#this was inspired by chaos’ writing again. honestly everything he writes is so fucking painful to read yet so real

[hisfearlesshaz]

I feel like we don’t believe that this is true enough sometimes, so here’s a reminder :)

[filipinoizukuu]

hello mr simp do you have any thoughts on the leeks 👀

FIRST OF ALL. THEY CAME SO FUCKING EARLY??? BRO I WAS ASLEEP

SECOND OF ALL

holy SHIT YALL

Okay, it's no secret that I'm an All Might stan. I LOVE All Might. Very very much. Not just as a simp, but genuinely, I enjoy his character SO MUCH.

--And unlike what some people may think, I'm not totally blind to his flaws. I know he sucks as a mentor and that he's done way more harm to Deku than good. He's.... not perfect. in every sense of the word. The whole point of AM's character is that he is a DEEPLY FLAWED individual— but at the end of the day, still good.

This new chapter gave me SOOO many new feelings. I'm not gonna lie to y'all and say I was a Stain apologist beforehand because I wasn't. I disliked Stain to a certain degree, but I also knew he was morally grey enough that I was able to still quite appreciate him as a character. This chapter was about EVERYTHING to me because I honestly did NOT expect Hori to go in this direction and for things to happen the way they did. It was too good to be true! Too fanfic-y! The disbelief I felt when I read what happened was on par with when Bakugou and Deku had that apology and kinda-hug in the rain!

But this disbelief is not because it was a bad thing.

I think the writing in Chapter 326 is phenomenal. The moment that All Might was really beginning to lose hope in not just himself as a hero, but himself as a PERSON... we finally hear the opinion of someone who would abso-fucking-LUTELY make or break the last of his spirit.

Stain is, as much as his views are pretty agreeable and his label is that of a vigilante, still a pretty shitty guy. He's tried to kill literal kids who got in his way, even if said kids made pretty dumb decisions. AM hearing what he has to say is absolutely mind-boggling to him because he knows all of that. He knows Stain is a shitty person and that his worldview is perhaps terribly skewed. He knows Stain has spent a hot minute frying his brains down in Tartarus and isn't good at making judgment calls. Knows that for all intents and purposes, Stain's opinions are not to be trusted.

But the thing is... Toshinori also knows that Stain, regardless of the soundness of his mind, is telling the truth.

Regardless of how fucked-in-the-head Stain is, we as readers are able to acknowledge that he isn't blinded by hero worship. Sure, he's bitter, cynical, and quite the absolutist--but Stain is still clear-headed enough to be able to see AM's flaws for what they are and accept them, ultimately proving to Toshinori that the power of All Might was never his own but rather the legacy that he inspired.

The society MHA takes place in is flawed. We all know this. Heroes, as a concept, had been corrupted into being purely about good and evil. Purely winning fights for money or fame or the abstract concept of victory (coughs Endeavor and the no.1 spot coughs), making heroism as we know it about flashiness and power instead of mercy and the desire to help others.

All Might symbolizes the ideal version of the Hero Society. He represents doing the best you can. Being a hero until you reach your limits, and then going even past that. He symbolizes pure intention and the desire to be a hero not for material gains but because of the pure want to make society a better and safer place. Stain refers to Kamino Ward and the statue as a "holy land" because he believes that through and through, AM's only had the purest of intentions and morals. To him, Toshinori was like a deity that had no fault in making society what it was in the present because that accountability fell on the generations of heroes that failed to fulfill his legacy.

The point being, Stain understood that All Might was fundamentally not about 'being there' for everyone 24/7, but rather the message his presence had sent.

All Might's monologue at the beginning of the chapter essentially boiled down to the ideas that:

A. He regrets not being there properly for Deku

B. His image was a delusion that ultimately led to the downfall of hero society.

To break this down, his problem with Deku is his inability to be a competent mentor. It shows that he has led him down dangerous and horrible paths (Deku's stubbornness to do things by himself and his 'dark' arc post-war), and is unable to bring him back into the light even if he tries. It was only when Class 1-A had intervened that they were able to get Deku to rest and let people tag along, after all, which is why Toshinori was far too embarrassed to follow him into UA's walls even after everyone had come out with umbrellas.

Stain disproves this in two ways.

First, he says that it was never about All Might's ability to actually be there for people. The whole point of what inspired Deku to be the inherently good-hearted "true hero" he is today is because of the values that AM's brand had instilled in him as a child. AM's biggest positive impacts came from behind the screen where he was used as the proof that true heroes can and do exist. Deku does want to be exactly like All Might, yes, which is why we see Toshinori leading him down the same path that he walked--but the underlying message of this is that the very first thing All Might gave him even before OfA was the courage to help fix society.

I do believe Deku is an innately compassionate person. Most people in the series are. However, what makes All Might's smile so uniquely impactful to what it did to Hero Society is the way it gave people courage to help people. Less hesitation. Less bystander syndromes. The ability to move without thinking. Because you can feel the want to help a person, but the courage to be nosey and actually do it? That's portrayed as something AM's image teaches people.

The second way he disproves AM's insecurity of dragging Deku down is that he makes it clear that this pain is somewhat of a necessity in reforming society. He says, interestingly enough, that this is but the 'middle process' in reforming society. This spills over to how he addresses Problem B, but what Stain is essentially saying here is that this sort of brutality and isolation that Izuku faces is impermanent. A phase. It implies that even if Deku is struggling and Toshinori is unable to help him, it is something that needs to happen before they re-realize the ideal heroes All Might's image is meant to create.

The second problem in regards to how All Might feels about current society (how it's collapsing because of him, etc. etc.) is more interestingly addressed. There are many things that Stain says--like how Toshinori doesn't need to actually be the one to fix society with his bare hands. The current society is not his fault because of the fact that it is not finished developing. I'm not sure if I can go so far as to say that Stain means this in the sense of the Scorched Earth method of tearing everything down to build it back up better-- but I can say that Stain still has faith in society to rebuild after this period of chaos.

This rebuilding starts with the old generation of heroes correcting what they messed up (i.e. Endeavor v Dabi) and more importantly, paving the way for a better generation of heroes that was inspired by All Might's image. Heroes that are led by people like Deku, who is defined by his proclivity to help without thinking. The violent deconstruction of society is about exposing society to the raw truth of All Might's image that not everybody can be as strong as him-- which is why we have to take care of each other.

When the lady comes in to remove the sign and start cleaning the statue, it's symbolic. It's a clear metaphor that the past few chapters are the turning point for society as a whole, and how people are starting to remember what real heroism is. From the distrust that was seeded in society ever since LoV had surfaced, we are seeing that trust being returned TEN-FOLD now that people can see not only the mask of a hero's smile, but also the person underneath.

I think it's some really neat symbolism here too about how Deku, who's metal mouth guard was literally all about representing All Might's smile, is shed.

This is hero society dropping their masks. Letting people see them for as they are. Toshinori revisiting the statue in this form makes all the more impact because he shed his mask ages ago during the Kamino Bust, so this is him coming face to face with the image he's created and seeing the differences between them, and how his image continues to live on even after he's almost completely Quirkless. The lady cleaning the All Might statue shows off the fact that things can be repaired again--that society can be clean (hehe stain pun) again.

It's interesting to me here how Stain offers the information from Tartarus.

He doesn't care anymore about his life. It's evident. He disagrees with what the LoV is doing, but believes enough in Deku to think that it's time for him to retire the mantle of 'Stain'. Unless this is another test, it's very odd for me to hear that Stain is offering a blade and his life to someone he isn't even sure is All Might.

But the impact of this action reads loud and clear.

This is Stain taking pity on All Might. This is him realizing that All Might too is a person behind the hero. That Toshinori Yagi is incapable of doing anything past the image he had already created. By offering that knife and information on Tartarus, Stain is giving control back to Toshinori. He is giving AM the chance to do something big again to help society's reconstruction. To be a part of the revolution that he so badly deserves to see. That knife is essentially an exit ticket from the sidelines, and one last chance for All Might to be able to see what his image has done for people.

I personally think that the main reason Stain is willing to die then and there by Toshinori's hand, despite not being sure that he is All Might to begin with, is because of the final impact it creates that it isn't about Toshinori Yagi's true power as a person, but the image of All Might. It is because he looks like the symbol of peace, that Stain (the literal HERO KILLER) feels comfortable laying his life in his hands and giving away valuable information.

If that isn't a great testament to the power of AM's image, I don't know WHAT is.

I guess all I have to say is I absolutely love what Stain did in this chapter. Everything felt so incredibly symbolic and emotional and as someone who absolutely ADORES All Might and what he stands for in the story, this felt like a cool balm after seeing Deku tragically reject his bento box a good few chapters ago. I have a few more opinions about symbolism, and how I think Deku's generation of heroes is going to stray from the old gen, but I think that's a discussion for another time.

Thanks for reading 'til the end!

[dizzydancingdreamer]

What Am I? | Kol Mikaelson

Hello my lovelies! Am I back doing my thing where I write for three days straight and then go missing for three weeks? Probably! But I’m not one to complain so I’m going to ride out this streak of inspiration for as long as I can! I’m not sure if any of you had the joy to read any of the chaos between @activist-af and I but if you did than you know exactly how I feel about Kol. Perhaps this can be my ode to him. Until next time, all my love <3

Description: Kol finally breaks from all the years of feeling like the bad guy

Pairing: Female!Reader x Kol Mikaelson

Warnings: It’s angsty at the beginning but it’s fine

Word count: 2.6k

Tags: Angst, Fluff

P.S. I strongly recommend listening to Paralyzed by NF while you read this because I had it on a loop the whole time and it really sets the mood

(Pics not mine but mood board is :) )

“Kol, stop!” your lungs are burning, your legs numb from trying to keep up with him.

He storms across the compound, not quite at full speed but fast enough to ensure you have to run to keep up with him. His shoulders are tense, his eyes locked in front of him. You can feel the anger rolling off of him in thick, hot waves. You’re not a vampire by any means but you don’t need super senses to understand how dangerous he is at this moment. Whatever, you don’t care. He’s not going to ignore you, you won’t let him.

“Fuck, Kol!” you grab his arm, tugging with all your strength, “god damnit, stop walking! Talk to me!”

He yanks his arm forward but you don’t let go. Instead your body swings forward with his movements, bringing you closer to him than you’ve been able to get all day. You shake your head. All week would be more accurate. Your best friend has been avoiding you all damn week and you have no idea why. You’re done waiting for him to tell you. If you have to rip away every layer of him to get to the bottom of this, you will.

“Let go of me, y/n,” he continues to stare forward, his jaw tight, “I don’t have time for this.”

You scoff, trying to ignore the way your chest stings, “no time for what, Kol? Me? What on earth is going on?”

He just clenches his jaw tighter, looking to the side. This time your chest feels like it’s being cracked open. You let go of his hand, taking a few steps away from him. You don’t know what the fuck has gotten into him but you don’t like it, not one bit. This isn’t your Kol. Your Kol is sweet. This is a monster. You haven’t ever dared to think of him as such but today, you suppose, his true colors are showing. 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

The silence after your words is deafening but it doesn’t last long, seconds at the most. It’s like a dam breaks in Kol. No, that’s not strong enough. It’s like the tectonic plates inside him shift and it sends a tsunami storming to the surface. He whirls around, a myriad of emotions swirling through his eyes. He takes a step towards you, a darkness you’ve never seen hanging over his features. You take a step back, you're not completely stupid. You have no misconceptions about what’s happening. You’re the beach in this situation, and you’re about to get destroyed. 

“You really want to know who I am?” He takes another step towards you, a tiger on the prowl. 

You raise your chin but still step further away from him. He’s never hurt you before. Hell, he’s never even yelled at you. But today there’s something in his eyes, something dangerous, and you’re only a human. You grit your teeth, feeling much weaker than the front you’re putting on. 

“I know who you are and this isn’t it!” you spit the words at him, hoping they’ll break through the storm that’s clouding his features.

He laughs but it’s dry; humorless. Your heart zaps again. He’s still moving towards you and you’re still moving away from him.  This game of cat and mouse is slowly becoming lethal.

“No, darling, you don’t,” despite the circumstances you can’t stop the way your body sings at his term of endearment, “you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

You take another step back and freeze, your back colliding with the wall. Crap. You hold your arms out towards him but he doesn’t stop, closing the space between you and him even when your hands land on his chest. You can feel the heat rolling off of him through the shirt he’s wearing. He’s like a furnace, lulling you despite the clear threat he poses. You dig your nails into his chest, pushing back with as much fire as you can muster.

“Kol, please, you know that’s not true,” you back your head against the wall, biting your lip at the slight pain, “just talk to me. Please. You’re scaring me.”

You’ve never had to say those words before and you hate them but not as much as you hate the way Kol flinches, like he’s taken a bullet, and backs away from you. He drags a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut. Your breath hitches, your blood running cold. When he opens his eyes they’re glassy. If your chest felt like it was being ripped open before, now it feels like someone reached inside the crack and tore out your heart. 

“I-,” Kol stares into your eyes for a moment before turning away from you, “you need to go. Now. Don’t come back.”

You can’t breathe, you're just stuck, glued to the wall while all the oxygen is sucked from the room. You’re helpless, watching him walk away. Your heart is in his hands but you can’t get it back. You can’t move. You don’t want it back anyway. It means nothing without him. You slide down the wall, your eyes glued to his retreating figure. 

