#these thoughts plague my existence every day that the reason I don’t get spoken to at all or with as much enthusiasm

[kavehayati]

I used to always think about this but I just recalled it now, the thing is people used to all the time respond centuries late to me and I’d always say oh it’s okay !! I understand !! But when I said that I really meant it in my soul, and one day this girl apologised for getting back to me so late and I repeated my script and she’s like Noor 🙁 you really shouldn’t understand, and she some stuff and it kinda left me a little taken aback, I always script conversations people have in the sense like what they say in response but her reply left me floored, she seemed so sad that I was so accepting of such late replies and in truth over time the late replies kept happening and happening and happening, and I kept saying I understood and that it’s okay, but in truth it’s not okay at all, I don’t understand actually, in the sense why is it so much effort to respond, why does everyone consistently reply so late to me even when they have nothing else to do, when they’re not busy or mentally ill either.

It hurts a lot and I’ve noticed that people only reply quick to me when it’s something that is of interest to them, like a hot topic of theirs, and I try really hard but I’m so tired of being this unwanted. I want fast replies, I used to always give fast replies all the time, but now I’m worn so thin and things keep getting worse and worse for me so even texting or talking feels like my soul is evacuating my body sometimes, so I’m sorry when I reply so late but it’s just all this pent up disappointment and the realisation of WHY people don’t reply faster and take so long to get back to me just drains all my energy. It makes me so very sad and that I don’t want to speak in general anymore.

Before I’d always get so anxious if I don’t reply quick because I always felt it to be so rude to reply late, but nobody thinks it’s rude to reply late to me, so why do I bother anymore, especially when I feel like my body is failing me. I still get anxious. But I feel so very disrespected. In a normal person, even sometimes with packed schedules, one who is not physically ill and one who isn’t mentally ill either, replying back fast isn’t the catastrophe everyone seems to act like it is. Sure there’s sometimes valid reasons but honestly people just give me all those reasons now that it’s ALWAYS a reason there’s always some dumb stupid excuse. I’ve heard every stupid excuse in the book now. And now they’re just excuses to me not reasons.

This is why I don’t reply as fast anymore, because I’m so ill and so tired. Drained thin of these mind games and trying to figure out if people actually like me ? Am I an acquaintance ? Why can’t people ask about me seamlessly in a conversation, I’m obviously not okay with anything happening to me now or years ago. It’s so frustrating beyond words it feels like this is a science, a science that I’ve, through trial and error, had to learn MANUALLY with no instructions simply by observing others. Yet most people waltz into life so blind and get handed everything. I shouldn’t have to make duaa before going into class so someone can fucking sit next to me or read any surah when people get friends so effortlessly I REFUSE. I don’t even feel human at all. There’s this Arabic insult thing that just says go slam your head into the wall and shut up. But in truth everything is so overwhelming that I just might do that and I hope it’s with enough force that it cracks and I bleed to death. I. am. so. tired.

Here is the thing. I KNOW certain people pity me. Teachers have pitied me, students have pitied me, friends have pitied me the list goes on and on. And yes I have insanely strange encounters with people yes I have extraordinarily odd circumstances happen to me that seem so consistent that it almost feels impossible for it to not be indicative of a pattern and rule that I deserve such treatment. But WHY is it that the same people who pity me are the ones who transgress and do the things that make others pity me more.

I didn’t like pity, I loathed how people would see me as some sort of lesser than being just for my misfortune, but now this pity is all I have. The only indicator that I’m not invisible to others. That I’m actually real. But if only that pity could be turned into proactive choices and productively helping me to be treated better. It’s like saying you deserve better yet not proving I deserve it. What now. Clearly you proved that I don’t deserve better at all.

[robin-with-a-pen]

UUUUUGH I can't think! anyways- I saw this and HAD to write it- I've reached a stand still tho ):

current writing (unedited, sorry) under the cut:

In truth, I am very sick. 

I am not angry, not upset at all. I have lived a long and fulfilling life. Beside me is my son and my beautiful wife. I am the king of the land, my son will soon take my place on the throne and I can’t be happier.

He’s a stunning young man, a responsible and upstanding gentleman. He will be a kind and just ruler, I know it. I have faith in my son. He will take care of my wife, he will take care of his wife, he will take care of our kingdom. I am proud of him, I am proud of how me and my wife have raised him.

I admit that I can be prideful, and for this reason, I don’t want to admit that I am in pain, but I am. No amount of denial will cure me. I am nearing my end.  Everyday, every action, every breath I take is met with excruciating pain. I no longer have the energy to sit up, I have been rendered a pitiful old man relying on my family to do even the simplest of tasks. 

My son, my perfect boy, has not uttered a single complaint. He is taking care of my wife as she too gets older, he is taking care of me as my health worsens, he is taking care of the castle and its workers, the kingdom and its people, he will be a perfect ruler. He’s already doing the work, all he needs is the title.

When I was much younger, a prophet arrived at my door shortly after I was crowned king. With shaky hands and fear in his eyes he warned me that one day, my eldest son would be the man to take my life. 

“The gods have spoken, they warn me of the misfortune that will befall you. My dear king, your eldest son will be the man to end your life and take your throne.” 

I was terrified. The thought scared me, my son? Betray me? Betray his family, his blood, his kingdom? I had just begun to court my wife, we would soon be wed. The prophecy plagued my mind. My mind became filled with anxieties and doubt.

Would it be greed? Wealth and power? Would I raise a son so selfish he would kill his own father for power? Would I deserve it?  Would I become a terrible father? Would my throne corrupt me? Would My son grow to fear and resent me? Would he kill me out of spite? Would I push him to do it? 

The image of my son, a man who had yet to even be born yet, standing over my corpse with a blade in hand. Blood staining his clothes and a wicked look in his eyes. It haunted me. I began to question everything. As ashamed as I am to admit it, but I even doubted my dear wife. My beautiful bride. What if she was the cause? She could corrupt our child, convince the poor prince to take my life. 

The prophet’s words played on repeat. My son would kill me and take my throne. I had plotted a thousand murders in the name of a man who didn’t exist yet. By the time my wife was pregnant I had even planned to kill the child. 

I had decided that if this child were to be male, I would drown him in the river. I didn’t want to torture my son, I did not want to harm him at all, but I feared what he would become. I feared him. And for nine long months I was plagued with endless anxiety. I feared my wife for the monster she might birth, I feared myself for the sins I might commit. 

Now, I am ashamed of my thoughts, and my actions. Oh, if these fears had stayed in my head I would be a much happier man now, but they did not. The way I treated my dearest, my perfect and beautiful wife was horrid. She dealt with her pregnancy alone, I was much too busy plotting my own murder. Then, when she went into labor I did not think to help her. I did not hold her hand as she birthed our first and only child, I offered her no comfort. 

I stood by the doctor. Watching and waiting. I feel as though my heart had stopped when I saw my son for the first time. My soul had left my body, along with it went any thoughts, considerations, or plans to kill the angel in my wife’s arms. 

He was beautiful. No words could describe the mixture of shame and pride I felt. He looked at me with bright eyes and I couldn’t fathom this boy hurting a soul. Right then, as my wife slept, as I held the boy in my arms, as I rocked him to sleep I vowed to be the father this boy deserved. He might be my killer but he was yet to be tainted. 

Briefly, I even doubted the Gods. I questioned them openly and without fear. How could this precious child be my doom? I wouldn’t allow it.

-------

Thanks for reading!

[trials-of-apollo-my-beloved]

Not the Hunter Not the Weapon

A AoD/Apollo fic

Summary: The stars were gone and the sun rose to the next day.

“Hey, AoD?” 

YESEST THY LESTER? 

I didn’t used to think I’d ever be able to get over… well a lot of things really. Mainly the fact that I was dating an arrow. Wasn’t I one of the most attractive beings ever? Not to mention the most talented if I do say so myself? (I would say the most attractive, but I think Aphrodite would kill me if I were to do that: god or mortal.) 

Oh also the Shakesperian being continuously put through a wood chipper then regurgitated into my brain matter with his every word. I was hoping that would get endearing eventually. Luckily I was right. My imagery does still hold up just how endearing it felt initially though. 

There was a reason that one of the godly ground rules for dating was mind reading was off limits. Discounting ensuring the basic trust element of a healthy relationship, having someone sentient poking about your head was just never pleasant. 

“I was just wondering, if we don’t make it out of this…” I took a deep breath. The thought of me not surviving to live another millenia was already fast encroaching on me since I landed in that garbage bin in New York. Now that I had Meg, and Aod… with me? 

Well it was one thing to impassively consider my own demise as a simple possibility, another entirely to think that one of them would not make it out of this either. I was literally walking Meg up to her abuser in the place where most of her torment was conducted. There were no more lines I could allow to be crossed. 

In any other circumstances discounting the fate of possibly millions of people I would disavow the possibility. These circumstances were the rare exception. My own mortality honestly felt different from Meg and AoD’s. Not different in that my godly powers were now returning to me, but in how we could die. 

I wasn’t sure what exactly, but throughout all of my days as Lester Papadopoulos I’d never come to terms with the possibility of my death, at least not until Python became unavoidable. Perhaps it was my previous tangles with the fates, but there was something baser within me, something beyond even Delphi's purview that told me I would not a “mortal’s death”. 

There was no way Lester Papadopoulous would die in a car crash or a freak accident. I would go out either with irony like a greek hero or- or perhaps hero was just another word for hubris. 

The fates would not be so particular with my mortal friends. 

Meg going back to Nero’s Tower was practically an ironic death toll and I was wringing it. Yet, perhaps her insignificance to the greater narrative could spare Meg McCaffrey a tragic end? As the god of plague I was the reaper of children for many millennia. I had seen many children taken before their time, imposed upon many families tragedy. 

I used to see it as somewhat of a mercy to provide a poetic death. As if meaning could be inscribed to the lack of further meaning. 

My shoulders hunched. I took a deep breath. I had spoken to AoD so my boyfriend could help get me out of this proverbial funk where even the Jackson Five had failed. Yes I’d even pulled out the classics. 

AoD quivered in my hands and I averted my eyes. Perhaps, if by some stroke of the fates, Meg was not doomed. If there was anyone in the world who could combat the inevitably of space and time it would be Meg McCaffrey. 

Perhaps it was fortune that I was knocked from my golden throne atop the futures of mortals whose destinies had crashed and burned in blazing glories, like my sun chariot streaking across the sky. This way Meg would not have an Apollo above to find poetry in her death. She was insignificant to the wider narrative, but not to Apollo’s. 

I knew that as I was now I would never be writing any odes to the legacy of Meg McCaffrey. Some people can only be encapsulated by their mere existence. Something so tiny yet so large could not be encapsulated by words. 

THOU SPIRALIST. 

“Not a word,” I kept my voice low. It was late, though I had snuck out of my cabin to talk to AoD among the stars and my sisters watch, I still didn’t want to risk waking anyone up. “Also since when did you use punctuation?” 

SINCE WHEN WAS THY’S NAME BEEN DEBBIE?” 

I shifted in the patchy grass. My orange t-shirt, which clashed horribly with the scenic shade of the forest, caught on the tree I was resting on. The tag on the shirt scratched uncomfortably against my neck. 

“Well never, to my knowledge. Though who knows, I didn’t choose to be Lester either. So, ask my father.” 

SEEIST WHAT I MEANEST? THOU ART BEING A COMPLETE DEBBIE DOWNER. 

“Pff, sure I am. I am going to die.” The words left my lips like they were. Lester’s lips were not Apollo’s yet they were. I said that, yet I did not. 

EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE. 

I sighed and scratched my neck. The itch persisted and I relented to just lying down on the grass, The Arrow of Dadona held up to the stars to stay in my line of sight. 

I didn’t like to think that I was holding my best friend and potential life partner up to the sky. That was my father’s domain, not mine. A plain of clouds and suffocating air were one to fly too close. No, I was looking at the stars. The night was full of stars and space. 

When I was younger and tucking into bed I would ponder if this was actually truly the only time my sister and I were held up together. The sun was, after all, a star. It was a silly train of thought.

“You know, that’s not proper Doctors etiquette.” 

WHAT DOEST THOU MEAN? The arrow vibrated gently in palms, almost if he was attempting dulcet tones through vibrations alone. Not impossible, to his credit. Though, even if it was true and trees could talk, I doubted very much they could sing. 

“Us doctors don’t tell patients that everything will be fine, because they won't always be. It’s seen as lying. Not a problem I ever came across of course, but it’s common practice. You just tell the patient you’ll do their best for them.” 

The arrow huffed… well as well as an arrow could huff. 

SOUNDEST TO ME LIKEST AN EXCUSEST. LESTER OF THE DOCTORATE, I ASSURE THEE EVERYTHING SHALT END UP FINE. I WILL NOT ALLOW THOU TO DIE. 

I chuckled. “Strangely that does reassure me AoD. Though it really shouldn’t. You’ve been about as helpful with prophecies as the Grey Sisters.”

RUDE! 

“Yeah, maybe a little. Here, how about I do it my way. Arrow of Dadona,” I sat up and hoisted the arrow with me as if to look at it at its eye level, “I promise to do my best to keep thou- I mean you! Alive.” 

With that solemn bargain, and my doubts assuaged - at least enough to head to bed - the stars were gone and the sun had risen on the next day.

[yoonpobs]

love language | myg

pairing: min yoongi x oc

genre: FLUFF, that's it

warnings: this is just so cute and self-indulgent lol

words: 5, 123

summary: how min yoongi loves you

“You know there isn’t a point in inviting me out for brunch to only sigh and stab your overpriced meal with a fork right? I already see you enough on a daily basis and I think I’m exceeding my _____ quota for the month.” Jimin says dryly.

Usually, you’d quip back with an equally brute remark of your own but there’s something far heavier lingering at the back of your mind. A territory you weren’t quite sure how to navigate and vocalise. Jimin picks up on your silence and stamps it as odd behaviour because you were far more … hands-on when it came to your retorts but today you’re dead quiet.

Jimin leans forward on his elbows to give you a concerned look when you still silently assault your meal with the fork in your grip.

“… is this even _____?”

You look up and your expression is unimpressed. Jimin raises his arms up in defense before retreating to the comfort of his plush sofa chair—a product of allowing him to choose the venue for your dire brunch that and the cost was your empty wallet and every last bit of your mental health.

“What do you think of Yoongi?”

The question throws Jimin off not because he has no idea who that is—but because you were shy and timid. A soft-spoken person by nature that liked keeping to yourself and that was a huge juxtaposition in terms of your friendship with Jimin because he was everything you were not. He was loud, the biggest person in every room, and the person that everyone knew on campus.

Your friendship was an unlikely occurrence even for your lecturers when they’d glance at you from the hallways or when your peers would eye you oddly when they’d see Jimin partaking in every extra-curricular there was available and while you chose to do your own thing, far away from the action and where you were safely kept in your own bubble.

Jimin is surprised because you were already very private, and as your best friend, he didn’t take any offense to that when you didn’t share matters of your life with him. He already overcompensated for the fact that all he did was talk about his personal life—which you didn’t mind either. It was a healthy balance and a give and take that the two of you found a pattern with.

So for you to bring up the name of your boyfriend—which Jimin only knew because he caught a glimpse of a name with a heart and a text with the word ‘date’ attached to it—was definitely out of character.

“Yeah. This definitely isn’t _____,” Jimin says, “I’d like her back, please. I need someone to have no backbone so I can trample on her without her ever complaining.”

You glare at him even harder and stab the lettuce on your plate harder.

“You know what? Forget it …” You mutter, pushing your plate away from you.

Jimin levels you with a wry look and reaches his hand out to stop you from being overdramatic with your actions. Since you weren’t the best with words, you naturally compensated for being a little excessive with your actions in hopes for other people to be able to pick up on your hints. And as your best friend—Jimin knew that you were bottling something inside and wanted him to pry.

“You know this trick isn’t going to work on me, right?” Jimin points out, “And as much as I call myself the self-proclaimed genius between the two of us I can’t read minds so you’re going to need to elaborate on what you mean by ‘what do I think of Yoongi’.”

You scowl and fiddle with your fingers when Jimin gives you a look that tells you that you should speak up or forget about it. Sometimes you hated the fact that Jimin was confident and assured of himself, never avoiding confrontation while all you did was dodge it. Another reason why your friendship was unlikely but somewhat necessary.

“As my friend … what do you think of Yoongi—” You mumble, “—for me.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow at your soft tone.

“For … you?” He parrots your question back.

Your ears burn and you feel stupid enough asking Jimin about his opinion on Yoongi when you already felt flustered even mentioning his name to anyone that wasn’t yourself.

“Jimin …” You whine.

“Don’t Jimin me,” He snaps, “You know my hearing is bad.”

You roll your eyes and cast your eyes downwards to your abandoned plate as you pick at the skin around your nails, a habit you’ve picked up from Yoongi. Though you can’t really say that you picked it up from him since it was also a nervous routine of yours but knowing that Yoongi shared that in a different way made it feel like you got it from him.

Jimin sighs.

He wasn’t being harsh on you—in fact, this was him encouraging you to open up because while he was all hard and edges, and possibly overbearing at times; he respected you and loved you as a friend. You were never mean, rude or disrespectful and even if the two of you were fundamentally different in nature, you co-existed peacefully and were able to share little things in common that made the interactions between the two of you fruitful.

And he knew that speaking of your relationship with Yoongi was hard not because he was treating you horribly (at least he hopes so) but because you had the tendency of solving all your problems yourself. Even ones that were far out of your range of capability, and as someone who has received an abundance of help and advice from someone as soft-spoke as you—he wanted to be able to reciprocate somehow.

“Are the two of you okay?” Jimin asks.

You nod your head.

“We are … I just—well …” You mumble, “I just want your opinion.”

Jimin raises his eyebrow because he didn’t want you to feel like he needed his approval for you to date Yoongi. He trusted you and knew that you were smart enough to let the people you felt the same way about in.

“Babe, you don’t need my opinion. You’re the one in the relationship with him and as long he’s not being manipulative, abusive or an unwarranted jackass then I have no right to interfere in your relationship.” Jimin frowns.

You sigh.

“No, no … it’s not like that,” You shake your head, “I just wanted to know what you think of him … as a person.”

Your request is odd for multiple reasons, but mostly because of the timing because it seemed like a question you’d pose before the two of you made it official but this question came eight months into the relationship.

“I don’t think I can give you an answer _____. My interactions are limited with Yoongi as it is and I can’t give you an objective answer without sounding like a complete asshole if I judge him based on the way he looks.”

“Why would you sound like an asshole?” You furrow your brows.

Jimin shoots you a deadpan.

“Min Yoongi is the poster boy of the average college girl’s wet dream and he checks all the boxes of fitting all the stereotypes of a brooding, mysterious jock with a secret that he hides only for a girl to swing into his life and change his outlook completely. He’s quiet—quieter than you—and downright intimidating. It doesn’t help that you don’t want me hanging out with him just yet—which I totally respect by the way—so that just adds to his aloof aura.”

You blink at Jimin.

The description of Yoongi based on his outward appearance is … apt. But not what you were looking for. You knew that when you first saw Yoongi at band practices was when you first decided that you were scared of good-looking people. Albeit Jimin was also insanely attractive but he had an atmosphere around him that made people feel comfortable. Not that Yoongi actively made people uncomfortable … but he radiated major celebrity vibes that it was intimidating to get close to him.

Until small talks happened to shared giggles and him eventually asking you out informally, a context outside of your band practices that you saw glimpses of Yoongi that no one else did. He was soft, understanding, and though a little bad at expressing how he feels … but he was Yoongi and you liked him.

You might even love him, but there are times where you’re hesitant about your relationship.

“I think I love him.” You squeak.

Jimin’s eyes widen, another surprise for him for the day because you’ve just ignored his very superficial description of your boyfriend, which he half-expected you to be mad at. But for you to say that you thought you were in love with him was just a reaction he was not expecting at all.

“You—okay?” Jimin scrunches his eyebrows, “I’m happy for you, I really am! But … that doesn’t explain why you need my opinion?”

You breathe out and will yourself to look at Jimin’s face, even with the burn of your cheeks.

“You’re my … best friend, Jimin.” You say softly.

Jimin’s eyes ease on your timid features before he reaches out a comforting hand to grab onto your own, nudging you to look into his eyes. Even though Jimin was outgoing as it is, the reason why you stayed friends was that he took the time to understand you and adapt to you even when he didn’t need to. He knew that you were just shy and he never berated you for it, which is why you wanted him to know how you felt—because what he thought was important too.

“_____, love,” Jimin whispers, and you offer a weak smile, “I’m happy for you. Truly. Being in love is a beautiful feeling and I don’t need to be in love with a person to tell you that because love exists everywhere. It exists in the small things that make you smile or giggle when you come across it, and it exists in the way you do the things you adore and achieve your goals. But you don’t need me—or anyone’s—validation to love Yoongi. Love is so personal and so collective at the same time but it’s yours.”

You swallow and hope that you don’t cry in the middle of this posh and overpriced place, and it’s partially because Jimin sounded so earnest when he was talking to you but also because of the ruminating thoughts that plague your mind that made you suggest this brunch in the first place.

“I think I’m in love with him and he doesn’t feel the same.” You sniffle.

Jimin’s grip on your hand tightens momentarily along with his jaw, but he doesn’t want to act irrationally just yet.

“Why do you say that?” He asks tenderly.

You sniff and the tip of your nose turns red and Jimin wants to pat you on the head to comfort you, but the two of you are in public and he knew you hated being vulnerable in general—especially in the public eye.

“It’s just—it’s just—” You stutter, “You know how shy I am and how hard it is for me to … ask for things …”

When he hears your soft tone as your eyes dart away from his face, possibly embarrassed, he rubs a soothing thumb across your knuckles and listens to you intently.

“But I really try with Yoongi … because I want him to know how much I-I like him,” You whisper, “And every time I tell him how much I like him he just … he just smiles and looks away. Like he doesn’t—doesn’t feel the same.”

Jimin absorbs your words before he smiles softly at you. He understood how difficult it must’ve been for you because this was your first official relationship with someone who looked very closed off, to begin with, but based on your very short and rapt descriptions from time to time, Jimin could say that Yoongi wasn’t a bad person.

“Have you considered that he shows his love a different way?” Jimin asks.

You look up at him confused.

“Huh?”

Jimin chuckles before offering you a small tissue, and you meekly accepted it as you dab at your waterline.

“We all have different ways of giving and receiving love, _____.” He tells you, “No person loves the same and no one feels the same type of love. We are all different because that’s in our nature. And like I said—I don’t know Yoongi well enough to say that he has a specific type of love language but if he’s stuck around for this long … it has to mean something, right?”

Your brunch with Jimin leaves you with something else to think about.

Perhaps you were a little shallow—narrow-minded if you will. But you trusted Jimin, and you decided to see what he meant. You knew that you didn’t have the stereotypical love of shows or movies because while it did depict some form of reality, it was heavily sensationalised and exaggerated. But you never considered that Yoongi had a way of his own, one that was personal and unique to him.

Yoongi never made you feel like you weren’t enough. But the lack of the words that sit on your tongue also made you feel like he didn’t feel the same. It was never what he did, but how you felt. It was irrational, but he was objectively a very attractive person. In more ways than how he looked but the way, he treated others.

