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austinswife · 3 months ago

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DADA’S GIRL - Austin Butler

FROM SERIES — THE BUTLER FAMILY CHRONICLES

SYNOPSIS — Ever since Austin found out you were expecting a baby girl, he took it upon himself to handle the important task of dropping off and picking up Wren from school. Being the loving and protective dad he is, Austin never misses the opportunity to be there for his little girl. But today, as Austin preps for a special dinner, you pick Wren up from kindergarten instead. Things take a playful twist when some overly eager fans try to approach you, with a few even attempting to flirt with you. Wren, with her usual sass and fierce protectiveness over her mom and dad, handles the situation in her own way, causing a proud moment for Austin when you get home.

WARNING(S) — Family fluff, cute interactions, and a few playful, light-hearted moments, minor references to flirting, but all handled with innocence and humor from Wren’s perspective.

𝜗𝜚 ALL FEEDBACKS, IDEAS SUGGESTION — TO AUSTINSWIFE

Morning in the Butler household was always a gentle rush. Austin had woken up bright and early, like he always did, to make breakfast for you and Wren before she went to kindergarten. The smell of freshly made waffle filled the air, mingling with the sound of Wren’s little feet pattering against the hardwood floor as she rushed to her chair at the table.

You smiled, sitting down with your cup of coffee, watching as Austin brought over a plate of waffle with a little smiley face made out of syrup on Wren’s plate. He sat beside her, his eyes twinkling as he watched her dig in with excitement.

“You excited for your first day at school, sweetie?” he asked, brushing a blonde stray curl out of her face.

Wren nodded enthusiastically, her mouth full of waffle. “Mhm! I wanna play with the toys and see new friends!”

You and Austin exchanged a smile, your hearts both swelling with pride and a little bit of that bittersweet feeling that came with watching your little girl grow up so fast.

“She’s going to be just fine,” you reassured Austin, who had been extra protective ever since you’d found out you were pregnant with Wren. He’d insisted, from that very moment, that it would be his job to drop her off and pick her up from school. He couldn’t bear the thought of missing any of those milestones.

Austin chuckled, but there was a trace of emotion behind his voice. “I know, I know. I just can’t believe how quickly time’s flying.” He turned to Wren. “You ready for dada to drop you off at school?”

“Yesss mama!” she beamed, her syrupy hands in the air.

The morning drop-off had gone smoothly, like always. Austin waved goodbye to Wren as she confidently toddled into her classroom, her little backpack bouncing behind her. She gave him a big, gap-toothed grin over her shoulder before disappearing into her world of finger-painting and story-time.

With the day free, Austin decided to plan something special for dinner. He was feeling inspired, and since you’d been working extra hard on a film project lately, he wanted to surprise you with a home-cooked, fancy meal. So, as he spent the afternoon prepping ingredients in the kitchen, you took the chance to swing by the school to pick up Wren, giving Austin more time to focus on the surprise.

The afternoon sun was warm as you stood outside Wren’s kindergarten classroom, waiting with the other parents for school to end. The school bell rang, and before long, the classroom door opened, releasing a flood of giggling children, including your sweet little Wren, who ran straight to you with her arms wide open.

“Mamaaa!” she squealed, throwing herself into your arms.

You laughed and hugged her tight. “How was school, baby? Did you have fun?”

“Mhm! I made a picture for you and Dada!” she exclaimed proudly, pulling a crumpled drawing from her backpack. It was full of colorful scribbles that vaguely resembled a family portrait—you, Austin, and Wren holding hands in front of what appeared to be your house.

“Oh wow, this is beautiful,” you cooed, kissing her cheek. “I’m sure Dada’s going to love it very much, hon.”

As you were getting ready to leave, with Wren holding your hand, a group of young guys approached. At first, you didn’t think much of it—they seemed to recognize you from one of your recent roles, offering polite greetings. But soon, a few of them began to hover closer than necessary, clearly hoping for more than just a casual chat.

One of them reached out toward your arm with a cocky grin. “You’re even prettier in person,” he remarked, his tone a little too smooth for comfort.

Before you could react, Wren, with all the sass a two-year-old could muster, stomped her foot, glaring at the stranger. “Hey! Don’t touch what Dada’s!” she snapped, her voice full of toddler indignation.

The men blinked in surprise, taken aback by the fierce little girl standing protectively in front of you. You bit back a laugh, too charmed by your daughter’s loyalty to be annoyed.

You knelt down to Wren’s level, squeezing her hand gently. “Let’s go home, sweetheart. Dada’s waiting for us, and he’s making something yummy for dinner.”

Wren, still glaring at the guys, huffed. “Yeah! My Dada’s waiting!”

The men, realizing they were no match for a two-year-old’s determination, sheepishly backed off, offering quick goodbyes before disappearing down the street.

You couldn’t help but smile as you picked Wren up and carried her to the car. She wrapped her arms around your neck, leaning her head on your shoulder as you buckled her into her car seat.

“You’re so brave, Wren,” you said, still giggling to yourself as you started the car.

“I know,” she replied matter-of-factly, already distracted by her drawing. “Dada always says to protect you, Mama!”

You smiled warmly, your heart swelling at the thought of how protective Austin had always been of both you and Wren.

As you drove home, you asked Wren about her first day at kindergarten, and she happily chattered about the new toys she’d played with, the new friends she’d made, and how one of the boys in her class shared his snack with her.

“Did you have fun?” you asked as you turned onto your street.

“Yeah! But I missed Dada… and you!” she added quickly, her big eyes looking at you through the rearview mirror.

You couldn’t help but feel a little twinge in your heart at her words, but you smiled softly. “We missed you too, baby.”

When you finally pulled into the driveway, you could already smell the delicious aroma of whatever Austin had been cooking up. Wren wiggled excitedly in her seat as you unbuckled her and led her inside.

The house was warm and inviting, and in the kitchen, Austin was busy setting the table, a proud grin on his face as he saw you both walk in. “There are my girls,” he said, his voice full of love as he scooped Wren up into his arms and kissed her cheek.

“Dada!” Wren squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I missed you!”

“I missed you too, bug,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “How was your day at school?”

Before Wren could launch into her story, you touched Austin’s arm, trying to hide your grin. “Oh, before I forget… you might want to hear what your daughter said earlier.”

Austin’s brow quirked in curiosity. “Oh yeah? What’d she say?”

You stifled a laugh and explained, “When I picked her up, a few guys tried to come over and talk to me, and one of them even tried to touch my arm.”

Austin’s eyes immediately flickered with protectiveness, his hold on Wren tightening just a little. “They what?”

You held up a hand, still smiling. “Before I could say anything, Wren piped up and told them, ‘Don’t touch what Dada’s!’ in her sassiest little voice.”

Austin stared at you for a moment, processing the story, before a wide grin spread across his face. He threw his head back and laughed, full of pride. “That’s my girl!”

Wren beamed, clearly pleased with herself. “Yeah! They were trying to touch Mama, but I told them no!”

Austin hugged her tightly, still grinning. “That’s right, bug. You protect Mama, always.”

After a few more proud comments, Austin set Wren down and told her to wash her hands for dinner. You watched her dash off to the bathroom, still smiling at how much she was like her dad.

Once Wren was seated at the table, you all dug into the delicious meal Austin had prepared—perfectly roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables, along with a small dessert of chocolate mousse for afterward. Wren, with her little hands clasped together, kicked her feet under the table as she munched on her food.

“So, bug,” Austin said, his voice soft and full of warmth. “Tell me about your first day at school. Did you have fun?”

Wren nodded excitedly, launching into her innocent, toddler version of the day’s events. “I made a picture for you and Mama, and I played with the blocks, and a boy gave me his snack ‘cause he said he liked my braids.”

Austin exchanged a glance with you, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Oh, he did, did he?”

Wren nodded earnestly. “Mhm! But I told him my Dada makes the best snacks.”

Austin chuckled, his chest swelling with pride again. “That’s right, baby. No one makes snacks like your Dada.”

As dinner wound down and the night drew on, you watched as Austin scooped Wren up and carried her upstairs for bed, the two of them whispering and giggling together like they always did.

It was moments like this, these quiet, everyday moments, that reminded you just how lucky you were. Austin wasn’t just an incredible actor; he was the most devoted husband and father you could have ever hoped for. And with Wren in his arms, safe and sound, you knew that everything in your world was exactly as it should be.

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cornerdreams-txt · 1 month ago

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quick headcanons about the new characters in the bo6 crew :)

black ops 6 was phenomenal, btw. i loved it. please come talk to me about it. please. please. please. please. please. pl

★ william "case" calderon

— known to dissociate or space out frequently, but is easily pulled out of it. it's on his record, but it's never caused enough problems for command to really get concerned about it.

— fidgets with his holsters when he's on edge. it's too quiet, or he's waiting for something to happen, he'll rub his fingers against the leather of the straps, or catch his nail on the metal of the buckles, over and over again. even if the weapon inside, blade or gun, is already drawn.

— seems uneasy around smoke or fog, shifty eyes and a pinched brow, but whenever its brought up, he's confused. seems like he has no idea that air that's... thicker, maybe, is a good descriptor, seems to put him on edge.

— unbothered by bugs, snakes, and any kind of creepy-crawly. seems to enjoy them, if anything - helped handle spiders and other insects or pests that found their way into the safehouse. biting insects seem to love him, though - mosquitoes especially. probably a blood type thing, right?

— avid horror enjoyer. seems uneasy about human experimentation, though. him and woods both seem to dislike that kind of trope.

★ troy marshall

— art is a coping skill, and hobby, of sorts. he keeps a pocket sketchbook and a handful of pens in his pockets whenever he can so he can pull it out when the inspiration arises.

— the longer the group stayed in the safehouse, the more that sketchbook filled up with portraits and still life sketches. people, interactions, architecture, sunrises, scenery. memories, ones troy couldn't help but want to capture.

— definitely a motorcyclist. did you see how he handled that bike with case on the back of it? that was NOT this man's first rodeo. 110% has a motorbike of his own. his biker jackets cycle in and out of his daily wardrobe at seemingly random.

— terrible cook. cannot make complex dishes to save his life. can follow instructions, sure, and makes a damn good sandwhich, but do not trust him to make soup or anything of the sort from scratch.