No. You furrow your eyebrows. No, he doesn’t get to walk away from you, not after this long. Who does he think he is? You push yourself up, a wave of red hot something flooding your entire being. It laces your blood with fire, one you’re pretty sure can only be quelled by the man walking away from you. You don’t think, you just go. 

You clear the space between the two of you in seconds, your hands once more wrapping around his arm, “No, you don’t get to walk away like that. You don’t get to leave me, Kol Mikaelson! I won’t let you!” 

He freezes, his body going tense. He doesn’t try and yank his arm out of your grasp again. You stare at him, refusing to look away, afraid that if you do he’ll disappear. He sucks in a breath, swallowing harshly. You watch his adam's apple bob and fight the agonoy eating at your core. Come on Kol, turn around. 

As if hearing your thoughts he spins around, his arm breaking from your grasp. You don’t have time to feel anything from it, though, before he grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. When you do you gasp, a chill running down your spine. His eyes are pitch black, nothing near their usual honey shade, and the skin around them is a sickly purple, dark blue veins running towards his cheeks. 

He sucks in another harsh breath, his nostrils flaring and his chest brushing yours, “do you honestly think that I could ever leave you?” he laughs bitterly, his eyes flitting over your face, “I couldn’t leave you if I tried. But I need to. Don’t you fucking get it? I’m a monster!”

This time it’s you who flinches. You wrap your hands around his arm, clinging to him as his words pour over you. You can’t breathe again but this time it’s a little different. It’s less agony and more breathlessness. You tighten your fingers, trying with everything you have to anchor yourself to him. 

“No you’re not,” you grit your teeth, meeting his harsh stare head on, “you’re not a monster, Kol! You’re so many things but you’re not a monster. You can’t be.”

His grip on your jaw lessens, his shoulders sagging. The black in his eyes begins fading, the veins receding and leaving nothing but his usual dark circles. Your heart clenches at the sight. He clearly hasn’t been sleeping. 

“Yes I am,” he mutters, his voice rough, “all I do is hurt people. Fuck, I’m hurting you right now!” 

You shake your head, trying to push back the flood of tears that suddenly blurs your vision, “No, Kol, you’re not,” your voice is thick, the lump in your throat a mountain, “you could never hurt me. Not in the way you’re thinking. You only hurt me by leaving me. Please, don’t leave me.” 

His hand fully loosens as he slumps to the floor, your words the final push to his crumbling will. He buries his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. He’s crying. You are too, your heart in pieces at the sight of your best friend. The man you love. The best thing you’ve ever had now reduced to his knees. Pain explodes in your chest and your palms sting, an icy burn running up your arms and hitting your heart dead on. 

He lifts his head, revealing bloodshot eyes laced through with hell itself, “I don’t even know who I am anymore. I can’t separate anything in my head. The anger and the hurt, all of it! I can’t remember where I stop and everyone else starts. Who the fuck am I?” His voice cracks and, with it, your heart, “I’m just this fuck up to everyone but I haven’t even had the chance fuck up!” 

Your chest aches desperately for the man at your feet. You know what he’s talking about. A thousand years of life and yet only awake for a fraction of it. That would make any reasonable being crumble and it would take significantly less than a thousand years for most. You don’t know how the hell he does it. You haven’t died once. You’re only supposed to die once. He’s died a hundred times. Oh, Kol. You drop to your knees and pull him against you, crushing him to your chest to the best of your abilities.

“You don’t have to know who you are. I know who you are, Kol, and I’ve always known. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re my best friend. You’ve fought off death, and hunger, and your family. You don’t have to fight me off too!” you run your hands through his hair, pulling his face to meet yours, “you can rest now. You’re mine, Kol Mikaelson, that’s all you need to know.”

It’s surreal, to say the least, telling a vampire who he is. He should know better than anyone. After all, he’s supposed to have had a thousand years to figure out. Your chest squeezes painfully when you think of the years that were stolen from him. You run your fingers over his cheek, your thumb swiping some stray tears. 

He leans his face into your hand and you sag against him, cool relief fighting the fire in your veins. It’s the sweetest feeling you’ve ever experienced. Kol wraps his arms around you, pulling you into him. Even when kneeling he towers over you, curling around you. You can’t stop the sobs from coming and you don’t want to, gripping his shirt painfully. A week's worth of fear and worry pours out of you and he takes it like the rock he is. Maybe you’re the tsunami and he’s the beach after all.

He slips a hand into your hair, tugging gently to make you look at him, “I’m yours?”

His eyes are red rimmed and full of something that makes you ache. His lips swollen and red. His hair, mussed from your hands and his, sticks up at all angles. It doesn’t make him look bad, though. No, it makes him look like a fallen angel. His skin catches the light, a golden hue painting his features, pooling in the circles under his eyes. Your hands tighten on his button down, if that’s possible, and you swallow hard. He’s yours and you aren’t letting him go, not for the next thousand years. 

“Yes,” you nod your head hard, trying to drill into him how , “yes, you are. All mine. Just like me to you. I’m all yours Kol. Every part of me.”

His eyes darken again and the ache intensifies, curling around each nerve in your body and setting everything on fire. He’s no longer an angel. Who are you kidding, he was never one in the first place. He’s always been your demon, the one who crawled straight from hell to be with you. Looking into his eyes, you bite your lip, power surging through your veins. He survived a thousand years only to end up in your arms. His chest rumbles against yours, his hands finding your hips and hauling you into his lap. 

He takes your face in his hand again, a little rougher than before but you don’t care, “all mine. Always mine, do you hear me? I’m not just some short term fling. You’re mine until the end.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, your stomach a ball of white hot need. It’s final, there’s no allusions now, not that there ever was any. You love him. With every fibre of your being you love Kol Mikaelson.

You move your hands to his face, bringing his face down to yours, “Until the end, Kol.”

You smash your lips against his as soon as the words pass your lips, your fingers dragging through his hair. It’s like silk under your fingers and you can’t resist pulling at it. He moans into your mouth, the sexiest sound you’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing, and squeezes your hip with his hand, bolts of lightning zapping straight to your core. You pull his bottom lip between your teeth, biting down hard. He meets each nip with one of his own, running his tongue over your bottom lip. His mouth is like magic, spreading a warmth through each of your bones, one that melds with the inferno raging through your being.

“Darling,” he moans into your mouth again, his arms wrapping around your waist, “fuck, I need you.”

You tie your arms around his neck and cross your ankles around his hips, pressing yourself as close to him as you can get. You can feel the hard plains of his stomach against yours, the heat from his chest seeping against your blazing skin. You crash your lips against his harder, his fingers digging into your hips and pulling incoherent muses from your mouth. You can’t get enough of him, he’s like water. Like oxygen. Without him you would most certainly die. 

 “Then take me, Kol, I’m yours. Please.” 

His answer is a growl, one that sends more of the endless heat pooling in your core. There’s no way he can’t smell you right now. You can smell you. He must be fucking bathing in how much your want him. How much you need him. You run your fingers down his back, clawing at his shirt. He stands suddenly, jostling you against him deliciously. Before you can blink you’re in his bedroom, bouncing against his deep blue comforter. His room smells like him, like nutmeg and cloves, and it hits you hard, intoxicating you with everything Kol. 

He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it quickly to the side before settling over you. You run your fingers up his back, admiring the way his muscles tense under your fingers before pulling him against you. You wrap your legs around his hips, rolling against him hungrily. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his heaving chest. His nose brushes your cheek and you sigh, his lips finding your ear. 

When he speaks his words whisper against your skin, sending toe curling shivers down your spine, “I love you. You hear me? I love you, darling. It’s you and me.”

You arch your chest against him, digging your fingers into his hair and pulling his lips to graze yours, “I love you, Kol Mikaelson. If you ever need to know who you are just remember this. No matter what else, you’re mine,” you press your mouth against his, using your tongue to punctuate the most important words you’ve ever said, “that’s all that matters. Mine.” 

“All fucking yours.”

[capsized-heart]

l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this. 

gif credit to @michonnegrimes​ 

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy. 

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child. 

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother. 

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed. 

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.   

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English. 

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland. 

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin. 

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre. 

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king. 

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to. 

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland. 

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk. 

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey. 

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates. 

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you. 

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey. 

A lick of fire coils up your throat. 

God save the king. 

**

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand. 

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling. 

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose. 

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly. 

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing. 

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other. 

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.  

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels. 

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. 

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance. 

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy. 

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear. 

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal. 

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation. 

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

**

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own. 

You see it all. After all, you are a woman. 

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror. 

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.” 

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”      

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact. 

King Henry IV.     

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly. 

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.     

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air. 

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride. 

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.  

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.  

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you. 

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light. 

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you. 

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”  

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law? 

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls. 

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile. 

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more. 

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue. 

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor. 

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.  

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light. 

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.   

“I thank you, sire.” 

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear. 

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”  

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced. 

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests. 

You leave him burning. 

**

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting. 

 The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria. 

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup. 

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans. 

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor. 

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted. 

Even if it is all a charade. 

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.      

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.  

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.   

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes. 

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs. 

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers. 

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.   

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.     

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek. 

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers. 

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic. 

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip. 

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.  

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat. 

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink. 

**

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily. 

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly. 

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time. 

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

**

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife. 

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil. 

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.  

“King Henry!”

**

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.  

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry. 

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood. 

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker. 

A ball for the boy king.   

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture. 

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm. 

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.    

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise. 

**

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.  

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk. 

You feign surprise and turn.     

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.  

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.  

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize. 

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection. 

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno. 

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear. 

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum. 

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs. 

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming. 

“I thank you, my lord.” 

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?” 

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response. 

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar. 

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

**

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you. 

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game. 

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands. 

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father. 

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.   

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce. 

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely. 

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game. 

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding. 

You are to let him touch you. 

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire. 

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself. 

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.  

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure. 

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth. 

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman. 

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

**

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows. 

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move. 

You only burn brighter.  

**

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase. 

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest. 

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil. 

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval? 

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago. 

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

**

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment. 

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.  

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns. 

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself. 

**

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return. 

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession. 

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England. 

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song. 

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together. 

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room. 

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.” 

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear. 

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.  

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.” 

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis. 

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely. 

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually. 

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening. 

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it. 

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm. 

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...” 

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss. 

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder. 

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed. 

You have the king’s word. 

**

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool. 

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.” 

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries. 

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly. 

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer. 

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.  

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming. 

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races. 

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.” 

**

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger. 

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this. 

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood. 

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

**

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill. 

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling. 

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers. 

Thou shalt not commit adultery. 

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

**

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have. 

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest. 

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl. 

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos. 

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world. 

 The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone. 

 You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world. 

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below. 

[fl1nt-and-st33l]

Bad to Worse to Weird

I am a huge sucker for found family tropes so this AU is probably going to focus on family relationships (bc you know trama). But honestly who knows I'm constantly changing ideas which is part of the reason I don't post anything I write. Oop- anyways this au is going to loosely be based off cannon but obviously it's not hince the au part. This is inspired by @softboy-killua. So please take this un-edited mess. This is also the first time i ever written anything like this so be gentle. 

Techno grunts wrapping his cape tighter around his bloody arm. Was his base always this far away or is the loss of blood finally getting to him. The battle between his brother and his stupid government left him more hurt then he expected. Not to mention the blast from Wilbur's explosion burned the hell out of him. He doesn't care though, he got what he wanted for the time being. He sent a message to whatever is left of l’manburg while also causing a little chaos along the way.  Every war on this server can be compared to many different greek tragedies. Why can't they see this is history repeating itself. Wilbur saw how horrible the government is. Why can't Tommy? 

Techno shakes his head and sits under a tree to rest. He knows stopping is a dumb idea especially out in the open like this but FUCK this armor is so heavy. He peels off what's left of his leggings and wince at the damage to his left leg. He really needs to get home before his leg gets infected. He takes off his helmet and chest plate, putting it in his inventory. He bites his inner cheek trying not to cry out in pain when using his right arm to take off his shoulder pads. The last thing he needs right now is to alert skeletons or zombies hiding under trees. Techno uses the tree to help himself up and continues dragging himself to his base keeping a watchful eye. His vision is blurry and it’ll soon be night but he needs to get to his base. He can already hear endermen spawning in. Fuck he didn't think he’d be this hurt from the fight. Then again he didn't actually think Wilbur was going to blow up the place. Techno curses at himself saying how he should have known and that he should have been prepared. After all, being prepared is what let him survive for this long. He sees his base in the distance and smiles till he feels blood and sweat staining his clothes run down his legs. He's so close he can't let something as pitiful as blood loss kill him now. He dragged his leg behind him opening the door to his base just in time for the sun to set. 

