. Including you. In fact you can't help but wrinkle your nose once you approach the woman at the reception.

Luckily for you, it happens to be an old friend. Maria is her name, if your memory doesn't fail you. Approaching her falls out of the ordinary for you. It's definitely weird, after so many days spent in the consuming company of Miranda, you're definitely struggling to interact with different people. To your surprise, the polite, young woman smiles and waves at you, calling out your name.

"My god, I haven't seen you in so long!" - she exclaims, laughing immediately after she realising she's a bit more loud than the allowed for a hospital. Once you move close enough for her, she starts taking rapidly again. - "You look nice! But where have you been?" - she extends her arms to grab your shoulders. - "Really I missed you."

You met Maria in your first year at university. For her - it was her last. You would be forever thankful for her guidance. She helped you with studying and getting to know the scary, large place for the first time ever. After she graduated, however, you never managed to see her again. Now you're happy, a familiar face in the hospital is definitely what you need.

"Thank you, I'm fine." - you try to keep it simple. Although you would love to stay and chat with her for a bit, you can't stop the eating you from inside worry for your father. - "Do you happen to know what is happening with-"

"With your father?" - she smiles. - "But of course! Don't give me that face now, I assure you he's fine." - she clicks something something on a computer in front of her and then you hear a peeping sound from a nearby printer, which immediately starts to produce a document, probably about to be given to you. - "Well he's still... you know." - she makes a grimace, closing her eyes. You don't find it funny, but your or your father's sike you endure the built up anger. - "But - you're in luck. Your old man got transferred into a better hospital!" - finally she passes the printed paper to you. It's merely just an address. You scoff, annoyed. - " Honestly it's so bizarre, the waiting list was practically endless but.... seems like he happened upon a miracle, no?"

"Thank you, Maria." - changing of hospital, really? Is this why they called you all the way here? Unbelievable, they could have told you on the phone! You place a palm to your face, sighing and clearly showing your disappointment.

"Don't be all sorrowful now!" - she tries to encourage you. - "They even gave him a new team of doctors, you know?" - she scans the hospital salon, leaning in to whisper closely to your ear. - "Don't want to get your hopes up, but...I heard they are pretty good."

"We'll see about that." - you bitterly reply. If you have to be honest with yourself, you're absolutely sick of endless pills and hospitals and these...so very clarified doctors. Yet after all it's your best choice at the moment. You look up to Maria. Her hair is almost as golden as Miranda's, but she can't even begin to compare. While her eyes...seem empty. Their brown colour is nice, of course, yet it lacks the beauty and sparkle of the dark blue colour of Miranda. You frown, hating how you still think of Miranda even while being so far away from her. Lost in thought, you get startled when Maria pokes your shoulder, repeating your name over and over, trying to get your attention.

"How about you go out with me?" - you happen to be a little confused. Perhaps she was explaining something else before this question, but you didn't hear her well. She then clears her throat, obtaining back her professional look. As much as she can fake it, that is. - "If and when you have the time, of course, I don't want to force you or-"

"I'll think about it, Maria." - you take a quick picture of the address, before crushing the paper with your hands. Then you give her a slight smile. - "Have a nice day."

In your spare time you decide to visit a nearby mall. Since the day it at its end there's no point in rushing to the other hospital. You also checked the address - it's pretty far away. You already booked yourself a hotel room, but you quickly got bored. The mall brings pleasant memories from your time with the girls and Miranda. Although it's not the same building you force yourself to enjoy your journey within memories, while walking around and observing the different shops. You don't feel particularly hungry, besides the food is overpriced so you decide to skip that part. A smile urges on your lips as you pass by a jewellery shop, stopping for a moment to look between the presented necklaces, ring, bracelets... buying one for Miranda is pointless. You woman owns way too many. The urge to surprise her with a gift is strong, but rapidly thrown aside as you continue your journey. Then, with the corner of your eyes, you catch the illuminated pet store sign. The store windows are decorated with colorful birds in lonely cages. Between them you spot a significant black crow. Although it stands out as different from the others, your attention is completely absorbed by it. You remember the promise to Eva about that birthday present...and how she wanted a cat, despite the fear her mother has of them.