He’s mellow and gentle. Words never harsh but sharp enough to make people think. He’s efficient and kind when he wants to be and you see the way he treats his friends and staff at restaurants, even if he’s a little quiet too. The two of you were somewhat similar, but you felt so much for him that you somehow overlooked that one part—that maybe he was quiet in the way he loved too.

But you didn’t want to get your hopes up because while you weren’t … horrible. You weren’t anything spectacular either. You did decently in school, had a decent friend group that mainly consisted of you, Jimin and his other best friend, Taehyung—who told you that you were as much of his best friend like you were Jimin’s—and your bandmates that you shared with Yoongi.

Yoongi was quiet but collateral. He excelled in school, topped his classes two terms in a row, and produced impeccable music on the side. He was charismatic when he had to be an extremely introspective that you sometimes felt lacking when you hear him speak about the world and people.

Maybe that’s why he just smiles and looks away because Yoongi is too kind to break your heart, and his eyes tell the truth.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t—

“______?” Yoongi calls your name and snaps you out of your daydream.

“Huh?” You respond dazedly and he just smiles at you, gentle as always before he nudges your shoulder slightly forward to place a—pillow?—in between your back and the chair that you were sitting on in his apartment.

“I’ve read somewhere that this helps with your posture.” He tells you, “You said you were having lower back pains so this may help.”

You blink at him and then at your assignments sprawled on his dining table, before turning your head to spot the pillow that you remember gifting him as a small present months back, behind your back, and in between you and the chair. The tension in your lower back does feel alleviated, and you turn back to Yoongi to offer him a gentle smile.

“Thank you, Yoongi.” You say softly.

He smiles at you and the simple gesture makes your stomach flutter with butterflies and your heartbeat a little faster. It’s crazy that the simplest of acts could turn you into mush and that he’s had your heart captive. The word sits on your tongue but fear wins over again.

He brushes stray hands of hair that falls by the side of your face, away, before gathering it with his hand at the back of your neck and tying it with a rubber band that you remember leaving at his place a while back.

“How can you see with your hair in the way?” He scolds, but it’s light.

You scoff, giving him a glare but it’s playful too. It does feel better like you have a clearer vision of the work that you were doing.

“Don’t be mean …” You mumble.

Yoongi laughs and it’s your favourite sound after the bell of your favourite bakery.

You like this look on him, eyes crinkled and mouth open in a gummy grin that you were the cause of. The will to say the word becomes harder, the way he leans in to peck you on the lips makes your mouth move on its own accord.

So before you can justify your actions, you say—

“I love you.”

The words are out and it seems to linger in the air because of the silence. You’re mortified, one because you had just blurted it out in the most unromantic setting ever, but secondly, because Yoongi is just … looking at you again. Like he always does when you tell him how much you like him—a soft smile, but this time his eyes are trained on yours.

The fire on your cheeks feels all the hotter when you know there’s nowhere to hide, or no way to retract your words because you didn’t want to. You loved him—and his silence only solidifies your guesses on the unrequitedness of your love.

“I-I’m sorry!” You yelp, covering your face with your hands, “I-I didn’t—I know that you—I didn’t mean to say that!”

Yoongi continues to look at you and he’s inching closer to you until your locked against your chair, his arms resting around your back as his other elbow leans on the table when he brings his face closer to yours.

“You love me?” He whispers and his breath is on your lips.

Even as you’re overcome with the fact that you do indeed love him, and that he doesn’t feel the same. You can’t bring yourself to deny it, not when your heart has always been for him and your words a reflection of your own heart.

“Y-Yes,” You mumble, eyes looking away, “I’m sorry …”

Yoongi furrows his eyebrows and pulls away from you. The warmth of his body suddenly gone and it reminds you that you may have overstepped. That he realised that you were in too deep and couldn’t just leave you. It scared you, but the silence scares you more.

“Why are you apologising?”

You gulp, looking away but Yoongi nudges your chin to look at him gently. His eyes are still confused, but kind. The look that usually comforts you only makes anxiety settle in the pit of your belly.

“I know you don’t feel the same … it’s okay. I understand. I’m a little … hard to love … I know. B-But it’s okay. You don’t need to say it—at all. I can … I can deal with it. Just please don’t leave me.” You whimper.

Yoongi pulls away completely as if he’s been scathed. You don’t have anything else to say but you’re appalled to find your vision getting blurry and the lump in your throat getting unbearable. But you try not to cry, especially when Yoongi looks torn.

But he doesn’t do what you’re expecting and tells you that it’s over, but instead, he returns into your space, making you forget about your embarrassment and cups your cheeks ever so gently while looking at you with ardent eyes.

“Please don’t cry …” He whispers.

And you hate that you do. You cry because he’s holding you so gently and his hands feel warm against your cheek. You cry because you love him and he doesn’t feel the same. You cry because all your cards are out on the table and he’s seen it all.

“I-I’m sorry.” You choke.

Yoongi’s eyes soften before he leans in, pressing a gentle press onto your lips that has your tears in the way as a barrier. You’re still choking on your sobs but his kiss feels comforting and painful at the same time. You want to push him away but you’re selfish—you love him and the feeling of him holding you close like he may feel the same.

When he pulls away, he looks at you again with a gentle, yet intense gaze.

“You’re not hard to love,” He murmurs, “It was so easy falling in love with you because you’re my person. You’re the person that I look forward to seeing every day and the person that I think about the most. Please don’t ever say that you’re hard to love because falling in love with you was the easiest thing that I’ve done in my entire life.”

Your eyes widen, especially when he looks you directly in your own. Your eyes are a little puffy and you’re sure it’s an unattractive sight.

But Yoongi thinks you’re beautiful. He always does. He thinks you’re beautiful when you see him after your classes. He thinks you’re beautiful when you broke the plate you wanted to give his mother as a gift. He thinks you’re beautiful when you’ve just woken up and he thinks you’re beautiful when you’re laughing with his friends and your bandmates.

“I—I—you … you love … me?” You rasp.

Yoongi still has a soft hold on your cheeks, and he feels the wetness of your tears stain his hands but he’s unbothered. He’s more bothered about what you said. The way his heart clenches makes him feel like he’s not done enough. That he could do better to never be the reason for the sadness along with your tears.

“I love you. I do. So much.” He whispers, “You’ve made me feel the kind love that I never thought existed.”

You sob harder and you feel a little pathetic crying in his arms because … how could you have doubted him? You feel relieved and happy, and a little frustrated because you were insecure on your own terms. Even now that you know he loves you—you’re sceptical because he’s Yoongi and you’re you.

Yoongi tugs you into his arms and caresses you with the warmth of his hold, hand patting your head gently. He feels mellow and close while he allows you to cry a little longer. The silence isn’t suffocating anymore, but your mind runs wild with insecurities that you can’t help but—

“Do you really love me?” You ask softly.

Yoongi doesn’t let you go, but you feel him nod and hum against your head.

“I do.”

You nibble on your lips and clutch his t-shirt.

“Then w-why … why do you just smile and look away when I tell you how much I like you?”

Yoongi stays silent for a while, but you don’t take it as a bad sign. Even with your small arguments with him from time-to-time throughout the eight months you’ve been together, Yoongi has never once raised his voice at you or acted irrationally. In fact, he’s always stayed a little quiet for a while, as if he was thinking of the appropriate way to handle the situation before he spoke.

It only made you love him more.

“I’m sorry.” He apologises, and you feel like shit when you realise you made him apologise to you for no reason but he continues before you can pull away—grip tight around your relaxed figure.

“I’ve been in love with you for months,” His confession makes you gasp, the time that he’s mentioned only makes you a lot more confused, “I … this is the first time I’ve felt this way.”

You stay silent as Yoongi rubs gentle figures on your back, breathing into your hair as you rest your cheek on his chest.

“I’ve always been a little … quiet.” He tells you, “And maybe that’s why I felt so drawn to you because we were so similar. I saw you and thought that you were a beautiful person. That your kindness wasn’t empty promises but actions and your smiles weren’t forced but comforting.”

You feel your eyes water again because of Yoongi’s truthful words. Damn your boyfriend for being able to wax poetic.

“I’ve always found it hard to express things with words, despite writing songs like people eat their meals. My mom always told me that I was a doer rather than a sayer.” He jokes, and you find yourself giggling a little when you think of Yoongi’s mother.

A strong woman, her tongue was as sharp as her sons and you definitely see where he gets his wisdom from. She was louder spoken, confident—and yet she was gentle and kind. A person that drew people in.

“I do things for you because I love you, ______. I love you in a way that can last forever because I want it to. I want to love you in a way that you’ll remember and always think of me when you see the physical pieces left by the footprints of my affection.”

It should’ve been cheesy but Yoongi has a way with words to make you blush and your heart flutter.

His words register in you, and you feel blind to not have seen it the entire time.

Even before this, when he placed the pillow behind you to support your lower back—or when he tied your hair back so you could focus better. Or the time when he drove all the way from his hometown back to campus because you were performing a solo piece for band, then drove back to see his parents.

You remember the song he wrote to you for your birthday, accompanied by a book that you’ve put on your Wishlist for months. The memory of his gentle hands removing the face mask from your face when you’ve fallen asleep and tucking you into his bed pricks your mind.

Looking back—you remember feeling absolutely loved and adored. Even if you didn’t explicitly think of the word ‘love’—but you felt safe, comforted and accepted. And you realise that love isn’t one-dimensional. Love is everything that makes you feel complete.

When you look up at him, he’s still offering you the same gentle smile he does when you told him how much you liked him—to when you said you loved him. He still looks the same, smiles the same, and feels the same. It’s you.

“I’m sorry.” You wail.

His eyes widen but you don’t cry. You feel dumb, blind almost because he’s been nothing but loving towards you but it was you who had your doubts.

“Baby, please don’t apologise.” He runs a thumb across your cheek.

“I just—I can’t believe I accused you of not loving me when all you’ve been doing is—when all you’ve done is treat me amazingly. I feel so … stupid.” You groan.

Yoongi smiles at you and rubs his thumb in between your furrowed brows.

“You’ll get wrinkles if you frown all the time.” He tuts.

You glare at him through puffy eyes but hold on to him tighter.

“I really am sorry.” You mumble.

Yoongi hums.

“I’m sorry too. I should’ve been more—explicit.”

You frown, pulling away.

“No Yoongi.” You say, “You loved me in your own way and I felt every bit of it. I just conflated the need of being reassured with words and being reassured in your gestures. I shouldn’t have doubted you and projected my insecurities onto you.”

"And it's not your fault for feeling insecure. I'm your boyfriend and I want to be able to reassure you in every way I possibly can. If you need to hear an I love you I'll shout it on top of the highest roof I can find—if you want to be held then I'll hold you and never let go."

Your heart flutters and you bask in his gentle words.

Yoongi wraps a gentle hand around the nape of your neck before bringing you closer, lips hovering right above your own before he closes the distance. His lips are warm and soft, and he doesn’t rush the kiss as if he was dealing with porcelain glass. But he knew you weren’t fragile and easily broken—but he still knew that you were someone that he wanted to care for, for a long time.

He kisses you and it feels right. It feels like you were returning home after months away.

When he pulls away ever so slightly to look into your eyes, breath still fanning on your lips—you feel welcomed.

“When I think of love I think of you. When I think of happiness your face appears in my mind. And when I think fo you, I think of what I can do to make the environment we have a little better for you. I love you, _____. And I’ll spend as long as I can reminding you.”

“Yoongi …” You blush because you didn’t know how romantic he could be when he wanted to.

“I’m serious, _____.” He looks at you seriously, “You know what my mom said when I brought you over?”

You raise an eyebrow because while you remember the meeting being absolutely pleasant, even if you did fumble and break the gift you brought. His mother only smiled at you, the same one that marks her son's face—and said that it was okay. It only meant that you should come again to compensate. Her tone was light and comfortable, and you immediately felt the tension be alleviated from your shoulders.

He takes the tilt of your head as his cue to continue.

“She said that she’s never seen me as expressive as I was when I was with you,” You snort at his exasperation, but you see the honesty that pours out, “Hyung even said that I’ve gotten soft.”

You roll your eyes when he tugs you closer by your chair until your legs were dangling by the side of his hips. Your arms are wrapped around his shoulders and Yoongi still smiles at you like it’s the most natural thing to do.

“But I like you soft …” You smile.

“And I love you with me.” Yoongi returns.

You blush, and you allow him to hold you close.

And in his arms, do you realise that some things didn’t need to be said.

[jjkyaoi]

okay. so. i’m going to be mostly going back to the scene where he broke a piece of the egg/the monologue before that because that scene is so good it’s just. chefs kiss. immaculate.

he was speaking about the wars before, right? everything that’s happened before, all the wars and the fights and the conflicts, and he said that basically of ‘em had started because he’d done something reckless—he referenced the revolution. he seems to be caught in a state of thinking where he thinks everything up to this point has been his fault, and i wouldn’t blame him, because he was in exile with dream. dream, who convinced him that everyone didn’t like him—who convinced him he was a danger and he causes problems and basically, that he needed to be put away. and that goes back to him being referred to as the “hero” of the story by multiple people: being called the hero really puts things in perspective to him, makes him think even more that everything is his fault, because hero’s are supposed to save the day, aren’t they? but all he does is cause misery. so, i wouldn’t be surprise if he’s shielding himself off from everyone/focusing on the hotel because he believes that he’s the constant source for hurt—that he’s the problem for everything, and he probably thinks that the hotel would be a good way to gain everyone’s forgiveness, because he’s said before that this hotel is for the people of the smp.

it’s been pretty obvious recently that c!tommy doesn’t think very well of himself. he’s made little self deprecating comments that wouldn’t matter, usually, but considering the exile arc/everything that’s happened it matters a whole lot. so, i really wouldn’t be surprised if he considers himself a plague/thinks he’s some kind of monster, especially considering what he’d became during his time with techno. tldr; c!tommy has a bad self esteem and i’m sad about it.

of topic, but i also wanted to speak about his loyalty, because that’s also something i’m thinking about about him rn. c!tommy has always shown unyielding loyalty to the things he holds close to his heart; the disks, l’manberg, people, his friends—he’s always been willing to walk to the ends of the earth for them, basically, and give up everything he has for them. maybe that’s selfish, but c!tommy’s always been a lover; he’s always been a person who’s loved with everything he has him, and he’s gotten attached to the little things very easily. that, unfortunately, makes him very easy to manipulate/betray. c!tommy in general is a very emotional personal. he lashes out in his anger, he makes impulsive decisions when he’s happy, he doesn’t seem to consider what consequences his emotion-fueled actions could have, but that’s 1. because he hadn’t been taught any better, & 2. because he’s a child. he’s in the middle of a wars; his emotional growth has been very stunted because he’s grown up in wars and he’s never ever had a proper way to cope/deal with his emotions properly, so of course he’s going to make bad decisions, because that’s all he’s ever known. he’s guided by his emotions because he doesn’t know any better, and he clings onto loyalty/the loyalty of others because it’s all he’s known.

his relationship with the word “hero”/being referred to as one. you can make the arguement that because of his vibrant personality he’s put himself in the position of hero, but that’s just unfair. since day one, i don’t think c!tommy’s been doing any of the things he’s done to be the hero—i don’t think he’s ever actually wanted to be one. the things he’s done, believe it or not, have always been out of the kindness of his heart; the decisions he’s made that could be considered “heroic” has just been guided by what he’s believed, not because he wants to be a hero, and he clearly doesn’t. all c!tommy has ever wanted was the safety of the people he’s loved/the wars to be stopped. all he’s ever wanted, really, is l’manberg. not the structures, but the time before it all; the time where they were all happy, the time where they were a community, the time where they didn’t have to worry about all this—that’s always what tommys wanted, because that’s when he was the happiest. it’s clear that the word “hero”/being called as one puts a lot of pressure onto him to be the best, and i’ve already spoken about him looking at the references for hero’s, and seeing everything he’s done, and hating that he’s been called one when all he’s done is called others pain.

his relationship with his disks. c!tommy’s always had a very big attachment to them, and it’s always been prominent. he’s always fought for them, his goal this entire time was to get his disks, and even if that’s annoying i’m going to explain why i think that’s so. even if it’s just a couple music disks to some, to c!tommy, when he turned down the position of presidency and instead decision to challenge dream for his disks, that was the last thing he needed in mind for him to be happy—his disks. back then, l’manberg was back, so his home was back, and all he needed was the last missing piece; his disks. in the exile arc they were something he held onto like a lifeline; his disks were the last thing that gave him permission—a mission he had to accomplish, a goal to keep him going, a reason to get out of bed at night and keep going despite not wanting to so badly. in his time with techno, his view on l’manberg was skewed; he view them all as traitors (with techno fueling the fire unknowingly but that’s another topic entirely), and held a lot of anamoisty towards them, and the only thing he wanted was his disks, because back then his disks were the only thing that mattered to him. the people that did—l’manberg, the thing that’d made him happy once had turned his back on him, so he was desperate for something, at least, when he felt like he didn’t have anything else. and he would do anything to get them, which we saw, and in the end he ended up giving them when he found out how unhealthily attached he’d gotten to them, and when he’d found that his last piece to happiness was tubbo.

his time with techno was probably one of his lowest points, as well as the exile arc. he’d come out of exile sore and raw and hurt, everything that’d happened to him like an open wound, and he’d been angry. he was angry, because once again, to him everyone in l’manberg had left him behind; he’d left him behind, so he didn’t have any attachment to anything but the disks anymore, and so he teamed up with techno in a vengeance fueled scheme to get his disks back. of course, he was still a lot hesitant about the destruction of l’manberg, and didn’t really want that to happen, but he was pushing down those feelings because, once again, he was hurt and thought he was betrayed. he went down this hole of being angry and unhealthily clinging to the disks even more, blind to anything else around him because the disks were the only thing that mattered, until he snapped out of it. he snapped out of it when he told tubbo “the disks were more than you ever were”, and seeing the raw hurt on his friends face really put it into perspective—he said so himself. he was becoming like everyone he hated. and honestly, you can have your arguments about how he chose to leave c!techno, but it’s honestly the best decision he could’ve made for himself and i’ll stand by that. he recognized the path he was going down and he stopped himself—it was really, really mature in my eyes.

the exile arc. probably one of his lowest points. ever. he was all alone there: there wasn’t anyone else there for him in that fucking place beyond dream, and he had to pick himself up and survive all on his own. the hurt from tubbo’s betrayal still stung like an open wound on him, and he was distrusting of everyone who visited; determined that he would prove that he didn’t need them, because he felt like they didn’t need him—because he didn’t want to lean to heavily on them because he knew what would happen. he didn’t have anyone else but dream, and dream took his insecurities and fed on him, telling him lies that he believed because they were things he already thought about. his character would wake up every night under water, presumably trying to go back to l’manberg in his sleep. the lava scene exists. and let’s not even talk about the way he kept repeatedly apologizing to dream when he exploded logstedshire, desperate to anything to fix his mistake because dream was all he had. he hid the things he had from dream because dream was his only friend, and sure, even if dream was scary him leaving and tommy being alone again was a lot scarier. he was going to jump off that pillar, but he came to the realization that saved his own fucking life and got out of there. tommy has said so himself, even if he falls he’s always going to get back up, and he did. dude i just wish he didn’t have to do it on his fucking own

i could speak about how he’s clearly got abandonment issues—constantly telling techno to not leave him when he was staying with him, etc—but like. this is long enough and i’d literally go on a tangent for hours and hours 😳

[wh6res]

taeyong — part of the my bloody valentine collection.

prompt. when your soulmate gets a wound or cut, flowers bloom on the same spot in your body.

synopsis. you’re desperate to meet your soulmate. maybe you can put a stop to the flowers stubbornly blooming on your wrists.

warnings. tread cautiously. mentions of mental illness (depression, attempted suicide), swearing, manipulation, implied self-harm, dubious content, forced relationship, unconsensual touching near the end, ty pulling the sadboi agenda

disclaimer. a friendly reminder that i do not, under any circumstance, condone or support any acts like this. this is not love and this is not how a normal relationship should be like. the things i write are all fiction and should be treated as such and if you don’t like it, please do not read it and waste your time hating on it. the 9 members of nct 127 do not act like this in real life and shouldn’t act like this in real life.

by the time you’re graduating high school, you’re used to the sorry glances people sent your way. 

for someone so young, you have more flowers blooming on your skin than any adult. a few small pieces of it blooming in the corner of your cheek, near the jawline. a few of them on your thighs. 

but the most concerning piece is the one on your wrists that are fully covered by the flowers, your skin nowhere to be seen with all the lilies of the valley tainting your skin. 

yet the worse has got to be the summer before senior year. you had been halfway done with the college entrance examination for a local university. your parents said the pain you felt the first time will turn into a mild itch whenever the flowers form on your skin. 

it started small, absentmindedly scratching at something on your neck. initially, you thought it was the heat, your sweat, and the fabric of your clothes irritating the sensitive skin. but when you walked up to the proctor to turn in your exam, you knew that apologetic stare like nothing else—but his eyes had flickered down to your neck. 

when your friends blew up your phone, asking where you are to celebrate, you lied and headed straight back home, head ducked, collars upturned, hiding the lilies of the valley wrapped around your throat like some insignia. 

a year later, you end up studying soulmate theory in university. they say it’s a useless course as there can be no scientific explanation to soulmates. you like thinking you chose the course because of sheer interest but really, you’re just finding an explanation, some external reason that probably bore no results but you trudged forward anyway. 

you’re restless in the pursuit of finding him—or her, you couldn’t care less. the hurt you feel weighs heavy in your heart each time you feel them blooming on your wrist, mind plagued with worry. 

your roommate interrupts your deep thinking as she practically throws herself onto your bed. “i have an idea!” she cheers, determined. “why not part-time in the school clinic? that way if people come in, you can compare their cuts to your flowers.”

“now, you just might be onto something there.”

the hunt for your soulmate still wasn’t easy despite working in the university’s clinic and it only got worse each day. your schedule is killing you, you’re slightly getting behind in some subjects, and you practically live in the library. 

contrary to popular opinions, soulmate theory can be a fucking bitch to study about. what with learning psychology, astrology, and botany all together. it was interesting how all these things can be factors in how people are paired to become soulmates. interesting, but rather complicated in a sense, too. 

they say psychology and astrology dealt with two people’s compatibility. while botany, the meanings of the flowers themselves, was theorized to predict how the soulmate connection will affect their relationship—ultimately, roses were a really, really good sign. 

you have been busy messing up your hair, utterly frustrated and irate—astronomy’s messing with your head and you can’t go a minute without scratching your wrists as the flowers bloomed after the other. 

then something unexpected happened. 

a lanky guy dressed in an all-black ensemble walked into the clinic. well, it was more of a being carried between two guys by the arms rather than walked in. everything about his clothes looked way too big to fit his delicate frame and it hardly looked like it was for fashion style purposes. his skin hugged his body to the bone, eyes sunken, and he looked so frail that a tiny shove would’ve sent him sprawled on the floor. 

his name was taeyong and he lied on the bed unconscious, with handkerchiefs wrapped around his wrists like bandages—courtesy of his friends, who looked deathly worried for the fate of their poor friend. if he had lost any more blood, he would’ve died. you had never seen the clinic in such chaos, people running around, anxious. your leg muscles were sore from going back and forth from the nurse’s side to the cabinets storing all the medical supplies she needed. 

it had been a whirlwind, and after your superior had patched and properly bandaged his cuts, you were left to look after him in the meantime as nurse jung tried contacting his guardian. 

his friends—who you learned were named yuta and jaehyun, were snoozing outside on the bench across the hall, parallel with the clinic’s double-glass door, as they waited for their friend to wake up. 

depression. suicidal. taeyong has been like that for his whole life, jaehyun stated earlier. you can only shoot a sorry look at the unconscious boy lying on the hospital bed. 

it had already been dark outside when you came in to switch out his bandages for new ones—only to realize that his cut is exactly where you had been scratching earlier before he showed up. 

you retracted, unbelieving of what that possibly entails. along the way, you’ve pieced together that your soulmate is probably struggling through something heavy, something that weighed him down so much that it made him believe hurting himself is the only solution, what with all the flowers on your skin. 