After bandaging up his arm, leg, and stomach (he has no idea how he missed the giant wound on his side) he ate some food he had left in his inventory. He sighed laying on his bed, putting his wounded leg on his pillow. From the looks of the burn marks all over his leg, the wither blast to the arm, his side being cut open, and the vares cuts and stabs from swords and axes he wouldn't be able to do much for a few….weeks. He hisses when he sits up to check the stitches he had to do on his side….looks like it's going to be a few months instead. This is a huge dent in his plans since he can't train properly, cant farm fast, or get any resources at the rate he usually does. He already planned to grind for resources for the next few weeks, but now he can barely walk. He feels himself getting angry and takes a deep breath. This is fine. Just gives him more time to plan and work out a strategy. It's not like L’manburg is going to do anything worthwhile in the next few months. At the most, they’ll maybe have full netherite gear if they focus and Tommy doesn't start another war. Techno tries not to let himself stress over it and lays down to finally get some sleep.

In the middle of the night, there is a loud crash that causes Techno to sit up and grab his sword. He bites his good hand holding back a scream of pain. Great. This is exactly how he wanted to wake up. In pain, barely able to move, and some asshat breaking into a base that took weeks to find the perfect spot for. This is just perfect. With a sudden wave of anger and pure spite for his own body he forced himself to stand up and drag his broken body to where he heard the noise. It seemed to come from the hall where he kept the food storage room and the useless block room. He knew this place like the back of his hand and made sure everything was perfectly organized, almost to the point where there was a separate room for every possible category of item in that world.

 He quietly made his way down the stairs doing his best to hide his grunts of pain going down every step. Once he got close enough he could hear who or whatever it was was inside the useless blocks room. Techno stood next to the room gripping his sword tightly trying to listen for any clue on who it could be. After all, it could be a random zombie or possibly Wilbur coming to make a plan with him to overthrow the government. Once he heard the quiet chittering of an enderman coming from inside the room he let himself relax a bit. He still kept the same alertness but wasn't as worried as before. He felt the adrenaline leave his body as he went to open the door though once he stepped inside he froze. He never freezes; he makes sure of that but this…..this… isn't like what he's seen before. There in the middle of the room sits a scared….boy? He can't tell what it is. It has half black and half white skin running almost perfectly symmetrical from each other on its skin. It has one red and one green eye that Techno only saw for a second before it covered its eyes with its hands. It has the same particles as an enderman floating around it, and it sure as hell sounded like one but it is much too small. 

It removes its hands to look at techno before quickly looking down. Techno grips tighter on his sword till it starts to let out a sound. It began to sound like a mix of a ghast and a child crying. To this day Techno is not sure why he did this but Techno drops his sword and slowly makes his way to it. “Um….hi?” It cries louder but instead of Techno getting annoyed like he usually does in these situations he looks around for something to comfort it. “Um...shit..wait um I'm sorry kid..um let's see um...do you want some cobblestone? Endermen….things like cobblestone right?” It..er the child looks up at him still having tears run down their face. Techno fought against the pain and slowly sat down to be less intimidating. Techno carefully tossed a piece of cobble towards them. The child stares at it and slowly picks it up making gurgling sounds. The crying slowly turns into a slight whimper as the child holds the cobble feeling more comfortable. Techno slowly scoots closer till he is arm's length away. The child now much calmer than before chitters and gurgles playing with the cobblestone. They notice Techno is a lot closer now and offers the cobble back adverting any eye contact at all. Huh...so this night went from worse to weird.

[adventures-in-poly]

0 Posts in 2020

You’d think that I’d have something Very Profound to say about the interactions between the pandemic and poly, but it turns out I haven’t wanted to write about that subject very much at all. I won’t say that the pandemic has sucked all the inspiration from my brain, just that it has shuffled inspiration around in unexpected ways and away from writing.

The pandemic has felt like it’s pressed the pause button on my poly life. My husband (M) can’t go out on dates because OTHER PEOPLE ARE DANGEROUS. I also can’t go out on dates for the same reason, but moreover, I choose not to go on dates because I’m just So Damn Exhausted. I’ve seen my boyfriend (Crow) only three times this year: once before the pandemic and twice since, and that’s only possible because his house has this large porch where we can do social distancing outside. I haven’t kissed him since January and I’ve only hugged him once, masks on and faces turned away, and I held my breath the whole time. I haven’t had sex with anyone in over a year, and I can’t even “blame” that on the pandemic. It’s a choice. Guess I’ve gone full asexual, and I say “guess” because, while asexual is an accurate descriptor, I still don’t feel really great about adopting that as a personal identity. I’m not even upset about the no sex part though. I’m happy about it. My Magic Wand knows exactly what I want and all the nuances of my body and it’s much less painful than skin on skin.

The pandemic is NOT a good thing. It is NOT a good thing that millions of people have died, and it is NOT a good thing that we as a community are touch-starved and relationship-starved and can’t seem to figure our shit out.

That said.

I’m going to be honest. It has felt nice not having to worry, poly-wise. I hate that that’s a thing that I feel, but this blog is and has always meant to be about honesty. It feels like a relief knowing that I am not going to be in a situation where I have to watch my husband drunkenly and sloppily hit on other women at parties that we are meant to both enjoy. It feels like a relief knowing that he isn’t going to tell me, “I’m going to meet someone that I’ve been talking to on Tinder”, that the bomb isn’t going to fall on me. Because that’s what it is. “I came in like a wrecking ball.” The fear that someone else will enter our lives - my life - and I’ll have no control over it, and I’ll hate it, and I’ll lose myself.

I have a lifelong fear of being replaced. Of being “not good enough”. I hesitate to call it a fear of being unlovable, because I’ve never doubted that people love me and like me. I think they do. But the fear is that, when my needs butt up against someone else’s, theirs will always win. As a child, my parents taught me all about caring for other people, being generous, being self sacrificing, being kind. They immigrated to the US from England a few years before I was born, and as a result, I was brought up with a European mindset (others before yourself) in an American environment (look out for number one). And, as a result -- even though my parents were extraordinarily caring, even though I was an only child, even though they were generous with their time and attention, even though I had a very happy childhood -- I somehow learned that I would always be second place. Always the one to sleep on the floor at sleepovers so the guest or the host could get the bed. Always the one to get a boring piece of cake so a louder and therefore more deserving child could get the piece with the flower. Petty shit like that that translated into real adult problems. Just two nights ago, on New Year’s Eve, I had told my husband I’d wanted us to change the sheets, and as I ascended the stairs to bed I forlornly reminded him that we hadn’t changed the sheets - terrified and fully preparing myself to be let down because he was having a good time at an online New Year’s Eve party and of course that meant that my needs would subside. (They didn’t. The world doesn’t work like that. My husband shows me over and over again that my needs are important to him, and yet I Still Never Learn.)

I can say with full honestly that I am no longer really jealous of my boyfriend and his wife anymore. I used to be, a little. I used to be jealous that he would want to visit her at her shift before he came over for dates, or that he’d want to bring her to casual outings with me, or that at any point the two of them could decide they’d want to move back to San Diego and that would be that. I don’t feel those things anymore. I haven’t for a long time. It’s some sort of consequence of she and I becoming legitimate good friends, plus me and my husband moving an hour away, plus just being too damn old and too damn tired to give shits anymore.

Then again, their relationship was never the kind that was going to prick my skin up and put me on guard. I was the new person, not her. I don’t have a complex about older, more established relationships.

But the idea of my husband finding somebody new, even though our relationship is solid? Sends me into chaos. Even now. I wish I could say that it’s changed in the 5 years since we opened things up, but it hasn’t. It hasn’t really at all.

I’d wanted this blog to document my journey from new to seasoned poly, from a jealous wreck to someone who had learned to love herself and meditate through the pain. That’s not what happened. I’m not sure if it’s ever going to happen. My husband hasn’t had enough actual relationships to give me practice experiencing the very discomfort that makes me want to scream until my insides explode out, and the few times it has happened, I felt like I was living in a shock chamber and turning into the kind of person I don’t want to be.

I wanted to evolve, for the sake of my readers, into someone who fully accepts a poly lifestyle. To show that it can be done. No -- to show, specifically, that I could do it, that I could logic and reason my way through all the shit and prove myself to be better than my jealousy. I don’t think that’s what’s going to end up happening. I think it’s no secret at this point that I don’t really love this whole poly thing. I am still actively choosing it, but not always for reasons that I endorse. What if I decided I didn’t want to do it anymore? Would I lose my husband? Would I lose my boyfriend? Could I ethically give up my relationship with my boyfriend to create monogamy with my husband? Could I ethically ask my husband not to go on dates while I still retain my relationship with my boyfriend? It’s all shit, really. None of it is a good outcome. And the pandemic has allowed me to stall my non-decisions for a year because it’s not like we can see other people anyway. And isn’t it great when some external force gives you a reprieve from the things you’re afraid of.

But while the pandemic has put my poly life on pause, it’s put my healing and growth around poly stuff on pause as well. Sure, it feels fucking great on the surface, but it’s not actual growth. I’m not forever in a place where I will feel secure. It’s going to end eventually (vaccinate me, babyyyyyyyy!!!), and the parties will start again, and the dates will start again, and my terrified introvert ass is afraid that everything collectively will swing in the opposite direction super hard. Free love! Casual sex everywhere! Everyone wants to hang out all the time! How could you possibly want to be alone at a time like this! And that fear extends beyond poly stuff and beyond just me and my husband - I’m not ready for the world to become a giant party. I don’t want that world. I don’t want to live in that world but I also don’t want to miss out on the collective bonding experience that is almost sure to come from the end of Covid. So the reprieve I’m feeling now is only surface level great because it’s a pause, not an end, and I don’t feel any more equipped to deal with my jealousy and my social anxiety and my feelings of not being good enough than I did at the beginning of this damn pandemic.

Part of me wishes I could “get over my shit”, and part of me wants to cling onto my shit and defend it. Like why am I the one who has to change, why am I the one who has to evolve, what’s wrong with feeling the way I feel? Why is this a “my shit” thing, like I’m alone and all my problems are caused by my own feelings? Why do other people NeEeEeEeEd to go on dates and have sex. Why does my husband need that. Why am I not good enough. Why is the problem that I feel jealousy and insecurity; why is the problem not that he feels [insert whatever he feels here. unsatisfied? no, that’s not it. incapable of being fully satisfied by a single person? that seems extreme. incapable of surrounding himself with platonic friendships in the way that comes so naturally to me and many of my women friends, and much more able to connect with people he is in a romantic/sexual relationship with, and so needs to create many romantic/sexual relationships to fill that void that otherwise would be filled with friendships - which is not actually something I believe about him, I think he could make really great friendships with the right tools, but is something he’s expressed to me and is also something that’s pretty common around people raised as men? is that too harsh?]

I’m trying to look for a good ending for this post, but, like an explanation for my feelings, I don’t think I’m going to find satisfaction here.

[stevesnailbat]

realizations | steve harrington

REQUESTS USED:

hi love!! could you write a fluffy steve harrington x reader that takes place during season 2? like maybe she stays behind with the kids and steve when the others go to get the mindflayer out of will and seeing steve protect the kids just makes the reader realize she’s in love w/ him. i’ll leave the rest of the plot up to you, don’t feel any pressure to write it if you’re too busy or not inspired! thanks! 🦋💕

hi! could you write steve x fem!reader where she is waiting for him come back from his date and realizes how much she likes him? pls and thank u

warnings: none really?

word count: 2.0K

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Nothing felt okay, but it wasn’t like she could change what was happening. The world felt like it was falling apart as she sped through Hawkins in the dead of night with four kids packed into Billy Hargrove’s Camaro with a very unconscious Steve Harrington in the backseat. Pure chaos had ensued a few hours before, but there had been no time for her to process what was happening until this moment. Her eyes flickered to the rearview mirror occasionally, checking on Dustin as he tended to Steve’s battered face as a sinking feeling settled in her stomach.

What was it that she was feeling? She couldn’t decipher her emotions in the moment, couldn’t understand what the nauseousness she felt every time she looked at Steve actually meant. But there was no time for that, so she distracted herself by staring at the road in front of her.

A few groans came from the backseat and Dustin began to whisper something that she couldn’t decipher from the front seat, but she knew that Steve was waking up. She looked to Lucas, who sat in the passenger seat, to seek some kind of ease, but was only met with the same worried expression that she held. As expected, the boy in the backseat began to panic soon after, voice filled with terror as realization hit him.

She couldn’t focus on what was happening in the backseat as Lucas began to shout nonsense directions her way, telling her to turn into a field instead of onto a road. Still, she did what he said, because she was sure he knew more about the situation than she did. There was a collective scream that echoed through the car as she pulled the sharp left, followed by whines of pain as she brought the car to a halting stop.

Soon enough, they were all piling out of the car and grabbing their things from the trunk of the car. She looked over to Steve, seeing the utterly confused and upset look on his face as she put a bandana over her mouth for protection.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Steve demanded, watching as Mike walked towards the hole that seemed to lead straight to hell. “What are you, deaf? Hello? We are not going down there right now. I made myself clear.”

She looked to Steve once more, noticing each of the kids purposefully ignoring his protests as he grew angrier. There wasn’t much she knew about the situation, but she knew that Steve was only trying to protect them from the demodogs that they had ran into earlier in the day.

“Hey, there’s no chance we’re going into that hole, all right? This ends right now!” he exclaimed once more, only getting a reaction out of Dustin.

“Steve, you’re upset, I get it. But the bottom line is, a party member requires assistance, and it is our duty to provide that assistance.” Dustin explained as Steve narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Now, I know you promised Nance that you would keep us safe. So, keep us safe.”