— ...isn't terrible at cooking meat, though. says he learned how to grill from his parents, but didn't really give the team many chances to see for themselves.

— seems to almost act as an older brother figure to the team instinctively. based on how he responds to jokes about him being a mother hen, it doesn't seem like he realizes he does it. (it is welcome, though. the compassion is nice, in such a harsh field)

★ sevati dumas

— very task oriented. you give her a goal and the right motivation, and she'll do it. very very headstrong, though. doesn't like taking orders unless compensated properly.

— food motivated. loves a good savory dish. enjoys exploring other cultures through that. but, no, she will not accept food as payment. nice try.

— good at acting lax and unbothered, but does, in fact, care very deeply. she's empathetic, but forces herself not to show it. she's had that be taken advantage of once, and she refuses to let that happen again.

— very reluctant to get attached or form connections to others, see her admitting she's only with the team until she gets paid. but she still hangs around felix, and she still tries to talk to troy when harrow's fellowship with the pantheon was unveiled. seems like she's not perfect when it comes to avoiding getting attached, is she?

— vibes only but like. i feel like she wants a little sibling. she wants someone she can take care of. she wants to be a good family member to someone, but having a child... no. she refuses to be a mother. she doesn't want to be a wife. she wants to be her own person. (she'd make a great godmother. or aunt. if she had the chance, and if she tried)

★ felix neumann

— if this man isn't autistic i am going to swallow a leather jacket whole like a snake. by the way. just sayin.

— the gloves were a paranoia result. they're metaphorical, sure, a reminder to himself not to harm anyone else, no taking another human life, but also a horrible, creeping paranoia eased in, of "what if they find your fingerprints," "what if you get blood on your hands again," "what if what if what if" until he could only ease it by wearing gloves. worked nicely, in the end. taking them off was... cathartic. to say the least.

— probably an anarchist? the vibes are there. hates society. hates government. wants to dismantle it all and start from scratch. that's the vibe.

— you... my special little man, get the nature autism. this guy can go on for hours and hours about the critters case finds around the safehouse, and case listens attentively and happily. also fantastic at foraging, has dozens of safe-to-eat and unsafe-to-eat plants stored away in his brain, and can rattle off the facts at a moment's notice.

— not the best hunter, but is, amusingly, better with a bow when it comes to hunting than he is with a gun.

— would code simple video games (think similar vibes to the chrome dinosaur game) to play for fun if he got bored enough. good thing he's excellent at finding things to distract himself with, no?

★ jane harrow

— photography lover. not fantastic about herself, but she'll sit and analyze photos taken by others for minutes on end, noting all the little details captured by a camera lense freezing the moment in time.

— does the same with drawn art. paint, sketch, whatever, she'll sit and analyze every little detail she can and point it all out. she loves noticing the details. calling attention to them. letting the artist know, if she can, that she sees all the effort they put into their work.

— her guilty pleasure? window shopping for stuffed animals. always writes it off as being for her niece, or a friend's child, but she wants to collect them. there's something soft, precious, genuine and uncomplicated about plush toys. but she's an adult. she can't afford to be so childish.

— ...alongside the drawing troy made of her, she still also keeps the little teddy bear he insisted on buying for her as a thank you gift, once. but that one isn't in her office. she hides it, away from prying eyes.

— mildly claustrophobic. she can push through it, and she will, when it comes to what her job demands of her, but she likes to avoid enclosed spaces when she can get away with it. it's... easier. feels less like being cornered. (she dances around the real reason she hates it. she never wants to be stuck hiding in a closet, or tucked under a little girl's bed ever, ever again.)

#sources:#call of duty #black ops 6 #cod bo6 #characters:#william case calderon #troy marshall #sevati dumas #felix neumann #jane harrow #post type:#headcanons ☁️#posted by:#znmjr 🦈

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 2 years ago

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dark and dangerous, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

you were the love of my life the darkness, the light this is a portrait of a tortured you and I is this the end? – up in the air by thirty seconds to mars

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; blind reader; hitman!au (basically John Wick universe; I was inspired by Donnie Yen's character Caine); violence + body disfiguration from violence; reader being forced + blackmailed back to service; tbh, many feels; smut (fem reader, choking / erotic asphyxiation, ink appreciation, a lot of sensual touching, slight D/s due to the situation, mild restraint, cowgirl); non-idol!BTS - retired hitwoman!reader x current hitman!JK; sub!JK; JK’s POV

He hadn’t seen her in a long time.

Time was a bitch.

She had defied it in some ways, as he knew she would. Pristine, glossy waves of hair cascading down her left shoulder. Longer than he had ever seen it. Gleaming skin, with that little mole under the right side of her lower lip. A little prefect imperfection under a perpetual faint smile. Blouse with a ruffled collar. Clean black longline trench. That was all he could see from this angle, above the bobbing heads of the packed train car. They were both forced to stand, along with many others. No free seats available. Her shoulders were forward, as if her hands were resting in front of her body. Not holding on to any railing, her back only vaguely leaning against the steel pole.

She wore dark-tinted glasses now.

Cat-eye-shaped, with silver accents. Actually, probably palladium. She had expensive taste.

The train approached a tunnel.

There was chattering, but mostly it was the low buzz of the general public. A mass gathered but not interacting. Passengers politely in their own worlds with the collective backdrop of a thundering train speeding through carved darkness.

The gunshot tore through the murmur.

Everyone began screaming.

He was standing in the corner of the train car, towards the door. Looking very much like a businessman ready to punctually take his leave, and suddenly he was one of the many flattened against the metal walls, crushed past the doors and into the train map. The mass became one. Earsplitting panic ricocheting. The awareness of being contained, confined, trapped, heightening and getting louder. He paid attention to none of it, instead narrowing his eyes and focusing on the way the crowd parted, right at the center.

Right where the woman in dark-tinted glasses was standing.

Her body was ever-so-slightly turned.

It must have been less than a second.

It was so fast that he barely had a chance to see the crouching man with arm extended, and then there was another blast of sound. The fear pitched, piercingly sharp. Instant, whirling black as she closed the distance. Long, thin, rod-like, rising. He finally found out what she kept in her hands in front of her body.

Thwack!

The sound cracked through the air as startlingly as the gunshots. Even faster, perhaps, because there was no hesitation. The untrained eye would be unable to keep up, but he was no untrained eye – one strike, onto the hand, where the delicate bone of the thumb was immediately snapped. The gun flew out of his hand and into the crowd, causing more alarmed screeching as people stampeded away from it, throwing themselves against the sealed doors. The disarmed gunman had no time to shriek. Two strikes to the arm and he was crumpling. Two more. Shoulder, head bowing as the body involuntarily cowered to protect itself and the last, side of the head behind the ear.

The gunman hit the floor with a crunch, groaning wetly.

The hysteria was racing towards critical level, but the train slowed and the doors burst open despite the mechanical reminder to stand back. No one noticed. No one cared. Flinging themselves out, scrambling over each other, clawing to be the first ones to escape. Crying, tripping, running, and then.

Silence.

“The doors are closing. Please stand back.”

The whirr reinstated after the doors closed and the train began moving again. A metal shell was oblivious to human terror.

The woman in dark glasses remained.

There was a gleam of silver towards the top of her cane. Something wicked hiding within.

Her hand shifted and snapped it shut.

She flipped the cane in her hand, the bulbous handle pointing downward.

The man on the ground grunted, shifting.

Crack!

Completely still now.

The gun was still on the floor, all the way to the other side of the car.

The woman stood in the middle. The cane in her hand flipped back to its correct alignment, the tip rapping the floor. It moved forward, to the body, poking it several times. Gingerly. Her lips twisted into a pout of discomfort, muttering something under her breath that sounded like, just one, the disrespect, and she crouched down, sweeping her coat aside.

Ping. Ping.

A familiar sound.

She stuck her hand out and calmly patted down the fallen man. There was a distinct tapping motion rather than a grazing along the body. Manicured nails, and then those nimble fingers flitted under the collar of the jacket her assailant was wearing. An exhale and she pulled, hard, plucking something from the body. A small metal disc, no more than a couple centimeters, with an engraving on it. It looked like a stylized ’S’ with flowers made of blade-like petals.

Her thumb ran across the surface.

“Fuck,” she spat.

Then she tucked the pin into the inside of her coat.

The woman in dark glasses stood back up and tapped the floor with the black cane again. This process had taken about a minute. The train was still moving, onto the next stop. The cane struck the linoleum, repeatedly, against the seats and the metal poles, the tinkering echoing in the cabin.

Stopped.

Shit.

The woman tilted her head slowly, then faced his direction.

“And here I thought you were stupid,” she said, her voice loud and clear, directed to the corner he was standing in. “But actually you were just being courteous to the disabled, hm?”

The black cane turned, silent, the stance of the hand holding it altering from exploratory to predatory.

He had two choices.

Talk or get his ass kicked by an expert of ass-kicking.

He settled on saying, “Not a warning shot.”

She froze.

Still wary and on high alert, but no longer an arrow pulled to the brink against the string of the bow. He saw the twitch of one of her eyebrows.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed in icy annoyance. Her shoulders lowered and her head ticked back. The body language equivalent of rolling one’s eyes. The dark glasses remained though. “Why the fuck are you here? I’m retired.”

He didn’t move from his corner. The tip of that cane was blunt but he just watched her take out a man in five hits. That thing wasn’t made out of plastic – and he was pretty sure it was sheathing a blade. No thanks. “And still getting shot at.”

“I said I was retired, not uninteresting,” she retorted, stance relaxing. He let out the breath he had been holding. “Answer my question.” She rapped the floor sharply and his body immediately snapped to attention.

He should have listened to his superiors.

“Why are you here, Jeon Jungkook?”

Leave the information to be found. Do not engage with the target.

The last time Jungkook saw her, she still had sight.

He let out a soft sigh.

“The Elders are giving you a name.”

The dark tint of those sunglasses did nothing to hide the vicious distaste behind them.

“Tell the Elders to shove the name up their collective assholes,” she growled, but he was already walking forward and the cane was pulling back, poised at an angle at her side.

“I didn’t want to come,” Jungkook said, and it came out quieter and more helpless than he thought it would.

The anger in her expression wiped clean.

The Elders, his superiors, were not to be trifled with.