“it’s him…” you mumble, wide eyed as you eyed the faded scars around his wrists, eerily aligned to the flowers blooming on your own. 

you didn’t want to overwhelm him, that much was sure. you didn’t want to chase him away if he gets uncomfortable. so for weeks you started leaving anonymous notes in his locker. not the sappy love letter types, just little words of encouragement that could make his day better. 

when their friend breaks out into the tiniest of smiles, yuta and jaehyun’s thankful eyes would scour around the halls. sneakily looking for you behind taeyong’s back. they understood where you’re coming from and hadn’t spoken a word of disagreement when you told them you didn’t plan to make yourself known as his soulmate yet. 

and as if the notes were not enough, you start giving him his favorite starbucks drink every now and then—on days the flowers didn’t bloom as much as it normally would. you turn up half an hour early before lectures so you can place it on the table where he usually sits with his two best friends. even if his class is on the other side of campus, you’d still go. 

but it only took three weeks of creeping around until you’re caught by your soulmate himself. 

“do you want something from me?”

you didn’t know what to say, cat got your tongue as you stood before him holding the drink. you couldn’t weasel your way out and say the drink’s yours, not when he caught you standing before his usual seat, not when you were already leaning forward to place it on his desk.

“uhm… i…” you stutter pathetically, not being able to meet the intensity of his eyes. 

“jaehyun and yuta aren’t exactly the most lowkey, especially with how much their eyes wander when i open my locker. so, do you want something from me? what are you playing at, stalker?”

the name he called you stung like a bitch but you can’t blame him for it. you knew him, he doesn’t know you. you’re giving him gifts anonymously. even if they were all from the goodness of your heart, from an outsider’s view, your actions still appeared sketchy.

“soulmate,” you correct him. 

you watch his features twist into confusion, only for it to morph into shock once he’s digested what you just said. eventually, he schools his expression back to indifference. his stoic face is so intimidating, you thought, biting your bottom lip and fidgeting on your toes. 

“what?”

“i’m your—i’m your soulmate.”

his eyes flicker downwards to peak a glance at the bouquet of flowers painted on your skin. colors as beautiful and vibrant as the day you got them, the stems of the bell-shaped flowers intricately woven into each other. for a split second, you even twist your arms a little, showing him the rock hard proof of your claim. 

ever since you found him, you’ve always contemplated for the better part of your limited free time about what his reaction will be when he finds out you two are soulmates. will he accept you? or worse case scenario, pretend you didn’t exist? the possibilities are unknown especially with someone who seems to be going through so much that the last thing they wanted is this person who thinks they’re entitled to be part of their lives because the universe made it be that way. 

not that you feel entitled… taeyong can reject you all he wants and you’ll give him the space he needs—

he’s crying. 

and not the simple, small tears slowly streaming down his face one by one type of crying, no, his tears were an onslaught. full-on sobbing as he threw himself onto you, wrapping his arms tight around your shoulders as he buried his face into your neck, words heavily muffled by your coat. 

“is it—” he hiccups. “true?”

you blink, from all the reactions you’ve gone through in your head, crying was the very last thing you expected from him—crying and hugging you like you’re the last person on earth and he’s been touch-starved until he found you. 

maybe that was the case. 

you wonder what jaehyun and yuta felt whenever taeyong ditched them to spend time with you—and that was pretty much all the time since he’s found you. he’s like a puppy, following you around wherever you go (unless he has classes) and had been neglecting his friends. whether it was intentional or not, whether his two friends were cool with it or not, you don’t know. 

you try your best to smile every time he runs up to you on the other end of the hall, spotting you coming out of your own respective classroom after lectures are done. 

he’s beaming like a child, inviting you to this cafe he wants to take you to—and pathetic ‘lil ‘ol you just can’t seem to say no to those huge expecting eyes.

but you’re not blind to the slight scowl on yuta’s face nor the razor sharp smile on jaehyun’s features. they want to hang out together, just boys, but now there’s this soulmate who’s suddenly more important than them—what happened to bros before hoes?

but they knew taeyong needed you. heck, he never once smiled like the way he did before he met you. it was like he’s become this whole new person with a child-like innocence reflecting his eyes. 

“so?” your soulmate prompts just as his two friends came over, flanking him. 

taeyong deflates the moment he sees the hesitance in your eyes. “uhm… i actually have a shift in the clinic, and nurse jung said the clinic isn’t some hang out place, so you can’t, uhh…” you trail, not wanting to finish the sentence. 

a little white lie can’t hurt anyone, right? 

taeyong shouldn’t depend on you all the time, not when he also has friends who care about his well-being and mental health just as much as you do. being soulmates didn’t mean he has to spend every waking moment with you and the faster he realizes, the better. 

when you dashed away before he could even mutter out a reply, you miss the frown on his face, his eyes never once leaving your frame until you turned the corner. 

people often favor the underdog. they have this gnawing urge in their gut to sympathize and unknowingly root for their own plot twist or happy ending. 

people look at you and your soulmate and think you have poor, suicidal and depressed and sad taeyong eating at the palm of your hand, following you around like a lonely duckling—the undeniable underdog in a coming-of-age movie, the person shoved around until some bigger, more capable person comes to their rescue (in this case you, unfortunately).

but appearances have always been deceiving. 

your little 3-week head start with getting to know your soulmate had only been on surface-level. you just wanted to help him but taeyong’s obvious attraction—can you even call it that? you’d like to think it’s more of infatuation—is off-putting for you. from standing way too close to putting an arm around you, from walking you to your lectures to walking you home, from the light headpats to having the guts to kiss your cheeks. 

it’s too much and it wasn’t as if you basked in the public display of affection. whenever you tried telling him off in the most gentlest of ways, taeyong would frown and curl in on himself, eyes glossy, darting around, and looking like a kicked puppy. 

you couldn’t leave him like that just because of some harmless skinship, right? he’s just excited and happy he’s found you. weren’t you also the first one to initiate? with all those notes and gifts you’ve given him? and now you’re backing away just because of a few touches?

“you know,” your roommate plops herself on the couch next to you, netflix movie playing as background. “you’re not obligated to fix him. you’re his soulmate, not his psychiatrist.”

you sigh, head diving into the couch pillows. “i’m not trying to fix him, i’m just…”

she raises a prodding eyebrow. 

“…i’m just trying to be there for him.”

taeyong likes to think that he wasn’t doing it on purpose. but the sense of rush and sick pleasure running up and down his spine whenever you force a smile and give in to his wishes proves otherwise. 

all his life he’s been pushed around. tasked to buy his old man beer and cigarettes and an assortment of drugs. if he turns up empty handed, guess who becomes a punching bag? and he has always been alienated throughout his school life. immature elementary kids aren’t exactly the kindest and would’ve picked on every single thing to appear cool to their friend groups. and poor little scrawny taeyong who didn’t speak and didn’t defend himself was just too easy of a target. 

“uhm… you don’t—don’t need to walk me home all the time.” do you think so low of him that you believe he doesn’t sense your fake little giggle?

“but i like walking you home,” he pouts, jutting his lips just a wee bit more for extra measure. he makes sure his eyes are as round and glossy as can be, he noticed those puppy eyes are what gets to you the most. 

he can tell by your tense shoulders, the clear hesitance in your face, that smile that looked too sweet to be real, and your averting eyes. you needn’t say anything for taeyong to figure you out. he isn’t blind to the lack of comfort you’ve developed by being with him. 

he has to think of something or else you’ll be slipping through the gaps of his fingers.

he asked you out on valentine’s day. it wasn’t the simple, forgettable act of popping out the “hey, do you want to go out on a date with me?” question while holding a bouquet of flowers. taeyong made sure you’ll never forget this certain day that he had laid his claim on you—not that it needed to be vocalized, it was his wounds that made flowers bloom on your skin. the soulmate connection should be enough.

but taeyong wanted to go the extra mile.

with the help of his friends (yuta’s popular and jaehyun can be very persuasive), he’s got people handing you lilies of the valley every ten feet until you reach the auditorium in the main building. despite it blooming on your skin you’ve never really seen them in the flesh. they’re like dew drops, bell-like flowers growing in an elegant dip from it’s main stem and appearing no bigger than your thumb.

you were awed, but skeptical.

you meet taeyong by the end of your little journey, standing on a decorated stage with a bouquet of the flowers nestled delicately in his hands. the natural sunlight bleeding through the open windows giving him such a beautiful glow that you couldn’t take your eyes off him. he had smiled and timidly gave you the flowers while asking.

“will you be my girlfriend?” 

if only you’d look close enough, that sugar coated smile contrasted greatly to the sly flickers in his eyes. he knows how your actions are dictated by the reputation you’ve built. taeyong knows you'll say yes, because if you didn't, how could you have rejected your own soulmate who has made you the light of his life? he’s been nothing but kind to you and you’ve only pushed him away! you’re a monster! you should’ve saved him!

if him alone can’t make you say yes, maybe the pressure-induced stare of the whole student body can.

and as you shivered amidst taeyong’s suffocating hug, feeling the triumphant smirk against your head and his prodding nose as he sniffed your hair, you now understood why your body bloomed this specific woodland flower. 

lilies of the valley are beautiful.

but lilies of the valley are poisonous, too.

the flowers remind you of taeyong. 

making things official has only made things worse. taeyong has promised you that after being together he won’t try hurting himself anymore and that he’s a big boy and he can attend his therapy sessions alone. but the itching in your skin is as constant as ever and you just got off the phone with the receptionist of the clinic he goes to. 

“are things alright? i haven’t seen taeyong since three weeks ago.”

if there’s one thing you absolutely hate doing with your soulmate, it’s confrontations. for the three months you’ve been together, taeyong has always, always spiraled out whenever you confront him about something. be it the mildest or the most superficial thing, what started out small will turn into a complete whirlwind and he’d be in a fit of tears by the end of it.

every single time. 

you prefer happy taeyong than sad taeyong—if you can avoid it for as long as you can, you will. but you’re at your breaking point. him lying to you about his therapy sessions is the pin that popped the little balloon of security you’ve been protecting. 

when you arrive home, he’s already there, crouched and sifting through your bookshelf. it wasn’t a surprise or anything out of the ordinary, he possesses the key to invite himself into your apartment any time. “hey, you’re home!” he immediately stands, barreling towards you. 

he encircles his arms around you protectively as he pulls you flush against his body. you feel the tip of his nose prodding against your neck, hearing him inhaling your scent like cannabis. 

you learned to ignore it, this habit of his—but just because you do doesn’t make you any less uncomfortable than the first time he did it.

you don’t bother hugging him back. 

you were too pissed off to keep up with pretenses. 

“the clinic called, said you weren’t attending your sessions. why were you lying to me?” 

when pushed into a corner, you were never one to beat around the bush.

“i don’t like going alone, i told you that, remember?” he quickly replied, shoving you away. “i wouldn’t have to lie to you if you would just come with me for my sessions, don’t you think? you’re blowing this out of proportion when it’s all your fault.”

you wanted to pull at your hair. scratch that, you wanted to pull at his hair—no, not in that kind of way. 

“how the fuck—” you stop. taeyong hates it when you curse. cursing will do you more harm than good. you inhale through your nostrils, willing yourself to calm down. “how is this my fault? i told you i have to run errands for professor kim!”

“then quit working there! they’re not even paying you, it’s just for extra credit! which you wouldn’t even fucking need if you weren’t flunking astronomy so bad.” taeyong must’ve seen your features twisting into that of betrayal. he was there when you were crying your eyes out because you failed the exam. he knew the subject was taking such a big toll on you. 

how could he…

“don’t fucking look at me like that, kitten. you know it’s the truth.”

what is the point of this, some form of payback he’s subjecting you to? just because you didn’t come with him to his sessions? six months in this relationship and you already feel so drained, how would the universe expect you to keep up for a whole fucking lifetime together with him?

“why…” you choke, the tears building up in your eyes as your voice breaks. “so what do you want me to do, then?” you ask, because you genuinely don’t know. 

does he want you to choose? is that it? you didn’t want to lose the credits, but you didn’t want to lose this relationship either, no matter how much you’re drowning in the toxicity of it all. 

because this is your soulmate. 

certainly, the universe wouldn’t destine you to each other if it would only bring forth chaos, right? taeyong has mentioned time and time again that this is his first relationship. of course, he’s depending on you to show him the ropes. 

but it seems he isn’t really a big fan of how you do things. 

“quit.”

you shake your head defeatedly. “you know i can’t. i’d have to take the whole subject again next semester and—”

“i said quit, dollface.” the finality in his tone renders you speechless. “then fucking take the subject again next semester! i don’t care. that’s your consequence for neglecting your major. why the fuck do i have to suffer, too, if my soulmate is such a failure?”

his words cut deep, deeper than flesh, cutting through bone as your knees the urge to buckle and collapse before him. “taeyong, please—”

“honestly, i don’t even know what you’re doing with that professor. you always brush it off whenever i ask you!” the glare he sends could kill. “is this… is this why you’re so adamant about not quitting? then again… what kind of professor is willing to pass his students just by interning for him? i can’t believe i’m only realizing this now!”

this is bad. this is very, very bad. 

“whatever you’re thinking about is not true! trust me—”

but as if he can’t hear you, he dawdles on, trying to connect the dots when there is absolutely nothing to connect. 

“you suck dick for grades? how could you do this to me? how can you do that to yourself?” 

you don’t understand exactly why he’s crying again so you don’t say anything. not because his fierce accusations were right but because even if you try hard to convince him that nothing is going on with your astronomy professor, he’d still cry and whine and paint you to be the bad guy. 

“what… what use do i have in this world if my soulmate thinks i’m not enough? and i lost you to some guy who smelled like prunes of all people!” you would have laughed if the situation had been different, but taeyong was dead serious. “i’m useless. i’ve been useless with my family, my friends, and now you. i can never do anything right, can i? i can never make anyone stay. i can’t even make you stay!”

and like a switch that has been flicked off, your conflicted emotions vanish in thin air. gone are every trickle of anger, confusion, and irritation you felt as he makes a beeline to the coffee table, smashing the little ornamental fish bowl and pointing a shard against his dainty wrists. 

“no!” you tackle him to the ground, groaning when you feel the shard dig into your side yet you made no effort to get off of him. blindly, you reach, twisting his wrist to drop the piece of glass. “you promised!” you wail, clutching the collars of his shirt as you pull him close to you. “stop, stop hurting yourself.”

you feel him shaking his head, his own onslaught of tears staining your shirt as the negativity he’s been bottling pours over like a tsunami, dragging you under the currents with him. “no, no, no…” you splutter, snot running disgustingly down your nostrils. “it’s not true, none of that is true. you’re my love, my moonlight, i’d never betray you for anyone or anything!”

“but—but your professor, the internship—”

“i’ll quit. i’ll take the subject again next semester, it’s not a big deal, okay? don’t worry, i’m here. i’m so sorry!”

it was all too easy.

the thing with noble people like you is the foolish sense of responsibility lying underneath your skin, it’s gravitational pull so strong that you don’t bother to think before you speak, to think before you act, to think before you make promises, because what’s important isn’t yourself, it’s the person lying meek and helpless before you. 

quit, you say? taeyong wants something more.

the evil lying inside pandora’s box can never remain dormant, not when meddlesome people like you who think with a one-track mind pull the lid off its hinges, preaching how every evil can have their own redemption.

a hand finds purchase around your waist as an eerie blissful smile stretches on his lips, eyes clouded over. “really? i’m your moonlight?”

“yes—”

“would you prove it to me?”

he doesn’t make room for your hesitance to settle, he lunges, hands wrapping around your face to pull you into a kiss. it wasn’t like all the other kisses you’ve shared with him, no, this one had a dark, underlying purpose. his hands digging into your open wound to make it bleed, tongue sliding into your mouth the moment you gasped in pain.

your hands press on his chest, trying to push him away but taeyong’s thoughts are running wild. you blush in sheer humiliation when he lets out an almost pornographic moan. with a sinking realization, you’ve become hyper aware of something poking at your abdomen.

no, not yet. you weren’t ready yet!

“taeyong, wait—i’m not—”

“you said you love me, didn’t you?”

[seijorhi]

How about a lil overhaul? Maybe his s/o is just someone from america on a trip and cant speak japanese. But he is like. Mine. She was quirkless and was coming to visit Japan to see a family member. Maybe that family member sold her to overhaul to pay off a debt? She is just so confused and cant understand most of the people here, she wants to go back to America.

So I kinda went a little off track with this request, but I hope you like it!

Overhaul x Reader

TW kidnapping, murder, minor blood/gore

Collateral

It’s a bit of a surprise the day that you get your ticket in the mail. You’ve never been particularly close with your uncle. It’s not that you don’t like him or anything, it’s just… you don’t really know him. He’s lived on the other side of the Pacific Ocean since long before you were born, and you’ve only met him face to face a handful of times. 

And now he wants you - just you - to come stay with him for a little while. As long as you want, the return ticket’s flexible, the email says.

Your family’s just as flummoxed as you, he and your dad have never exactly been close - something about a big fallout when they were younger, but he’s the one to convince you to go. 

“Your uncle hasn’t exactly had the easiest life, sweetheart. He’s all alone over there, has been for a long, long time and he’s made a lot of bad decisions in the past but… you’re his only niece,” he sighs, cupping your cheek with a sad smile. “Maybe he wants a fresh start, to build a relationship with you - he’s missed so much of your life.”

It’s not so much his words that get to you, but the wistful look in his eyes as he says them. Your heart aches for him, for them both, and you find yourself nodding along.

A trip to Japan sounds nice. 

Getting to know your uncle sounds even nicer.

A week later, you’re on the plane flying over the Pacific, the nerves in your stomach growing with each mile that passes beneath you. 

It’ll be fine, you reason, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from your skirt as the plane starts its descent into Tokyo. Things might be a little awkward at first, but your uncle wouldn’t have invited you if he didn’t want to make a genuine effort, and your parents were only a phone call away if anything went wrong. 

Not that anything would. He’s family - that means something.

“If it gets too much, you can always come home,” your dad had whispered as you bid him farewell at the gate. 

But when you get off the plane, grab your luggage and make your way out through the gate, there’s no sign of your uncle standing in the crowd. You frown, scanning the arrivals hall again - he called your parents yesterday to tell them he’d be picking you up from the airport.

A flutter of uneasiness teases at your gut, but you force yourself to keep the smile on your face as you continue to scour the throng of waiting friends and family. You did land a little ahead of schedule, and getting through customs had taken less time than you thought, maybe he was just running late, or trying to find a park. Your uncle had given you a phone number to call if anything went wrong but… you don’t want to come across as panicky. It’s only been a few minutes, after all.

You’re so focused on trying to find him that you almost miss the crisply dressed driver holding a sign with your name just by the sliding doors. He doesn’t say anything when you approach cautiously, eyes still darting around like you’re expecting to see your uncle behind him. He doesn’t look like what you expected - not that you were expecting a driver at all - but the clearly expensive black suit and blank stare as he regards you are a little… off putting, to say the least. From your understanding your uncle wasn’t exactly made of money, so why send a driver at all?

“Um, hi… I’m Y/N, did my uncle send you? I-is he not coming?” you say, praying that the man understands English and you’re not making an idiot out of yourself.

The driver nods sharply, “He was unable to collect you himself.”

Oh. 

Your smile falters just a touch, but you find yourself nodding out of politeness. It’s fine. You have all the time in the world to spend with your uncle. “Oh, alright. Um-”

The driver grabs the suitcase from your side before you can stop him, turning abruptly on his heel and walking away, leaving you to rush after him, cheeks dusting pink.

Except the driver doesn’t take you to the small apartment on the outskirts of the city your uncle had told you about. 

***

You’ve never been more terrified in your life. 

It’s been a week, you think - it’s hard to tell when the room they keep you in doesn’t have any windows and the food they deliver doesn’t come at regular intervals.

A week since the driver pulled you shaking from the back seat of the black and manhandled you inside a dark warehouse. A week since you met him.

You still don’t know his name. 

He’s the boss - you’ve figured that much out at least. He was the one whose feet you were tossed at when you arrived - shaking, crying and pleading.

You can still remember the chill that crept up your spine as those impassive gold eyes stared at you, his mouth hidden behind that ridiculous plague mask. Sitting on an old, worn leather couch, dressed in all black save for the grey tie around his neck and the white surgical gloves on his hands, what startled you the most (aside from the mask) was how young he was - he couldn’t have been more than a year or so older than you at the most, and yet every single person in the warehouse was staring at him with the utmost respect.

He’d ignored your tears and the trembling questions that had fallen from your lips as he’d stood and walked a slow circle around you, eyes running you up and down like a vulture eyeing off its prey. He hadn’t touched you, only gesturing once for his subordinates to wrestle you back up into a standing position before he finished his apparent appraisal. 

When he’d spoken it was an order barked coldly in Japanese, but his eyes had flickered back to you as hands had gripped your arms, and in the split second before you were tugged from the room, you could have sworn that there was the faintest hint of dark pleasure shining through.

He’s come to visit you a few times since. He always keeps his distance, sitting on the sole chair in your sterile room as you huddled up on the bed like a frightened kitten, putting as much space between the two of you as possible. 

He seems to enjoy that; your fear. 

It’s the second time he comes to visit that he starts to talk to you - not in English, no, despite you making it abundantly clear you had absolutely no understanding of the language beyond a few conversational phrases, he only ever speaks Japanese.

He seems to enjoy that too - the blank, nervous look in your eyes whenever he starts to speak with you. His tone could be considered light and friendly, conversational almost, if not for the cruel edge to his words that transcends the language barrier - with every word he’s mocking you, and he wants you to know it.

The first time you leave your sterile room it’s when two of his masked entourage come to take you up into what looks like a surgical suite. There’s a man strapped to a gurney under a bright operating light sobbing, thrashing fruitlessly against his binds and immediately there’s a wave of dread that floods your stomach. The two men who took you hold you firmly in place by your shoulders, but you can’t help but jump a little when that familiar voice starts to speak.

He comes out of the shadows, golden eyes fixed solely on you. It’s a speech of some sort, though whether it’s for your benefit, his followers’ or the now screaming man’s before him you honestly don’t know. Sweat builds at your temple as the masked leader lifts his hands and slowly tugs off the white surgical gloves.

You don’t know what’s about to happen, only that you desperately want to stop it. One of the men behind you chuckles and you bite your lip to stifle a cry - there’s no point, you can’t move, you can’t escape this - whatever it is that’s about to happen.