Begrudgingly, Steve followed them into the hole after pulling a bandana and goggles on. She watched as he dropped into the hole, following close behind him. She nearly tripped as she dropped down, but Steve caught her before she could fall to the vine-covered ground.

“Be careful, alright?” he said to her as he steadied her on her feet, voice muffled by the bandana around his face. “We don’t need you all beat up too, right?”

“Yeah, sorry.” she laughed bitterly, heart fluttering slightly as she could tell he was smiling under all of the protection.

They looked at each other for a fleeting moment, fear and wonder apparent in the air without saying a word. The kids were talking, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying over the sound of her own heartbeat. Sure, Steve had looked at her for longer than a second before, they were best friends for fucks sake. But, there was something hidden in the look that she couldn’t quite understand yet, and she knew she didn’t have the time to comprehend it. Before either of them could say anything to the other, Steve snapped his attention to the kids in front of them who were already navigating through the tunnel.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey, hey, hey, hey. I don’t think so.” he called out, starting towards the front of the group as Mike questioned him. “Any of you little shits die down here, I’m getting the blame. Got it, dipshit? From here on out, I’m leading the way. Come on, let’s go.”

Minutes felt like hours as they trudged through the tunnels, a feeling of dread taking over while watching the kids struggle. The only thing she could seem to think of to distract herself was Steve and how he was leading them to this hub with damn near no fear, like he’d rather himself get hurt than any of the others. After a few minor complications, they reached what they were looking for, the hub. They drenched the area with gasoline, and Steve pulled his lighter from his pocket, flicking the top of it open. His eyes flickered to hers for a moment, full of fear as the flame started in his hands.

“I am in such deep shit.” he scoffed to her, throwing the lighter towards the gas-covered vines.

Steve pushed her and the kids in the other direction, trying to make it to the exit as quickly as possible. The rest of the time in the tunnels went by in an instant, her heart racing at a thousand miles a minute. When they got back to the hole, she nearly fell on top of Steve as she came up, but he caught her again.

“What’d I tell you about being careful?” Steve teased, an exhausted smile on his lips as he pulled his bandana off.

That day came and went slowly, but it was finally over, and that’s all she could ask for. Steve did everything in his power to protect her and the kids that day and she couldn’t get it out of her mind.

Weeks passed and things seemed to be getting back to normal. Her and Steve were back to being just best friends, not partners in fighting other-worldly monsters. They were back to telling each other everything, like the old times. But, something was different. Steve was still coping with losing Nancy during the whole mess, so he was a little more distant than before. She didn’t mind, though. She needed her own time do cope with the fact that life as she knew it had been changed forever. And, she needed her own time to deal with whatever she had felt that night when she saw Steve unconscious in the backseat of the Camaro.

“I think things are finally looking up again.” Steve said confidently to her over the phone one day.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” she asked with genuine curiosity, laughing to herself at Steve’s sudden optimism.

“I got a date for today, with Stacey Adams.” he said matter-of-factly, she could tell he was smiling through the phone, but her heart sunk as he spoke.

“Well that sounds—fun.” she said while cringing, trying to sound happy for him as she spoke. “We’re still having movie night tonight though, right? We always have movie nights on Sunday’s.”

“Of course! I planned it for during the day so I could still come over tonight.” he replied. “But, I gotta go get ready, alright? I’ll see you tonight at 7!”

Before she could respond, the line went dead with a dial tone. She let her hand fall slack, nearly dropping the phone as she did. Putting the phone up, she felt that sinking feeling settle into her stomach once more. The dull ache grew stronger as she moved to lie down on her back and stare at the ceiling.

It wasn’t until she heard Steve say that he was going out with someone else that she realized what she had been so worried about on that night when she saw her unconscious best friend in the backseat. She finally understood that she wanted to be something more than just a best friend to Steve Harrington, she wanted to be his. The sinking feeling in her stomach was heartache and love mixed together, for someone who had never shown any signs of either towards her.

The next five hours were spent by trying to fully comprehend her feelings and how she could tell him—or not tell him—about what was happening. She went back and forth between putting their friendship on the line by confessing everything to him and keeping it all bottled up for the rest of their lives.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a rapid knock on the front door that she recognized immediately, it was Steve. She put on a fake smile as she rushed to the front door, taking deep breaths to compose herself as she opened it. The look on Steve’s face was confusing to her, it wasn’t overly excited or overly upset.

“Hey, how was your date?” she blurted out, almost unable to stop her nosy thoughts as she let him in.

“It was okay.” he shrugged, shuffling into the living room with an unamused expression. “She was boring, all she wanted to do was gossip and I honestly couldn’t care less about any of the shit she was talking about.”

“Sounds like you’re never going to ask her out again, right?” she teased, hope creeping up in her as she spoke.

“Yeah, probably not.” he chuckled, plopping down on the couch. “I just—I don’t know what to expect from girls now, I guess? I have too high of standards, maybe.”

“Your standards are high after dating a girl who dumped you for the guy she told you not to worry about?” she implored, eyes narrowed as Steve rolled his eyes at her.

“No, not because of Nancy.” he sighed, voice wavering as he spoke, as if he was nervous about something.

“Then why do you think they’re so high?” she asked while searching through the TV stand cabinets for a movie, faced away from Steve to save herself from more heartbreak and unable to see him staring at her.

“Because the best person for me has been right in front of me forever, but I didn’t know how to tell her.” he said quickly, making her heart and the movie in her hands drop. “It took me going on a date with Stacey to realize that I’ve been right next to the right girl for me this whole time."

“Steve—“ she started, but couldn’t bring herself to finish as she processed what he had said.

“Yeah?” he said, almost regretting what he had said as she refused to look back at him. “Y’know, actually? Just—Just forget I said that, it was stupid.”

“No, it wasn’t stupid, Steve.” she said softly, finally daring to lock eyes with him; the look on his face was serious but more nervous than she had ever seen.

“You don’t think so?” he asked hopefully, watching as she walked towards the couch carefully.

“As long as you were talking about me, then yes. I don’t think it’s stupid.” she laughed, sitting down next to him. “I think I feel the same. Seeing you with those kids, putting your life on the line them so selflessly and seeing you protect us made me realize what I had been missing out on this whole time.”

“Well, in that case. I can finally do what I’ve been waiting to do all day.” he mumbled, inching his face dangerously close to hers.

There was only a small gap between them as she looked up at him, a smile on his lips as he looked at her lovingly. His lips were soft and the kiss was gentle, nothing like what she expected their first kiss to be like. It was almost calming, how sweet the kiss was. That sinking feeling that had settled in her stomach weeks before was finally all the way gone, she felt like she didn’t have anything to worry about anymore. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she wasn’t supposed to fall in love with her best friend, but it was okay. Everything felt alright now.

tags: @sourapplebaby @harringtown @charmed-asylum @lemonypink @daddystevee @jxnehxpper @a-magey @igotmadskills @heart-eye-harrington @queenofthehairharrington

[mrsalwayswrite]

The Difference Between Champagne and Rum Part 1 (Alfie Solomons x OFC)

So this was a cute one-shot that came to mind that somehow turned into a mini series. I’ll hopefully have the other parts up soonish (once they are written). 

I want to dedicate this piece to the most lovely @evelynshelby​ for inspiring and encouraging me to write an Alfie piece. (Btw, she has her own incredible stories that you should definitely follow.) This is my first time writing a fanfic piece for Peaky Blinders. I have always been too nervous to attempt it. So let me know if you think I did Alfie justice. 

Summary: A young Alfie prepares himself to spend a night in jail. Next thing he know, he is on the run with a blonde angel by his side. Nothing about this night goes as he expected. 

Warnings: Some violence, swearing and racial slurs. Just the usual in Peaky Blinders. :)

Words: 5k

~The Difference Between Champagne and Rum~

Part 1- Saved by an Angel

1911

He knew it. Everyone knew it. Bless her, even his own mother knew it. No matter what the Rabbi said. Alfie Solomons’ soul was damned. He was sinful and that would not be changing anytime soon. He easily picked up and wore that mantle though. For it meant there was food on the table for his family and coal to keep them warm in their dilapidated, shoddy apartment. It also meant his younger brother and sister could stay in school and receive a good education. Plus their mum did not have to work sewing till her fingers bled from dawn until midnight. No, his soul was damned but he did not care. He was the man of the house, had been since the age of nine when his father died, and his family came first.

The first time he saw her…he wondered if he might regret missing heaven and all its beautiful creatures. It would be a shame if all the angels looked like her. Perhaps he could amend his ways…later. 

Blood ran down from the left side corner of his mouth, leaving the tang of copper and dirt on his tongue. The dull ache from his mid ribs told him that he would have bruises there tomorrow. He would have to keep them hidden from his mum. None of the pain affected him though. None of the blood stopped him. In this moment, he was an invincible force of nature. Even the devil himself would refuse to fight him right now.

He glared down at the bleeding, busted man at his feet, the wrath of all his ancestors fueling his rage. “You want to say that again, you fucking wop?”

The man –teenager really- sneered but wisely kept his tongue behind his teeth.

The lad at his feet was only a year older than himself, just barely an adult, but that did not matter. Not here on the dirty streets of London. Not even when the gang of wop lads outnumbered the few Jewish lads walking back to the shitty apartments of their families. Big fucks little. And a certain Jewish lad promised himself to one day be the boss. To never back down from a fight until everyone feared his name and pissed themselves even thinking about fighting him.

Alfie eyed the seven other Italian lads sprawled out in the back alley in various states of injury or restrainment. Two of his own lads looked injured enough but otherwise no one was dead. Returning his intense gaze to the ringleader at his feet, he cracked his bloody knuckles.

“See here. That’s the thing, innit? You think just coz you got them fuckin’ suits and greased hair, you s’better than us. Mmm? S’fucking disgrace, mate. Me little sister can fight better than you lot.”

“Fuck you, Solomons.” The man spat blood onto Alfie’s shoes.

Alfie kicked the downed man. “S’disgusting, Sabini. Mate, you gotta learn to shut your mouth before shit starts fallin’ out, yeah? Now, I’m gonna…”

“STOP THEM! STOP THOSE BOYS!”

He looked up as several whistles blew, alerting him to the coppers running straight towards them. Rapidly he spun around, already seeing the panicked look on a few of his lads’ faces. He guessed these coppers were probably paid off by the Sabini family, so the Italian lads would be seen as the victims or get a slap on the wrists while the Jewish lads would be thrown in jail at least overnight if not a couple of days.

“Ishmael, Natan, get the lads! Get ‘em to the warehouse!” Alfie barked out, eyeing the inevitable situation. He was not afraid. This would not be his first time in handcuffs or in jail. At the rate it was going, probably not his last time either. He would make sure they remembered his name though.  

Fists clenched at his sides, he stood perfectly still, like a statue made from stone- unmoving, unrelenting, fearless and determined. Only his icy stare betrayed the whirlwind of emotions seething underneath his skin. He waited for them. As a predator eyeing the unsuspecting prey approaching, he remained fixed amongst the Italian boys he had just been fighting. To any outsider he appeared Ares, the god of war, his victims laying at his feet.

Once the coppers tried to arrest him, to make him surrender…the whirlwind of fire was released. He attacked, doling out several solid punches to those in uniform. They would never forget his name. They fought back with their batons, meeting his bloodied fists. Red clouded his vision. Moments blurred as he held his own. At one point he laughed, cocky and brash. Youth and vengeance fueling his rage.

Eventually, it took four grown men to slam him on the ground and handcuff him. The rocks and debris scrapped the side of his face. He sputtered as a fresh wave of blood filled his mouth when one of the coppers kicked him in the stomach. Cursing colorfully in Russian, he remained down…for now. From what he could see, it looked like the lads had gotten away. Two coppers were trying to wrestle two different wops down and arrest them also. The rest were pulling the Italian lads up against a nearby wall to assess their injuries.

“Move it, boy.” A gruff voice commanded him, dragging him up and towards a nearby brick building across the alley from the Italian boys. Smart man to separate them. He hit the wall, none to gently, and slide down to sit, his back resting against the coarseness of the brick. It tugged at his coat. Sweat soaked through his shirt underneath with flecks of blood splattered sporadically. Whose blood though was the ultimate question. Through half-hooded lids, he watched the coppers and the Italian lads while resting and assessing his own injuries. His ribs rebelled their current position. At least one or two of his knuckles felt busted. The trickle of pooling blood in his mouth made him think he cut his inner check. A new throbbing came from his temple. He could not remember if someone got a hit in or it was where the force of impact from being slammed to the ground originated. The boss would be fucking livid with him. So would his mum. Honestly, he was unsure which was more terrifying when yelling at him.

Opening his eyes to blink away any sweat and blood trickling down, he shifted slightly, the brick digging into his back. That was when he saw her. An absolute angel on earth. Casually walking, as if for a relaxing stroll in the park, she came closer in that dirty back alley. A copper walked close by her, a hand on her elbow as if to guide her. Alfie would not tear his eyes away from her. Never in his seventeen years had he seen anything he could truly label gorgeous or breath-taking. Yet this creature of light did not waver like a flame or mirage. No, she strolled with her head raised proudly, a pout to her full lips with an almost bored look. Her long, blonde hair glowed under the dingy streetlamps, casting a halo around her face, highlighting her delicate features. What made her stand out even more was the party dress and heels that seemed more appropriate for an aristocratic event or a club than the dank back alley full of blood, sweat and piss. Her dress was purple with a sweetheart neckline, lace just barely covering her exposed shoulders and ending mid-shin. Everything about her screamed wealth and posh. Still he could not hate her. It would be like hating a field of sunflowers or a dazzling morning sunrise. His eyes traced her lithe, feminine form and he swallowed subconsciously. There was no way she was older than him, but her silhouette left no doubt that she was a beautiful woman and not a pretty girl.