She tucked her tongue in her cheek as he reached into his suit jacket. It was made an unpatented combination of fibers, the latest in cutting-edge bulletproof fabric. Couldn’t really patent shit made for the general public to not know. He suspected her coat and slacks were made of the same material, which explained the pinging noise earlier.

Old habits die hard.

“I’m blind. Not stupid,” she muttered.

She held her hand out, but her face wasn’t quite in his direction.

He placed the black card with a series of raised dots.

She swiftly pulled it back, not allowing his hand to linger. Mashed it against the top of the cane. He noticed the orb-shaped handle was an intricately carved piece of silver metal. Vines? No, more like stylized lines of water. Or fire. There was a creature within those lines, inset, making it look like it was huddled within.

A bunny.

Her fingertip pressed into the black cardstock. Stopped in between, only halfway. Then pressed on even though they both knew the name on there. He couldn’t read braille but he could read her pissed-off expression pretty well.

She let out a huff.

“Really.”

It wasn’t a question.

“He betrayed us.”

“Like I couldn’t have told you that sooner,” she breathed out in a vengeful exhale. “I warned them. I warned them against taking that American snake’s money. They didn’t listen to me. Took my eyes instead. And now they gave me a name? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

He really did not want to see her angry but there was no other reaction she could have.

The train was calling, indicating the next stop was coming.

Jungkook opened his mouth, a single syllable of her name escaping his throat.

The cane shot up and jammed into his chin. Bruising pain. Shut him up and made him jerk back, but she pressed forward, lowering her head, still not quite looking at him, and that was the worst, her not being able to look at him even though she was doing the equivalent of that.

Just…

Differently.

“Young gun,” she sighed, and the hole in his chest tore open a little more upon hearing the nickname she had for him long ago. Back when they were not quite friends on the surface, because this life that they chose didn’t allow for that, but friends nonetheless in the moments that counted. “If they sent you, that means you should stay away from me.”

“They didn’t send me,” Jungkook admitted and he could smell her perfume.

Sweet.

Familiar.

In the past, it had clung to his skin sometimes.

Her head tilted.

The train was slowing, announcement crackling up above. They would have to get off. Can’t be near a body with brain damage and a gun. He spoke softly to the thin air between them.

"I picked up the task with the last messenger was… interrupted. I happened to be closest.”

Silence.

There was the faintest tick at the corner of her lips. She removed her cane from his chin.

“Happened to be closest,” she echoed.

Her voice like smoke curling in the darkness.

“Hm.”

The train stopped.

The doors slid open.

She backed up and turned away. The cane tapped from side to side. Side to side, a rhythm and routine of finding the opened doors. The mechanical announcement called above their heads. He watched her stride away confidently, a stricken feeling in his chest, remembering something she used to whisper to him in the dark, I love looking at you, curling smoke all around them as scarred fingertips slid up his naked forearm.

She stopped at the exit.

“Don’t follow me.”

Walked out.

Jungkook followed.

“How’s your father?”

“I told you not to follow me.”

They were standing at a crosswalk and he was behind her. Not that close but close enough. She stayed close to the pole where repeated beeps indicated it was not safe to cross yet. Cars zipped by. For some reason, Jungkook found them unnaturally loud and violent even though he had never thought that about cars before.

“He’s fine.”

He glanced at her face but there was no expression.

“Still has dementia, still gambles and milks every cent out of the old folks in the retirement complex. You would think he would ease up once he’s struggling to remember the people in his life but, nope, he’s completely content with only knowing how to kick your ass in poker.”

There was a resonance of bitterness in those words but, also, a feeling long gone.

She ticked her head. “They keep him alive to remind me he doesn’t remember I exist. Least he pays his own bills with his habits.”

It was safe to cross now.

He watched the cane sway and tap. She walked calmly and with ease. Maybe even a swagger. It relaxed him as he fell in step.

“You do what you know,” he commented, his eyes darting, taking in his surroundings.

“I really try not to, young gun.”

They walked briskly along the streets. She turned this way and that, stopping once at a fruit stand to buy some apples. The merchant accepted the bills handed to him. She asked if it was enough. Jungkook saw it was more than enough. The merchant replied it was the exact amount. She hummed and stepped away before Jungkook could say anything. He hurried after, and she immediately turned and walked right into a laundromat.

The repeated thump-thump-thump of whirring washing machines and dryers radiated all around them as people fought with their duvets and swore under their breath.

“You overpaid,” Jungkook hissed, stepping closer.

“Such is life,” was her reply. She chuckled, tap, tap tapping away, hitting the edges of the machines but not a single person seemed to notice or care, too busy hurling themselves into the large cavities to yank out their sopping garments. “I do it sometimes just to see if they’ll correct me. They don’t.”

He frowned and made a mental note of the man’s face.

Just in case.

She held delicately to the bag of apples and shouldered her way into the back double doors.

Kept walking, through the back of the laundromat, into the alleys, and now the faces here were different. Keen, sharp gazes that ignored her presence but immediately narrowed upon seeing Jungkook, looking him up and down. Men and women, in musty coats and worn-out gloves with holes in them, backpacks and carts. A complete turnaround from his sharp three-piece suit and neatly parted hair. She breezed past, the apples rustling in the plastic bag, skimming her cane along the concrete, not quite looking exactly forward. Her head was slightly tilted; one ear closer to him.

“I told you not to follow me,” she chuckled.

“I see that,” Jungkook let himself say, calmly and without emotion.

“I don’t,” she quipped back.

There was a lightness to her tone that indicated there was no danger as long as he kept his hands to himself. He continued to follow.

Someone on his right reached out and shoved him.

The cane whipped through the air, swatting Jungkook’s left arm and pinning it to his body. He grimaced, feeling the solid stripe of pain, noticing her movement had stopped his body from colliding with another in this narrow alley. The woman to his left glared at him, grinding her teeth. The shove hadn’t hurt.

It was just disrespectful as hell.

What had been previous tense silence erupted into malicious sniggers.

Droning all around.

Jungkook gritted his teeth and pushed his anger down.

Her head jerked like a hawk.

“You know the rules,” she warned to the air. “You upset me and I will take your offering from the shrine and then there will be nothing to protect you.”

The sniggering immediately died.

Now the silence wasn’t tense.

It was fear.

She removed her cane from Jungkook’s arm and swung it in an arc. Slowly.

Stopping.

Jungkook didn’t have to turn his head. He heard the sharp intake of breath. Hard not to in the terrified hush. He didn’t say anything. He let her handle it. If he reacted, there would be cracked skulls. He had a feeling that the woman in dark glasses would be a lot more pissed at him if that was the case. He did not want to make her angry. It seemed like a bad idea.

She whacked the tip of the cane against the brick wall.

Everyone flinched.

Even Jungkook felt a muscle in his shoulder twitch, reacting to the loud, piercing sound.

She turned back around and continued walking.

No one bothered them after that.

They finally turned and stopped at a makeshift shrine in the middle of the maze of alleys. It seemed to be a clearing point. An intersection of sorts, where a group of buildings were sequestered awkwardly due to poor planning. Someone had created a structure in the middle of this chaos with a shingled roof and a statue in the center surrounded by a sandy pit of burnt incense sticks. There was a wall behind it, with strips of paper tacked on, fronted by tables overflowing with fruit and cellophane-packaged boxes.

She placed the bag down and it tumbled against a stack of oranges, one red apple spilling out of the plastic and hitting some pears.

Jungkook stepped up and corrected it.

She faced the papers. They flapped about like ducks crowding a lake, not in the wind but in the hot air blasting out a vent from of one of the buildings. She made a noise that sounded like disapproval and irritation mixed together. Turned and walked purposefully away, running her cane along the cracks of the concrete.

Jungkook followed once more as she stepped out, following a walkway between two buildings.

Stopped.

There was a door to their right, inset within the walls. Or, not a door. He frowned. Instead of a handle, there was an odd dent in this part of the wall that seemed to cave inward. She paused, tapping the cane along the ground. There was a hollow sound, and Jungkook looked down to see some metal tiles littered against the door. She stepped forward, treading along the otherwise meaningless metal sealed into the concrete. She slid the cane up in her hand, gripping below the rounded handle.

The orb made of swirls around a bunny.

She raised it and with surprising accuracy, within two taps against the door, slid the orb into the dent.

There was a whirr and a click.

The door slid open, a strip of light appearing on the ground.

She stepped inside.

Jungkook followed.

“What if you lose your cane?” he wondered out loud.

The door slid closed after they entered.

“There’s another way to get in, obviously,” she tutted. “All I have to do is bleed on it.”

A hollow silence.

They were in darkness except for the thin line of light at the bottom of the door.

“I…”

“Don’t need to talk,” she interrupted. “I need to shower and then pack some things. Wait.”

She stepped out of her shoes and placed the cane against the wall beside them. Felt along shoulder height, pressing switches. Stripes of light gleamed from above and below the walls, along the edges and sides. He had to pause to take it in. Black ceilings with brocade-patterned obsidian wallpaper where the designs were glossy compared to the matte background. A squishy-looking coffee-colored leather couch, a huge sound system bolted to the wall above an electric fireplace, bobbly blankets stuffed in a basket. No television, no coffee table. A large, empty space behind this area with a large set of dark wood armories along the wall. To his right, a kitchen with dark granite countertops that had similar notable differences than what he was used to. When she walked, she followed the lines of light along the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he called after her.

She stopped.

“I should have…”

“Shut up, young gun.”

She didn’t sound angry or pissed off.

She just sounded tired and that was worse.

“You couldn’t have done anything. This is the life we have.”

“I should have tried to find you,” Jungkook pleaded to that back, to that longline black coat and graceful legs. Dancer’s legs, he used to think, so nimble and quick that he could never keep up. He had been a little envious of how lithe she was back then. Aroused at how she always struck with such poise, something he wasn’t good at. He preferred brute force. Learned outmaneuvering from watching her move, often. It was addicting, watching her move, and he had found himself wanting more.

He hadn’t expected this would be the result.

She reached up in one smooth motion and removed her sunglasses. Placed them on the kitchen island.

The palladium on the edges of the dark lenses glammed.

“You wouldn’t have found me.”

She turned.

Starburst eyelashes surrounding white, mottled irises framed by twisted scar tissue.