At the end you find yourself in a bookstore.

The air is filled with the scent of paper, ink and a hint of coffee. The shelves are overflowing with various titles from different genres, each one waiting to be picked up and discovered. The soft light coming from the ceiling is just enough to navigate through the maze of books.In the back corner of the store is a small nook with a couch and armchairs, where customers can take a break from reality and immerse themselves in a good book. It's unbelievably cozy and you enjoy every step between the many book shelves.

Naturally you first go to the medicine sector. After a quick observation, however, you note that nothing from the given will help you with learning more than you already have at home. Your own books are rich and with the bonus of Miranda's help you easily cover up all of the needed material. There's a thick atlas of human anatomy practically winking at you to go buy it. You wave it goodbye after seeing its prize. Miranda might pay you a lot, but it doesn't mean you should casually give your money away.

The children's book section reminds you of Eva and Eveline. You wonder how they are doing, with moody Miranda looking after them. Perhaps your pity should be send for them. You have faith in them,though, you're certain they can handle the blonde woman better than you could ever dream to do so. You smirk mockingly while passing through a section, filled with erotica. You recognise a few titles from Miranda's personal library. Of course she arranges them close to her science books so the girls won't be interested in them. You're not surprised to find out every single one of them lacks male presence.

At last you move your finger along a line of dictionaries. Variety of different languages reveal themselves in front of you. English, German, French, Spanish...until you stop at a few, explaining in details Romanian rules and grammar. You hum, fighting with your inner self over buying one or not. Eventually you give in, eager to learn something in the language, in order to surprise Miranda or her girls with your new skills. At the checkout, you regard the dictionary in your hand and sigh, realising everything you've done for entertainment still brings you back to that distant mansion. As the night falls you find yourself even missing its residents. .

Back at your hotel room, you stare directly in your phone while the non-living object refuses to cooperate. There's no point in waiting. Miranda won't call you or search for you unless you purposely do it first. Yet you're avoiding it. You're absolutely sure she's doing it as well. Both of you too stubborn to admit the clear yearning for the other. Eventually you give in first. You dial her number, waiting for her to pick up and talk to you after a hard day of being alone. But she never does. Oh, well, you're definitely going to fire back at her when you get home. Speaking of home, you lay down flat on the bed, reminding yourself how dependent are you on that place if you even refer to it as home now.

As you curl up to a side, you make an annoyed grimace. Something is uncomfortably rubbing you from inside your pocket. Naturally you rush to pull and throw it away, so you can finally head to bed and pray for a good sleep, but you stop yourself once you see the object. It's Miranda's cigarette box. You stop to think for a second. You're not quite the smoker yourself, yet last time you shared one of her favourite cigarettes you didn't have a lot of complains. And if it helps her so much with the nerves, why not try it as well. What an awful assumption.

Only after the few drags from the cigarette you begin to I cough. The taste is completely different. You grab the box again, observing it more closely and immediately finding out Miranda has changed her brand. These are definitely heavier and, to be honest, worst in taste. You think of simple throwing them away, however, as you sense the smell you're yet again reminded of the blonde woman, with who you're so obsessed over. After all you leave the lit cigarette to ignite next to you, holding it between your fingers, without bringing it to your lips. As least the smell can stay. And you're doing her a favour as well - saving her poor lungs.

Just as the flame of the cigarette reaches its end, your phone light up from a text message. You extend your hand to grab it. It's from Miranda.

You called?

You groan. What's the point of texting instead of returning the call? As much as you miss her right now, Miranda doesn't fail to annoy you. Your fingers quickly type a response, a rather sharp one.

You could have picked up.

Before she can answer, you correct yourself, deciding you seem too rude, by adding a new message.

Doesn't matter. Can you talk now?

Miranda takes her sweet time to respond, as if wondering if you're worth it. Once she reveals her true reason, you regret ever getting mad over the situation. As she's clearly not in the wrong.

Eva is sleeping next to me, darling. She's sick and I don't want to wake her up. Can't we communicate like this? I wish to know how your day went.