The screams reach fever pitch, the man thrashing hard enough to make the gurney shake, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference. Your heart skips a beat as the auburn haired leader stares dispassionately down at him and with a sigh - places his bare palm against his flesh.

The result is instantaneous. 

The scream cuts off. Blood splatters over the walls, over you, as the man is simply, brutally, torn apart by the Quirk.

And all the while, the monster simply watches you.

You understand him perfectly this time. It’s a demonstration, a reminder of why one so young sits at the head of an illicit organisation and what exactly the punishment might be should you fail to remember that.

They take you for a shower afterwards, and you’ve never been more grateful for it. You scrub at your skin until it's raw, desperately trying to wash the taint of blood from your skin. It doesn’t seem to make a difference, it stays with you every time you close your eyes.

You cry yourself to sleep that night, clutching tightly at the thin, blanket you’d been given and thinking desperately of home and your family.

He’s sitting in the same plastic chair when you wake up, except this time it’s been pulled up right beside the bed. He regards you silently for a moment, watching as your eyes widen and fear slowly creeps across your features, but you don’t flinch, you don’t try and scamper away. You only pull the blanket up slightly, as if to protect what last vestiges of modesty you have from him.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks in flawless English.

You jerk back in surprise. He-

What?!

Of course he speaks English. Of course his continued insistence on speaking a language you didn’t understand was nothing more than a ploy to make you feel vulnerable and inferior. 

Utterly isolated.

A spark of anger flashes through you, but you quickly tamp it down, the memory of blood and disassembled body parts all too fresh in your mind.

He seems to be waiting for an answer to his question, so you give a minute nod. You’ve been here long enough to put the puzzle pieces together.

“Your uncle managed to rack up quite the impressive debt from us - a debt he couldn’t pay when it came due. He offered us you, his niece, instead. A pretty, young American girl, Quirkless… pure,” he sighs.

Each word hits you like a slap in the face and you can feel the unshed tears stinging in the corners of your eyes. It’s nothing you haven’t already figured out, but to be confronted with the truth, that your own flesh and blood (however estranged) had sold you out to save his skin, hurts more than you care to admit. 

Oblivious to your internal suffering, or maybe just indifferent to it, your captor continues. “I had planned on selling you. You’d be surprised what some of the degenerate filth in this city would be willing to pay for some beautiful, defenceless, foreign doll for them to stick their cocks into.”

Something close to amusement flickers in his eyes and he laughs as your face blanches in mute horror. He leans forward, gloved hands reaching for your face and you freeze with a choked gasp-

But he merely brushes at your cheek with the back of his knuckles, collecting a single stray tear that had slipped from your eyes without you even realising. “You don’t need to look so worried, Y/N. I thought you would have realised by now - you’re not going anywhere, you’re mine, and I’ve figured out a much better use for you.” It’s hard to tell with the gaudy mask obscuring half his face, but you could swear that beneath it all, your captor’s grinning. “My pretty little pet.”

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Forever (one-shot)

Harry Potter Marauders Era

Request from AO3-  If not it's good lol, but I was thinking the reader saves Regulus in the cave and he survives. And the rest of it shows how he copes and all. Very sad and angsty and like he’s depressed because it should have been him. Obviously, Sirius helps him and all but there's only so much he can do. You don’t need to write it but I feel like it would be a good plot

Rating- E- mentions of death, depression, suicide. Super angsty

_____

“It will be okay, Reg. Everything will be okay.”

Regulus’ eyes snapped open as the nightmare got to the point that he hated. Your soft voice was trying to calm him, as always. You were trying to make sure that he knew everything would be okay and only needed to trust you...but this time you were wrong. Every night it was the same thing...the same curse. Regulus watched you die in his arms every night. Every morning he woke up ready to greet death and be with you once again.

I never should have taken her with me.

The thought itself was folly. Regulus knew that you would have never let him go off to that cave alone. It was foolish for him to ever let you go but he did. Now the love of his life was dead but Regulus wasn’t. He survived after you pulled him from the water. It wasn’t until the two of you were able to get outside did he realize how injured that you actually were...and you died.

He would be forever haunted by the image of you dead in his arms. Your pretty face was no longer lively and warm but transfixed on him with set eyes never to move again. It didn’t matter how many times that Regulus pleaded with you to take another breath...just one more breath...you didn’t. The hand that was locked in his soaking shirt had dropped to your side as the blood now oozed from your mouth.

Regulus’ princess was gone...

It had been a little over six months ago and Regulus was still in the same state of grief that he was in on day 1. There had been no coping. Coping was some fairy princess that would always elude Regulus for the rest of forever. To say Regulus blamed himself was an understatement. He screamed “it's all your fault” over and over every day.

After about month two, Walburga had enough and called Sirius to come to get his younger brother before she killed him herself. Sirius, of course, came running. It didn’t matter if it had been years since he had actually spoken to his younger brother. Upon having the conversation with Walburga, Sirius was ready to step in. He would do whatever he could to save Regulus from slipping away to a horrible existence that would end in either murder or suicide.

Sirius tried.

Regulus thought as he slowly wiggled his way out of bed. The blood rushed to his head, almost knocking the younger brother backward. Regulus wasn’t sure how much alcohol that he had drunk the night before (or any night before that). It was never enough.

Drunk...that was how Regulus spent the majority of his day. He had never been much of a drinker before you died. Regulus didn’t like giving up that precious control that he loved so much. After your death, he welcomed not being in his head. It didn’t matter how much Sirius or any of his friends tried to hide the booze, Regulus found it.

Memories of the previous night filled his head. He had been drunk long before Sirius arrived home. Regulus was almost to the point of passing out when Sirius came in cheerfully talking to Remus about a new restaurant that they were going to. He only had to take one look at his brother before he realized what kind of state Regulus was in.

“Why, Regulus? Why do you keep doing this? Do you think that Y/n would want you living this way? She wouldn’t want this at all. Y/n loved you...more than anything. She would want you to make yourself happy...not be this depressed and depending upon booze and whatever it was that you were taking.”

Regulus barely looked up at Sirius. For some reason, his brother seemed taller than normal. Looking at Sirius from the couch made Regulus want to vomit.

“She begged me to stop….begged me to take her away...we could have lived in the country...I could have her with me until we died. There is no greater punishment for me than to keep living without Y/n. She made everything worth it.’

“If you keep going the way that you are going...you are going to end up dead.”

Sirius had intended for his comment to strike some fear in his younger brother but it had the opposite effect. Regulus looked thrilled. It had been the first time that he had smiled in months.

“Brillant.”

Sirius almost fainted when that single word left Regulus’ mouth. Remus’ comment of “you can only do so much” quickly plagued Sirius’ mind.

Regulus felt guilty for what he was doing to his older brother especially when Sirius was trying so hard. What Sirius didn’t seem to understand was Regulus was ready to get back to you...if that meant death then so be it.

His grey eyes flickered to the small vile that sat on the nightstand. The poison that was...sure to take him to the gods. Regulus smirked at the comment that left the clerk’s name at the potion shop. Regulus had gone into the shop the day before yesterday and asked for the most powerful death potion available...now it was his.

The clerk seemed a bit worried that such a young man was asking for such a horrible potion. Usually only sick and extremely old asked for such a brew. Regulus had made up some lame story about it being for rats that were scaring his poor mother to death (little did the shop clerk know that the rats were scared of Walburga...not the other way around). When Regulus offered to pay double the listed price, the clerk no longer argued.

“You must have some horrible rats.”

The old man finally commented as Regulus gave him a small smile before walking out without another word.

“I don’t care if it hurts.”

Regulus thought as he opened the vial. The potion in the cave was the most horrible thing that he had ever experienced but Regulus would drink it again if it meant getting you back. If this potion was that bad, it could be another punishment for him being so careless in your death….a final punishment that he would welcome.

Regulus froze hearing Sirius downstairs laughing over something stupid. He felt guilty for a brief moment.

“I’m sorry, Sirius.”

Taking one final breath, Regulus put the vial to his lips and downed its contents. He stood motionless for a moment as the intense urge to go to sleep washed over him.

Not so bad…

The next thing Regulus knew he was standing by what looked like the Black lake at Hogwarts on a sunny day. Looking over his shoulder, Regulus smiled seeing you sitting by the tree with a book on your lap. He couldn’t help but smile looking at you from where he stood.

Of course, she’s reading.

Thought with a smile as your hair blew a bit in the breeze. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Regulus quickly walked over.

“I should have known that your personal heaven would involve books.”

You looked up before instantly smiling. It took you three seconds to be on your feet with your arms around Regulus’ shoulder. If you didn’t let go of him for the rest of eternity that would have been just fine with Regulus. Breathing in your sweet scent, he felt calm and happy for the first time in ages.

“What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you for a while.”

You said with a smile before interlocking his hands with yours. Regulus shrugged.

“I didn’t want to be without you.”

Regulus commented as your smile faded.

“Regulus...no...not like that.”

He shrugged again.

“It was worth it. You made my life worth living. I did what I was supposed to. I got the locket and Kreacher is going to destroy it. It's up to someone else to finish the story. Our story is here.”

Your unhappy smile faded as you pulled Regulus down beside you. Laying your head on his shoulder, you smiled again.

“It's not so bad here, you know. There’s no rain, no stupid war, just…”

“Us.”

Regulus interrupted before leaning down for a kiss. You nodded.

“Forever.”

_______

@amelie-black @regulusslut @truly-insatiable @fandomsxxregulus @quuenofblacks @jessyballet @knreidy1 @acciosiriusblack @mimisparkle12 @teletubiswszpilkach @spiderxalmighty @exhsle @bennyberry @rubyroscoe1 @whymyparentscheckmyphone @criminalyetminimal @fific7 @hazncalsgal @brokencasbutt67-writer @authoressskr @fandom-trash-worth-it @hankypranky @summer-novak @emiwrites3reads @shaylybaby2032 @marichromatic @li0nh34rt @tas898 @stuckinsaudi1 @shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @knight-of-gleefulness @untoldshortsofthefandoms @sprnaturallover @deanwherescas @shitfaceddaniel @wontlookaway @mycuddlycorner

[13yearslater]

The comment section

It’s been one of those weeks where I’ve just had to try my best to close my eyes and scroll past the news articles and their comment sections. Sometimes I still can’t help but make a comment of my own. I no longer allow myself to enter debates or arguments; I simply state my own personal experiences and anyone who reads it can do with it what they wish. My comments usually garner likes but very rarely any rebuttals which I put down to the manner in which I express myself. Previous attempts to correct, debate or argue would be jumped on by those who disagreed and were desperate to prove their stance whereas simply stating some of my feelings and experiences is less provocative and isn't easily argued since my comments are not statements or claims, they're just my life. But still, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t exhausting to see these threads in my feed almost constantly again at the moment, especially with the recent Elliot Page interview, Laurel Hubbard possibly being the first trans woman in the Olympics, the GRC fee being reduced and... well, Caitlyn Jenner’s typically tonedeaf shenanigans.

Actual news aside, there's also the influx of articles that feel like they were posted entirely with the intent to stir up the trolls. "Transgender people do change their sex – it is discriminatory to say otherwise" was an article this week, actually written by a trans person, that just seemed like a dangling carrot and golden opportunity for everyone to say just how much they disagreed with trans peoples existence. It may be well intended, but you know exactly what the response to an article like that will be and it will not be pretty. I think back to my younger self, sat alone wondering if I'd ever be accepted, seeing the countless and overwhelming majority of comments that gave the very clear message that no, I would not be.

My comments usually centre around the fact that I'm just human. Which is sad really, isn't it? That I should feel the need to remind people that I am a person. A person with family, friends, interests and dreams just like you. That I'm not a political point or an agenda, that I am not "the trans community" - none of us are; we're all individuals, that I am more than being trans. That it's ok not to like Elliot Page or Caitlyn Jenner, but to please take a moment to consider all the trans people reading comments like yours every single day and coming to believe that the world truly hates them. It's alienating, it's lonely and it's damn near impossible not to let it worm its way into your own sense of self-worth after years of seeing the same consistent hostility directed to people like you.

I like to disarm the comments surrounding "biology" with my own reasons for transition - not because I want to claim to be biologically this or genetically that, not because I have any desire to deny that I was born female nor change that fact, not to claim some sort of mythical "100% sex change" which yes, even trans people know is not possible - but that transition for me was simply about living in a way that felt genuine and aligning my body in a way that was not constantly distressing for me. My body may not be typically male nor typically female and that's fine, all it needed to be was home. That all I request is that I am respected as a person.

At this stage of my transition, lower dysphoria aside, the politics and general social climate surrounding trans people is probably the worst part of being trans and one of the only things that brings being trans to the forefront of my mind when it normally wouldn't be. At a time when my transition is pretty much over and I am able to just live I still see it drag on in the mindsets of others.

But why does it bother me so much?

I think, as I've previously spoken about, the fear for my future is a big one. The concern that what were previously fringe movements are gaining traction and having real world effects on the lives of myself and other trans people. That the public in general are either indifferent at best or supportive of these groups at worst.

The other thing is that my own journey to self acceptance was plagued by these attitudes and comments and this was by far the toughest part of my transition. To think I'd never be accepted, never be loved, to see every-day regular people on Facebook (Facebook is one of the worst for me because of this fact; they're not faceless trolls, they're just regular people, average job, 2.5 kids, like those I see every single day) spewing such vitriol for people like me, to constantly wonder if the people in my life also secretly thought these things, to see the "you'll always be a woman" comments, to feel like a freak, an outcast, an inconvenience, to see people speak with such hostility and vitriol. To see my existence reduced to a debate or an ideology. To think that the only interaction people care to have with me is one to assert their own views and opinions on people like me. To have transitioned and reached a point where I finally feel like and see myself only to worry that no one else ever truly will.

I did come to believe that society hated people like me, that no one would ever view me as a whole person, that I would forever be less-than, a novelty, a debate, an unlovable abomination in the eyes of others.

But I don't feel like that any more. I have my self worth and I worked hard to find that after years of being beaten down. Sometimes I do wonder if I will ever find love - being trans certainly complicates that for reasons outside of whether or not someone is an ally. But what gets me now is the sense of injustice of feeling completely misunderstood and misrepresented. To have ideas and actions wrongly attributed to me because we are all seen as the homogenous blob that is the trans community. Caitlyn Jenner does not speak for me, Elliot Page does not speak for me, that article that you read online - even if it was by a trans person - does not speak for me. I want to be heard as an individual, as a person.

[skrltwtch]

Starving

Prompt: I work at the butcher shop and we've never spoken, but I recognise you from when you come in to buy fresh meat every month. I don't mind keeping the store open a little past closing since you're running late and seem kind of desperate. This may be weird to mention, but did you know your teeth are getting sharper while we talk? (Source in master list)

Word count: 2,782 words

Genre: Feels, supernatural

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Someone had the bloody cheek to enter as I was getting ready to close up shop. Our opening hours were indicated on the door. The door. You couldn’t get any clearer than that. When did schools and parents stop teaching their charges not to enter business premises two minutes before closing time?

It was her.

I could make an exception this time, I suppose. She came in often enough and bought more than enough for me to consider her a regular. And she was a lovely person to deal with; I couldn’t say the same for a decent amount of my other regulars, whose business I accepted with gritted teeth.

‘I’m sorry. I know you’re closing soon. Just — please, I’ll take any cuts of meat you have left. I can pay extra for the trouble,’ she said.

Oh, God, what had I done to earn that kind of impression?

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Her pale skin and quivering form said otherwise. ‘I just — I just lost track of time at work. I got here as quickly as I could once I could leave the office. I’m really sorry.’

‘Don’t — it’s okay.’ I packed whatever I had left that would also match the typical volume of her purchases. From the corner of my eye, I saw her pacing up and down the shop, holding herself tightly. Every breath she made reached my ears. She wasn’t fine. Forget small talk then. Just like it wasn’t my business what she did with enough meat to feed a large animal in a day every month, it wasn’t my business why she looked close to falling over.

Maybe it was.

I called her over to the cashier, where approximately four kilogrammes of raw meat awaited her. Despite her stature, she never had any difficulties making it out of the shop with that much in tow. That might not be the case today. She was having a tough time simply getting her wallet out of her bag, and she looked absolutely sickly. Were those … were those tears in her eyes?

I really shouldn’t.

I really should.

‘Hey, are you alright? You don’t look too good,’ I said. Understatement: she appeared to be deteriorating by the second.

‘I’m fine,’ she insisted as she struggled with her wallet this time. I narrowed my eyes at her for a better look at what I thought I saw: her canines extending and swelling into fangs. A cross between a hiccup and a sob squeaked past her throat and into the open.

‘You can come back for payment tomorrow. I can help you with this to your car.’ No, it was now my social responsibility not to let her get behind the wheel. She was barely able to stand. ‘Or I can drop you off at your place … or somewhere nearby if you’re more comfortable with that.’

‘I’m fine,’ she growled.

Literally.

‘Shit, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘It’s … okay …?’ Sorry, my attention was hijacked by the sight of claws, honest-to-God claws, fucking splitting her fingernails open.

She left £100 on the counter and grabbed the parcels I made for her. ‘Please keep the change. You’ve been so kind. I can’t — I can’t come back here anymore.’

I wasn’t given a chance to question why she felt that way. Whatever was plaguing her — and scaring me a little, I had to admit — didn’t give her a chance either to make it out the door, as she’d collapsed not far from the counter. I had no idea how I could even let her walk out alone in the state she was in. I rushed to the phone. ‘I’m calling for help,’ I said.

She got to her hands and knees. That was … encouraging. I think. ‘No, please don’t. You need to go.’ Her voice was distorted and rumbly. Her blouse started to tear across her back, revealing a thin, but growing, layer of … hair. Fur, more like. Not so encouraging anymore.

‘I can’t leave you here alone. What is happening to you?’

She buried her face in her hands — or whatever they were becoming as they stretched and popped. Her feet burst out of her shoes, the same changes happening to them. ‘Don’t laugh.’

‘I promise.’ The rapid decline of her health from when she came in, the physical changes wracking her body, and the animalistic noises she was making drained what I was witnessing dry of any humour. I doubted there was any to begin with. I felt almost like I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to.

‘Werewolf. I’m a’ — a bark, involuntary, broke up her sentence — ‘werewolf.’

I went to her. Outside, the shades of violet and orange the sky had been awash with were muddling into a dark blue. I ducked my head a little to verify the shape of the moon tonight. None of the passers-by thought to look inside. At this point, I was more worried about someone else becoming privy to her secret than I was about the image of my shop. I didn’t understand how this was happening. It made sense and no sense at the same time.

‘You can stay in the storeroom tonight. You’ll be safe.’

She kept her head down. ‘Your boss? Okay?’ Her speech was strained.

‘I’m the boss of me.’ I knew my decision not to hire extra help would pay off someday. ‘Come on.’

‘Thank you.’

She stood up. I shifted my gaze elsewhere, as tempting as it was to see what a werewolf looked like mid-transformation. I showed her the way to the storeroom. It was due for a cleanup anyway. Her constant twitching and whining next to me didn’t go unnoticed. I took it to mean that she was controlling herself from either changing completely until I was out of her way or hurting me. I could be completely way off base, of course. The only piece of werewolf media I ever consumed was An American Werewolf in London (I was more of a zombie person myself), and … well, from what I’d seen tonight, the filmmakers got the transformation right, I’d say.

She took off what was left of her clothes once she was inside, and her transformation … accelerated. I closed the door to give her privacy — and to drown out the horrific noises. Nothing about the human body should produce what I was hearing. Things went quiet, eventually. I opened the door ever so slightly. ‘I’ll be here all night,’ I said despite not knowing whether she’d know what I was saying, ‘so you won’t be alone.’ I should be safe on this side of the door: the change had stripped her of opposable thumbs. The keyword was ‘should’.

The darkness coupled with her black fur made it impossible for me to see the creature she had become. Did I want to see? I still couldn’t shake off the feeling like I’d been some kind of voyeur; her appearance mattered naught to me, though I’d understand if she thought — she likely did — it would. Then she threw herself against the door, slamming both the actual thing and the door to my maiden glimpse at a real werewolf shut.

She loosed a howl that drove home the point that I had a werewolf in my storeroom. That I had been selling meat to a werewolf for her consumption. That the sweet, cheery petite lady who came in once a month was a werewolf. I wondered, then, if what she was like as a human carried over to her wolf self. If it did, I should be safe, right?

… There it was again: ‘should’.

I went back to what I was doing before what I knew about this world had been violently upended. I thanked God — should I? Did He or did He not exist? — that tomorrow was my day off. I was going to spend it with a good book and minimal to no human contact in the comfort of my living room. Now I was only interested in contemplating my place in the universe. What else was out there? Were any of the people walking past as I went to advertise the shop’s official closure for the day harbouring similar secrets as well?

Baleful whines transcended the door and filled the air. I picked up the parcels she’d dropped. Could she be hungry? It was worth a shot. I unwrapped one parcel. The closer I got to the storeroom, the more charged she got. I never dreamt I’d get to know the extent of damage a werewolf’s claws could do to a door in this lifetime. I threw the slab of meat as deep inside as I could. While she went to examine what it was that I’d left to her mercy, I turned on the lights to benefit us both.

What I got to see at last was ineffective in reeling in my disbelief. Where I’d left a quaking, infirm woman now stood a massive black wolf rending raw meat like paper. Despite looking almost indistinguishable from an ordinary wolf, there was an unsettling quality to her proportions and demeanour that made it hard for me to remember my manners and stop fucking staring. She was … beautifully horrifying and frighteningly stunning all at once. In some sick, twisted way, it made sense that something like her — something like what she’d become — couldn’t have come about naturally.

She turned to look at me, her jaw dripping with blood and her tail … wagging.

I regained control of my senses quickly enough to leave. The slamming of the door failed to mute her whimper at — missing out on her chance at a tasty human? Being alone in the storeroom again? Best I didn’t read too much into it. I fed her the rest of the meat she bought. She refused to eat the last piece, yet she wailed when I left her be.

‘I don’t think I’d taste very good. I’m lean and stringy,’ I said through the crack in the door. ‘And bland, like most English food.’

I didn’t know what to make of the bark that followed my attempt at a witticism.

I felt bad for her. Wolves were social animals, weren’t they? Then again, who’d feel bad for me upon discovering my mutilated body in my shop? No one had attempted to romanticise werewolves like the likes of Anne Rice and the Twilight author had done with vampires, and probably with good reason, as I willed myself to remember how she, a soft-spoken woman an hour ago, devoured almost four kilogrammes of meat in record time. The ending of An American Werewolf in London wasn’t a happy one, for God’s sake! (Maybe I should stop invoking God’s name for now.)

‘Can you understand me?’ I said. ‘Bark … um, bark twice for yes’, so it wouldn’t be a coincidence.

And she did.

Well, fuck me.

I sighed. ‘Are you … are you lonely? Bark twice for yes.’

Silence.

For the longest time, until she barked again, softly, mournfulness plain to hear in the two notes.

✦✧✦✧

My back! G— fuck, my back. How the fuck did I sleep last night?

Right. I slept in a chair outside the storeroom.