A faint, emotionless smile.

“Can’t find a shadow when they’re all around you, Jungkook.”

He breathed in.

The bed smelled just like her. Her perfume, mixed with fabric softener, and there was that indescribable scent that could only be described as his perception of her. The smell that didn’t change despite the perfume, the smell he breathed in now with his back flat on the mattress, the smell that only he knew because its effect on him was different from everyone else. It was an experience. It was memories. It was…

Jeon Jungkook breathed in, laying on her bed as she showered.

He hadn’t asked. Probably should have. His arms were spread out with the backs of his hands touching the duvet. His black jacket and vest were draped on the pale chestnut-colored velvet armchair next the bed. At least he had kept his dress shirt and necktie on. He had thought about removing them. Letting his bare skin touch the folded duvet, even slip under to be against the sheets, but even he had a limit to his insanity.

He had thought about it though.

Maybe would have done it if she meant a little less.

He had missed her smell. He inhaled again. The last time he memorized it, she still had sight. It had been so long. Time was a bitch. His hands turned. The duvet was made of a cool, creamy linen. He closed his eyes, fingertips grazing the soft fabric, something satisfying about the wrinkled texture, organic, imagining their body lines pressed against it.

He bunched the fabric in his fists.

Let go, sighing.

For not the first time, Jungkook wondered how it could have been different.

He hadn’t missed the details. All of the furniture in this home had rounded corners. Lines of light streamed throughout every room, clearly indicating all the corners and edges of the walls. There were little speakers positioned discreetly, waiting for her command. No mirrors anywhere. No windows. Hole in the wall that no one was supposed to know was here, although Jungkook was sure the Elders somehow knew. Or guessed. Sometimes one didn’t need to have full information to cause enough disruption. He gritted his teeth even though he understood why she hadn’t been in touch.

The rage within him, from witnessing how she now lived, was beyond violent.

Careful there, young gun.

This was Korea but Jungkook was eager to introduce the Elders to the language of Columbian neckties.

You’re so reckless. I like that about you.

He was of the belief that he could handle the details later. The reality was that he was just very lucky to meet certain people in this business of killing for hire. People who saw something in him, whatever it was. Youth. Energy. Power. He was coasting a little because of his looks.

That was part of playing the game, too.

He liked playing the game. It had been a necessity once, and now he liked it. Because of ego. Because he had a natural talent for it. Because there was a time where he believed there were no rules – but the rules were always there, a silken web underneath his feet. In this business, one didn’t get to decide to work for the Elders.

The Elders decided when you worked for them.

Crossing paths was inevitable.

He had almost hated it. And then he met her. Same business. Different approach when it came to dealing with the cards that had been dealt. A moment that meant everything. Pivotal. Fate. Guns crossed and he knew. He knew the moment he looked into her eyes.

Jungkook turned his head and inhaled again, drenching his lungs with her scent.

Opened his eyes.

She was gliding into the bedroom, a long, dark maroon silk robe flaring out against her legs. Her hand was following the wall, three fingertips grazing against the black wallpaper. Skin gleaming, hair pinned in large, soft curlers, head tilted to one side. The silk clung to her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, and then she turned, facing the dresser.

Her hands lifted, finding the glided edges of the dark wood, stroking the intricate profile of inlaid silver.

“If I didn’t know better, I would be creeped out right now,” she chuckled.

He sat up.

“Do you know better?”

He didn’t know how he wanted that to sound, but those words escaped with an edge of uncertainty.

On the dresser was a plate with a perfume and a collection of faceted crystals. Her hand was dancing upward, following the surface, finding the dark glass bottle. He didn’t understand the meaning of the various stones, but for some reason he didn’t think they were there for a spiritual reason.

Those thoughts were confirmed as her other hand drifted over them, following the edges.

“You’re simple, young gun.”

She doused herself with sprays of spicy gourmand.

Exhaled, satisfied.

He could smell it from here and it made him ravenous.

“And not that subtle,” she added, smooth and biting.

Silence.

Neither of them moved.

Jungkook found that despite the carnal instincts eating up in the cavity of his ribcage, he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to turn around. Knotted lines and white orbs. He grimaced and hoped it was silent. Still, he didn’t look away from her back, his skin burning all over with festering shame and guilt.

She shifted her weight, accenting the delicious curve of her hip.

Dark silk molded to those body lines.

Yeah, Jungkook was sure that he didn’t want to stop looking.

“Are you supposed to be accompanying me?” she asked.

He could lie. “I’ve been assigned to be your eyes.”

She snorted.

He would have followed anyway, orders or not. The orders were there to both torment and annoy him. Well, the level of pain depended on how he felt about the situation, he knew. And that depended on how he could navigate this moment, right now. Currently the status was, not well. Her back still facing him after all.

“Stupid motherfuckers.”

“Yeah.”

He smiled despite himself. It was funny and familiar, her swearing. He noticed the pin with the lotus and the stylized ‘S’ in her hand now. She ran her thumb over it. There was a tension in her shoulders. He didn’t recognize that symbol and that bothered him.

“I thought you were retired?”

She hummed, tapping the metal against the wood. “I am. I got bored. Gotta pick up hobbies, you know.”

“I could pick up your hobby,” he offered.

She chuckled again, placing the pin down and sliding it to between white crystals. “Sadly, I think that fun will have to wait. I’m being called to service and all that shit.”

Silence again.

It was hard to know how much time passed though. Time almost didn’t seem real in within these walls.

She broke it.

“Don’t you want to get out?”

He took a moment.

“The Elders would have called you back eventually.”

He let that statement hang in the air.

“Tracking was never your strong suit.”

Yeah, it wasn’t.

“Now it’s not mine either.”

Jungkook winced and hoped she couldn’t hear it. Her head ticked. Sigh.

“My fucked-up eyes bother you?”

“No.” Shit. He said that way too fast. “I don’t think you’re ugly.”

“That wasn’t what I asked, Jungkook.”

Her words cut through him, razor-sharp and accurate. He withered despite not being viewed.

“You know the Elders suspected you might intercept. They’re old, not dumb.” He did know. He still didn’t say anything. He struggled to say it out loud, but she had no trouble. “They are testing you. They will manipulate you no matter how you feel about it. The best way to avoid those puppet strings is to feel nothing at all. You are putting yourself in danger.”

It was unbearable, saying nothing.

“What about you?” he asked softly.

A pause.

He saw he index finger bounce silently on the edge of the dresser.

Her head turned a little more, the curlers holding her hair blocking the side of her face. She reached one and, one by one, removed them. Pulling out pins. Setting them on the dresser. Pulling out the soft curlers, setting the cylinders on the flat side so they didn’t roll away. Locks of hair cascading down, falling, falling, framing shoulders and back.

She ran a hand through her hair, sighing, separating the waves with her fingers.

Messy.

“I told you. I’m retired.”

His lips parted.

“Not uninteresting.”

The side of her mouth curved upward.

“You shouldn’t have intercepted the messenger.”

There was something about the way she said it. Teasing rather than chiding. And yet there was still that hesitation. He let his eyes roam over her partial side profile.

“I’ve been in danger from the day I met you,” Jungkook finally admitted and he didn’t mean his physical self.

From what he could see of her expression behind her hair was an amused one. “Shit. You’re gonna make me blush, young gun,” she snickered.

Her words had the opposite effect. He felt his neck heat and instantly reached back to rub it, trying not to let it show. Well, she couldn’t see anyway. After a split second of consideration, he let out the low noise of embarrassment. Her head lifted, hair shifting. He saw the side of her mouth soften to a faint smile.

“I wonder how you’ve changed,” she breathed out. “Can’t appreciate you like I used to.”

He still couldn’t quite see her eyes. They were covered by curls of hair shadowing her temples.

Jungkook let himself say her name the way he wanted to.

She didn’t move, still life wrapped in deep scarlet silk.

“I don’t believe you.”

He could see it now, the subtle change in her demeanor. Sharpened. He had said the words with a smile and she could tell. Tone or volume or both. If possible, more frightening now. More deadly. More of a weapon, which was why, he assumed, the mutilation was done rather than an execution.

“You’re blind. Not stupid,” he reminded her.

Her head and body turned.

The way her hair framed her face, only half done. The slim openings of the robe securely tied at the waist, exposing thin white scars and the raised marring of worse ones. Retired, sure, but not that long ago, and still honed in muscle and movement. She wasn’t that much older than him. She just called him young gun to get on his nerves a little. Had seniority over him in this business and all that. Pretty easy to have seniority when one was given to the Elders as a child.

Payment.

He wasn’t always a good gambler. We all start somewhere.

Jungkook stood up.

Those clouded orbs found the source of blocked light at the end of the bed. It was a different feeling, being the focal point knowing the other didn’t have sight. Unnerving was the wrong word. He was just very aware that he was the target of her senses. With sight, he realized, he had an inherent level of complacency. There were a lot of intricacies in a single glance. The concrete details mattered less than the contrast between what he expected versus what he didn’t expect.

Ah.

Her lips curved into a dangerous smirk.

He admired it.

She moved forward, silent.

“You do seem to have put on more muscle,” she hummed. “Heavy.”

“You always reminded me to remember to eat while on the job.” The direction of his voice. His breathing. “You’ve learned more skills. Scary.”

She grinned. “I’ve had some free time. Wait till you see me dual wield.”

She stopped in front of him.

Raised her head.

Jungkook found he saw a lot more when he looked into her scarred eyes than he ever expected.

“You have changed,” she murmured.

A faint smile.

“Y… Yeah,” he breathed back, the ache in his ribs rattling.

It was different.

She reached up and forward. Fingertips grazing his shirt, then finding the tie. Following it with two hands, carefully. Seeing. He tried to stay still. Focused on her face, the little smile when she found the tie clip, muttering under her breath, oh, you’ve become a little more of a man, huh, and her body language, relaxed. Comfortable. Details he would have ignored given different circumstances.

What else had he missed all this time?

He was still lacking in some areas, he realized.

She was unraveling his tie.

“I hope you have learned how to tie a tie by now.”

He hadn’t. “Nope.”

A laugh. “You hate them anyway.” She folded it in her hands and held it to the side. “Hold onto it for me. I might need it.”