Once they got close enough, she softly said something to the officer escorting her then without waiting for a response, strutted towards Alfie. Each step she took in his direction, the dirt, blood and sweat felt amplified on his skin and clothes. He could not move nor speak, his mind having lost all function in her wake.

Friendly-like, as if they had known each other for years, she knelt down at his side. Apparently uncaring of the grime in the alley. Her emerald green eyes sparkled like a priceless gem. Quickly she pulled a handkerchief from her small clutch and tenderly dabbed away the blood at his temple, cheek and mouth. No one had touched him this gently outside of his mother and siblings. Unconsciously he leaned into her touch, the handkerchief against his skin.

“Looks like you were in a right, proper fight. I almost feel sorry for the other guy.”

“Naw, don’t be, love. Those wops asked for it.”

“Did they?” She glanced over her shoulder at the others against the opposite wall of that alley. “What did they do?”

“Looked at me funny, right? Can’t ‘ave none of that.” He was not actually going to tell her the wops started yelling racial slurs across the street at him and his lads and making comments about how their mothers spread their legs for anyone. No, he would play it off.

“Well, serves them right then. Looks like they probably needed some dirt on those clean suits and shoes.” Turning back, she winked at him then continued her cleaning, ignoring the rest of the chaos surrounding them. It truly felt like being in the eye of a storm. Nothing and no one else around mattered. All he could see, feel and sense was the angel before him. Even her touch was delicate as she cleaned up his face. Not once did he wince, but that could just be from his mind unable to focus on anything besides her.

“Are you injured badly?” She asked, keeping her voice low as her eyes found his in the gloom.

“No. ‘M fine.”

“Ever been to jail?”

He definitely was not expecting that question from her. “Yeah…yeah, I have.”

She hummed, seeming unsurprised. “Have fun?”

“Oh yeah, fucking best day of me life. Champagne and dancing to fill the night, yeah?”

She laughed, and in that moment he decided that was his favorite sound on this planet. It was robust and sweet, her head tipped back and eyes crinkled. “Well I would hate to take away that pleasure from you but I was wondering if you wanted to get away. I mean these officers are lovely and all but I would not mind a stroll under the moonlight. What do you think? Want to escort me?”

“Love, I’ll follow you wherever you wanna go, yeah?”

A smile burst forth, brilliant as a supernova and filled Alfie with a fire he had never experienced before. Sure he understood the fire of anger and wrath, it helped fuel him in the fights he got into. This though… this fire seeped deep into him like a brand made on his bones that warmed him from head to toes.

“Cheeky. I’m going to hug you but do not move from that position. Wait for my signal, got it?”

He nodded, mouth dry. What the bloody hell was happening? Wait, he would get her dirty with all the filth on him. Before he could protest, she shifted and wrapped her arms around him, embracing him. The scent of lavender filled his senses, making him subconsciously take a deep breath. Was it a perfume she wore? Was it just infused into her skin? It did not matter, he wanted to drown in her scent and never resurface. Her lips were next to his ear, her breasts pressed against his chest, her warm breath ticking the hairs on his neck. It was too much. This angel, a being of light, was creating quite sinful images in his mind. Awful, beautiful, wicked scenarios that entailed her pearly white skin laid bare beneath him. All the blood in his body rushed south and suddenly he felt lightheaded, unsure if it was her intoxicating scent and proximity or his bodily reaction and blood loss. It felt so wrong. His soul was damned, blackened by his choices. Yet he yearned for her like he never had before for anyone or anything.

Both a moment and an eternity later, he heard a faint click coming from behind him. With that she leaned back, but not before dragging a single finger slowly down his jawline. That simple touch sent shivers down his spine.

“What’s your name?”

“Alfie. Alfie Solomons.”

“I’ll be right back, Alfie. Stay here.”

With an astounding amount of grace, she rose from kneeling next to him. Casually she strolled over to the copper who had guided her initially into the alley. He had been speaking with two other coppers standing near the Italian lads. During their strange interaction, Alfie had actually forgotten about the fucking wops and coppers, too entranced by her. Now looking around he could see some of the coppers walking away with the other lads while others stood around surveying the area. He counted at least six coppers in current view. Four too many to all be informally patrolling together. Did someone tip them off to the fight? Were they waiting? Questions swarmed in his mind. At least the Jewish lads got away. They were lucky this time.

Twisting his hands, he froze. The handcuffs no longer strangled his wrists. Actually they felt loose…a quick shake and they practically fell off. That was what she had done when embracing him? Now a new set of questions swarmed like a crazed flock of pigeons in his mind. How? Why? If anything, his respect for her grew…and his curiosity. This was clearly not her first time getting out of handcuffs. She was an enigma. A posh girl who could break someone out of handcuffs in seconds. Glancing to his left, he noticed her small clutch lay on the ground near him. Was this a sign of trust or manipulation?

Overall his rational mind continued to scream ‘what is happening?’ for nothing about tonight was going as expected.

A couple minutes later, she sashed over to the four Italian lads sitting against the far wall and began chatting with them. One, with a black eye, said something and winked making her giggle shyly. A jealous rage crept upon Alfie. Who the fuck did those wops think they were talking to his angel? They were lucky they were all handcuffed because if even one tried to touch her, he would kill the sod…and make it fucking biblical worthy. He continued to watch with growing ire as she laughed and talked with them for several minutes. It took every ounce of self-control to remain where he was and continue the pretense of being handcuffed still.

Finally, she rubbed one of the lads’ shoulders in farewell while making a comment that caused them to laugh or snicker before she returned to his side.

“Nice fuckin’ chat you have there, yeah? Makin’ new friends?”

She sat on the ground next to him, brushing her hair over her shoulder, it easily reaching her mid-back. “Patience, sweetheart, patience. All part of the plan.”

“Plan, eh? That’s the thing, now, innit? I’m not much for patience. Too restless, me mum says, asking too many questions, yeah.”

“I promise I’ll make it worth your time.” She purred out, a glint in her eyes.

His trousers suddenly felt a little tighter. “Oh yeah? Care to share with the class?”

“Now where is the fun in that?”

“You ain’t gonna get me shot, right? That s’fucking pain and would ruin me night.”

“As long as you can keep up.” She deadpanned then glanced over at the other lads, keeping her voice lowered. “You know these streets?”

“Yeah.”

“At the signal, we run. You can get us away from here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” They sat in poised silence for a long moment. He unashamedly took the time to admire her beside him. She was too clean, too pristine to be from anywhere around here. Hell, it looked like she bathed regularly which honestly was uncommon where he was from. She certainly had weaned at the bosom of wealth and continued to be nurtured by it. So why was she here? Why did the coppers have her? Why was she so desperate to get away from them? “What’s your name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She winked, fiddling with the hemline on her dress.

“Ah, come on, love.”

“I saw you fight the police men.” She abruptly changed topics. “I have never seen anyone fight like that before. I bet you could box in the rings if you wanted.”

“Yeah? Just somethin’ you learn on the streets, right? Not much to it. I’ve always been broader and stronger than most lads, yeah, so I guess it is easier. Me grandfather taught me some.”

“Well, I found it incredible to watch.”

A second later, a commotion had him whipping his head up in time to see the Italian lads leaping up and running down the alley, some faster than others. The coppers immediately started after them, yelling and blowing their whistles. Chaos suddenly ruling the alley.

He guessed that was the signal.

Leaping to his feet and ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs at the movement, he grabbed her hand. Within the span of a heartbeat, they were racing away from the commotion. Adrenaline coursed through him, helping him forget the aches, pain and fatigue from the fights that night. A shout sounded from behind but neither one of their steps faltered. At the end of the alley, still holding her hand, he pulled her left into a different back alley. He kept his ears open for shouts and whistles, eyes open for coppers and any of those wops looking for revenge. He knew this town, these streets like his own name. They were a part of him, as much as his own blood and bones. He both loathed and loved them. They made him who he was. Yet he promised himself to rise above the poverty dragging its inhabitants down. He would rule this place. Fuck anyone who tried to stop him.

After at least ten minutes of running, he pulled her behind a local dress shop. The streetlamps could not pierce the gloom behind the store, making it perfect for hiding out. Plus there was usually a couple boxes laying around to sit on and it did not smell nearly as bad as the butcher shop just down the street. He pushed her against the wall and pressed himself beside her. Both of them gasping for breath, chests heaving. A glance at her surprised him. A brilliant smile shown, illuminating her face. As if sensing his gaze, she turned her head to meet his eyes. He could not help returning the smile.

“Think…we are…safe?” She asked between deep breaths, eyes still locked on his.

“Yeah…yeah. Don’t hear footsteps…besides ours, right?”

“Yeah.” Her smile turned mischievous as her breathing began to even out. “You seemed to know right where to go. I’m suspecting you have done this once or twice.”

“Once or twice. But you, fuckin’ hell. Gettin’ me outta those handcuffs. You do that often?”

“Once or twice.”

He barked out a laugh, shaking his head. This girl, this angel, was nothing like he had ever met before. Standing next to her now, he realized the top of her head just reached his chin, even in those little kitten heels she wore. For some odd reason, that realization made him smile.

“Is St. Mark’s church far from here?”

Raising an eyebrow, he smirked. “That where you’re supposed to be, innit?”

She shoved him, playfully. “Well is it?”

“No, not far. Come on, love. I’ll walk ya there meself. Can’t have you wanderin’ and gettin’ lost, yeah?” He chuckled at her glare before she just rolled her eyes. Pushing off the brick wall, he was surprised when her hand shot out to grab his arm.

“Wait.”

“S’alright? Need to catch your breath?”

Then the completely unexpected happened. He knew to the very marrow of his bones that he would never be the same again.

She roughly tugged him closer before raising up on her toes and pressing her lips against his. Immediately a heat wave shot through him. Without thinking, his body moved on its own accord. He was too focused on the delicious taste of her pouty lips, that entrancing scent of lavender dancing around her, and her body pressed against his. His hands automatically sought out her hips, backing her against the dirty, brick wall to further press himself against her. A slow sweep of her tongue had him open his mouth on a moan which then allowed their tongues to fight for dominance. Her hands moved from his neck upward into his hair, alternating between fisting it to force him closer and scraping his scalp with her nails. Sure he had kissed a couple of girls before, he was a seventeen-year-old hot blooded male. None of those times even came close to this moment. This kiss that would forever ruin him for any other woman. This was heaven in its bliss and hell in its torment. He ached to get closer, to taste more of her, to hear her breathe out his name. With each moment, every touch and continued molding of their lips, she burned further into him, like a drug he would never fully be able to escape.

Finally their lips unlocked, lungs demanding air. Panting with swollen, bruised lips, they stared at one another caught up in the moment of passion and fire. A whole brigade of coppers could have come marching down the alley and he would not have noticed.

“Do this often?”

“Once or twice.” He teased back, his ego inflated at seeing her look as wrecked as he felt. Apparently his kiss and touch affected her just as much as hers did to him.

She laughed, eyes sparkling in the dimness. “Still wanting to escort me?”

“Love, you ain’t gettin’ away from me now.”

Reluctantly he pulled away from her. All he wanted to do was continue kissing her, breathing her in and never let her go. Yet reality demanded something very different. It was obvious she was in a far different class from himself, something he would never achieve. He picked up her clutch that had been dropped on the ground during their snogging. Together, they stepped out of the alley and into the deserted street, heading south towards the church.

“You stopped bleeding.”

“Mmm? Oh yeah.” He touched his temple where there was certainly a cut. “I didn’t get none on you, right? Don’t wanna get any dirt or blood on you, keep you from being all dolled up.”

“I am fine. That stuff never bothered me anyway.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. A posh lady not bothered by blood and dirt? She certainly was turning into a class all of her own…and he did not mind at all.

“What? Stop looking at me like that.”

“You’re the oddest lady I ‘ave ever met.” He teased.

“Excuse you!” She shoved him away, causing him to laugh as he stumbled several steps over dramatically. “See if I ever kiss you again, making fun of me like that. Plain rude is what that is.”

Swiftly moving back to her side, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She refused to meet his eyes until he tipped her chin up with his hand. “Awww…come on, love. I was just teasin’ you a bit is all. I like you. Never been into girls scared of gettin’ their hands dirty meself. End up bein’ too much fuckin’ work, yeah, they are.”

A soft smile graced her lips. “Well, I would hate to be that.”

“Forgive me? I can get down on my knees right here if that’s what you want. I’ll sing a song for you, but you might think a damn cat is dyin’. Probably best if I don’t. Scare you away, yeah.”

She laughed, eyes crinkling. “I forgive you.” She pressed a quick peck to his mouth before sliding out of his arms to continue walking side by side.

“Do I get to learn who you are now?”