I stretched to get rid of the kinks in my back. Yeah, that was it. That was the spot. No, that one. That other one was definitely it. Relief — sweet, glorious relief. How the hell did I even fall asleep in a chair anyway?

‘Hey, you’re awake.’

I turned to the direction of the voice that had no reason to be here at this time of day. Or at all. No one was allowed here but me. Why was I in the shop? Wasn’t today my day off? What happened last night? Why, of all things instead, did I remember not to use God’s name as a synonym for ‘fuck’? I also didn’t remember finding religion last night. I pinched the bridge of my nose. I needed water.

I focused my eyes on the figure in front of me.

It was her.

Oh.

Oh.

‘Yeah, I am now.’ Without a doubt. ‘How are you?’

She declined my offer to have my seat. My legs demanded that I continue standing to get the blood flowing. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. I could believe her this time. She was wearing one of my aprons over the tattered remnants of her clothes. ‘Thank you for … um.’ Her pause made me think her admission last night was the first time she said those words out loud to someone else. ‘Thank you.’

‘It was nothing. You looked … really sick yesterday’: I took a leaf out of her book

She smiled. ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to be polite. I know what I am.’ Her words were shaded with the same tint of sadness as when she confided in me about her loneliness.

‘No. You — the wolf — you were …’ Tame? She wasn’t an animal. She was … ‘You didn’t hurt — I’m fine.’ I held up both my hands to show her the absence of any marks, and she could very well see I wasn’t missing any limbs. ‘I’m fine,’ I repeated, ‘except for this sudden bout of scrambled egg for brains, but in my defence (or not), this is how I am a fair bit of the time. Who put me in charge of a meat slicer?’

‘You’re very kind. And cute,’ I thought I heard her say under her breath. ‘Thank you. How can I repay you for last night?’

‘You don’t have to. The meat’s on the house, too.’ Nothing to do with what I thought she said. ‘I’ll return you your £100 on the way out.’

‘No. Please. I could’ve done something bad to you.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘Please. There has to be something I can do for you. I’d feel terrible otherwise.’

I truly wanted nothing from her. I survived a night with a werewolf. That by itself was a fantastic reward. I couldn’t have asked for anything better. Well …

‘Were you serious about not coming to my shop anymore?’

‘I … if that’s what you want, I can go elsewhere. If you’re going to tell the other butchers not to sell to me because of what I am, that’s okay, too. I’ll figure something out.’

‘No. G— shit. That’s awful. I’m not —’ Why did she always jump to the worst conclusions about me? ‘No, promise me you’ll come back to my shop. That’s all I ask. And … your name. You’ve been coming here for years, and I don’t even know your name.’ I knew some of my customers’ names — and not necessarily the ones that mattered. Like her. ‘It’s not about the business I get from you, by the way. I don’t care what you are. I don’t know why you are what you are, and I have so many questions, but I do know it’s none of my business. I won’t judge.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you. I promise. I’ll come back. I’ll come back when it’s not the full moon and I didn’t skip lunch because I was too busy with work. And my name’s Eloise.’

‘I’m George.’

‘It’s lovely to meet you, George. Now you know why I buy so much meat on one day of every month. You’re the only person who knows what I am.’

‘I won’t tell anyone. You have my word.’

‘Thank you. I know I’ve said that a lot of times already, but I mean each and every one of them.’ Her eyes roved around the space. ‘I should go now. I have work in a couple of hours at best … or I’m late at worst. And you probably need to get ready, too. You should be opening soon … or I’ve made you late. It’s on your door.’

‘I have the day off today. Great timing, huh? Are you sure you’re good to drive?’

‘Yes, I can definitely manage much better today than I would’ve have yesterday. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was just so hungry …’ She shook her head, expelling a breath signalling disapproval. ‘I’ll return this’ — she yanked at an apron strap — ‘to you tomorrow as well.’

‘Actually … one more thing. So we’re really even.’

‘Yes?’

‘Would you perhaps like to meet for coffee later, please?’ I could only navel-gaze for so long.

She looked taken aback. That and her response, articulated in three softly spoken words — ‘I’d love to’, led me to believe that what she was like as a human did indeed carry over to her wolf self.

[sadoeuphemist]

Stories I thought about writing, but didn’t:

my voice is poisonous, a gift from a strange god my parents once befriended. I’m careful not to speak, but I know they’re afraid.

A poison-voiced girl is born to deaf parents, but falls in love with a hearing boy. Their courtship is marked on her end by a thrilling restraint, biting her lip, knowing she could kill him with an indiscretion; he, on the other hand, longs to see her act without inhibition. He manages to make her laugh, sigh, gasp out in wonder - each time he falls ill from the poison of her voice, but is undeterred even in his convalescence, returning renewed in his goal to tease another sound out of her.

Her parents tell her to break it off; she’ll kill him. She reluctantly agrees. He refuses, pleads with her, grasps her hands so she can’t sign. In anguish she cries out his name — but lo! he does not sicken, does not die. It turns out his repeated exposures to her voice have mithridatized him against it. She can speak around him freely! They both agree that this development has taken a lot of the excitement out of the relationship, but it has been replaced with a greater casualness and intimacy that balances it out.

I can see the angels in their true form, a thousand splendid eyes and all. They think it’s funny, and have taken to hanging around my apartment 

The angels start making excuses to keep showing up at my apartment, in the manner of the annunciation, but for increasingly trivial reasons. They come bearing tidings about how I should definitely get the turkey wrap for lunch, which brand of fabric softener I should buy, how that quarter I’ll find on the sidewalk is a sign that I am favored by God. They come bearing bad tidings too: The Lord has heard of all the evil in your printer, and has sent us here to jam it. Their presence becomes completely overbearing, but they are insistent. There’s a reason you see us in our true forms, they say, all their splendid eyes shining. Is it so hard to believe that the God that formed every atom of you in the womb should watch over you always, that every mundane moment of your existence in this world is shot through with the divine?

There was a body in the river, ice cold and snow white. Sometimes it was all the way dead. Sometimes it sat up and talked to me.

A king has declared that whoever can complete the following tasks shall marry his daughter: 1) to recover a lost treasure stolen from his family hundreds of years ago; 2)  to name the start of the pact between men and horses; and 3) to find a cure to the plague ravaging the land.

Our plucky folk hero helps an old lady who sits by the river; she tells him of the snow white body within, who has sat up and spoken to her at odd times throughout her life. It is the spirit of the glacier: the glacier melts, and forms the river; layer by layer the past frozen in it is uncovered, parts of it living and parts of it dead. Our hero builds many bonfires and melts the glacier faster; the body lives and dies and lives many times over and tells him the three answers. 1) The thief fell into a crevasse and was frozen over; the ice is melted now, and the treasure can be recovered. 2) Iron horseshoes frozen in the glacier reveal the pact is many thousands of years old. 3) The plague is an old one, frozen and released anew with the glacier’s melting; it is carried in the livestock, and they must be slaughtered.

The hero solves the king’s tasks and marries his daughter. Presumably the new king is then faced with the challenge of the rising sea levels; no idea how that plays out.

“We’re all nice to each other here,” they told us, “we’ve got angels in the hills. They like it when we’re nice. And they see everything.”

This one’s tough to summarize adequately. Two men are going door to door, seemingly taking a survey of the religious beliefs in a small town. They finish, sit together in their car. People have been very cooperative. One of the men remarks that the local religious beliefs are disappointingly unremarkable: yes, they believe in angels watching from the hills, but most people believe in an omniscient God watching over them, and whether it is God or his intercessors, does it make a significant difference?

They sit in the car. Perhaps they smoke in the lazy sunlight. They have finished their survey ahead of time. One of them proposes: Suppose we have a picnic lunch up in the hills?

They park at the base of the hill and walk up. Lovely day. They spread out a blanket from the car, stretch their legs out on the grass, take off their coats, loosen their ties. They’ve brought their packed lunch, sandwiches, a thermos of lemonade. They talk about how pleasant all the people were. Their kind of religion seems so ... brittle, one of the men remarks. If I thought there was someone waiting to punish me the moment I stepped out of line, I’d want to do something horrible just to get it over with.

You think so? says his partner. I think just the opposite. The grand problem with religion is that there aren’t enough consequences for wickedness. I know if I saw the wicked being smote down on a regular basis, I would very satisfied in my religion indeed.

Well, of course you would; you’re a sadist.

Me? A sadist? Hardly.

You’re a sadist, his partner says teasingly. A sadist and brute.

They smile at each other. Idle conversation. There is a suggestion that they have visited many such towns and cities, asking the same question, but have yet to receive a satisfactory answer. At one point one of them notes that there’s something in the trees, but this remark is ignored and nothing is ever made of it. The conversation turns back to whether the angels in the hills are real or not. The ‘sadist’ stands up, declares his intent to do something wicked to test them. He marches around, swinging his arms, then looks around at the trees and puts his hands on his hips and laughs.

You know, up here away from society, he declares, I can’t think of a single wicked thing to do!

(Maybe a conversation here about how he could tear branches from trees, despoil the scenery, find an animal to kill; but then again animals in nature strip bark from trees, kill each other bloodily all the time, tear each other to bits, so how wicked could that be, really?)

He looks down at his partner still lying back on the blanket. Unless, of course, I were to do something wicked to you.

Whatever happens next, it is very leisurely. The scene is easy, very relaxed. Lovely day. Calm. Bright blue sky. Clouds float across it, white like feathered wings, and then pass, leaving not a trace behind.

None of us can imagine what life was like before the Clocks came, before clockwork cities, and all their technology. They rebuilt our crumbling society, in perfect, mechanical order. 

Brief musings on a hypothetical pre-Clock society. A society built around the sun, all buildings roofless, everyone’s necks craned upward. Cities built running north to south so as not to block anyone’s view of the rise and set. A society built around hourglasses, everyone judging the passage of time by the sand puddling around their feet, knees, waists, clambering up onto growing dunes, waiting for the flip, for the sand to slowly drain away and the furnishings of their homes to be uncovered. Perhaps this was our unimaginable life before the Clocks came: sands stretching far away and bare, the hypothetical counterpart bulb of an hourglass reflected invisible above us, empty and vast with unrealized possibility, waiting to be reset.

When I was very young, I met a bear at the edge of the woods. Before I could play dead, it bowed to me.

Jokey little fic where a child is instructed on the etiquette of bears: when to bow, when to curtsy, when to raise your hands and make yourself as large as possible, when to climb a tree, when to play dead. (Note that grizzlies are territorial, so if they attack you and play dead they’ll leave you alone because the threat is neutralized; whereas black bears are not territorial, so playing dead will do no good because a black bear will only attack if it deliberately wants to fuck you up.)

I was given very specific instructions. Go to the rosebush on a clear night. As the moonlight turns the roses silver, feed them three drops of blood.

After years of trying for a child, a couple turns to an old witch to help. The woman is instructed to eat a rose from a magical rosebush. If she first pricks her finger and stains the rose red with her blood, then she will have a son, ruddy and robust and bold in battle; if she visits the bush on a clear night and eats a rose painted silver by moonlight, then she will have a daughter, as pale and graceful and elegant as the moon.

The woman is uneasy with the implications of this binary, and says so. The witch smiles and gives her a new set of instructions. So she pricks her finger at night, her blood painted black by the moonlight, and nine months later gives birth to a child as black as a rose, who is neither boy nor girl.

Never manged to come up with a plot for this one. The kid grows up to have a career fulfilling all those “Neither man nor woman” prophecies? Eh. Kinda corny. There’s something about gender roles in fairy tales here, but I couldn’t put it together.

Not for the first time, the company time loop drill had gone very, very wrong.

I did actually write a response for this one, but it got too long and I gave up on it. Summary of the rest of the idea I had:

Time resets. Nagle confirms that it is both an actual time loop and a drill; the company is doing a controlled time loop to prepare them for the real thing. People complain. What’s the point of a drill when an actual time loop would let you keep doing things over and over until you get it right? Nagle points out that could take years, subjectively, and that this is a controlled experience where he has a code to abort the exercise if anything seriously goes wrong. He insists they try to make it work.

They go through a bunch of loops. Don’t succeed. It’s highly technical stuff that none of them are trained for. Morale drops. People start complaining, they’ve spent hours at this, they should be off duty by now. Nagle points out there’s a ruling, established with VR training, that companies don’t need to pay their employees according to their subjective experience of time, and officially they’ve only spent 34 minutes at this.

More loops. Morale drops further. People start demanding Nagle use the abort code, threatening to quit. Nagle points out that while they’re in this time loop, their actions are consequence-free, but once he ends the loop they’ll have to live with their decisions for the rest of their lives. Are they sure they really want to quit?

At that point someone loses it and kills Nagle. Shock. Panic. Some satisfaction. He’s reborn the next loop, starts screaming about it - someone kills him again. Complete social breakdown. Eventually some people decide, fuck it, let’s just live in this loop forever. Killing Nagle becomes a standard thing they do at the start of every loop, so that he can’t input the abort code. They go through various reconfigurations of their social group - orgies, riots, open paranoia where everyone colonizes a different part of the building, regressing to primitivism, open warfare between various sects, rebuilding of society along different axes of thought. Everyone starts thinking of themselves as immortal, they start calling themselves things like ‘Chronobog of the Infinite Plane of Despair’ or whatever; the narration gets increasingly surreal.

After god knows how many cycles of this, everyone finally achieves an equilibrium of perfect enlightenment. They know what must be done. They leave Nagle alive, he watches as they move in perfect unison to unlock the server room and overcome all the obstacles and repair the tachyon servers, loop is finally terminated, normal flow of time resumes.

Nagle stands up, gives a speech, starts congratulating them on completing the drill. As he talks, everyone can feel the rapport they’ve built start to slip away - they no longer understand each other perfectly outside of the context of those 34 minutes. Time is moving forward again, and with it introducing unfamiliarity, uncertainty, an impossible onslaught of variables that they cannot predict or prepare for, and they are all moving inescapably further from each other even as they glance around and try to catch each other’s eyes and keep holding on to that feeling of perfect unity - but it’s too late now, they are strangers behind familiar faces, all of them heading in their own directions, going to be returning to their own separate lives; that moment of solidarity they had is past.

And then Nagle claps his hands at them and says, “OK, drill’s over, everyone back to work!”

[spiritualgateway]

The crisis virus

written by Steven Black:

While you look around and get the impression that the whole world has gone crazy and is going nuts, you have to realize: This is all perfectly normal and has happened over and over again. With the pest plague, the cholera and the Spanish flu – people reacted with unreasonableness, resentment and rebellion, against ordered measures.

With the plague, people selectively believed that bad winds, an unfavorable constellation of Mars, Jupiter and Saturn or the contaminated water were to blame because the Jews were poisoning the wells. As a logical consequence of such thinking, persecution of Jews throughout Europe occurred. Entire Jewish quarters were burned down and their inhabitants murdered.

Oh yes, a punishment by God was also possible. Even then, in the early 14th century, quarantine and isolation were ordered – as a very late measure.

In the case of cholera, 1831, quarantine and isolation were also applied. From the chronicle of the german city Stettin of this time, one learns:

„The burial of the deceased, buried in a special newly built churchyard […] aroused fear and horror, especially among the lower classes of the inhabitants. These precautions were made even worse by the complete blockade of traffic, which deprived a large part of the inhabitants of their livelihoods and probably also their means of subsistence. The lower classes could not bear this state of affairs and, believing the most absurd rumors, saw in the precautions taken only the means to their perdition.

„The prolonged duration of the cordoning off increased the bitterness, the excitement grew with each passing day, so that the workers most affected were finally inclined to use force to overturn the hated coercive rules.

„…because the agitated crowd, misled by some troublemakers, was under the delusion that cholera and security measures were only being used „to exterminate the common rabble.

The Spanish Flu, 1918 – 1919, rolled over the globe in three successive waves and claimed millions of lives. Conjecture and conspiracy theories arose among the most diverse peoples. Some saw the disease as the devil’s work of German agents, and Germany was suspected of either using insidious biological weapons or poisoning aspirin tablets from the pharmaceutical manufacturer Bayer in order to win the world war. Another theory, widespread at the time, was that the flu had been imported from Spain in tins, which had been poisoned by the Germans who had brought the Spanish canneries under their control. Or it was oraculated that the cause was consequential damages of the war by poison gas missions, which were caused by the exhalations from the mountains of corpses of the battlefields. And of course there was also the evergreen that it was a punishment from God …

First with the second wave, the danger was really recognized and flu alarm systems were introduced, quarantines were imposed over ports and railroad stations, isolation stations in hospitals were set up. „Social Distancing“ was ordered, mass gatherings were prohibited. Schools, theaters, markets and churches were closed. The use of face masks and disinfectants was recommended and in some areas made mandatory by law.

Those who refused to wear face masks were fined. By the way, later studies proved that the prohibition of mass events and the requirement to wear a mouth-and-nose mask reduced the death rate in American cities by up to 50 percent. Where it was not prescribed by law, i.e. only announced as a recommendation, there were many more deaths. The same thing is currently happening in Sweden.

The Corona Virus – today

100 years after the Spanish flu, a new medical crisis is entering the global stage. And just as with the plague, cholera and Spanish flu, where fear and uncertainty accompanied the daily events, the most colorful rumors and theories are flourishing. There seems to be a lid for every pot.

Some political party sees the Corona virus as an obvious foreigner epidemic. Logically, migrants must be to blame for it too. Within the extreme right groups the old perennial argument is active that the Jews are to blame for Corona.

Many vaccination critics freak out at the name Bill Gates, who allegedly wants to decimate humanity and enslave it with microchips. He has the WHO, the media and Angela Merkel personally in his pocket. Then there are people who believe that the new 5 G technology is the real cause of the Corona virus. The Qanon community believes that the virus is merely an excuse for Donald Trump to free thousands of poor, tortured children from underground tunnels.

There are an ever increasing number of people who believe that the virus is nothing more than a normal flu. There is also the idea that this Corona virus does not exist – it would all be just an excuse to get rid of cash and have a controlled financial crash. The usual suspects also know exactly from whom and why – of course to enforce the infamous New World Order, either by the „Deep State“, the „Kabale“ or the „Illuminati“.

A few fundamentalist church officials also took up the same cause:

In a text entitled „A Call for the Church and for the World – to Catholics and all people of good will“, signed among others by the German Cardinal Gerhard Ludwig Müller and initiated by Archbishop Carlo Maria Vigano, former Pontifical Ambassador to the USA, the Corona measures were sharply criticized. The signatories had previously spoken out against bans on worship because of the corona virus and they are all arch-conservative opponents of the current pope. The text stated: „It is a fact that under the pretext of the Covid 19 epidemic, in many cases inalienable rights of citizens have been violated and their fundamental freedoms have been disproportionately and unjustifiably restricted, including the right to freedom of religion, freedom of expression and freedom of movement.

It was further stated that there is reason to believe „that there are forces that are interested in creating panic among the population. Their goal is to permanently enforce „forms of unacceptable restriction of freedom and the associated control over persons and the persecution of all their movements“. „These illiberal attempts at control are the disturbing prelude to the creation of a world government that eludes all control“.

Personal note: By the way – dear church idiots: What about the „forms of unacceptable restriction of freedom“ of my mind, by your religious doctrine? Or „the associated control over persons“, where you let people slide around on their knees and establish a sense of sacrifice by having a figure nailed to a cross worshiped? But a „God’s world government“ would be all right with you, wouldn’t it?  

Anyway, I don’t really expect an answer to that. But what else you should know – the signatories represent an arch-conservative, right-wing current within the Catholic Church. They fervently hate the current pope because he accepts homosexuality and divorce as facts of life and is open to pro-migration and capitalism-critical positions. It is also no coincidence that these clerics of all people are waving their fear of a „new world order“ around. The whole thing is organized by a notorious ultra-right-wing populist – namely Steve Bannon. The man who brought Donald Trump to power through tons of fake news and conspiracy theories.

By the way, there are strong indications that the art product „QAnon“, a fictitious Internet personality, is a product of Steve Bannon. He is the thinking head and mastermind of the so-called new right.

The American government, led by Donald Trump, sees itself as the victim of a Chinese conspiracy initiated either by a mysterious „Deep State“ or preferably by the Democrats – which is one and the same thing in his case. Evangelical clerics see the Corona virus as a punishment from God for homosexuality. A handful of doctors contradict the official statements and believe that the Corona virus is little more than a common flu. The population would get scared over nothing and wearing masks would be very unhealthy. And in the chest tone of conviction, many an empathy-free idiot rambles that it would only affect pre-existing patients who would have died soon anyway.  You know, just collateral damage …

In the USA, the president himself is the main accelerator of emotional states. There were protests against the curfews in several US cities and about 3000 demonstrators, some of them armed and wearing Trump campaign caps and flags, took to the streets in Michigan. Encouraged by Donald, who tweeted „Free Michigan,“ dozens of gunmen entered the parliament building in the city of Lansing.

In Germany and Austria, people suddenly took to the streets and demonstrated against the corona measures of their government. Against an alleged panic-mongering, against an allegedly intended compulsory vaccination, against the curtailment of their basic rights, against an allegedly threatened freedom of opinion, against the obligation to wear masks, against an alleged „Corona dictatorship“, against a „New World Order“ by Bill Gates and much more. What one would not have thought possible before, happened now:

People who call themselves „leftists“, right-wing conservatives, neo-Nazis, people of the freeman movement, spiritual people, and also people who had never been involved with any of the groups mentioned before, stood together in a public square and chanted „We are the people“. And of course they did not wear masks, and of course they did not keep a „minimum distance“. With righteous indignation they held flyers in their hands where „The Basic Law“ is written on them and lamented a loss of it. Although the basic right to personal liberties was only limited due to the situation and receded into the background in favor of the basic right to personal integrity of EVERYONE, suddenly not only the Corona virus seemed to mutate.

A wide range of people suddenly mutated into virus specialists and health experts, legal luminaries and political insiders. It was not at all helpful if individual physicians and virologists publicly held different views, which are not in accordance with the scientific consensus. These people were suddenly elevated to „heroes of „truth“ and made anti-witnesses of the establishment.      

Like moths to a flame, all the discontented, angry opponents of the system, critics of capitalism, right-wing populists pouring oil on the fire, bawling bald-headed people and „Merkel must go“ yellers flocked together and mingled with yoga practitioners, meditators, as well as people who simply wanted a „better system“. Emotional fire accelerators like KenFM, Sven Liebich, Lügenstöckl, NPD offshoots and various AFD supporters moderated the „happening“ and it did not take long until this situation led to the foundation of a new party – called „Resistance 2020“. Founded by Victoria Hamm, the Sinsheim swindle doctor Bodo Schiffmann and the Leipzig lawyer Ralf Ludwig.

The appeal of „Resistance 2020“ continued as long as Covid 19 and the restrictions imposed by governments were highly active. In the meantime this has abated. First the chairwoman Victoria Hamm stepped down from the party (because of internal differences of opinion), her replacement, the chairwoman of the supervisory board of „Humanimity“, Sandra Wesolek, also threw in the towel soon after. And now also the founder and vice-chairman of the party, Bodo Schiffmann, has left Resistance 2020. Only Ralf Ludwig remains, who keeps the coma patient „Resistance 2020“ alive.

In conclusion – it will not yet be completely silent about the topic Covid – 19, but it slowly fades in its importance. At least for the moment. If we are lucky and there will be no 2nd or third wave, it will stay that way.      