His skin tingled, the sensation traveling up his back. Lifted his hand and let it linger, brushing past her callused knuckles, taking the necktie from her. A contrast from their past. This was a measured ferocity compared to a fast-paced chase. He ran his fingertips along her wrist, trailing off her forearm. She smiled and he felt it everywhere, in his blood and in his nerves, his world alight once more.

Skin-to-skin.

She raised her hands again and followed his shirt placket, starting from the top.

“I like this cologne.”

“You said it was your favorite.”

“You really can’t be subtle to save your life, can you, Jungkook?”

She teased him as easily as she teased the buttons from their restraints. He bit his lower lip, sucking in a breath.

“I’m really trying to be patient right now,” he gritted out.

She smiled again.

This was her smile she only showed him.

He was sure of it.

His shirt was halfway unbuttoned now. She leaned in, locks of hair curling over her shoulders, spreading the placket open with two fingers. Breathed out. The heated air washed over his chest, and he closed his eyes, shuddering, ignited desire shimmering in his raging blood. She did it again, but this time with his name.

“Jungkook…”

His head tipped back, lips parting, the low sound of clawing lust bubbling in his throat. His hands came up, tensely resting on her silken shoulders.

The rest of the buttons came undone as he himself unraveled.

Her hands slid in, fingers spreading over his flexed abdomen. Cool, careful, seeing him. He gasped, struggling to keep still. Exploring his scars, known and new. His shirt peeled back, tugging out of his slacks as she touched him. Along his sides, his chest. His nipples, and she flicked one, making him hiss and flinch. They hardened as she rubbed them.

“Still like that, hm.”

“S… Shut up.”

Her palms over his pectoral muscles, fingers fanning out.

“Been working out, haven’t you?”

His breathing was shallow. “Gotta pick up hobbies, you know.”

A soft laugh. She gently knocked back his arms, pushing the dress shirt off his shoulders. Confines, he concluded. Her fingertips paused on his right shoulder. He looked down, body on fire. Her lips were parted, pink tongue dancing on the edge of for lips.

“You have tattoos.”

Oh.

That was right. She hadn’t seen yet.

“Hobbies,” he snickered.

She turned her head, fingertips hesitating.

Jungkook reached up and pressed her hand to his arm.

“Please. Look.”

It was a strange, intoxicating sensation. Being touched like this, guiding her along. He murmured under his breath, describing them one by one. She could follow, especially the newer ones or the ones that were done over his scars. She lingered by the tiger lilies on the inside of his forearm. There was a patch of black there. Amusement flitting across her features. Continued down, following the outline another tattoo, tracing the eyelashes.

She cocked an eyebrow.

“I think I might change that one. In light of… events.”

Her cheek tightened in mirth. Just more confirmation that she was alarmingly acute in sensing tone and meaning beyond words.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He froze, feeling her other hand sliding up his back as the one he was holding slid down to his knuckles, caressing them as her lids lowered. Lines of scars, across starburst lashes and across his spine, closer, her fingers lacing with his, her chin lifting.

That small mole under the right side of her plush lower lip.

“You have goosebumps, Jungkook,” she purred, dragging her nails down his back.

He closed the distance.

Her scent all around him.

Her taste.

The fervor seeped into him when their lips connected, ravaging his senses and his thoughts, body to body. Nights and days, culminated memories bleeding into now, into the ferocity of their kiss, her fingers claiming his back and his in her hair, tangled in the mess, clasped hands below them, squeezing tight.

He thought he would never see her again.

Never hold, never touch, never breathe in her breath.

He was afraid too. Afraid it wouldn’t feel the same. Afraid their euphoria was broken by interference and ego. Afraid he was wrong, abut himself, about her, about them.

But he wasn’t.

Jungkook could tell.

She let go of his hand and wrapped it around his throat.

“I missed your taste,” she whispered into his moan, in between nicks of teeth and feathery kisses. “You know what makes someone dangerous?” Her grip tightened, pulling him down to her, red silk slipping off her shoulders. “When they have someone to die for.” Her lips traveling over his jaw, to his gasping mouth, his blood flow slowing as her fingers pressed into the sides of his neck. “When they have someone to live for.” Ravenous kiss, making his eyes roll back and his air disappear, lightheaded as he touched the exposed skin of her upper arm, knotted lines of scar tissue from a previous gunshot wound under his fingertips.

She murmured to his open mouth, husky voice a caress.

“When they have someone to kill for.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, his erection straining against his slacks, pressing it into her naked thigh.

“You…”

Jungkook stared into her white eyes and she reveled in the darkness, basking in his shadows, seeing all of him with all her other senses.

“You made me all three,” he gasped.

Her grip loosened and the blood rushed back, making his eyelids flutter and fire crawl up his scalp.

A resolved sigh.

“We are one and the same, you and I.”

His hands following the memorized lines across her back. The dark red silk pooling onto the floor. Her hand between them, stroking him through his clothes, choking him again. Pleasure seeping down his tense thighs, up his clenched abs. The pressure winding within his core, his lips trembling against her calm, so close to the perfect imperfection of that mole under a silver tongue.

“Guns just waiting to be aimed.”

She held down his wrists bound by his necktie.

Rammed her hips into his and he hissed, back arching, bouncing on the mattress. Torn condom wrapper on the floor by their discarded clothes. Saliva drying on the inside of his hard thighs still tingling from bites. Her other hand pressed down on his chest, pushing him back into place. Fuck, so tight. So wet, constricting around his cock, the swollen head throbbing against her pulsing walls.

Her face was directed to the side.

Seeing with her ears.

He groaned, feeling her hips rock, building the pace deliberately, squeezing every centimeter. Fuck. He pressed his head into the pillows, black strands invading his vision. His own hair a mess. Whimpers threatening to break free. She raked her fingernails over his chest, teasing his hardened nipples. Toying with him. Rolling her hips as he thrust up, a vain attempt to fight back.

Her fingers fanned over his wrists, palm pressing down on the knot.

“I’ve missed your sound,” she shuddered, her hand on his chest sliding to his collarbones.

Her nail scraped against his Adam’s apple, sparking electricity through his veins.

“Just… fuck… choke me, please.”

The side of her lips twisted into a smirk.

“I’ll wrap my hand around your neck.”

So tight, with love.

Her grip closed in, causing the fire to prickle over his skin, up his cheeks and down his spine. Limited oxygen, heightened awareness, pleasure flowing to every core, bound at the wrists but finally free, losing himself to the sound of connected bodies and swirling moans, to the shock of firm, wet slaps between hips, to the scent of sex weighing down the air, soaking it, to the taste of iron as he chewed on his lower lip, whines leaking out between his teeth, deeper, harder, faster.

His vision hazed, edges smoking with black.

Her chin tipped down.

Clouded white.

He was exposed, torn open and ripped apart by that gaze that was no more.

He could barely force the words out, the ache in his ribs pooling down, down.

“Take… me…”

She breathed in, seeing all of him.

“Fuck, you feel good.”

She let go of his wrists and layered both her hands over his throat, choking him harder and fucking him into the mattress. Air gone, his eyes rolling back, vision black, power radiating in every thrust, and he felt her body weight shift downward, fingertips digging into the sides of his neck, hopefully leaving bruises, his resolve cracking, slick walls around him throbbing in their shared pulse, there.

“F-Fuck!”

He rammed his hips up and the orgasm shot through him in shattering bolts, through his burning muscle and his empty lungs, his cock jerking, and then – release – his voice returning in a hoarse moan, another wave slamming into him, another level, creating a ripple effect throughout his nerves that electrified him, burning, gasping, his spine locked in an arc, hearing her exhale his name in a wanton hiss, clenching, spasms, sweet and sticky between their thighs.

His tongue extended, tasting the air, their passion palpable and pungent.

His body was trembling so much he was sure she could feel it even through her hands flat on the bed next to his head. She raised one, tracing his trembling jaw. Ran the pad of her fingertip over his quivering lips. Her name came out in a weak rasp, hot and shaking against her touch.

And yet he wanted her hands around his throat again.

How he missed that feeling.

“Jungkook…”

She saw with her hands. In scent and sound. In previous knowledge, and she knew his body so well, his heat and his hunger. Bondage was temporary. Trust was forever. She could mark him in bites and in scratches, but her scars were in the cavity of his ribs, in his heart that still yearned and in hers that she kept from him to protect them from becoming tools against the other.

Jungkook was afraid.

But he had someone to die for, to live for, to kill for.

And that made him dangerous.

So the Elders could try to rip them apart, but he was sure now that they would go down causing irreversible damage.

She ran her hands over his heaving chest.

“I’m not doing this stupid assignment until I’ve made up for lost time,” she panted, warning sharpness to her tone.

He smirked.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

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#jungkook x reader #bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #hitman au

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Favourite Non-Fiction / Bio Graphic Novels of 2022

When I Grow Up: The Lost Autobiographies of Six Yiddish Teenagers by Ken Krimstein

When I Grow Up is New Yorker cartoonist Ken Krimstein’s new graphic nonfiction book, based on six of hundreds of newly discovered, never-before-published autobiographies of Eastern European Jewish teens on the brink of WWII—found in 2017 hidden in a Lithuanian church cellar. These autobiographies, long thought destroyed by the Nazis, were written as entries for three competitions held in Eastern Europe in the 1930s, just before the horror of the Holocaust forever altered the lives of the young people who wrote them. In When I Grow Up, Krimstein shows us the stories of these six young men and women in riveting, almost cinematic narratives, full of humor, yearning, ambition, and all the angst of the teenage years. It’s as if half a dozen new Anne Frank stories have suddenly come to light, framed by the dramatic story of the documents’ rediscovery. Beautifully illustrated, heart-wrenching, and bursting with life, When I Grow Up reveals how the tragedy that is about to befall these young people could easily happen again, to any of us, if we don’t learn to listen to the voices from the past.

Finding Joy by Gary Andrews

When his wife, Joy, died very suddenly, a daily drawing became the way Gary Andrews dealt with his grief. From learning how to juggle his kids' playdates and single-handedly organising Christmas, to getting used to the empty side of the bed, Gary's honest and often hilarious illustrations have touched the hearts of thousands on social media. Finding Joy is the story of how one family learned to live again after tragedy.