“Oh, I am no one interesting. Just a simple lady out on a stroll.”

Scoffing, he nudged her shoulder with his. “That’s the biggest fuckin’ lie I’ve ever ‘eard. A fancy, posh girl like yourself is never a ‘simple lady’, yeah? So, what’s your name?”

“Perhaps I do not want to be her tonight.” She sighed, looking up at the stars as if to distance herself from reality. A feeling Alfie understood all too well. She continued, her voice just a whisper in the night. “Perhaps I want to be someone different…someone else before society forces me to put the mask back on...to pretend for the sake of family and reputation that I am someone I am not. My apologies. I am rambling. It does not matter. Tis not your problem.”

He stopped, moving to stand in front of her. The depth of despair in her words made his heart clench. The whole night she had eluded an aura of authority, confidence and, truthfully, a sex appeal. Now though, whatever wall she protected herself with dropped for a moment. She tried to move around him but he gripped her upper arms gently yet firmly until she looked up at him. Those emerald eyes held him, curiosity and hesitation warring in their depths. Ever so gently he ran a knuckle down her cheek before tracing her lips with the tip of his finger. A piece of his mind imaging their passionate snogging was only a figment of his imagination.

“Look at me, love. You’ll never be a ‘simple lady’ coz you s’fuckin’ something else, right? You can break outta handcuffs faster than most men take a piss. Then you outrun coppers in those kitten heels all while laughing like a fuckin’ lunatic. But hell, maybe all posh ladies are like that where you are from, yeah? Scarin’ the shit outta normal lads but not me, no, love, you’re stuck with me now.”

With a blossoming smile on her lips, his self-control ran out. Bending down slightly, he kissed her. This kiss was slow and soft, a caress of lips and intermingling breaths. He broke it, placing his forehead against hers. “So, who do you wanna be tonight?”

“Either no one of consequence just out enjoying a stroll…”

He snorted. That was him every day.

“…or a king and queen, looking down on our kingdom.”

With a flourish, he bowed, probably not properly in anyway but it made her laugh. Then standing up, he quickly pulled his long black coat off and draped it over her shoulder. The goosebumps and faint shivers had not gone unnoticed while he held her. She giggled, giving him a proper curtsy while wearing his coat as a robe, looking more regal than she should.

“Your majesty, your carriage waits for you.”

Her smile was brighter than the full moon and stars above. Still giggling, she wrapped an arm through his. “My king, you are truly too kind.”

“Naw, that’s what us fuckin’ proper royal people do, yeah?”

They both laughed as they strolled down the darkened, dirty streets. Their conversation steered clear of anything too personal. Both enjoyed this pretend game, being someone else if even just for a little while. They talked about what they would do to make the city better, complained about the particular subjects that annoyed them, how many dogs and horses they each wanted, and where their summer getaway should be. On more than once occasion, they stole kisses from one another, some chaste and some not so much.

Yet like the clock striking midnight and the spell being broken, their time neared its end as they approached St. Mark’s church. Ahead, Alfie could see several cars lined up on the street. Their drivers standing around smoking and talking, waiting for those inside. The cars and drivers screamed wealth, far more than common in Camden Town.

“I can go from here. Thank you for walking me.”

“You sure? I don’t mind none, love.”

She slipped his coat off her shoulders before handing it over. “Thank you, Alfie. This was far more fun than I have had in a long time.”

“Will I see you again?” The words came blurting out without his permission but he did not regret asking. He desperately wanted to see her again.

“I hope so. I truly do.”

“Wait, I still don’t know your name. That’s not quite fair, innit? I mean, when I first saw you, I thought to meself, there, now there’s a fuckin’ angel.” He reached out a hand and twirled a lock of blonde hair around his finger. “Pretty damn sure you’re the most beautiful thing on this fuckin’ earth, yeah? And I’ve seen the ocean before, Margate yeah, but its nothin’ compared to you.” Where the words came from he was unsure but they poured forth on their own. As if knowing their time was over, he wanted her to remember him, even if it was for blubbering like a simpleton. He hoped she would not forget him like he would never forget her.

Taking a step closer, she kissed him once again, cupping his cheeks. “Call me that. I’ll see you around, Alfie. I do not think this is good-bye. Not for us.”

Before he could respond, she twirled around and walked towards the cars, gliding like a phantom from a dream. It did not take long for the men to notice her, one in particular coming to her side. After a minute of talking, he walked next to her up the stairs of the church then disappeared into the light after opening the doors.

Alfie stood rooted in the shadows for longer than necessary. It was foolish to linger, he knew that, but his body felt immobile. His eyes glued to those doors he would never pass through. Finally with a huff and curse, he tugged his coat back on and turned away. His walk home would be long for St. Mark’s was in the opposite direction of his mum’s shit apartment. It was worth it though. With each step, the lingering hint of lavender drifted off his coat. A reminder of the only other person besides himself to wear it. His feet were on autopilot for his mind could not stop ruminating on the blonde beauty with gemstone eyes. An angel on earth.

On the barren street under the moonlight and flickering streetlamps, Alfie prayed for the first time in years. He prayed to see her again. That whatever fate brought them together would not desert them now. He needed her light in the dark world he inhabited. He wanted once again to hold and kiss his angel.

[brokenbones-tellstories]

A summary of fleeting thoughts...

I started writing around six years ago after it was discovered that I didn’t trust anyone enough to use my voice. I had gone through a few months of counseling at that point and had effectively gotten nowhere with it. I didn’t understand why I was allowed to go through all of those sessions in near silence as long as I was at the time. I didn’t quite get how my counselor would let me just do my own thing and continue to kick his ass at every card game he taught me, but there I was.  For six months I carefully assessed the situation I was in. For six months I worked to decide whether or not he could be trusted with knowing how complicated my life was at home.  Honestly I hadn’t really decided if what I was facing at home was even worth talking about. I was dealing with so much psychological chaos I thought I was making most of it up and was crazy. Living with an emotionally abusive narcissist will do that to you.  I don’t remember what broke me. I don’t remember what made me finally release all of my demons out into the great wide world. I just remember that it happened on the family computer in the form of a 16 page email at 12:00 midnight at sixteen years old. I clicked send, and carried my tired and aching self off to bed and promptly forgot everything I said.  We never spoke of the details of the email. I can’t find it in the archive of emails I saved from that time either. It’s the only one missing. Somehow my counselor knew It would be a great while before I was ready to vocalize everything I sent that night, if I was ever ready at all.  Instead we wrote my treatment plan.  I was to keep a journal every single day, even if I only wrote a few words at a time. I was supposed to show him that I was using it to get everything that was in me, out. I didn’t have to disclose anything it said, I simply just had to prove that I was saying something. There was a day that I just wrote “Fuck” over and over again until my hands ached and I forgot why I was even sitting at my desk. I guess it was therapeutic in its own way.  I never ran out of words, until one day, I did. I was always told that it’s easiest to write from a place of heartbreak and pain. For some reason it feels like there’s so much to say. When your heart is broken, it seems that if you could just find the right way to arrange the words you never spoke maybe they could bring back the thing that you lost. Maybe there was some perfect arrangement that could make sense of everything that was wrong in the world. Maybe if I tried hard enough, my words would be enough to fix everything left broken. Maybe my words could stitch my tired and shattered heart back together. They never did, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t try again and again and again and again and again.

I wrote my best works from a place of brokenness, loneliness, and despair. I was always so eloquent and poetic in the midst of my worst days. It’s really a shame I’m happy these days. _______________________________________________________ Do you ever hear a song that is so beautiful it stops you in your tracks and you can do nothing but close your eyes and listen? A song composed in such a way that not memorizing every harmony, every instrument, key change, and voice within it seems like the worst kind of betrayal and disservice to the masterpiece it is?  “Wolves of the Revolution” -The Arcadian Wild ________________________________________________________ When I was a freshman, we drew self portraits in art class.  I wrote the sheet music to “Gotta Be Somebody” by Nickleback in the background of mine. “Nobody wants to go it on their own. Everyone wants to know they’re not alone. There’s gotta be someone who feels the same somewhere. There’s gotta be somebody for me out there...”

Hang in there 15 year old me, you’ll find him someday and trust me, he’s wonderful. _________________________________________________________ Every time I get the inspiration to add to this I get distracted and end up doing something else. _________________________________________________________ The weather is doing that thing today.  That perfect golden sunset thing. The mid 70′s, gorgeous, breezy evening thing. The “open all of the windows” and marvel at the world kind of thing. The “could’ve been in an 80 movies” thing The burn my bridges thing. The September thing. These memories hold me captive. __________________________________________________________ Sometimes I stand in my driveway and I can almost feel you standing there with me. Hard to believe how far nearly five years can take you. ____________________________________________________________ I sat on the counter in my kitchen at 3:00 this morning with a bottle of water in my hands and a stupid grin on my face. Do you remember standing here with me?  Do you remember when I called you my best friend? _____________________________________________________________ Sometimes I can still hear you telling me not to smile. I still smile. I’ll never look at paperclips the same again. What did you ever do with that key? Love is patient and love is kind.... ______________________________________________________________ D E S T I N Y From the top of a ferris wheel I saw my entire future spread out before me. Would you believe that I still haven’t changed my mind? People come and go, but my destination has always remained the same. “One short day in the Emerald City....” _________________________________________________________________ When I was little, my great grandmother had a small collection of carousel horses on top of her dresser. Some were music boxes. She’d take them down from time to time and let me wind them up. I was always drawn to them.  When I was eleven, my dad bought a house with my stepmom. They hung a picture in my room that contained a poem called “The Carousel.” I took the picture down when I was senior in high school, but I still know the poem by heart. The very first show I got to see on broadway was Finding Neverland. Peter Pan was my favorite story as a child and I was struggling quite hard with the reality of embracing adulthood. It was fitting. My favorite song from the musical is called Circus of Your Mind which, of course closely mimics the turning of a carousel. “The carousel never stops turning.” ________________________________________________________________ When I was seventeen I dated someone who’s family had a lot of money. There was a weekend that we went to Universal Studios just because we could. I sat down on the floor of our hotel room and cried because of how beautiful the hotel was and because I thought that I didn’t deserve to be in a place like that.  I never grew up with much. I didn’t really ever go without, but in comparison to those around me, I knew we lacked a lot. As the months went on, I grew accustomed to the freedom to do what we wanted when we wanted to do it. I got to a point where I just expected things and appreciated little. I was so selfish. Aside from the obvious personal struggles I had with my relationship, my selfishness was the reason I left.  I didn’t want to be entitled. I didn’t like what money did to me. I didn’t like that I expected everything and took so much for granted. I didn’t like the person I had become. There is a reason I hate asking for help. A reason I work myself into complete exhaustion.  I don’t want to ever “Expect” anything to be given to me. I want to earn it. I want to work for it. I want to appreciate the time and effort that it takes to obtain the things that mean most to me.  I don’t really talk about it much, but I am ashamed of who I was during that brief time and I’ve worked so hard to reverse it. _________________________________________________________________ I make no apologies for how I chose to repair what you left broken. __________________________________________________________________ When you start loving someone new You laugh at the indecisiveness of love Remember when you were sure The last one was the one And now here you are redefining the one all over again -a fresh love is a gift Rupi Kaur _________________________________________________________________ The first time I saw him after we broke up was nearly eight months after the fact. I only caught a glimpse of him, yet it was enough to send myself into a complete panic. I’m not really sure what it was about being in the same room with him that day. I don’t know what caused me to cry and shake as if the world was coming to an end right in front of my eyes. I was in a room of hundreds. We hadn’t spoken in months. There was no way he would have recognized me.  I dressed differently.  I carried myself differently.  I was stronger. I was confident and outspoken. No longer submissive, but entirely independent; a stranger to him. So why did my knees give way beneath me?  What power did he have over me and why did I ever give him that authority? _____________________________________________________________________ It has been six years and I still shudder at the thought of that one night in February. Would I have given myself away so easily to so many had I never given in to you? ______________________________________________________________ How many things will you hit How many things will you throw How many times will you scream at nothing before nothing becomes something How long before that something is me? ___________________________________________________________________ “I don’t miss you, I just wish you were a better man.”

[delightful-mystery]

Grief in Gold and Grey

In times like these, I always turn to music. I am incredibly lucky that my favourite band, Baroness, released an album so exquisite, so meaningful – that I am able to use it to guide me through these months following the death of my father. There will obviously be triggering passages in this blog post so I won’t hold it against you if you don’t want to read it. There will also be lots of nerd-ing out about Baroness in a way that only a fan can do, so if you aren’t familiar with their music a lot of this might go over your head (I do recommend listening to them though, even if metal isn’t your thing). Quotes and facts are taken from Kerrang!’s track-by-track guide to the album, which featured lead singer John Dyer Baizley talking us through the album. I’m not going to apologise for being a massive music nerd, but I will warn you that it’s coming.

The album I am talking about is Gold & Grey, the last in Baroness’ line of colour-wheel-themed albums. These colours immediately to me seem to conjure up the season of Autumn and the changing of leaves, misty mornings and cups of coffee. I put on this album, beginning to end, one morning when I was set on some productive self-care. I had just changed my bedsheets, was wearing a cosy jumper and drinking coffee. I also had new pants on, which isn’t essential but damn does it feel good.