Crisis intensification

Another topic has now captured the attention of the world, people and media – a topic that has never been completely absent: racism and police brutality in the USA.

The violent death of the African-American George Floyd, after a police operation, was followed by peaceful protests in the USA, but there were also riots and looting. And as in dealing with the corona virus, Donald Trump shifts to denial of the structural problem, puts the blame on others and does just about anything to pour even more fire into the heated atmosphere.

Under the hashtag #blackllivesmatter, which has been known since 2013 and is a name for an African-American civil rights movement, people are gathering again to demonstrate against state arbitrariness, police brutality and unfair treatment of dark-skinned people. Previous slogans of the movement, such as „Hands up, don’t shoot“, „White silence is violence“, „No justice, no peace“, „Is my son next?“ are being used again, including the now popular „I can’t breathe“ and „BlackOutTuesday“.

It is no longer just a movement of the „black community“. Within just a few days, numerous politicians, celebrities and large companies have raised their voices and spoken out in favor of the BlackLivesMatter movement. More and more representatives of the video game industry are also joining in. Sony, for example, has refrained from presenting the new Playstation 5 due to the current situation. But also companies like Microsoft, Activision, EA, Massive Entertainment, Square Enix, Bethesda, Naughty Dog, Disney, Marvel, Warner Bros, and many other global big players made clear statements against racism and expressed their solidarity. Over 50 influential companies have donated large sums of money to the movement.

Yes, Soros‘ Open Society Foundation is one of them (about $33 million), but is rather outdone by all others, especially FORD Foundation and Borealis Philanthropy (about $100 million). Also worthy of mention are the Hill-Snowden Foundation, Solidaire, the NoVo Foundation, the Association of Black Foundation Executives, the Neighborhood Funders Group-Funders for Justice, Anonymous Donors, and many more.  

It is already becoming apparent that this issue could potentially break Donald Trump’s neck and prevent his re-election. „Poor Donald“, after his mismanagement in the Corona crisis became visible to everyone, now police brutality and racism challenge him. And here again he reacts headlessly and impulse-driven instead of showing presidential leadership. Instead he meets the problem in the familiar perpetrator-victim reversal tactic.

Incidentally, the same thing happens as in the Covid 19 demonstrations in Austria and Germany – extreme right-wing „withe supremacy“ agitators mingle with the demonstrators. They incite people and loot, start brawls and set fire to buildings. Incited by Donald Trump, who simply claimed that it was „the ANTIFA“ that was firing up the demonstrations, his followers do everything in their power to discredit the movement and make it look bad in the eyes of the public.

In a series of messages, a Twitter account called „Antifa US“ had called on protesters to march into neighborhoods and „take what is ours“. Twitter itself had cleared up the fact that behind this account „American Identity Movement“ is the extreme right-wing formerly known as „Identity Evropa“, that was behind the protest and deleted the account.

Blacklivesmatter is a movement that I wholeheartedly endorse. What I find less good about it is that this conglomeration of people is happening on the streets while the corona virus is still highly active in the  world. There is also no question of keeping a distance, a large majority can be seen wearing masks during the protests, but not all of them. I fear that this will have some unpleasant consequences. But the German demonstrations against a „Corona dictatorship“ and against police arbitrariness and brutality by blacklivesmatter could not be more different.

The sense of demonstrating against a world domination by Bill Gates and an alleged forced chippings or because one is forced to wear a mask temporarily stinks against blacklivesmatter. This is about addressing really important issues of the human species. The core statement of „Blacklivesmatter“ is – “ stop treating us like shit!“

It did not take long, of course, for the rumor mill to start bubbling on this topic as well and the „usual suspects“ went peddling „THE truth“ about it to everyone. You know, from „it’s all a government diversion“ to George Floyd wouldn’t be dead. It would all be a false flag operation and George Soros would be behind the protests. Xavier Naidoo also tells his followers about it and although the man from Mannheim had his own experiences with racism, he is not too stupid to devalue the blacklivesmatter movement. He described the demonstrators who are now taking to the streets against racism and police violence as hypocrites. And ends with a whataboutism rant – „anyone who comes up with an organization called Black lives matter is a divider“.

Naidoo justified his statement by saying that for him all lives count. Sounds plausible on the surface but clearly demonstrates that he did not understand the fundamental problem at all. Naidoo parrots something he has probably read or heard from Alex Jones or another opponent from the disinformation movement. The blacklivesmatter movement has been struggling with such whataboutism arguments from the beginning, since 2013. Not surprisingly, „All Lives Matter“ is often used as a counter-argument by the racist „white supremacy“ groups.

Barack Obama found good words for this: „I think the reason why the organizers use the term „Black Lives Matter“ was not because they wanted to imply that other lives do not matter. They are saying that there is a specific problem in the African American community that does not exist in other communities. This is a legitimate problem that we need to address.

Sounds logical, right? It is. Let’s say you broke your arm and you go to the doctor. He won’t tell you – „all bones count“, but will turn to the current problem. The bone that is just broken. If your house is on fire, the fire department will not tell you “ all houses caunt“ – they will simply put out the fire.  

If you come to blacklivesmatter with alllivesmatter, you are part of the problem not the solution. This tries to ignore or disguise the problem by directing the criticism behind it to another topic.

It is definitely crisis – and virus time

A virus form that is completely unknown to most people is going around and is at least as infectious as Covid 19. They are mental and emotional viruses. Positive, negative, destructive and constructive viruses of all kinds. Created by humans every day and they influence all humans, more or less.

We are usually not used to accept the idea that our thoughts as well as our feelings and the words we utter have substantial meanings. Substantial is literally meant here – both thoughts, emotions and words contain substances that act as carriers of their expression. Through which the respective content of thoughts, feelings/emotions and words is transported, which always involves an „inaudible“, complex bundling of frequencies and takes on form, sound and tones. We do not „just think“, we generate a thought form for it, depending on the intensity of our respective thoughts – a kind of „pale being“.

And we do not „just feel“, we generate emotional signatures that can be perceived, „read“, felt and recognized by other people, consciously or unconsciously. We do not „just talk“, our words always convey a large context of mental and emotional content. Whoever listens carefully can often discover contradictions in the words, because the transported feelings are not in harmony with them.

As the person we are, we resemble a piano. We are a musical instrument with many keys and tones, with which the most diverse vibration frequencies can be expressed. Depending on how well we have learned to handle our instrument and how the individual tones are tuned, it will decide how harmonious or disharmonious our personal sound, our own melody, is. Everything we think, feel, say or do sounds through us and creates sounds that are received by others.

The more sensitive a person is or the better he can listen, the more contents of his counterpart he will be able to perceive. How aware someone is or is not of these levels, however, is basically irrelevant. The thought forms, emotional content, sounds and frequencies of other people are also perceived unconsciously. Basically, we all speak through individualized codes – the spoken or written words mean nothing in themselves. The linear arrangement of symbols (letters) that form words has a meaning for us because they are charged with emotional and mental sounds that form a kind of overall picture. We all encode such images on a daily basis and send them out from us. And we all decode every day a huge accumulation of sent consciousness images – which we have either seen, heard or read.

How much we are influenced by the opinions of other people or media – their generated images – depends to a large extent on our own identity structure. And on the respective topics that are founded in it.

Our exchange of information and images becomes a virus – either constructive or destructive – when it spreads in wide circles and becomes more and more emotionally charged. Our thoughts, emotions and the words we speak not only influence ourselves, but also other people. This means we infect other people with our ideas. And other people infect us with their ideas. If an idea or assertion fascinates, impresses, captivates or outrages us, it can go so far that we forget the origin and, spurred on by the charge of an idea, run amok with it.

All of us together are embedded in a collective frequency field, which is reflected in personal, national and global situations. None of us is virtually „an island“, we all manipulate and influence each other. We can hardly escape this, unless we have no contact to other people anymore. But even then it would probably be difficult to escape the collective astral field.

The collective field contains positive, negative, destructive and constructive viruses of all kinds. We encounter emotional and mental viruses all the time, but nowhere in such a concentrated form as in the „social media“. In this respect, the Internet is a single, gigantic virus slingshot. And all of us who make use of it cannot get away with it.

The opinion of others

The technical development of the Internet has made it possible for us to be exposed to a storm of opinions and views on a daily basis in a way that has never been possible before. About 22,510 GB of data are fed into the Internet every second. That is about 2 billion GB per day (exactly 1,944,864.00 GB [2015]). YouTube has a monthly data volume of about 16 Exabyte (Exabyte = 1018 Byte). About 3 million videos per hour are consumed on YouTube. There are 1. 012 315 000 websites on the net. About 16 million of these websites are hacked annually.

About 4 million new blog entries are written every day, 80 million photos are uploaded to Instagram, 618 million „tweets“ are posted – that is 7130 tweets per second. Facebook processes 2.5 billion pieces of content, 2.7 billion likes and 300 million photos every day. All in all, this adds up to a daily data volume of more than 500 terabytes, just for FB alone. About 4 billion search queries are made daily via Google and 10 billion videos are viewed on YouTube. And these numbers will increase, the rush on our inner senses will become more and more intense.

One drama after the other is being chased through the internet every day. An ever-increasing number of bloggers and websites vie for our daily attention. And hardly anybody takes the time to ask themselves, is it really true what I hear or read? What is it really about? And what would be even more important: Does it really have anything to do with ME? Is this really MINE? Or did I just get infected with an emotional virus that is related to a personal topic?

Although we humans generally assume that we have reasonable opinions and justifiable arguments, or that we see the world with clear eyes – this is rarely the case. Each of us lives in our own reality and we all believe that the world is as we secretly assume it to be. The perspective of how we see the world is largely based on the filter of our own beliefs.

One of the effects that has come through the Internet is the amazing development that many people have become aware of how the mainstream press often reports manipulatively or at least with omission – and sometimes doesn’t present the whole picture. By the way, this is not the fault of the press. Nobody can cover all sides of a story, and certainly not in a single article. If you want to know halfway exactly what’s going on, you have to make an effort yourself and look at different perspectives. But the same people then believe every shit that somebody says on YouTube. Actually, many people today don’t believe anything anymore.

But „alternative facts“ to the corona crisis, you believe them. Doctors who are not virologists or virologists who have not been up to date in this field for a long time, we listen to them more than to the top specialists.

We believe that a statesman who uses victim reversal as a means of perpetration. People who lament with a chest sound of the conviction that the Basic Law is in danger – we let ourselves be influenced by that. We reject a black civil rights movement because we allow ourselves to be persuaded that this means that not all lives count. One encounters „BlackLivesMatter“ with WhiteLivesMatter or „AllLivesMatter. Or if someone once again complains – „you’re not allowed to say all this anymore“ – we agree with indignation. Not realizing that he/she has just said it on Facebook, Youtube, Twitter, blogs, etc. Which of course leads the statement ad absurdum, but somehow we don’t really notice it anymore.

A youth movement for environmental awareness, „Friday for future“, is met with „Friday for poverty in old age“. Renewable forms of energy, such as wind turbines that generate renewable electricity, are met with „but they kill innocent insects“. If you read somewhere, in any newspaper, that right-wing extremist violence has increased again in the last year, you don’t have to wait long for someone to comment „hey, what about left-wing violence? A women’s movement for sexual abuse and violence is countered with the argument that there is also abuse of women against men. An African-American movement against police brutality and structural racism is countered with „and what about racism against whites? Particularly deep-seated – „what about racism against Germans?

What is actually wrong with us?

Why do we let „whataboutism arguments“ manipulate us? Why can’t we see through the transparency of such cheap maneuvers and recognize that they distract us from the actual core of a situation or a justified criticism and divert our attention to another area?  

Besides all the positive and constructive things the Internet stands for, there is also a dark side to it. Among other things it is misused for a modern form of witch hunts and witch burning. Angela Merkel, Greta Thunberg, Barack Obama, George Soros, Bill Gates, the Rothschilds, Rockefeller and many other public figures are burned at some Internet stake every day, applauded and cheered. And this comes not only from the right, but from all sides. If you look at the comments on such postings, you can observe the violent reactions, where a storm of indignation, anger and hatred is unleashed, which is then projected onto the designated persons.

The art of differentiation seems to have become a lost art.

There is such a variety of information and opinions, often colored by interests, sometimes just imaginatively lied about and only partially true, that it would basically take some time and energy to separate the facts from rumors and lies. A personal effort that hardly anyone is willing to put in, or perhaps doesn’t have the time.

But that is what we all have to learn.

Media competence

Without media competence, we run the risk of drowning in the flood of information. Not only reading texts, but also watching YouTube videos or films today requires more and more critical discernment. The critical filtering of information, comments, text content and the images offered in addition, is proving to be an ever increasing challenge. Today, for every x any topic, completely different and often contradictory opinions are in circulation. And we are experiencing the phenomenon that people often only read the headlines of articles and not the whole article. The attention threshold has become extremely low for some people. Headlines alone can lead to emotional convulsions …

It is important that we learn to understand how communication works and how information affects us. When we read or hear words, we don’t just sort the meaning of the words and sum them up in a particular context. We also record all the unsaid, the energetic, mental and emotional signatures that the speaker or writer gives to their words. It is already scientifically known that in communications, brains are synchronized. To a synchronization of brain waves that goes beyond mere speech processing. It will not be long before we discover that this synchronization does not only occur in spoken communication, but in any kind of communication, even when the information is transported via screens.

If we identify with what someone writes or says because something within us resonates with it, then synchronization occurs with the mental, intellectual and emotional content that is presented to us. Emotional content of all kinds affects the heart field, the glands and the electrochemical energies of the body, i.e. the energetic environment in the body, which causes either an increase or decrease of the personal energy level.

The question that arises is, what do I focus my personal attention on? And can I think for myself or do I simply take over every piece of information offered to me, which includes concepts and perspectives from other people that I usually don’t even know? If we take over everything that strangers prepare for us, we are condemned to walk around with concepts that are not our own.

But the only person who has a responsibility here, what kind of information he lets into his system, is me. The only person who is able to differentiate between the information and my personal feeling about it is me. The only one who can learn to check the opinions of others is me. Nobody will do that for me.

Nevertheless, it is also true that constant effort, investigation, checking and research is no guarantee for a secure knowledge – sometimes you are simply confronted with the fact that you cannot know at the moment! But you can learn to endure that.

What we see is in my eyes, in many respects, an expression of a massive crisis of orientation and a resulting upheaval. Humanity is beginning to define itself anew, once again. We are moving from an age where people were rather „prisoners of their consciousness“ and their experience, to an epoch where people understand that they are NOT their consciousness. But that his consciousness is an attribute, a quality, his very own being and his creative power. And how this is expressed, lies in his very personal responsibility.

The old psychological self of humanity, which accepted oppression of the weak, predator capitalism, perpetrator-victim conversion, wars, exploitation of earth and humanity, will be replaced. But this old energy is struggling for survival. Hard and fierce. We are far from being through this.

One thing can be sure – the next crisis is waiting. And again it will be driven through the Internet village in an over-dramatized way. Where will you stand then? To which side will you then give your spiritual support? What will you be guided by? Your reason and your own views after you have dealt with the situation to some extent or will you follow the emotional pull that was triggered by the opinions of others?

What kind of sound will you add to the overall melody?

Until next time same station

DISCLAIMER: Nothing you read here is THE truth. It is my truth. My perception and how I see things – now, in this moment.

THE INFORMATION SPACE

[coeurdastronaute]

The Story, Ch. 2

Previously on The Story

June was hot, thick with stagnant heat that refused to rustle or move the tiniest branch of a tree nor leaf on a stem. Hotter than any other summer that she could remember, Jamie toiled daily on her garden and the grounds, lugging water to and fro, nurturing the seedlings in the greenhouse, fretting over the last bits of her bountiful spring bloom and hoping to survive until the first cooling summer storm. It was tough work, all-encompassing work, and she’d learned a little late in her life, how important it was to keep busy. 

Never one to understand or listen to the story beneath the sound, Jamie missed the subtle changes that had undertaken the manor. Too preoccupied and exhausted from her battle with the sun and the dirt and the grounds itself, she hadn’t given another thought to how often her glances looked back toward the house, nor did she think twice about how she migrated around her duties, following the laughter of the children closer than ever before. Unaware of so much of her movements, her head stuck in the dirt and her hands tangled in the safety of the roots, Jamie was somewhat aware of the fact that she had not spoken, at least not directly or alone, with the au pair since their very first conversation. That was done with such purpose that she spent a large portion of the day willing it to both happen and un-happen. 

But things changed in their sullen existence. Homemade decorations littered the stairs and railings while entire science experiments meant trousers rolled up to ankles and wading in the fountain. The curriculum changed with the feeling of the day, and when school was over, the children were happy to take to learning the finer points of housework, turned into games by the crafty au pair who understood how important such things were. Slowly, the gravity fo the grounds shifted from the chaotic mess left behind with such glaring absences. 

Like all features at Bly, Jamie knew that the au pair was a novelty and would soon become not unlike the furniture or the statues. She would become innate to the property, just as Owen and Hannah and herself had, she would be usual and familiar and it would pass, Jamie promised herself, unpracticed in physics as she was.  

But the addition of the au pair had changed the manor, and in part, had changed many of those left within its universe. Where before there was cold and silence in the absence of the parents of the orphaned children, now nights brimmed with laughter and games, where plays were acted out by the entire cast, and learning was hands on, often out of the classroom and with the help of the rest of the staff. There was this community that popped up, a kinship among those who remained, all loosely tied together by the newest addition. 

It was all so sorely needed after the last au pair and the exceeding tragedy that plagued the beautiful land. 

It was hard not to want to be part of the liveliness of the manor now. Jamie found herself peaking over hedges to find the au pair reading books as the children drifted and lazed in the grass, and she too, listened to the words and gentle voice, her trimming slowing as a result. And clearly the children were taken with Dani, with Flora becoming much like a shadow, following her about, weaving her dolls and flowers for her hair. Miles became less despondent, though not enough for the au pair’s opinion. Still prone to their bouts of melancholy, it felt as if they returned to being children again sometimes. 

Unlike before, Jamie didn’t leave without stopping into the house to see if she might get accidently pulled into an adventure. Before, she would leave without much more than a honk or a wave. But the heat made her shoes stick to the grounds that much more despite the growing exhaustion. 

There was something about staying that made Jamie uneasy. It wasn’t in her composition to remain and attach. 

“It has to break soon,” Jamie sighed to herself as she pressed a sweating glass against her neck. The chill lasted a moment and that was all, gone in an instant. 

“I’ve got ever window open in the house and there hasn’t been so much as a breeze in a week,” Hannah shook her head and continued the slow, gentle fanning of herself. 

The ice adjusted, breaking apart and clinking in a glass. 

“There’s not much more I can do to save the lawn on the south side. It’s getting burnt. It’ll take ages for it to bounce back if we that rain doesn’t hurry.” 

“But the produce has been otherworldly,” Owen offered happily. “What you’ve been harvesting has blown my mind. I haven’t seen such bounty. At least I could never manage it.” 

“I don’t know if it’s saying much then if that’s the comparison.” 

“Laugh at my expense, but it’s true. I’ll gladly trade the lawn for those carrots.” 

“What about you, Hannah, eh? An afternoon of rain or larger heads of cauliflower?” 

“I get more than enough veg, thank you. Owen, you’re looney if you think a breeze isn’t worth every pea in her garden.” 

“I never claimed to be any different,” he grinned before taking a sip of his drink. 

The patio hummed with the crickets and heat so that even their words were too much hot air, and perhaps unwelcomed in the perfect summer evening. It was late, well after sundown, and yet the employees earned a certain run of the place as their own home after dark, when the semblance of adults could be disbanded. 

The two prattled back and forth, much to Jamie’s amusement. The absurdity of how blind they both were, or perhaps Hannah’s staunch refusal for no reason at all didn’t much make sense to the gardener. It wouldn’t be right for someone like Hannah to refuse happiness-- someone who deserved it so completely. Jamie couldn’t understand that choice. 

“There she is, welcome, welcome,” Owen greeted the au pair as she made her way onto the patio. 

The light from inside glowed against her, and Jamie could see the sweat on her neck and the wet ends of her hair that escaped an incredibly high and incredibly tight pony tail. She smiled into her drink at just the thought of it. 

“Still having trouble getting to sleep are they?” Hannah asked as Dani took a seat at the small table of friends. “The heat isn’t kind to them.” 

“Thank you,” she nodded and took a heavy gulp before she winced at the alcohol content she hadn’t been expecting. “They are just so uncomfortable. I don’t even know what to do.” 

“Put them outside,” Jamie offered before three faced turned towards hers. “What? You’ve never slept outside before?” 

Two of the three shook their heads, while Owen perked up excitedly.

“We’ll sort them out tomorrow, don’t worry, Poppins.” 

“I’m willing to try anything at this point. You should have seen Miles’ face when I told him to just sleep in his underwear.”

There was laughter among the group, and across the table, Jamie watched the au pair more curiously than she ever had before. In the faint glow of the evening, she shamelessly stared, observing the interactions, slunk back in her chair and disinterested with much else. 

There’s always been a distance to them that the few feet that separated them now seemed too little, and such an easy stretch to cross. The gardener had seen the au pair in the yard with the children, running and climbing and playing in the sun, her blonde hair whipping around in a swirl as she moved quickly. The gardener had seen the au pair on the terrace, reading in the shade in those damned shorts and her pale skin practically glowing. They shared meals together, but always at polar ends, directly missing each other.

But never had the gardener so unabashedly stared at the newest addition to the trio, or rather the finishing piece of their quartet. She chalked it up to curiosity, because never before had she been so close to an American with a smile like that, or rather, never before had she been close to a smile like that or an American. 

Even when Dani met her glance, Jamie didn’t look away, but rather wondered more about the stranger before her. 

“I thought I was escaping the heat,” Dani shook her head as the company drew toward the end of their drinks. “This is worse than I could have imagined.” 

“It’ll break soon,” Jamie repeated with a bit more assurance. 

“You can’t listen to Jamie’s superstitions,” Hannah shook her head. “She thinks her flowers whisper to her.” 

“That sounds a bit mental. I’d never say that. But it is going to break. You can feel it.” 

“I never would have thought to accuse you of reckless hope,” Owen teased. 

“And you never should,” Jamie said as she stood, finishing her drink. “But the trees are dry and the creeks are hard. It’ll break because it always does.” 

“Got a timeline on that?” Dani asked, looking up at the body in the dark. 

“Sadly, I don’t,” she sighed. “But I believe in the rain.” 

As Hannah and Owen debated the weather and belief, the gardener smiled at Dani and nodded her good night. 

“I’ll see you lot tomorrow. I reckon it might be time for a camp out.” 

Dani smiled, cradling the glass to her neck and cheek. Jamie didn’t look away. The worst of it was, she hadn’t seemed to decide on anything at all. Her mouth just moved and now she was stuck. 

XXXXXXXXXX

“It doesn’t seem safe,” Miles complained as he helped lug an armful of bedding. 

“It’s perfectly safe. It’s not like you have to worry about anyone walking around the property,” Dani promised. “It’s just like being at a campground or in the middle of the woods, except much closer to the bathroom.” 

“We’ve never been properly camping before,” Flora announced. “We did sleep in the living room a few times, and tell stories, and drank cocoa.” 