Flung Out of Space by Grace Ellis & Hannah Templer

A fictional and complex portrait of bestselling author Patricia Highsmith caught up in the longing that would inspire her queer classic, The Price of Salt Flung Out of Space is both a love letter to the essential lesbian novel, The Price of Salt, and an examination of its notorious author, Patricia Highsmith. Veteran comics creators Grace Ellis and Hannah Templer have teamed up to tell this story through Highsmith’s eyes—reimagining the events that inspired her to write the story that would become a foundational piece of queer literature. Flung Out of Space opens with Pat begrudgingly writing low-brow comics. A drinker, a smoker, and a hater of life, Pat knows she can do better. Her brain churns with images of the great novel she could and should be writing—what will eventually be Strangers on a Train— which would later be adapted into a classic film by Alfred Hitchcock in 1951. At the same time, Pat, a lesbian consumed with self-loathing, is in and out of conversion therapy, leaving a trail of sexual conquests and broken hearts in her wake. However, one of those very affairs and a chance encounter in a department store give Pat the idea for her soon-to-be beloved tale of homosexual love that was the first of its kind—it gave the lesbian protagonists a happy ending. This is not just the story behind a classic queer book, but of a queer artist who was deeply flawed. It’s a comic about what it was like to write comics in the 1950s, but also about what it means to be a writer at any time in history, struggling to find your voice. Author Grace Ellis contextualizes Patricia Highsmith as both an unintentional queer icon and a figure whose problematic views and noted anti-Semitism have cemented her controversial legacy. Highsmith’s life imitated her art with results as devastating as the plot twists that brought her fame and fortune.

My Brain is Different: Stories of ADHD and Other Developmental Disorders by MONNZUSU

In this manga essay anthology, follow the true stories of nine people (including the illustrator) navigating life with developmental disorders and disabilities. This intimate manga anthology is about the struggles and successes of individuals learning to navigate daily life with a developmental disorder. The comics follow the stories of nine people, including: a junior high dropout finding an alternate path to education; a former "troublesome" child helping kids at a support school; a so-called problem child realizing the beauty of his own unique quirks; and a man falling in love with the world with the help of a new medication. This book illustrates the anxieties and triumphs of people living in a world not quite built with them in mind.

Ten Days in a Mad-House by Brad Ricca, Courtney Sieh, Nellie Bly

Beautifully adapted and rendered through piercing illustrations by acclaimed creators Brad Ricca and Courtney Sieh, Nellie Bly’s complete, true-to-life 19th-century investigation of Blackwell Asylum captures a groundbreaking moment in history and reveals a haunting and timely glimpse at the starting point for conversations on mental health. “I said I could and I would. And I did.” While working for Joseph Pulitzer’s newspaper in 1887, Nellie Bly began an undercover investigation into the local Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell Island. Intent on seeing what life was like on the inside, Bly fooled trained physicians into thinking she was insane—a task too easily achieved—and had herself committed. In her ten days at the asylum, Bly witnessed horrifying conditions: the food was inedible, the women were forced into labor for the staff, the nurses and doctors were cruel or indifferent, and many of the women held there had no mental disorder of any kind. Now adapted into graphic novel form by Brad Ricca and vividly rendered with beautiful and haunting illustrations by Courtney Sieh, Bly’s bold venture is given new life and meaning. Her fearless investigation into the living conditions at the Blackwell Asylum forever changed the field of journalism. A timely reminder to take notice of forgotten populations, Ten Days in a Mad-House warns us what happens when we look away.

So Much for Love: How I Survived a Toxic Relationship by Sophie Lambda

Part memoir, part self-help book, So Much Bad For Love guides readers with honesty and humor through how to spot, cope with, and ultimately survive a romantic relationship with a malignant narcissist. Sophie had always been cynical about love—until she meets Marcus. His affection and doting praise melt away her defenses. The beginning of their relationship was a whirlwind romance, but over time she finds herself on uneven footing. Marcus lies. He's violently angry and bewilderingly inconsistent. Yet somehow he always manages to explain away his behavior and to convince Sophie that it's all in her head. Sophie comes to realize that she's become trapped in a cycle of abuse with someone with narcissistic personality disorder. Once she gets out of the relationship, Sophie documents the experience in this bracing, hilarious, and empathetic graphic novel that's full of advice to readers who may be in similar straits.

#book rec #book recs #comic #graphic novel #manga #autobio #biography #nonfiction #books about real people #and real people are often flawed

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feyhunter78 · 2 years ago

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Hey it’s me El! I have an apprentice one shot for Aemond. The reader is the apprentice painter who paints the portraits for them. The reader just finds Aemond to be a masterpiece and paints them all day in the too they were given. Aemond gets the wrong impression of them looking at him constantly and goes into their room when they aren’t there but finds their paintings of him. She walks in and explains saying she thinks he’s her muse and he’s beautiful. He gets flustered and doesn’t know what to do. Awkward flirting happens cause she hasn’t done everyone’s paintings yet. He visits her while she’s doing aegons and he teases the two of them saying of just kiss or fuck and get it over with! And stuff like that. They get awkward but later aemond kisses her and they agree to court

This is super cuteeee, and I decided to go soft with this one!!! To give everyone a break from the smut XD

The Painter and her Muse

Aemond didn’t understand why the court painter’s apprentice kept staring at him. His portrait was one of the first to be finished, mainly because he was the only one that could sit still for that long. But no matter what, if she and him were in the same room together he would always catch her staring at him, almost observing him.

At first, he wondered if perhaps she was an assassin. Then she tripped on the edge of the rug and dropped all her paintbrushes, not managing to catch a single one. So, he ruled that theory out quite quickly.

He soon came to the conclusion that she found him revolting, and could not stop herself from gazing upon the horror that was his disfigured face. After he caught her watching him outside in the garden, her eyes trailing over his form, he’d had enough.

He stormed into the painting studio, ready for a fight.

“Lady y/n, you must cease your staring, it is an insult. If you wish to gawk at the misfortune of others, I suggest the depth of the Fleabottom.”

Instead of a stammering, frightened woman, he finds canvas after canvas of his face staring back at him.

He walks around the room slowly, admiring the time and detail put into each one.

The door swings open, and he hears a shocked, “my prince?”

You’ve walked in on your worst nightmare. Prince Aemond, in the painting studio, looking at the portraits you painted of him, without his knowledge. “I—I can explain.” You stuttered out, rushing to pull the drapes over the paintings.

Aemond grabs your elbow. “Explain then.”

You keep your eyes on the floor as you begin. “You have inspired me, your beauty has breathed new life into my art, I know I should have asked, but I could not waste this burst of inspiration.”

Aemond tilted your chin up with one bent finger. “Are you implying that I am your…muse?”

You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Yes, my prince. I am so sorry, if I’ve offended you, I will cease at once.”

Aemond’s good eye narrowed for a moment before he released you. “No, I am flattered actually, you have done a wonderful job of capturing my likeness.”

You smile brightly at him. “Truly? I worried that perhaps I had not captured the sharpness of your cheekbones well enough.”

Aemond looked at the nearest painting, it was one of him reading in the library, a calm and contented expression on his face. “They look quite sharp to me.”

You were beaming, and he had a hard time keeping his own smile from emerging.

“And then I told her, she could keep the tunic if she wanted it so badly, but I wanted an extra round in return. She got angry and kicked me out of the brothel, I was not even able to retrieve my tunic.” Aegon groaned, recounting you with his latest adventures.

You giggled as you continued painting. Aegon was your third to last portrait after him, you needed to paint ones of his children.

“That sounds quite harrowing, my prince.” You said, leaning to the side to glance at him again.

“Brother—oh, and Lady y/n.” Aemond’s voice filled the room and you turned instantly.

“Yes, Aemond?” Aegon said, taking this chance to stretch his arms.

“I came to ask you when the twins will have their portraits done. Mother wishes to get them new garments beforehand.”

Aegon tilted his head towards you. “Ask the painter.”

Aemond looked to you.

“The children’s portraits will be done after I finish Prince Aegon’s.” You told him.

“Hear that? Now leave, you are distracting her from her work.” Aegon said, as he resumed the position they’d agreed on.

Aemond stepped closer to you, admiring your work. “For having such a difficult subject, you have managed to create something quite magnificent.”

“I love you too, Aemond.” Aegon called, sticking his tongue out at him.

“The prince is not ugly, so it was not difficult.” You said.

Aegon let out a victorious laugh. “Perhaps she can paint you with both eyes. We’ll send that out and lure a bride here with it.”

You felt Aemond stiffen behind you.

“I think Prince Aemond is already very handsome with one eye, if he had two we might all die from the radiance of his beauty.” You said without thinking, cheeks heating up as the words slipped out.

“That’s very kind Lady y/n, especially from someone so beautiful herself.”

Aegon groaned. “Just fuck already, I do not wish to hear this drivel.”

You stepped away from Aemond, and he did the same. “My—my prince, it is not like that, I can assure you.” You said quickly, already fearing that rumors would spread. This was the death sentence of any court painter. Once you have been accused of an affair, your career was over.

“Aegon that is not the language to use in front of a lady.” Aemond chastised.

“So you do wish to fuck her?” Aegon prodded.

“No, because I am a man of honor who is able to curb his desires, unlike you.” Aemond shot back.

You didn’t let the thought of he did not say he would not bed you if honor was not an obstacle, linger in your mind. “Prince Aegon, please cease talking, I must finish this painting, and you move your whole body when you speak.”

Aegon did as you asked, but shot Aemond one more teasing look.

“I will leave you to your work then.” Aemond said, before leaving the room.

You bid him goodbye, and continued painting, your stomach in knots.

Later, you rushed to your door to answer the frantic knocking. Swinging it open, you took a step back in surprise to see Aemond standing before you.

“Prince Aemond?” You asked.

Aemond said nothing, his eye roaming your face.

“Is everything alright?” You tried again, hand still on the doorknob.

In a swift motion, Aemond bent down, cupped your face and kissed you. It was a staggering kiss, all your thoughts derailed as your senses focused in on him. Your hand gripped his tunic, using it and the door for support when he pulled away and brushed the pad of his thumb along your bottom lips.

“There are no rules that say a muse cannot kiss his artist, are there?”

You shook your head, stunned.

He chuckled and released your chin. “I wish to court you.”