These are some of the musings I had whilst listening to this album. At the time of writing, I’m not one hundred percent sure I even want to publish this, but if I’m going to write about my dad dying, then using music as a way to break down conscious barriers and inspire creativity seems like a good way to go about it. So here follows a track-by-track breakdown of my favourite Baroness album, mixed in with some thoughts about grief, and how this album helped me to make sense of (at least some of) it.

It’s a cosy album, as far as sludge metal can be described as “cosy”. It is, I would argue very strongly, the best Baroness album to date. I felt slightly underwhelmed on the first listen, but honestly, with Baroness, you always have to give each record at least three listens to even begin to unpack everything. I think the proper turning point was when I put it on whilst going on a run, and ended up listening to ‘I’d Do Anything’ at the top of the hill outside Alexandra Palace, having just run 10k, sobbing my eyes out as I looked over London. I would also definitely recommend listening to this album whilst running, or maybe meditating.

The album opens with ‘Front Towards Enemy’, which I actually think is probably the weakest song on the album (that being said, it’s still pretty great). It’s classic sludgy Baroness, with tuned down guitar strings “as low as it would go” but also contains notes of r ‘n’ b, soul and has quite a pop-y chorus. It signalled to me that this album was going to be the start of a very different sound for Baroness, and bring in lots of different elements. Which the rest of the album definitely did. What I have noticed on subsequent listens is that the harmonies of the ‘Anchor’ duo – ‘Anchor’s Lament’ and ‘Throw me an Anchor’ – are repeated and reflected all over the album, and do a really good job of knitting the album together in a way I don’t think Purple ever properly achieved, or at least not to the extent I would expect from a band such as Baroness. It’s these harmonies which first begin the record, and they are beautiful.

‘I’m Already Gone’ is a more simplified song, but still so beautiful. There was a lot of improvisation done on this album. So much so that Baizley has said he’s not sure if he will ever be able to fully recreate the guitar part properly. There are so many colours mentioned in this album; this song makes use of black and green as well as “golden at the seams”. I’m not going to try to understand what John actually meant but for me it kind of sounds like inevitability. It’s a very dark song lyrically, so I don’t feel like I’m stretching by projecting my own experiences of looking death in the fucking face over the last four years of my dad’s illness onto this track. 

When ‘Seasons’ was released as the second single, prior to the album, but after ‘Borderlines’, I did a double-take looking at my speaker. I literally stopped whatever it was I was doing just to stare, open-mouthed at the noise coming from the video I had just put on to play. I was so confused. Baroness are doing blast beats now? And is that…? I mean, that drum groove sounds an awful lot like drum ‘n’ bass to me. I mean, I loved it straight away but it was so different. This is the track which made me so damn excited for this album to come out. Also, “we bend, we break /  we burn, but we survive” is but one lyric in a song all about seasons coming and going, and the constant flow of emotions and states of being. This too shall pass.

The first of the instrumental/interlude tracks on the album, ‘Sevens’ is an ethereal melding of different piano parts written and performed by bassist Nick Jost. It’s a perfect moment of calm in an album of chaos and it sounds to me like an understanding, a recognition of pain and a comforting answer to it. It also sounds like Steve Reich.

‘Tourniquet’ is such a stand out track. The bassline is the sweetest thing I’ve heard in a long time and I think Nick Jost did such a great job on this album as a whole, but this song is fully his. The end of the song reflects ‘Assault on East Falls’ as well – like these themes were all established in our collective subconscious in the first half of the album before being fully expanded on in the second half. It’s an album of chaos which is straightened out more and more on subsequent listens, if you only have the patience and concentration to allow the band to take you on this journey with them. Anyway, this song was such a solid choice for a single. It’s the epitome of the “cosy metal” I was talking about earlier. In the interviews with the band for their YouTube channel, Jost is sitting on a rocking chair on his porch, all bundled up in jumpers and drinking a cup of coffee, which is how this song should be listened to, in my opinion. Fun fact; to create the final chord of the song, Baizley set up a circle of amplifiers, the band stood in the middle wearing different animal masks and then played the chord for about ten minutes. They used some of it on the record, overlaid with the minimal effects found later on ‘Assault on East Falls’.

The Anchor… duo? Suite? I don’t know what to call it but there are two songs that go together next – ‘Anchor’s Lament’ and ‘Throw me an Anchor’. These are two songs I get completely lost in when I listen to them. I feel like the screams of ‘Throw me an Anchor’ are expelling my own rage and confusion, and it’s a perfect example of a time that I feel like the songs on this record are there to catch me. ‘Throw me an Anchor’ was another moment that I did a double-take (but like… with my ears?) when I first heard it. The intro is just so heavy. It’s the start of Side B. The chorus is pretty anthemic, but towards the end of the song, it just descends into this really primal screaming, which is something I really appreciate.

I find ‘I’d Do Anything’ quite a difficult song to listen to, since it’s just so vulnerable and heartfelt. The vocals are very exposed with just an echoey piano bassline and some strings to accompany them. It’s the first time we can properly hear John and newcomer Gina singing together in such an intimate way. I can’t get over how perfect this pairing is. They play guitar together as if they’ve spent a whole lifetime dueting. In one interview, they spoke about playing their parts simultaneously and recording live, so that if one of them messed up they’d have to start again. They also recorded whilst standing back to back, meaning that they had to put the maximum amount of trust in the other person in order to play the song. ‘I’d Do Anything’ has more dark lyrics and it’s a good one to put on if you fancy a bit of a cry.

‘Blankets of Ash’ is just a weird soundscape really. It’s a guitar part, a spoken word passage mixed so it’s completely incoherent, the noise of a thunderstorm and a massive bass drop with some haunting wordless vocals over the top. It’s bizarre and experimental and it totally works and I love it.

Gold & Grey album cover, designed by John Dyer Baizley. Seriously, cover me in tattoos of this man’s artwork, please.

This next song is an understated favourite. ‘Emmett – Radiating Light’ is just so gorgeously weird. Recorded in part in a cabin in the middle of the woods with crickets chirping in the early hours of the morning, Baizley has said that this is one of a number of songs on the record that he can’t actually play the guitar part for. This is a song which speaks to me as it discusses feeling displaced. “Where I’m supposed to be / Is no longer the place for me,” is a good lyric, but it’s the truly nihilistic “This blood upon my hands / Bruises on my knees / Don’t belong to me” which really resonates with me. A lot of the time right now, things don’t feel real. I have been on and off of autopilot for weeks. It’s really weird. But the song does offer some hope, as the narrator is still “… in a shower / Of radiating light / But not where I belong.” To me, it kind of sounds like there is beauty to be found in this sense of displacement, in this bizarre in-between state. And that I can let my emotions wash over me, because I am held by their beauty. It’s a really great song. 

‘Cold-Blooded Angels’ is arguably the best song on the album. It travels through so many different emotions on its way to a classic Baroness trope of totally upturning all expectations of where the song was going and changing completely for the last minute or so (see also: ‘Chlorine and Wine’, ‘Psalms Alive’, etc.) It marks the end of Side B and really sees it off in style. I think about death a lot these days, and it terrifies me. Not the fact that I could die, but that, a few weeks ago, my dad just… stopped Being. I think it’s a pretty normal thing to fixate on, given the circumstances. This song also kind of puts that into words for me – the fact that I have been so scared of so many things in my life (growing up with crippling anxiety/depression/dodgy health from a very young age) and just wasted so much time being wary of everything when what is really scary is right here and now, just around the corner. 

‘Crooked Mile’ and ‘Broken Halo’ also kind of go together. The first song bleeds into the next with this weird, jazzy and somewhat atonal mood. ‘Broken Halo’ introduces lyrics and is the most obvious mention of the album’s name, with Baizley bellowing “GOLD AND GREY”. It’s quite a straightforward song compared to most of the other ones on the album. With “I would do anything to feel like I’m on fire again,” it also mirrors a lot of the other lyrical content of the album. It also says “I will hold your broken halo” which to me just sounds really reassuring. I think Gina’s harmonies are also really great on this track.

The chaotic acid freak out of ‘Can Oscura’ is a good way of describing how I feel in the middle of this mess – like someone has pulled several carpets out from under my feet. I feel very small and lost in the middle of this massive event, and confused. 

He’s so good

‘Borderlines’ is the song that won me back over after the disappointment of Purple. Not that Purple was bad at all – it gave us ‘Chlorine and Wine’, one of Baroness’ best songs to date. It just felt like it was more a collection of tracks than a coherent album to me. I guess that makes sense for their first album following the devastating bus crash; that it would be the auditory version of an open wound, but as soon as I heard ‘Borderlines’ I was immediately much more on board. This is the first time we hear Gina feature on a Baroness record as well, and I was so excited to hear her additions to this song. It signalled the beginning of a new chapter, a more cohesive album than Purple, and one which sounds to me like beginning to heal.

The minimalist ‘Assault on East Falls’ is a piece which has been hinted at throughout the album. Here, we get the whole piece in all its glory. It’s an interesting place to put the final interlude song but it’s a really nice set up for the final song, which is another of my album favourites.

‘Pale Sun’ is the last song on the album. It might also be my favourite. It’s bizarre and ghostly and mixes up rhythms in a really unsettling way. Gina comes into her own here too, with ethereal vocals as well as her usual outstanding guitar playing. I’m so glad she’s in this band. It’s an interesting choice to end the album on, but to me it sounds defiant above all else – yes there is darkness and yes it is close and terrifying and everywhere but I will continue on, despite it all, damn it. Even when the sun sinks.

Thanks guys <3

from Grief in Gold and Grey

[redscullyrevival]

Fool’s Fate: The Tawny Man Rundown

@sonnetscrewdriver I’ve moved on to Dragon Keeper!

Plot/Setting/Narrative

Jesus

Okay

Holy shit???

I need a moment

Alright, so lets start easy

Being the Age of Sail nerdo I am this book’s voage bits were amusing and then a bit dissapointing; an apprecaition of sailing and living the sailor LifeStyle isn’t really a Six Duchies thing it seems, huh?

I was SO excited with getting a glimpse of my precious Bingtown babies in the last book that I was stoked for a high sea adventure in this book but wah waah mostly it was sea sickness and brooding 

Honestly I let myself down because this is a Fitz story and, well, how else would the sea be depicted?! LOL 

Poor Thick

Poor everyone for the most part, yikes

Farseer had a lot of mystery to it, a lot of slow burn world building/concept reveal with answers eventually given; Liveship Traders showed it’s cards on the table for the most part but thrived of the suspense of all the threads coming together or possibly unraveling; Tawny Man is the first series where I understood events before the characters did, the results of which made the series much more subdude than the last two. 

Not in a bad way, just, ya know, different. 

“Life Is Change” is very obviously the big overarching connecting theme between the Realm of the Elderling series and I only have praise for the fact each series has it’s own distinct tone and approach to the same (and shared) characters - it’d be a hallow utterance if the book narratives themselves did not change and grow series to series. 

The change in Tawny Man is big; it’s big for the narrative space and it’s big for Fitz and it’s big for the reader.

And you can accept the change or reject it, that’s a option we as the reader has.

I choose to embrace it.

But oh man, oh my god, I will miss The Fool. I’ll miss “Fitz and The Fool” as a unit. I know there is a new series and I’ll get to it eventually but I’ve got four Rain Wild books (YAY!) before I come back to Fitz and his part of the map so this is a solid goodbye for a while and it feels odd to part with them in the place we do.

Odd, but new. 

I’m talkin’ out my butt - I’m a little sad okay?! But I’m happy too. 

And I think that’s what this book was going for; a kind of reaffirmation that life and change is hurt and happiness and a lot of effort went into guiding readers through feeling that message as well as understanding it on an informative level.  

Ultimately I enjoyed Tawny Man more than Farseer, it’s just much more my-type-of-story. 

I never really agreed with/bought into Fitz’s choices within much of the Farseer Trilogy. I understood Fitz’s logic of course, so his choosing to let expel his pain and hide away (and all the other choices along the way) were not make or break issues for me; there is much to enjoy simply being along for the ride.

But with Tawny Man it was very satisfying for me to see Fitz come back again and again to his past decisions and not cast them off as impervious to change or impossible to face. 

That’s a beautiful message.  

I embrace that message very much in my mind and I will try to embrace it within my own life as well. 

And this isn’t relevant to anything but a little thing I’d like to preserve for my own amusement: This was the first book I’ve ever read on a Kindle! Lee got me one for my birthday for my “Year of Book” project. It took a little time get use to but once I adjusted I really enjoyed it - particularly the fact that if you are reading a borrowed book from an online library it shows you what others have highlighted as they read! I found that very interesting and I enjoyed highlighting my own favorite bits (which, not shockingly, coincided with many other people’s favorite bits).

For Rain Wild Chronicles I may start a new section for these write ups where I relay some of my highlighted sections, ‘cause why not? These are already long and useless, might as well really own them. 

Fitz

I know there is a lot we could talk about when it comes to Fitz in this book 

But I kinda already covered him in the setting/plot/narrative section above

And I really just want to let anyone bothering to read this know that I’ve never liked Fitz more then when he cleaned up and donned fancy Jamaillian digs and walked into Molly’s family chaos to tell a grieving family he is FitzChivalry Farseer and he’s gonna look after them.