“Well camping is supposed to be fun.” 

“Supposed to be?” 

“I’ve never gone either,” she shrugged, wiping the sweat from her brow. “But I’ll do anything to avoid the heat.” 

“It’s the same temperature outside as inside,” the little boy reminded the group as he tossed his pillow down on one of the carefully placed bedrolls, foraged from the deepest recesses of the garage attic. 

“It’ll chill come evening,” the au pair promised. “I never thought you’d be afraid of a little adventure.” 

“I don’t mind adventure, but I mind the mosquitos.” 

“We’ll take care of that, don’t worry.”

“It’s absolutely splendid, isn’t it, Ms. Clayton?” Flora brimmed as she spun around the camp on the back lawn.

With a surprising show inf ingenuity, it was true that the gardener with help from the chef, had transformed a spot beneath the hornbeam trees into a safari. The fire was already crackling to life as the children finished their last load of blankets, the beds were pallets and the chairs were from the patio, but the true gift was the open-faced tent, hung between a few branches of the wide tree so that the open wall faced the fire and the house. 

“It’s better than I could have imagined,” Dani agreed, smiling as she surveyed the set up until she found the person responsible and softened. “It looks amazing.” 

When Jamie made the suggestion, the au pair hadn’t really considered it happening, but when she showed up the following day ready to do it, enlisting Owen and even Hannah in some ways, Dani didn’t think twice about joining the event. 

“Just a bit of ingenuity and fierce, god-like strength,” Jamie winked, flexing a bit before grinning. “And Owen.” 

“It’s nothing,” the chef promised as he checked the sturdiness of his work. “I was a Scout Explorer. Fifteen years worth of survival and outdoor training with a healthy dose of community service.”

“And what was your reason for being so outdoorsy?” Dani turned to Jamie as she teased Miles’ shoulder, making him look. 

“Oh, I was raised by wolves,” Jamie explained, quite seriously, earning a look from the smallest of the party. “True story. Walked on all fours until I was older than you, Flora. Used to be able to talk to them, but it’s been so long.” 

“That didn’t happen,” Miles shook his head. 

“If you ever run into a pack of wolves, just say you know me.” 

He rolled his eyes but thought it over to himself as Dani accepted a drink from Hannah and took a seat, the hard work of setting up complete and the night working its way to them. 

It might have been psychological, or it might have been the fire, but the evening did seem to get cooler. It wasn’t a blustery winter by any means, but it felt tenable for the first time in too many days. 

For Dani, the best kind of moments were when the children were just that, giggly and smiling, living loudly and with exteriority. When Miles would flash a smile, absolutely smitten with everything Owen was telling him about knots and pocket knives and his own adventures in the woods as a boy. When Flora would lean against the side of the au pair’s leg and pat her knee excitedly as she had to get close to speak so quickly about how important it was to not burn the marshmallows. She could love them better, she believed. It didn’t seem an impossible task sometimes. 

For a second, she also lost herself in the magic of the evening. As Flora and Miles chased lightning bugs through the field, exhausting themselves after dinner, and Dani found herself in the company of who were quickly becoming what she might refer to as friends. The three caretakers of the manor and its inhabitants, slightly more willing to stay later for a moment like this as well. 

Three s’mores and four stories later, the late hour did it’s best to win out over the young campers. Huddled around the fire, they covered up and listened attentively as the gardener wove a wild story. Dani sat across, her legs stretched out and feet near the fire while Hannah held a bottle tightly beside her before carefully re-filling their cups. 

“I almost hate to admit what a good idea this is,” Hannah chuckled before re-corking their bottle as she sat it on the ground. “But they certainly are enjoying themselves.”

“It means a lot to them, for you all to be here and so interested. They don’t know it yet, but they will one day,” Dani nodded, looking over the flickering flames as Miles adjusted, pulling up the blanket, completely engrossed in the story. 

“I couldn’t be anywhere else. I’ve been with this family for… goodness, it’s been my whole life it seems.” 

“Still, you chose to stay. That means something.” 

“I’m not sure what, exactly,” the housekeeper sighed. 

“Love. Loyalty.” 

Dani watched a small smile creep into Hannah’s cheeks as she stared at the gardener, but didn’t hear a thing, so deep in thought was the housekeeper suddenly that she disappeared, or so it seemed. 

Jamie kept talking though, her story winding its way this way and that, hoping to be long enough to tire out the children. Her voice was growing lower to persuade them, and in just a few minutes, Flora fell asleep, her cheek pressed against the gardener’s chest, a blanket wrapped over them both. Dani wasn’t sure when she began to smile at the scene, only that she was and Hannah watched her take a drink to hide it. 

“The night we found out about the Wingraves, she spent the entire evening playing with them. When I got the call, I didn’t know how to say it, so we waited for their uncle to come tell them, and I remember Jamie watching them run up and down the stairs, playing some made up game that we couldn’t understand. And she was the one who made us wait. Let them be kids who have parents for just another hour, she told me. Another hour.”

Miles stretched slightly, his arm dipping until his head was on the pillow. 

“I’m sorry for the loss,” Dani offered as Hannah looked away from a sleeping Flora. 

“They’re adapting. Somehow.” 

“You all are helping, you know that, don’t you?” 

“Sometimes I’m not sure, but then I look at that,” Hannah nudged her chin at the sleeping children, at Jamie not bothering to move Flora, but holding her tight. “And I know that even in the most inopportune environment, even something kind and loyal and loving can emerge, whether they know it or not.” 

“What happened?” 

“She ended up here somehow,” she sighed and took another drink before standing. “Let me help you, dear. Don’t want to wake her after finally getting her to sleep.” 

Dani didn’t move as she watched the careful task of detaching Flora and tucking her in safely, all in hopes of not having to tell another story to put her back to sleep. The au pair watched Jamie’s movements with a keener eye. She traced the outline of her jaw and cheeks, saw neck and clavicle when the flannel she’d brought slipped down a shoulder with the movements, as if something, some tick, could explain everything that seemed to be an impenetrable fort. 

“And with that, I’ve had enough nature,” Hannah decided. “I’m going inside to my bed.”

“Booooo,” the other adults teased. 

“I’m too old for sleeping in the dirt, and so are you lot. We’ll see who is in better shape in the morning.” 

“I’ll, uh,” Owen stood, patting off his pants. “I’ll walk  you in. Grab some more water for us.” 

“I know the way.” 

“Good, you can help me find the kitchen.” 

With a wave, they moved back toward the house, their lanterns swinging as they reached the door. Across from her, Jamie took to a chair, electing to stretch after sitting on the hard ground and beneath another human, tiny as she was, for so long. 

“I swear my arse went flat sitting there all night,” she mumbled, picking up the bottle Hannah had left behind. “Gardener by day, lawn chair by night.”

“I don’t think I’m as good with flowers as you are with them.” 

“No worries about me pilfering your job, Poppins. I find them exhausting and they are quite taken with you.” 

There was a fondness hidden beneath the feigned annoyance as Jamie surveyed their sleeping forms, resting comfortably with the fire flickering light into the tent. 

“They like you.” 

“What’s not to like? I’m quite a stirring specimen. And I make a damn fine s’more.” 

Dani couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she stood and meandered toward a chair, the stiffness that Hannah warned about nestling into her joints until she was certain she’d be locked in the seated position forever. 

“You’re not going to abandon me out here with them are you?” 

To her credit, Jamie considered it before tossing a lopsided smile toward the au pair who joined her. 

“It was my idea to sleep outside, wasn’t it? Can’t miss this. Plus,” she paused to finish her glass of whiskey. “I’ve been drinking. Not too safe to drive.” 

“I feel like I should thank you again for all of this. It’s… it’s amazing.” 

The stars were bright, unburdened with any rules of order, scattered throughout to the horizon and tree tops. The fire glowed but did not dim them at all, merely enhanced by attempting to add its own embers into the heavens, offering the sacrifice for permanent consideration, though none made it that far. 

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t doing anything else. I’ve had worse nights than a campfire and half-decent company.” 

“I’ll take half-decent.” 

“Oh, yeah… uh, I was talking about them,” Jame furrowed as she looked toward the sleeping children. “Juries still out on you.” 

“I’ve been known to be a good time,” Dani promised. 

Despite the teasing, Jame tilted her chin to appraise the au pair in the firelight, as if trying to discern if the statement was actually true. She cocked her head to the side as Dani readjusted, becoming oddly self-conscious of the look. A little nervous, she sipped her drink and winced against the burn. 

“I might be inclined to believe you, except you ended up here, same as us, and I’m not sure anyone here knows how to be a good time.” 

“I don’t know. You put all of this together.”

“A rare flash of brilliance,” Jamie shrugged. “We’ve been dying to know what brought you here, you know?”

“I’m that interesting?” 

“New, maybe. Interesting is to be determined.” 

Dani smiled into her cup, her body constricting tightly into itself as she was forced to think about things she’d hoped to forget. 

“But you don’t have to share,” Jamie added quickly, feeling the shift in the mood of the night. It was far too lovely out and the au pair was far too pretty sitting there, politely looking for a way out. “Doesn’t matter how, just that you got here. In my experience, it’s a bit of ill-fate that brings anyone here. Hannah and the cheating husband. Owen and the sick mother.”

“You, and the love of plants?” 

“Yeah,” she grunted. “Me and my curse for growing things.”

Jame ran her thumb along her cup before turning back to the au pair beside her. She wasn’t fond, suddenly, of upsetting her, and she didn’t want the conversation to end because unlike most others, she was incredibly invested in simply hearing Dani’s voice.  

“And me,” Dani decided, stiffening her spine a little with a deep breath, “Running away from everything back home because I just…” she looked at Jamie, willing her to understand how cowardly and weak she felt. “Couldn’t handle the pain anymore.” 

Her glance was strong, was inquisitive and kind, and Dani looked away from the warmth it offered. 

“You don’t have to run anymore. And you don’t have to have anymore pain.” 

It was an oddly comforting option and perhaps promise, Dani realized, one that she knew Jamie was in no place to give, but still she did, and for the first time, despite all of the people at the funeral and the hospital and in her life who let her off the hook, or at least thought they did, she felt as if she might be able to finally do it. 

Jamie’s hand was warm in her knee where it gave a squeeze, but did not let go, resting there as the gardener moved her head, twisting to be in the au pair’s view. Dani looked at her and couldn’t help but smile slightly. 

“I know you’re not alright. That’s okay, too. You don’t have to be yet.” 

Simultaneously, the weight grew and shrunk on her chest, but Dani relaxed at the feeling of it all. 

“I’m around, you know? Not really the best at talking, but I’ve got ears that occasionally work.” Dani couldn’t help but chuckle. “There it is, Poppins. No sense in having a pretty girl upset. It’s probably the greatest sin around.” 

“The greatest?” she scoffed, clearing her throat as the hand on her knee was retracted. 

“I haven’t been to church in a while,” Jamie confessed. 

“I couldn’t tell.”

“That’s what happens when you’re raised by wolves.” 

Once again, she filled up the cups, and Dani felt the gardener relax slightly beside her. She found herself envious of the apparent ease with which she moved through life. 

“I almost believe you.” 

There was another grin, lopsided and knowing. It was oddly frustrating, to feel so bare and understood by someone who was unreadable, but Dani challenged her before taking a drink. 

“Wolves don’t have to howl in the night and live in the forests or have fangs and claws.” Jamie paused and swirled around her drink. She looked up to see the lantern of their third returning. “Sometimes they wear suits and work at the bank or a department store, and they find a weakling and they do what wolves do. Suit or fangs, there isn’t much difference. I was raised by wolves.”

Dani didn’t register Owen’s return. She looked at Jamie who refused to look at her, but rather smiled as the chef sat down, prepared to tease him incredibly for his display with the housekeeper. But the au pair was struck with the first thickly veiled, but honest moment she might have ever had with the stranger beside her. She wanted more. She wanted to press and learn what it all meant, not the story, not the tale of it, the fiction and flowers and metaphors. But she found it was enough for the moment. 

“I found out why Poppins is at the Manor,” Jamie announced proudly as she tossed Owen the bottle. “She robbed a bunch of banks.” 

“I think she might be pulling your leg,” he shook his head. “Doesn’t seem the type to care about money.” 

“She did it for the thrill. She’s mad. Hide the silver.” 

“Don’t tell people that,” Dani scolded, hitting Jamie’s arm. “I’m just a teacher.” 

“A notoriously underpaid lot. She definitely did it for the money. Owed huge gambling debts. I don’t know what to tell you, Owen,” Jamie shrugged. “That’s the truth.” 

“Please don’t believe her.” 

“I hardly ever do,” he promised. 

NEXT

[benditlikepress]

growing pains

@coffeedepablo @indestinatus

dedicated to my queen @ncisjes who goes to work to escape my nonsense

Read in full on AO3

Tony was counting down the minutes until home-time when his phone started ringing. Usually he switched it off during meetings but for some reason it had slipped his mind, and that was why he jumped out of his seat to leave the room to answer it, seeing Tali’s school flash on the screen.

They never rang.

He closed the door quietly behind him and clicked answer as he jogged down the hallway towards the doors that led out onto a small balcony.

“Hello?”

"Hello, is that Mr DiNozzo?"

"Speaking."

"Hello, this is Tali's teacher Madame Belanger."

"Oh. Hello. Is everything OK?"

"I'm stood here with Tali, nobody has arrived to take her home."

Tony checked the time. School let out 10 minutes ago. "Uh, Tali's mom should be there. She hasn't shown up?"

"No, Mr DiNozzo. I know it's her that picks Tali up and she's always early so I tried to ring her but I got no answer. I know she's pregnant so I thought I best ring you to check everything is OK."

Tony felt his shackles immediately rise, a ball in his throat. "Um, thank you. I'll try to get a hold of her but I'm on my way myself now, so one of us will be there soon. Can I speak to Tali real quick?"

There was a small pause while the phone was passed over.

"Hey sweetheart, it's daddy. I'm on my way to come get you, OK? Don't worry about a thing."

"OK."

"I love you."

"Love you too."

Tony hung up the phone and began dialling Ziva's number as he went into his boss' office. He explained he had an emergency at home with the phone pressed to his ear and was waved away to leave just as Ziva's phone went to voicemail.

"Hey. It's me. Call if you get this, let me know you’re alright."

When she still hadn’t returned his call when he was getting into his car, he began to panic more. Though she’d been through rough patches and difficulties since she got home to Paris, she’d never once made herself unreachable. She’d always at least drop a text to let him know she was safe. Particularly since she’d found out she was pregnant.

Thoughts of the baby plagued his rushed journey to school, weaving through traffic in a way that made him wish he still had lights he could stick on the roof. Things had been going really well up until now – no worries or doctors concerns, nothing that had to be kept an eye on. Ziva had been a little anxious at first because there had been some concerns early in her pregnancy with Tali but they had turned out to be false alarms, likely caused by stress. When nothing had happened in the first 12 weeks of this pregnancy and then the next couple afterwards, her fears had been allayed. It was week 23 now and everything had been pretty much perfect.

He repeated to himself that she was in the bath and had lost track of time as he hopped out of his car and rushed up to the school gates. He was buzzed in and by the time he reached reception, Tali and her teacher were waiting. Tali immediately left her teachers’ side and came over to him, wrapping her arms around him for a hug.

“Hey, sweetheart. Good day?” He asked in English and Tali’s teacher smiled politely, though he was never sure if she actually understood a word he said when he wasn’t speaking French.

“Uh-huh. Are we going home?”

“Yeah, come on. Sorry you had to wait a little while.”

“That’s OK. Au revoir, Madame Belanger.”

“Au revoir, Tali. See you tomorrow.”

Tali took Tony’s hand as they left the building and walked with purpose although she was quiet and thoughtful.

“Everything alright?”

“Why didn’t ima pick me up?”

"I'm not sure, sweetheart. We're gonna go talk to her and find out, OK?"

"Is something wrong with the baby?"

"I don't think so. Let's just get home and we'll find out what's going on."

This seemed to satisfy Tali, who was her usual talkative self on the car ride back to the apartment. Tony was glad of the distraction – happy to hear about Tali’s class preparation for their upcoming recorder recital and her friend’s new dog.

The building looked normal from the outside when they got home, though decades worth of cop shackles were hard to shake off and Tony caught himself reaching for a non-existent gun as they entered the eerily quiet hallway and reached the locked door.

The apartment was cleaner than they’d left it this morning – clothes and breakfast and mail put away. The curtains were open but the light was on in the bathroom and everywhere was silent. Tony left Tali in the living room and cut through room-by-room looking for any sign of Ziva or something out of place, and when he reached their bedroom he found the door ajar and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a sleeping figure on top of the mattress.

Ziva was lying on her side, buried in blankets, a slight frown on her face.

Tony bent down by the side of the bed and lifted fingers to her forehead, stroking her hair.

"Hey honey, you awake?"

Ziva stirred and then opened one eye. "What are you doing here?"

"School called."

"What time is it?" Ziva lifted her arms sleepily to check her phone. "Oh my god, I have to go and get Tali."

"Hey hey hey, relax. I got her. She's in the living room."

Ziva exhaled heavily and covered her face with her eyes.

"You OK?"

"Yes. I just... I have been asleep all afternoon. I did not get any sleep last night so I just lay down after lunch and.. I cannot believe this. I have never slept through anything in my life."

"Well, you're pregnant. It happens. Why didn't you sleep last night?"

"I need to talk to Tali."

"Just - take a breath first, alright?"

She closed her eyes as she inhaled and exhaled, but threw the blankets off her all the same. She had taken to wearing his shorts as pyjama bottoms, paired with either a tank top that rode up more as the days went on or one of his old baggy t-shirts depending on the temperature. Though she was almost always overheating these days.

"Is Tali upset?"

"She's fine. She was just a little worried something might've happened." Ziva brought herself up to a sitting position and pressed the base of her palms against her eyes. “You sure everything’s alright?”

"Yes, we are fine. Completely. I am so sorry for scaring you. Really, I.."

"Hey," Tony pulled her hands away from her face gently. "It's alright. It's fine. Stuff happens sometimes."

“It is not alright, Tony.”

Her insistence struck a chord with him, the way her breathing was a little laboured and she squeezed his fingers where they were still attached to accentuate the point.

“Hey. Talk to me.”

“We can talk once I have spoken to Tali. Let me do that first.”

“OK. Take a couple of deep breaths, though. Come in when you’re ready.”

Tony ran his hand over her head as he stood up, leaving the room and going back into the living room where Tali was sitting on the sofa with a game in hand kicking her legs backwards and forwards.

“Ima and the baby are all good. See? Like I said. Nothing for you to worry about. She’s gonna come and talk to you right now.”

He sat down next to her and she began to continue the conversations she’d started in the car, not seeming to notice Tony’s small responses as he kept an eye on the bedroom door.

Ziva appeared a couple of minutes later, her cheeks slightly pink with sleep and a practised smile plastered on her face as her eyes trained on Tali.

"Tali.."

"Is the baby OK?"

"We are both fine. But I need to apologise to you.” Ziva sat down at Tali’s side, opposite to Tony, and took Tali’s small hands into her own on her lap. “I'm so sorry I did not pick you up today, Tali. I did not get any sleep last night and I accidentally napped through my alarm. I promise you it will never ever happen again. And I'm very sorry for worrying you, that is not fair at all on you."

"OK. I forgive you."

"You do?"

"You promise.”

“I promise. Can I have a hug?”

Tali wrapped herself around Ziva but the position was starting to get awkward as Ziva had started growing more significantly in the last couple of weeks. She was carrying smaller than Tony had imagined, though he supposed it was a result of keeping herself fit. She said you’d have barely known she was pregnant with Tali until her third trimester.

He watched her expression now, over Tali’s shoulder, her eyes tightly shut and then opening to look up at him with tears threatening. She ran her hand over her left eye and the movement seemed to alert Tali to pull back and look at her.

“Don’t be sad.”

“I’m not sad, OK? Ani ohevet otach. I love you very much.”

Tony still wasn't quite used to the feeling he got in his chest when he saw the two of them together like this: hugging and whispering affection to each other, looking over each other’s shoulders at him with such automatic warmth in their eyes. It was a feeling he'd forgotten existed, something that he'd not felt since childhood until Tali and then Ziva took permanent place in his life - the pure comfort of being around family. The way that even when Ziva was clearly upset and hurting there was still pure, unadulterated love in the air.

Ziva sniffed and straightened her back. “Do you want to help me make dinner?”

“Can we have pizza?”

“You know your daddy can never say no to that. Come on, let’s get your hands washed.”

Tali jumped off the sofa and ran off in the direction of the bathroom. Tony got to his feet and held out his hand to help Ziva up, though she managed to get up mostly by herself. Her hand, as it often did now, instinctively went to her stomach. It was almost six months in and he still hadn't grown out of the burst of pride every time he watched Ziva privately acknowledge her bump, the knowledge that it was his child she was tending to when she didn't realise anyone was watching.

“Ziva..”

“I promise we will talk. I just want to make sure she is OK first. Once we have eaten, she will settle down. OK?”

“OK.”

It was a lot like this with a child: something Tony had never really considered before Tali came into his life, and something he was sure would only get more significant once the baby was here. Trying to find opportunities to talk was difficult, quiet moments alone few and far between, and though all Tony wanted to do right now was sit Ziva down and wait for her to explain every single thing on her mind he instead had to be content to watch her staring down at Tali thoughtfully while she helped her knead dough and overflow toppings in the way only a DiNozzo could.

They ate quietly but happily, Tali still leading conversation, and once she’d finished she’d taken herself off to her bedroom and shouted at Tony to follow her to help her with her math homework.

Ziva still had a fearful look in her eye, and it only seemed to increase as the minutes passed. She looked at Tali’s bedroom and then back at Tony, questioning, until he signalled at her to go to their own bedroom while he followed Tali.

(continue reading on AO3)

[sinning-on-a-sunday]

Could I ask for a smutty oneshot of yandere prince/king Taehyung x servant reader. Maybe he finds where y/n hides in the castle, or they're (he's more so) playing hide and go seek in the garden, or something about a punishment. Whatever you wanna do.💖 Thank you 💖

you should see me in a crown

- warnings: yandere behaviors, sexual content, obsessive behavior

- a/n: sorry this took so long, i am also sorry that is a whole 3.5k words

copyright © 2019-2020 under sinning-on-a-sunday. do not repost or translate my works without my explicit permission. this includes stealing my ideas/plot.

                                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The only way a person survives working for the Kim family is by being as inconspicuous as possible. Good servants were docile, diligent, dutiful. They worked harder than they were supposed to and never placed blame on anyone but themselves.

The only reason you’d lasted so long at this job was because you were an exceptionally hard worker. You’d served the Kim family ever since Taehyung was a prince. He’d always been a spoiled brat, cruel and narcissistic, born with a silver, jewel-encrusted spoon in his mouth. But when he became king, his ego only became that much more self-inflated.

Staff started getting fired left and right, fear engulfed the castle like a plague, and you quickly found yourself at the top of the metaphorical food chain. A servant had to bust their ass every single day just to keep up, but unlike the rest of them, you hardly ever made mistakes. It wasn’t beauty or wit that captured Taehyung’s eye, it was your tenacity.

You’d never wanted his attention, you’d never asked to become his favorite.