“Okay…” You said, still returning to reality, the smell of parchment and leather still overwhelming your senses.

“Unless that is not your wish?” He asked hesitantly.

That brought you back into your body. “No, no, it is my wish, I would be honored if you were to court me. I would…very much like that.”

Aemond gave you one of his rare, true smiles. “Then I shall come collect you after breakfast?”

“That would be nice.” You said, still gripping his tunic.

“I shall see you then.” He said, as he gently unfurled your fingers and pressed a kiss to each one before he disappeared into the shadows. Leaving you standing there breathless and giddy.

Tag list: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010

#aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #prince aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #meg's writing #mail from el #apprentice!reader #thanks for the request!#I hope you like it!!!#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #painter!reader #anon request

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bg-brainrot · 11 months ago

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Some of my AstarionxRogue!Tav headcannons of stuff I'll probably never write about:

They never officially get married, but they basically are. They get matching rings, profess their love, and promise to be together until one of them dies. Rogue!Tav just isn't interested in a wedding. Plus Astarion and them will throw plenty of parties with or without a wedding.

They never have children. Neither are very kids oriented (and would likely struggle to keep a child alive between them), but they definitely take care of Yenna for a while before getting her settled with someone who's less danger-prone. They likely also are down to babysit for their friends, as long their friends are cool with their child having a newfound love of crime.

They do get a massive mansion somewhere (or multiple places). They have accumulated a vast amount of ill-gotten wealth and, once they're comfortably settled, they use it. Their houses are extensively furnished and filled with portraits and statues (many of Astarion).

They visit all of their friends sooner or later. They especially enjoy their trip to Waterdeep, not that Astarion would admit it. And, while it was crazy and dangerous, Astarion liked that he didn't have to worry about the sun in Avernus.

They do eventually find Astarion a daylight ring (if not, Gale would have had an enchanter friend make one given enough time). They still live a largely crepuscular schedule due to the nature of their work, but they spend some days just sunbathing like a pair of lizards.

Astarion and Tav start out their post-game life in the Underdark. Astarion puts a lot of focus into teaching the more inexperienced vampires how to live and establishes some leadership before they move on.

This inspires him to briefly consider new possible career paths, including a politician or other city leadership. Tav reminds him he's still not a fantastic liar, so he decides to focus on his talents: embroidery and stealing.

His side project is investigating vampirism, all in the hopes of bettering the lives of the spawn in the Underdark.

Rogue!Tav would still be an assassin, taking the occasional mark from The Guild (or equivalent of whichever city they're in). Astarion dislikes the structure of The Guild so he never joins, but appreciates that Tav has a hobby.

As much as I love Tav grows old stories, I don't think that's how their story ends. Rogue!Tav would have one of two possible ends: they would die as dramatically as possible, likely nowhere near Astarion. It would be brutal and sad and when Astarion found out, he wouldn't believe it for a while. Or they would use the Rite of the Timeless Body that Jaheira gave them and live an unnaturally long life with Astarion. All before a different bloody death (I don't think Rogue!Tav would sit still long, so danger really would come around every corner).

Also, since they promised Jaheira when they took the scroll, Tav feels obligated to go save the city every time it needs saving and drags Astarion along too. They're the reluctant heroes, but win every time. Sometimes some of the old gang comes by to help!

Last but not least, while the two fight, they may even take breaks from each other, and even spend weeks apart at a time for jobs or visiting friends, their love remains. After dozens of reunions, each as passionate as the last, Tav finally gets over their fear that Astarion was jumping into something with them too fast after finding his freedom or that he hadn't had the chance to explore. Astarion, for his part, really just doesn't believe anyone else can be everything Tav is to him, no one he's met even comes close.

#astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion x tav #rogue + rogue #bg3 headcanons #just thoughts i have while writing my reincarnation fic #not the og tav but like obviously heavily inspired hah

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calidore · 7 months ago

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i have no patience for a happy ending

artist!dazai x artist!chuuya academic rivals to lovers (? but not really) bsd meets mesterul manole some parts are inspired by chuuya nakahara's poetry and some quotes are also taken from there. i really recommend reading something by him ao3 link : i have no patience for a happy ending - bonefire - 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs [Archive of Our Own]

summary

chuuya and dazai are looking for inspiration for their art project. looking for inspiration doesn't go as planned and i am insane.

i don't know who is narrating this

The difference between a happy and a sad ending lies in the heart of the reader.

“Please!” the artist begged the Moon, not taking his eyes away from it. He could have shed a tear, if only there were any left.

The reason for his desperation was the painting for his master, which for the untrained mind might seem exaggerated, but for the young artist seemed like the only chance he got to impress his master; and his rival too, but that part will never leave the darkest part of his heart. For the ordinary man, the theme for the painting would not present any impediments : beauty; but for the artist, who has a peculiar hunger for beauty and grotesqueness, it seemed impossible. He has thought about every beautiful thing he has ever seen: the woods before a storm, the mountain reflected in a dead deer’s shiny eyes, the full Moon hidden behind clouds, his reflection in a pond of tears, but once he started painting them the beauty vanished. And after three sleepless nights, he had decided to ask the Moon, which should not be even the last option.

“I will do anything.”

That is something only someone who is willing to destroy themselves would say and the Moon is not merciful.

“Is there something more beautiful than the heart of a lover?”

The artist’s eyes darkened. He knew the perfect answer to this question.

The moon awaits her executioner. It was time for him to leave.

~~~

Three weeks had passed since the master gave the assignment and all Chuuya had done was ask his fellow artists about their piece. One of them was painting a watercolour self portrait using their own tears, one was carving a crown onto their head and another was writing a prayer about himself. There was only one person he had not dared to ask, even though the curiosity was eating him alive.

Chuuya stared long at the canvas in front of him and started to leave careless strokes of colour on it, hoping some sort of inspiration would come. He gave up soon and with a sight he laid on his back, looking at the stars.

Dazai was admiring the state in which he found his rival. People are most vulnerable when they are alone and looking at the stars was his favourite activity. He could spend hours recognizing each constellation, creating a different story for it each time, and counting stars until he fell asleep. If you asked him why the stars were so important to him, he would laugh and tell you that the stars became him when he stared at them.

Dazai stepped closer to Chuuya, not making any sound, which was not on purpose, but wandering around without making a noise was pretty useful, so he got used to doing it unconsciously.

“What are you doing?” Chuuya yelled at him once he realised how close Dazai was.

“I came to you with a proposal.” Dazai’s speech was composed of short and vague sentences. You always had to ask questions and continue the conversation if you wanted to get to the point of the interaction.

“I am not…” Chuuya started, but got interrupted.

“We should work together.”

“Why should we do that?”

“I believe that we would be a great inspiration to each other.”

Chuuya almost let himself believe him.

“I hardly doubt it. You see, our views on beauty are very different.” Chuuya said.

“Is that so?” Dazai was curious why his rival thought that. It seemed like they had a very different perception of their relationship.

Chuuya looked at Dazai thinking that the statement was obvious. He believed that they were different in each aspect of their lives, because they could never reach an agreement. But maybe that was because they were too similar.

“The main difference between us is that I would die for beauty. You would kill for it.” Chuuya said, and without breaking the eye contact, Dazai answered:

“I would kill it.”

Dazai gave him a smile, a smile he did not recognize. A smile that didn’t look like someone living.

Chuuya did not understand what he was trying to say, but he never understood anything Dazai was trying to tell him. Dazai’s ambiguity was far superior to his and was the only thing that kept him with an unbroken heart. Everything he does has a hidden meaning and purpose, and it seems like sometimes not even Dazai knows what they are; that’s where his power and mis(t)ery lies.

“But that is even better. Rivals bring more interesting things out of each other than lovers do. Tomorrow is gonna be a full moon. I’ll meet you under the willow tree.”

And without getting a chance to answer back, Chuuya looked at Dazai’s figure disappearing into the dark.

~~~

The willow tree was Chuuya’s favourite, and secret, spot. It was perfect to watch the moon on sleepless nights and he didn’t like the idea of sharing such a spot with anyone, let alone with Dazai. But he did not have a choice. He had to meet with him if he wanted to finish his work.

The moon had taken its place as a viewer when Chuuya arrived. And with the moon so high, looking after every soul, he felt safe; as safe as a character would feel in the hands of an author. Dazai was nowhere to be found.

“You actually came.” The voice came unexpectedly from behind. Chuuya turned around to see a grinning Dazai.

“Surprised? You know, most people are actually truthful.”

Dazai chuckled at his statement. It was true, he preferred to lie than to tell the truth. Lies were easier, safer, more interesting. He held the belief that language was invented by the need of humans to lie to each other.

“Now can you tell me why you brought me here?” Chuuya asked.

“To help you with your art piece.”

“What about yours?”

Dazai stepped closer to him. He was now only inches away from him and Chuuya could clearly see his eyes; they looked like the starless sky.

“I’m actually almost done.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I titled it `Dying Youth Under the Willow Tree`.”

They were staring at each other with a look that said “I would set the world on fire”; one to keep the other warm and the other just to watch everything burn. That right there was their little world. A world neither of them dared to touch, let alone destroy. Their little world, perfect in its inexistence.

They stayed like this for a while because neither could touch the fragility of this silent agreement between them. But when entrusting to someone, you have to take into consideration any possibility of betrayal, because the likelihood of treason gets higher when the heart is distracted. And if it wasn’t for the warm blood dripping on his chest he probably wouldn’t have realised that his ache was caused by hand, not by heart.

The deeper Chuuya’s knife went, the more painful Dazai’s heartache became.

Tears fell down his cheeks, tears which could as well be tears of love, but who am I to say how tears of love should look like.