I was shocked and horrified and thrilled and laughing

Fitz truly changed! It wasn’t just description of his inner change (although that was lovely, good for The Fool, thank you Fool) but the end of the book drags a bit as it does so as to allow Fitz to act on this inner change - which is something I’ll never hold against Hobb. 

So many books end quickly after their narrative climax but Hobb likes a good post cuddle and god bless her for it. 

Cutting a story off after the final movements have played is dramatic and can help events stand out as an experience in an audiences mind; but there is unique pleasure in seeing the individuals of an orchestra pack up their belongings and shuffle out isn’t there? There is a true affection for humanity’s relentless plodding along in those final chapters. Fine by me. 

The Fool

): 

So I freaked out towards the end there, ya know? 

And much like with when it happened to Fitz, a part of me thought it a cruel thing to do, to bring someone that far gone and that brutalized back.

I understood the thematic ouroboros of The Fool’s return and as a fan it was a relief of sorts but there is still that small part of me that found it cruel all the same.

I’m floored with how moved I was by the aftermath of the Fool’s death. Fitz’s quest to find the body and then to restore dignity to his friend - that was some rough stuff. 

It wasn’t “true grief” like with Nighteyes (for me anyways) but rather a form of anticipatory mourning, but in reverse? Hard to explain.

The point is yes, I cried.  

Oh oh oh how I hope The Fool can learn to manage in a world they can’t see into or shape. I hope to see the Fool again after visiting the Rain Wilds. 

Hap

lol

fuckin’ Hap

I love this idiot 

I love how all around Hap epic and fantastical things happen and his story is just him coming of age and figuring his shit out

Good for him

Does he know who Fitz really is though?! This was never addressed?! 

Prince Dutiful

Dutiful cracks me up

I love how he’ll go into PRINCE MODE and be near perfect Sacrifice and royal and awe inspiring 

then he laughs at boogers

Dutiful is hilarious to me, how I see him switch back and forth between mature young prince to out-of-his-depth-survivor brought me much joy

I love his friendship with Thick; I love how he falls for Elliania’s transparent baiting; I love how he’d be cool outwardly but skill “WTF is happening?!?”

What a joy! 

Chad

In the last book Chad really slipped through my fingers but now we’re back to our normal rocky relationship.

I like Chad

but then I don’t

And I think, finally, I’m okay with that duality 

Thick

My sweet little man

Everything about Thick is my favorite thing

I especially love how he is often described as being bored

Discussing intrigue and espionage and dragons? BORED 

Hahaha!

No wonder he and Nettle get along so well

I especially loved how he decided, for himself, to stay with Fitz on  Aslevjal

I’m excited to come back and hear more, learn more, about Thick

Nettle

I wouldn’t wanna be on Nettle’s shit list, would you?

What a storm of a person!

Nettle isn’t very defined still, she is a bit reactionary and never quite gets totally fleshed out by the end of the book. 

Which is a bit of a shame.

But! Nettle of the Dream World is a different story. 

She feels much more defined there and I dunno, maybe that’s intentional?

I like her but I’d have to spend a lot more time with her in the solid narrative space rather than the abstract dream/skill narrative space to really have opinions or emotions over her as her own character rather than her as a character and how she relates/involves/moves Fitz, Burrich, Molly, or Thick.  

Elliania

Elliania has a similar disadvantage as Nettle does but at the same time she still has more definition (to me) then Nettle; her motivation and actions are followable and her personality is filled in with Outisland society.

And she ain’t afraid to smack a bitch up with her titties out.

So she gets some mad bonus points right there.

I really felt for Elliania’s struggle and she totally won me over in the scene where she comes up from inside the Pale Woman’s domain dragging her forged sister and mother with her.

One of those scenes where the grandure, emotion, and awe of it all was very powerful

loved it, love her

Web

YEAH

Don’t need permission to do what’s right - fuck yeah

Web’s the friggin’ best guys

I want a spin-off of him teaching Old Blood children and Fitz

Swift

This little shit

I love him, I love all of Molly and Burrich’s wild children, but Swift gave me anxiety lol

I’m actually really intrigued by Swift but he’s too brief and wild at the moment, I hope he mellows out a bit but still keeps that confrontational fire and uses it for good

Burrich

NO. 

God

Damn

It

When my man showed up on Aslevjal I was shocked

I was so mad 

I was also very happy of course but ughgughgu

I WAS CONFLICTED and had good right to be

Oh this man, I really adore Burrich even though he is a flawed person - that’s what is so compelling about him though.

We kept learning things about and from Burrich up until the very end. 

I’ll miss you, Heart of the Pack.

Molly

I’m devastated for Molly

I’m Happy for Molly 

I’m very pro-Molly in general even though she is a bit vague

Like, she is more than just a plot device but not by a whole lot, ya know? 

What I wanna do though is sit her down and have a real heart to heart; ask her if she really thinks Fitz will ever be truly free himself of his duty, from his duty to the Farseers or from his own idea of honor.

That man is going to leave off on some quest or some shit you know it, I know it, she must know it! 

Be safe Molly, but happy, but alert

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Smile

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: MAJOR ANGST, TRIGGERS, tiny bit of fluff, terrible writing

Summary: At this point idefk

Word Count: 1.6K

Prompt/ Challenge/ Host: This is for the 1K celebration challenge of @jpadjackles​ (here is the original post) My Prompt was “Smile” by R5 

Majorly inspired by this: Hereisavideo (please watch it if you’re interested in the subject. It’s a good friggin speech)

A/N: I am so not happy with this. I pressured myself to do it because I had no inspiration up until like 4-5 days earlier but when I attempted to make my idea work it didn’t. I have no time to re-make this and I’m afraid it doesn’t really serve the prompt. I’m so sorry for this. Also sorry for the angst. IT’s been a rough couple of days. This A/n is too long. Have some pain:

Two hundred and fifty three days earlier

It felt strange to have control over my life for once. Liberating. Knowing it was my choice and my choice only if it was to end. It was my choice if I would let the railing go, my choice if I would close my eyes and become one with the ground, my choice if I would give up or hold on, keep going. In that moment I was the one calling the shots. I was the one that decided. And I loved it.

The railing was cold and sharp, the rust scratching my skin. My arms were holding on, slowly stretching to only my fingers while the wind slapped my cheeks violently. I shivered furiously at the freezing bite of air through my thin choice of clothing and the metal pressing up against my back.

Everything felt numb.

My heartbeat was surprisingly slow and my mind surprisingly still. When I had thought over this moment again and again, multiple times in the past, I believed the thoughts in my head would be screaming and howling, running around and scratching the inside of my skull. But they weren’t.

Below the overpass was, fifty or so feet down, a rusty chain-linked fence topped with three strings of barbed wire. So the only thing I was thinking with my collapsing perception was how far out I had to jump so I won’t fall on the fence ‘cause I just didn’t want anything to hurt anymore.

Should I hang in there for just one more day?

It always comes to that, doesn’t it? That one sliver of hope, etched inside of me. For what? To be the crazy one? I’ve held on for this long, why would I keep trying what hasn’t been working? But what if my chance is tomorrow? What if tomorrow is the day that I escape from this turmoil?

Having agency over my life for a change was a satisfying feeling. So I stood there, with my eyes closed, and drowned in it.

I can’t tell you how long I stayed there.

What I can tell you is that, at some point flashing lights appeared from my right, and that’s where my decision was made.

Slowly my arms became weightless. I felt them lift up and my body torturously, at a snail’s pace, tip forward. The air wafted past my limbs and blew through my hair. It felt good. It felt free. I tilted further.

Suddenly, a strong arm pulled me back on the railing.

One hundred and ninety four days earlier

“DEAN!” I screamed, squirming around.

“I can’t hear ya sweetheart” he smirked evilly and straddled my legs. “You gonna give in yet?” He let his fingers dance along my clothed belly

“NEVER!” I laughed, trying to push the asshole off of me.

“Whatever you say” He shrugged and continued torturing me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pry them off and he knew it. I was no match in strength with the cocky bastard.

“OKAY, okay!” He paused and looked at me expectantly. His fingers lingered on my sides, a subtle threat. “I mean you’re eh looking” I smirked. He started, once again, tickling me, making me scream in laughter and try to wiggle away from him. It didn’t work. “FINE, FINE, YOU’RE HOT AS FUCK”I yelled and he stopped, laughing at me

“I knew you had the hots for me” Even his eyes were laughing and I freaking loved it. The way they crinkled in the corners when he was grinning at me or his brother.

We stayed like that for God knows how long, simply staring at each other. I think Dean started leaning towards me at some point, but I didn’t pay attention to it until he was between my legs, supporting his weight on his elbows, his face barely inches from mine.

“God, what can I do to make you smile like that” he let the heavy question linger in the air like a weightless cloud

Suddenly the playful mood dropped.

I stared at his beautiful green-apple-colored eyes for a while.

“Stay with me” I placed my hands on his cheeks and smiled again “just stay with me”

Ninety days earlier

His finger burned a torturously slow path on the bare skin of my arm trailing to my hip and back. I shivered.

He had been nothing but gentle. This entire time I had spent with him, he was nothing but caring and sweet and my support. Additionally, I was his. But nothing I could do would be enough. I owed him everything.

My arm was wrapped around his waist semi-tightly and I was cuddled as close to him as humanly possible, snuggled on the crook of his arm with my head under his chin.

“Dean? I asked softly in the air. He hummed a deep sound I more felt than heard, as it rumbled from his chest. His fingers didn’t stop. “I…” I hesitated, not thinking if it was a good idea to put my heart and mind out to words.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he tilted his head to catch a glimpse of me. I let my thumb stroke the naked skin of his hip lightly, savoring the feeling of being wrapped around his warmth. I nuzzled my nose in his neck.

“I… I just wanted to… to thank you” I stopped. I didn’t need to explain, truthfully, despite the fact I did, and he didn’t need to acknowledge what I was saying in words. He simply rested his chin on my head and breathed deeply, not bothering to stop me in spite of probably not wanting any gratitude. He knew I had to get this off my chest. “You…” I sighed.

“You didn’t know me that day. You didn’t know me and yet you saved my life. You helped me, pulled me back, cared for me. You made me feel enough. You gave me family. You gave me a home and I honestly cannot thank you enough for it” My arm subconsciously tightened around him and I nuzzled closer. “Thank you”

Dean was broken, battered, hurt, scarred and with the, at the moment forgotten, red threat on his left arm lingering there as a promise of something bigger and worse, something that he would definitely regret for the rest of his life, but I loved him. God knows I did. I loved him with all my heart and soul, with every fiber of my being as I threw myself into his fire letting his welcoming warm flames engulf me.

That day

No, no, no, no. This is not happening. This is NOT happening.

“DEAN!”

The subtle ‘gungh’ and the sigh, the panicked look in his eyes, all of it absolutely destroyed me.

“NO!” Sam and I screamed together. Dean’s head turned to us and when he saw me his head fell to the concrete wall as he struggled to breathe with a hole in his chest. His body tilted to the side, ready to fall. I ran past every object and jumped over every obstacle, catching his limp body, just like he had caught me.

A sudden rattle shook everything, the walls, the earth the things on the shelves. Sam got up and tried stabbing Metatron, who, instead, disappeared into thin air.

“Y/n” he gasped “y-you gotta get outta here before h- he comes back” that was Dean for you. Stabbed, bleeding to death and still caring only for his family.

“Sh-sh shut up” I said and grabbed the cloth from my back pocket, pressing it in his hand and on his wound “Hold it there.” He groaned from the pressure. I fought to keep my cool trying to figure something to do

“W-we’ll stop the bleeding, w-we’ll f-find a doctor, w-“ Sam was panicking and you honestly could not blame him, nor were far from the feeling, yourself. Your hands were shaking, fumbling with his jacket, with your pockets trying to find something- anything- to help him.

“Sammy- Y/n/n, listen to me” He said, stilling your hands in his. “I-it’s better this way” he gasped. Oh no. He- he would say it wouldn’t he. He was about to say it.

“What?!”

“T-the mark. It’s making me something I don’t want to be”

He wanted to die, you realized. He wanted his life to end.

He was you, just a year ago. Hurting. In pain. In a battle with himself.

“Don’t fucking worry about the mark, right now! We’ll figure that out later! C’mon, Sam, help me” I put his arm over and around my shoulders as Sam did the same, we lifted him up with him grunting and groaning. It physically pained me to see him hurt.

We managed to walk him for a minute or two before his weight fell on me as he tried to stop our movements

“W-hold up” he wheezed

“What, what is it?” I let him lean against the nearest pile of wooden boxes. He turned to Sam.

“I-“ he let out an ‘ungh’ “I’m proud of us” he slapped his hand on his brother’s cheek, before grabbing your hand and turning to you “And y-you. I wanna s-see you smi-“ wheeze “smile” He squeezed your hand and his eyelids dropped. His limp, lifeless body fell on me.

“Oh no no no” That’s when true panic washed over my entire being as I pulled him back with Sam shaking his shoulder. “No no you’re not- you- He’s” I started sobbing as both me and Sam hugged him to ourselves, clinging to each other.

Dean’s flame burnt out and I was left in the cold

And now what?

Tags: (Sorry this was so terrible)

@jpadjackles @chaos-and-the-calm67 @oriona75 @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @impala-dreamer  @babypieandwhiskey