You memorized his schedule until you knew it like the back of your hand, you knew when he took his tea and how many sugars he liked, never messing up his order or forgetting to serve it in his favorite cup. You knew his morning, afternoon, and evening routines better than you knew your own.

One of Taehyung’s favorite things about you was that you solved problems before they became problems, like restocking his art supplies before he had a chance to run out, or ordering the latest fashion statements from his favorite luxury brands before he even requested them. He would ask you to do something only to find that it had already been done.

You never spoke unless spoken to, and whenever he needed something you were already by his side, ready and willing to do whatever it took to make him happy.      

You didn’t even know he was aware that you existed until that one rainy day in November. It was one of your few days off, and you were spending it in the castle library, curled up in the windowsill like a cat. However, it was cut short before you had a chance to enjoy it.

In the throne room, Taehyung sat in his golden, diamond-studded chair, eyes scanning the room lazily. He twirled his blue hair between his fingers as he grew more and more bored by the minute.

Movement at his side made him look up. He narrowed his eyes at the woman leaning over him, a steaming cup of tea in her hands.

“Who are you?” He snapped, making her tense.

“I-I’m…” The servant girl began before being cut off.

“Where’s Y/N?” Taehyung spat out, irritation sharpening his tone.

“I-It’s her day off. She’s not working today.” The servant stuttered out.

Taehyung just glared at her.

“Well, go get her then. At least she knows that I prefer Earl Grey over fucking Chamomile.”

She scurried away before he had a chance to fire her.

You had a book sprawled open on your lap when you heard the commotion in the hallway. When you opened the door, servants were running around like chickens with their heads cut off, shouting and chattering incoherently.

“What’s going on?” You called out to the nearest person.

She froze upon hearing your voice, turning to stare at you with eyes blown wide.

“Y/N! There you are!” She lurched forward to grab your arm.

“I found her!” She shouted, causing everyone in the hallway to whip around and crowd around you. Hands invaded your vision, pushing, pulling you forward, leading you down the hall faster then your feet could carry you.

“What the hell is going on?” You shouted, letting them drag you along.

“The king is demanding your presence. He’s on a rampage, he’s already fired three people.”

Your blood ran cold. This is bad, this is really bad. When Taehyung throws a tantrum, at least one person gets beheaded, and you were certain that person was about to be you.

But what did I do? Your mind scrambled to think of a reason justifying his behavior. You didn’t recall pissing him off recently. In fact, the last time you saw him, he was in a better mood than usual.

You reached the throne room before you could think of a logical explanation. The only thought you had in your mind was that you had done something wrong and were about to be sent to the guillotine because of it.

The thick oak doors were pushed open, and you were shoved inside.

You’d been in the throne room a million times, being Taehyung’s favorite servant required it, but for some reason it looked different this time. Maybe because you thought this was the last time you’d ever see it.

The light from the twinkling chandelier overhead was dimmer, casting shadows against the walls and across the polished marble floor. Your footsteps seemed to echo like gunshots in the silence, and your hands trembled as you approached your imminent doom.

Taehyung was dressed in rich blue jacket with gold embellishments, tigers embroidered on each lapel. He had one jeweled hand held up to his mouth, flashing the giant sapphire ring on his middle finger. His eye shadow-lined eyes flickered up to meet yours when he heard you coming.

“Ah, Y/N! Finally!”

You were startled by the tone of his voice. He sounded almost…happy to see you?

“Go and make me a cup of tea, will you? Since apparently you’re the only one who knows how to do it right.” He ordered.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. Wasn’t he going to yell at you? Wasn’t he going to fire you?

“Y-Yes, your Majesty.” You said after a pause, hurrying into the kitchen to fix him his tea.

You returned in record time, far quicker than any of the other servants, and offered him the teacup in shaking hands.

He raised it to his lips, closing his eyes in delight as the warmth cascaded down his throat.

“Perfect.” He whispered to himself.

Your face was furrowed in confusion, watching him, waiting for him to deliver your death sentence on a silver platter.

But he just sat there sipping his tea, humming a cheerful tune. Several minutes passed before he spoke again.

He raised one ringed finger in the air.

“Get me a—” He began, only to be cut off by you already at his side, offering him his favorite pastry.

“Yes, exactly.” He didn’t say thank you, he never did, but he flashed you a small smile. To say it took you by surprise would be an understatement.

You waited and waited for him to say something, anything, but he just licked his fingers clean of the flaky bits of dough, staring ahead blankly.

“Um, Your Majesty?” You said timidly, deathly afraid that he would punish you just for speaking.

“Yes?”

“Why am I here?” You asked, genuinely curious.

Taehyung looked at you, his brows knitted together.

“Don’t you know? You’re the best servant in the castle, everybody else just fucks things up. You belong by my side.”

~~~

Over the next few weeks, Taehyung and you grew closer. He promoted you to head of staff, and you became his official personal servant, fulfilling his every whim and need. There wasn’t a time when you weren’t right there by his side.

If you were telling the truth, it was exhausting. Taehyung would throw a fit if anyone besides you tried to serve him, which meant you were responsible for literally everything. His meals, his laundry, his meetings and royal duties, even his recreational activities, you had to take care of it all.

As time passed, Taehyung got to know you more as a person. He stopped seeing you simply as the help and thought of you as more of as his own little plaything. He derived a great amount of pleasure from teasing you and watching you erupt into a fit of stuttering and blushing.

He started to notice all your little quirks and habits, like how you always avoided eye contact when you were flustered, or how you became extremely embarrassed whenever someone complimented you.

It took a few months for him to start viewing you in a romantic light, but once he did, there was no turning back.

You were delivering his breakfast one morning when he made an advance for the first time.

“Come in.” Taehyung called after you knocked on the door. He sat up in his gigantic four poster bed, hair disheveled and sticking up at odd angles, watching as you walked towards him with a silver tray in your hands. You set it down on his bedside table, trying to ignore the way his eyes were following your every move.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Your Majesty?” You asked, hands clasped in front of you.

The corner of his mouth tugged up in a smirk as he scanned you up and down.

“Why don’t you join me?” He said, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

You nearly choked on your own spit.

“W-What?” You stuttered out. He only smiled wider at your taken aback state.

“I said, why don’t you join me, Y/N. You must be exhausted after all your hard work.” He reached out to take your hand, trying to pull you closer. The movement made the sheets rustle and shift, revealing his smooth chest as you realized he was shirtless.

“I-I, um…I need to-I should really get back to the kitchen.” You pulled your hand out of his grasp and hurried out of the room before he could get another word out.

Every day after that became your own personal nightmare. He made his affection for you painfully obvious, touching you at every opportunity, constantly complimenting you and making suggestive remarks. You tried to ignore it as best you could, but after a while, Taehyung grew impatient.

One day, Taehyung was taking a bath in his magnificent white marble tub, when he requested that you bring him more towels. When you entered the room, your cheeks immediately turned red.

It was dark, illuminated only by candles and the low light of the sconces on the walls. The tub, which was big enough to comfortably fit four people, was surrounded by stone columns and a ring of rose petals on the polished floor. Taehyung was sitting inside of it with his arms propped up on the edge, wearing nothing but a smirk, the rings on his slim fingers, and a sapphire around his neck the size of the Hope Diamond.

He gestured you over with a curl of his bejeweled fingers, and your body obeyed on instinct.

You came to a stop and stood there next to the tub, arms tightening around the bundle of towels in your arms. Thankfully, the water was cloudy, bubbles and cherry blossoms floating peacefully, and everything below his rib cage was hidden from view.

Taehyung looked up at you, tilting his head to the side in amusement.

“You got here quick. Was someone excited to see me?” He asked in a high, teasing voice.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and moved to set the towels down.

“Ah ah ah, hand me one.” Taehyung commanded.

You pursed your lips but did as he said, extending your arm towards him and offering the piece of fluffy material.

Instead of taking it, he grabbed your wrist, the metal of his rings biting into your skin, and yanked you forward.

You fell into the tub with a splash, scrambling to sit up, facing away from him.

“I’m sorry!” You immediately choked out. You tried to climb out, but Taehyung wrapped an arm around your waist from behind and pulled you closer so your back was flush against his chest.

He chuckled as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

“Shh shh, calm down.” He whispered in your ear. One of his hands was gripping your waist, and the other was wrapped tightly around one of your wrists, effectively keeping you in place.

You felt his fingers drift up to the back of your dress, plucking the buttons loose one by one.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“W-What are you doing?” You asked, dreading the answer.

Taehyung nuzzled into the side of your neck, planting a soft kiss to your earlobe.

“Take it off.” He ordered.

Your stomach dropped.

Now, you had two options. 1. Tell him to fuck off and storm out, which would undeniably end in termination, or 2. Give in and allow him to do whatever he wanted with you. You were understandably leaning towards option #1, but on the other hand, you had no idea what he would if you rejected him. Would he fire you? Would he blacklist you so you could never find work again? Would he send you to the dungeon? Would he have you killed for disobeying him?

The possibilities were too risky, too dangerous, so, with a heavy amount of reluctance, you reached down to pull your dress up over your head with shaking fingers. Tossing the wet fabric aside, you shivered as Taehyung’s fingertips brushed your bare shoulder.

“Good girl.” He murmured, quickly finding the latch of your bra and unclasping it. He helped you scoot out of your panties until you were sitting there completely naked.

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you felt a stream of warm water fall over your head, looking back over your shoulder to see Taehyung holding a pitcher. After your hair was completely wet, he started to lather a handful of shampoo into your scalp.

“I knew you were the right one for me, look how well-behaved you’re being.” Taehyung praised as he washed your hair.

You sat there completely silent, frozen with fear. You weren’t exactly sure why you were being so willing, maybe you’d been a servant too long, your brain was practically hardwired to blindly follow orders.

You found it very strange that Taehyung was washing your hair for you. In all the time you’d known him, he’d never done a single thing for another person. Everything he did had a selfish reason, so why was he the one serving you when he was actual royalty?

After Taehyung had rinsed your hair clean, his arms came to snake around your torso once again.

A bowl of red grapes and a bottle of wine with two glasses was sitting on the edge of the tub, and Taehyung reached over to pluck a grape from the bunch and press it to your lips.

Your parted your clenched teeth, letting him slip it inside, but his fingers lingered in your mouth.

You knew what he wanted you to do.

Your lips wrapped around his digits, sucking obediently. Taehyung hummed in satisfaction.

“Look at you, you even obey the silent commands.”

The two of you sat there for what felt like hours. Taehyung didn’t try anything other than letting his hands roam all over your body, but you still felt irreversibly exposed by the end of it.

When Taehyung finally allowed you to escape from his grasp, you quickly hopped out of the tub, wrapped a towel around your body, and hurried out of the room.

His eyes followed you as you left, that smug smile never once leaving his face.

He wasn’t done with you yet.

~~~

You’d started hiding from him. The library was by far the best spot, since it was one of the only rooms Taehyung never entered. It worked for a while, avoiding him, that is, until he found your hiding spot.

You were scanning the shelves, devoting every ounce of your attention to the words printed on the leather-bound spines, so much so that you didn’t hear the door creak open. You didn’t notice the quiet sound of his footsteps as he tiptoed over to where you were standing against the wall. You didn’t even notice as he stood there watching you, smiling to himself as you read the summary on the inside of the book jacket.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.” Taehyung finally said, breaking the silence.

You audibly gasped and dropped the book you were holding.

Taehyung chuckled, bending down to pick it up and place it back on the shelf. He shook his head at you, clicking his tongue.

“I’m disappointed, Y/N. To think, you’ve been up there this whole time, denying your duties, when you should’ve been by my side where you belong.”

You felt your fists clench at their sides. How dare he, how dare he claim that I’m not doing my job. I’ve been working my fingers to the bone ever since he made me his personal servant and now he claims that I’m the one in the wrong?

“Feed your own ego, I’m busy.” You spat, turning back to the shelves and resuming your browsing.

Taehyung raised his eyebrows in surprise. Did he finally break you? Did he finally make you snap?

The king took a step forward and placed his hand on the beam of wood next to your head, caging you with his body. His face was inches from yours as he stared down at you with narrowed eyes.

“What did you just say to me?” He practically growled.

You turned to face him, blood boiling under your skin, and returned his glare with equal ferocity.

“You may have everyone else here bowing down to you, but not me. I see through your little facade. Everyone else may think you’re a king, but I know better. You’re just a spoiled little boy who thinks he owns everything and everyone. You may be able to get whatever you want, but you can’t have me. Not now, not ever.”

You waited for his reply, you waited for him to yell at you, fire you, grab you and throw you in the dungeon, but it never came. Instead, Taehyung only smirked. The gesture made goosebumps rise all along your skin.

“It seems to me that you’ve spent too much time by yourself, Y/N. I think you need to be punished.” He said.

You ground your teeth but stayed silent.

“Tell you what, sweetheart. Since you like hiding so much, we’re gonna play a little game.” Taehyung began, a smug edge to his deep voice.

“You are going to hide anywhere you want in the castle, and I’m going to try and find you.” He explained.

You narrowed your eyes, scanning him up and down.

“What do I get if I win?” You asked.

“If you win, I’ll leave you alone. You can continue to work here without any pestering on my part.”

“What do you get if you win?” You asked him suspiciously.

Taehyung’s expression darkened, and he leaned forward until his nose was almost touching yours.

“You.” He said. “If I win, you will give yourself to me completely. You will surrender to your king like any good servant would.”

It was risky, but Taehyung was an idiot if he believed that he knew the castle better than you. You’d lived and worked here for years, you knew every inch of this place.

You extended your hand for him to shake.

“Deal.”

~~~

The clock started at 2:35, and Taehyung had until 3:00 to find you.

You immediately ran towards the garden. The outside of the castle was almost as big as the inside, and with all the foliage and twists and turns in the path, you were confident that you could effectively stay out of sight.

You took off your shoes so you would leave less tracks and make less noise when walking, you tied up your skirt so you could run without it getting tangled, you even left a false trail for Taehyung to unwittingly follow.

There were plenty of lush trees and hedges to hide behind, and you jumped from spot to spot to keep Taehyung on his toes.

Your heart was pounding in your chest the entire time, ears straining and eyes searching for any sign of movement. As time passed, you were quite sure that you were going to win, but then you heard a rustle.

The sound of footsteps and snapping twigs assaulted your ears as you closed in on yourself, trying to make your body appear as small as possible.

“I know you’re out here, Y/N.” Taehyung’s voice called out over the silence.

Your heart nearly stopped.

“Come on out, sweetheart. I’ll go easier on you if you surrender now.”

You bent down even further, ducking your head down. You heard leaves crunching under his boots, the sound fading until it had disappeared completely.

You waited a solid few minutes before moving, pulse thundering. You figured it would be a good idea to switch spots again, after such a close call. Emerging from your hiding spot, you turned to hurry in the opposite direction, when you collided with something hard and warm.

A pair of hands gripped your wrists, yanking you towards them.

Your stomach dropped as you looked up at your captor.

Taehyung smirked at you.

“Gotcha.”

[ashes-and-ashes]

Okay so some context:

I literally had this vision of Remus picking shattered glass out from Sirius’ palm, and the whole thing just expanded from there. I really like this whole concept of troubled youths though - maybe I’ll do something based on this later on?

(This sucks - I keep saying I’ll write longer fics and yet I can’t seem to do anything but oneshots. How annoying.)

~

“You’ve got to stop doing this.”

Sirius lets out a tiny groan, burying his head into the crook of his arm. They’re in some storage room, perched on upturned buckets, blood splashing down from the cuts on his hands.

“Stop what? Fighting? Brawling? Punching my hand through windows?”

Remus lets out a noise of fustration, roughly raking his hands through his hair. “All of them?”

“Sorry,” Sirius says. He leans against the wall, tips his head back to rest against the corner. “No can do.”

Remus sighs and bends over his hands again. The tweezers gleam in the cold light; sharp and metallic and vicious. Sirius bites down hard on his lip as Remus presses the tip into his skin, tries to ignore the stabs of pain against his skin.

“So,” he says, his voice coming out slightly strangled. “Anything else I should know?”

Remus sets the tweezers down. “Oh nothing much. Just that you’ve got another 3 weeks of therapy added onto your existing amount. And Snape is in the hospital with a broken nose and fractured rib.”

“Good,” Sirius mutters, and Remus sighs. “Jesus, Sirius. You’re not getting out of here if you don’t try to at least change.”

“Now why would I do that? Not like my parents are going to take me back. I’m stuck here till I’m 18.”

”Even longer if you don’t learn how to control your anger.”

They were all in here for a reason. Hogwarts School for Troubled Youth, the sign proudly proclaimed, erected outside of a dim, grey building. Once you went in, you often didn’t come back out.

Sirius scowls again, glaring down at his bleeding hand. He knew what his file said, had memorized every fucking letter on the paper. Officially he was in here for anger management issues, psychological trauma, violence and impulsive behavior. Unofficially he was imprisoned for being far too much for his parents to handle.

“Sorry,” he mutters. Remus flicks his eyebrows up in surprise. “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for...you know. Beating up Snape and Malfoy. Putting my hand through the window.”

The corner of Remus’ mouth turns up. “And?”

“And for being a jackass.”

“Apology accepted.” Remus picks up the tweezers again; he smiles, his eyes wide and guileless. With a flick of his wrist the tweezer disappears, vanishing from between his fingers in the space of a breath. He winks and reaches forward; Sirius rolls his eyes as Remus pulls the tweezers from the mass of dark curls piled on top of his head. “Would you quit doing that?”

“Doing what?” Remus repeats innocently. He twirls the tweezers again; they snap in half between his hands. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, Yes. We know you’re an incredible thief. And a pickpocket. And a magician.”

“Damn straight,” Remus mutters. He makes a fist around the broken shards of the tweezers and gently blows. When he opens his hands again the tweezers are whole. “I’m incredible.”

Sirius resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Can you get the glass out of my hand?”

Remus smirks. “Right.” He bends over, presses the tweezers into Sirius’ hand again, underneath the skin to where the glass shards were embedded into flesh. Sirius stifles a groan, bites down hard on his lip and lets his mind wander.

His gaze swoops down, towards Remus’ hands. He’s studied them, a lot, the long, slender fingers and the ropes of scar tissue that snaked their way along the skin. One of his fingers are crooked, bent in two different places, the only hint toward the scars that coated the rest of his body.

How many hours has he studied Remus, his laughs and his moods, the quiet, watchful way he observed the world? Always moving; his hands reaching up to brush against his hair, fingers tapping on his knees, the flashes of light as he flicked objects between his fingers, dropped coins into his pockets. He was sent here for stealing, hustling people on the street to scrape together enough money to save his dying mother. It all fell to shit when he stole from the wrong person, got his ass sent to Hogwarts.

Sirius bites back a moan as Remus probes too deep into the broken skin. He jerks slightly; the metal presses deeper into the bleeding skin, making him clench his jaw. Remus pulls back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sirius takes a deep breath, gaze dropping towards the floor. Shards of blood-soaked glass litter the ground, countless others burried in his hands. “It’s okay. I can handle a lot.”

Remus meets his gaze. Sirius always loved Remus’ eyes; brown, flecked with bits of hazel and gold and bronze. There’s a ripple in one eye, a jagged chasm of black; Remus had just shrugged when Sirius asked him about it. “I got my head slammed into a lot of corners,” he muttered, then refused to say anymore on the subject.

He realizes he’s staring, eyes locked on Remus’. Remus flushes, blood rising to his cheeks; he tears his gaze away, looking down at Sirius’ hand. “I better,” he starts, then trails off. “I don’t want the wound healing over the glass. I better get this out.”

“Sure,” Sirius says, then stifles a moan as Remus shoved he tweezers back into his hand. He leans his head against the wall, teeth bared, forcing himself to stay still even as the pain snaked its way up his arm. “Where’s James?”

“Probably lighting things on fire behind the dumpster,” Remus mutters. Sirius loves it when Remus concentrates, all pursed lips and lowered lashes. “They found his lighter, though, and the can of gasoline under his bed. He’s pretty pissed about it.”

Sirius huffs a laugh, then winces as Remus slowly pulls out another piece of glass. The skin splits, blood trickling down his wrist in vibrant ruby ropes. He closes his eyes, heart pounding.

He’s always known, known the feeling inside of him. It was what started the fire, the raging inferno inside of him, the endless pit of fury that nothing could put out. He’s burning, burning and burning and burning and there’s not a damn thing that anyone could do about it.

God, he’s wrecked. He hasn’t spoken to anyone, hasn’t even seen Reg for 7 years. He wonders what happened to him how, if he was still the sweet-faced, innocent child that Sirius left behind.

“Sirius,” Remus says, and he’s jolted out of his thoughts, back into the storage cupboard with blood down his arm and Remus too close at his side. “Sirius, you’re doing it again.”

“Sorry,” Sirius breathes. “Flashbacks.”

Remus’ eyes go dark; he has his own demons to battle with. He still didn’t know what exactly plagues Remus, but he had a general idea. There were too many nights spent tossing and turning, listening to Remus’ pleads; Greyback! Please, not her, take me instead -

He wondered who Greyback was. He was going to rip him apart.

Sirius takes a shuddering breath as Remus removes another piece from his skin, feels the skin catch and tear. He bites his lip, embraces the feeling, the cold agony that helped cut through the whirling in his head.

He used to, when he was younger, used to trace bits of metal across his skin until he bled. The scars were still visible, though they easily blended with the scars that his mother carved on him.

And even those paled to Remus’ scars. He still didn’t know what caused them, all the rips and shredding. Patches that looked like burns, places where the skin hadn’t smoothed over. He dreamt of tracing them, sometimes, with his fingers and teeth and tongue.

He shudders as more glass comes out from under his skin, filling his veins with shattering lines. He’s burning, he knows this, burning up with all that rage and he’s in love with his best friend.

“So,” Remus says, his voice soft. “Why did you beat them up?”

“Who?”

“Snape and Malfoy.”

Sirius forces a laugh. To be honest, he didn’t know. The day had already been tough, pressing on top of him like a goddamn pressure cooker and all it had taken was one comment (“Hey Black! On your way to fuck the whore?”) and he was on top of them, swinging punches left and right, feeling things cracking underneath his hand.

Later, locked in the office, he had began shaking. Hard and fast, until the room spun around him in foggy waves and he needed to think, to breathe, to prove that something in this fucked up life was in his control -

He didn’t recognize the pain at first - that came after. All he could hear was the shattering of glass, the pounding of his heart, Remus’ low curses as he found him on the ground curled over his bleeding hand.

They weren’t allowed tweezers - apparently they were a suicide risk. But there was nothing Remus couldn’t steal, no lock he couldn’t pick and there was a pair in Remus’ hands a mere 5 minutes later.

And now...Sirius bites back a groan.

His hands hurt. His back hurt. His ribs and his legs and his raw, bloodied knuckles but nothing hurt as badly as being in love with Remus. Of staring out into the sea and knowing that you’ll never find land.

Sirius grits his teeth, so hard he thinks he might pop a vein. He swallows, tasting blood, watching the tweezers press into his hand again.

“Sirius,” Remus says, his eyes shadows and mist and dust. “Sirius, are you alright?”

Sirius takes a deep, rattling breath. “Never been better.”

Another shard of glass comes out, clattering onto the floor.