Immediately you start worrying about Miranda's younger daughter. The girl suffers from her periodic illness over and over again without a clear medicine. It reminds you of your father. Miranda has reassured you many times that Eva, despite everything, is mainly doing good. Her health might not be in the best conditions, but she really seems fine most of her days. If must be tiring for Miranda, as a mother. So you decide not to comment on it, instead you aim to answer her question.

They made me come to the hospital only to tell me they've move my father to another one!

You know she laughs, back at her home, comfortably snuggled in her bed. You can just feel it.

At least he's fine, I'd assume?

Quickly checking the time on your phone, you realise it's getting late. Possibly Miranda is tired. You are as well. So you make it your goal to rush the conversation, without being too rude or awkward.

I will officially know tomorrow. Oh, but they also said he has gotten a new team of doctors. Good ones, or at least they told me so.

Miranda writes one more final sentence, before both of you turn off your phones.

I'm sure he's in good hands now.

Strangely enough her belief, sounding a bit too confident, finds you even in your dreams.

*****

Morning comes faster than expected. You wake up, unwilling to do anything at all, yet you have a sense of responsibility filling every inch of your body. You get ready fast enough, gather your things, check out of the hotel and take down the road again before lunch hours, which you personally count as a rare win.

The weather is surprisingly nice and despite the slippery road , the trip goes well. As a neat sign of your already too old car, your radio refuses to work, but you just pull out your phone. Choosing calm music to keep you gripping the steering wheel tight. A few hours later, you arrive at the designated location.

This hospital is in considerably better shape than the last. First of all it's several times larger and you even manage to park your car in the wide parking lot. Naturally you have a few setbacks only with your entry. A bigger and better hospital certainly means more patients. And as follows - the lounge and corridors are filled to the brim. After quite a struggle with the now unfamiliar girl at the front desk, you manage to get the number of the room they put your father in. From there you head in that direction, mentally preparing yourself to see him at his most miserable condition with every step.

Your father lies motionless on the hospital bed, his body unresponsive to any outside stimuli. His eyes are closed and his breathing shallow and labored. Machines monitor his vital signs and feed him liquids through plastic tubes and IVs that are inserted into his arms.His face is pale and gaunt, the result of being in a state of unconsciousness for extended period of time. To the untrained eye he simply looks like he's asleep, but in reality he is trapped in a deep, unshakeable state of helplessness.

Your eyes are full of salty tears, but you make no attempt to stop them. You let them roll down your cheeks, falling down, wetting your blouse at the end. The sight before you is heartbreaking, and the fact that you can't do anything about your father's condition is almost enough to rip your heart out. During another heavy sigh, you jump startled, feeling someone's hand on your shoulder.

You turn to see a middle-aged man in a medical uniform. He smiles at you, handing over a folder of papers. After a rather quick explanation, he walks away, leaving you alone again. You are told that the given documents contain all the information about your father's now changed treatment, plus his new team of doctors. Everything seems normal enough. But you can't stop wondering why all this important information should fall into your hands. The previous doctors didn't even bother to tell you exactly what pills they were prescribing him.

The answer is revealed to you the moment you start reading the fine details. The group of professional medics is small, you can't distinguish more than ten people, but right at that moment your body freezes. The first name on the list is not anyone's, but Miranda's to be exact. If that's not a big enough surprise, the next one makes your jaw hit the floor. Just below hers, stands your own.

Only she knows about your dreams to finally graduate and start treating your father properly. Only she knows and... only she can achieve it. Only Miranda can bring you on a silver plate what you desire most.

You close the folder of papers and glance at your unmoving father. Your cheeks burn, and at the moment, with all your fixed emotional screaming in your head, you try to decide between absolutely killing Miranda or making love and her until she passes out. Both options sound good, but can in no way even reach your new level of wonder mixed with happiness and partly confusion, about how she managed to sneak you into her team. Hell, how she even managed to get a hold of your dying father? It doesn't matter, at least not at the moment.All you know is that you want to go to her instantly and do whatever she wants. To thank her. Gods, how will you ever manage to do that?

Without a second thought, you immediately run to your car, ready to go back home. Ready to break your loneliness and get lost in your dreams, together with Miranda.

#mother miranda #re8 village #resident evil 8 #mother miranda x reader #fanfic #reader x mother miranda #babysitter au #missing miranda hours #i love her

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