Chuuya laid down his body so he could see the stars and soon enough he will become one of them.

~~~

The next morning a new painting was exhibited. It was a painting of a heart. The red used was so rich and bloody that any artist would question its origin.

At the bottom of the painting was written “a place to hide secrets”.

#bungou stray dogs #bungou gay dogs #bsd #dazai osamu #chuuya nakahara #dazai x chuuya #artist dazai #artist chuuya #dark academia #unreliable narrator #but the narrator is the author #or maybe god ?

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wingsdippedingold · 7 months ago

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Can you drop some headcanons about Astraea?

“Trying to inspire you to write😅”

Love xoxox

Idk who you are anon but thank you 😭😭

I've been really busy with shoolwork so any real writing won't be out until summer, here are three small excerpts though: Feyre finding Astraea's hidden portrait Astraea confronting Azriel Astraea about Cassian Her moodboard Now the headcanons that have been in drafts/already out:

Her name is Rosalyn Astraea, but she vastly preferred Astraea as to separate herself from her family. We don't know her last name, thank you SJM. But since the characters like adopting titles and stuff "Astraea Nightstalker" is very fitting. If I had to guess a Rhysand family name maybe Silverback? I think that fits Rhysand's modus operandi.

She used her magic to make illusions of the stars and showed the young children of Hewn city the constellations. They called her "Asty" and to this day it's her favorite secret nickname.

When she found out about the ring that gets passed down maternal lines was given to Rhysand, she was livid. She def sought it out and reached it only for the soul weaver to tell her “lmao it isn’t worth it” and that’s her breaking point where she no longer cares to connect with her family

“I saw my mother today. She was sewing away at more dresses for Rhysand’s future bride. I had asked her if she’d make me one and she simply told me to fetch another spool of thread,” her voice now dropped to a whisper, “The only dress she’d ever sewn me was for the day I inevitably get married off.”

Her father was super protective of her, mostly to maintain his reputation, so she found solace in sneaking out of the manor at night. This lead her to often sneak into Hewn City so she could actually experience life outside of the manor and the Illyrian mountains. Very Rapunzel-esque if you will.

Because she was always cooped up she took to academic prowess and studied a lot of battle tactics and science. She made the initial solar system model that Rhysand later used, because we all know he's not that smart. She also trained in archery since its a solo combat.

Cassian gave her Illyrian training lessons and she helped Azriel learn to fly

Eris and Astraea would be at the corners of their father's meetings and parties and make snarky comments and having a trove of inside jokes

She completed the bloodrite as a way to get her father to acknowledge her and her power. Her the batboys and the other Illyrians were gathered to watch the start of some guy's bloodrite, but he chickened out so she took it as a chance to do it herself.

She'd always watch the sun set ahem. dusk

She's a pretty much a retexture of an old oc I've had for years because women like this are my favorite 😔

#when the stars cry #anons are cool

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saintsenara · 2 years ago

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lamentation sirius black & walburga black teen | 2.1k words

they would give me a guest room at the top of the house, where a view of london unfolded before me like a pen-and-ink drawing, and the walls were soft and pink, their paper patterned with undulating roses. the house seemed, then, like a paradise.

but that was before. before they sold me to a man i did not love. before my sons were born.

my sons are both dead now.

walburga's portrait is told that sirius is dead.

this piece was written for @womenofthehouseofblack fest, [you can find the other fics in the collection here].

author's notes under the cut

i found the prompt for this piece - what would happen when walburga's portrait was informed of sirius' death - immediately intriguing, because walburga’s portrait is a character i find incredibly interesting; firstly, because she is described in ways which make her sound ancient when she actually died in her early sixties, and secondly, because she provides a fascinating insight into how the wizarding world thinks about mental illness.

i have always hated the fanon about black family madness - particularly since it is so frequently only applied to the women of the family - due to the way in which it undermines the harry potter series’ focus on the value of choice. turning walburga and bellatrix’s cruelty into something innate or genetic distances them from the reality of what they did and how their decisions affected other people. it also prevents them from having complicated emotions and motivations, and - above all - it prevents them from having the capacity to atone for their deeds.

it also denies the fact that a huge amount of mental illness is treatable.

i have always had the headcanon that walburga’s relationship with her sons was affected by untreated postnatal depression - also a theme in nor all that glisters gold [author’s notes here], another piece of mine for this fest - which is exacerbated in lamentation by the additional pain of her high-risk pregnancy and traumatic birth experience with sirius. unable to bond with her son, who she thinks is a changeling, but confined to the house with him by the rigidity of gendered pureblood social convention, her illness spirals into psychosis.

the wizarding world seems to be of the opinion that mental illness doesn’t really exist. when this is examined through the lens of gender, an obvious parallel appears between women’s writing about mental illness in the nineteenth century - walburga, who is, in canon, a pastiche of the madwoman in the attic [the most famous example of which is, of course, bertha rochester from jane eyre] deserves an examination from the other side of the trope. the repeated motif in lamentation of the roses in the wallpaper is a reference to charlotte perkins gilman’s the yellow wallpaper - one of the clearest examples of the damage done to victorian women by the isolation and condescension they received from men in lieu of any holistic treatment for their illness. walburga’s dialogue - the portrait’s screams competing with a more lucid monologue - was inspired by the contrast between how antoinette "bertha" rochester speaks in jane eyre and how she speaks in jean rhys’ wide sargasso sea.

and, as antoinette gets a chance to speak for herself in that text, walburga gets a chance to speak for herself here - something she is denied in the canon narrative, which reduces her to an incoherent, screaming bigot [even as kreacher tells us that sirius leaving home broke her heart]. lamentation offers some contextualisation for the canonical walburga’s obsession with blood and its purity - she does, after all, a significant amount of bleeding in this piece, which naturally distresses her - and with belonging to and being a real member of the family - after all, regulus was snatched by the fairies, and dragged down into the netherworld; sirius left and then came back and then was snatched himself.

an important postscript: both postnatal and antenatal depression are common conditions. they affect more than one in ten pregnant women, they can strike anyone in any circumstances [you can experience them even if your pregnancy was "easy" or if you have a lot of support in the first weeks of your baby’s life], and they are never your fault. they can be serious - and it’s crucial that we challenge the pervasive myth that they are "less serious" than other forms of depression - but they are inherently treatable. the best thing that you can do is to know the signs of these and other perinatal mental illnesses, whether for yourself or for someone else, and make sure to seek help if any of them seem to be present. a diagnosis of postnatal depression does not mean that you will be seen as an unfit parent, and it will not automatically result in your baby being taken away.

the following pages may be useful:

action on post-partum psychosis - for anyone who experiences psychosis during and after pregnancy, provides useful information, resources for health professionals, and advice on how to access support.

association for postnatal illness - for anyone who experiences a mental illness during and after pregnancy, provides useful information and resources.

birth trauma association - for anyone who experiences post-traumatic stress disorder after birth, provides useful medical and legal resources, as well as links to support groups and other contacts.

breastfeeding network - for anyone who wishes to breastfeed and requires support, has links to local support groups.

home start - for parents who need support, provides advice on topics from mental health to financial aid and can offer direct support to families in need.

maternal ocd - for anyone who experiences obsessive compulsive disorder during pregnancy or after birth, provides useful information and resources.

pandas - for anyone who experiences depression or anxiety during and after pregnancy, provides direct support.

postpartum men - for men who experience mental illness during or after (their partner's) pregnancy, provides useful information and resources.

#asenora fics #walburga black #sirius black #regulus black #lamentation #women of the house of black fest

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xandriagreat · 7 months ago

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Fate Be Changed

Chapter 2: Different Journeys On The Same Path

First chapter | Last chapter | Next chapter

Author’s note: Again, just to let you all know, the story takes place in the early 2000s. So it’s different from now (2024). Also this chapter will be in different POVs (mostly Diane’s), but the next chapter will be in Herbert's, Moe's and Webs’ POVs

Notice/warnings: food/eating, sleepy, passing out, running away

▪▪▪

17 Years later

2000, June 10th.

A now 23 year old Diane was now a college student, Senior year living alone in an apartment that she had paid herself for the last three years.

She just got back from night job and cram night school. She began taking off her shoes and getting undressed, getting cleaned up, got into her pajamas and checked her apron and purse to see how much money she had and went into her room, going to her savings drawer where she separated her savings. One for rent and food. The other is her chance to get into her Future undergraduate school; Howard University for political science, with her submission for acceptance already prepared in place and ready.

“Tips were hard but every penny counts.” she reminded herself. Then she looked at the calendar and saw that graduation was in a week. ‘And one more week until graduation.’ Diane thought after looking at the calendar. She got a pen and drew a little picture of a graduation cap and a pin on the graduation date.

But then she'd look at the portrait of inspiration she made herself, with her parents and family.

Including one of them, hope the photos of her grandparents and great-grandma that was given to her years ago

"Don't worry guys." she said, did give a kiss with her finger on each of the portraits "I will make you all proud."

Then Diane slowly walked over to her bed and plopped onto the bed with a lot of books of her studies scattered around it, giving herself a quick snooze.

Then her digital alarm went off.

Diane groaned loudly as she woke up and then she used her foot to turn off her alarm.

Diane slowly got up, yawning loudly as she stretched. She looked at the calendar, saw it was a weekend. So, no school for her today and just a full day of work.

Then she got her pajamas off, only her undergarments on as she looked at her closet.

"Good night, Planned Parenthood receptionist. Good morning, waitress at Coles." Daine said as she opened her closet.

She found her uniform for her day restaurant and put it on.

She began getting some toast, a banana, and an already made milk coffee container to go for breakfast before rushing her way to the bus stop where was heading to work.

She looked around the city of Los Angeles through her window while waiting for her stop. She began listening to some music from her walkman and read a magazine, normally glancing up to see her stop.

The city has changed a lot.

Some buildings got bigger, some places were taken down to build new ones, but it was the same LA to her.

A man tried to talk to her before the bus got to her stop. She began getting off before he could ask.

Diane rushed over to Coles and started to work.

She was one of the best hard workers, trying to give out as much as she can despite having a not-so-great chef as a boss.

◇■

Near the city's market, there was a person walking by a stand of Mr. Marmalade, a short man with well kept hair and fine clothing.

“Ah, hello.” Marmalade calling out to the person, smiling.

“Oh, hey.” The person said, looking at him.

Marmalade offered a seat in front of the stand and the person sitting down.

"I see that you need some guidance." Marmalade said in a kind look and sweet voice.

The person was surprised by that and said, “Well yeah, I'm new to the area. I came from Idaho and I'm not used to the climate here or know anyone there… I really want to meet people but… I’m nervous.”

Marmalade hummed softly and nodded. “I have something for that.” he said, getting out of his seat and getting something out of a box.

Marmalade took a potion from the box and set it on the table. “This will help you.”

He gave it to the person and the person drank it after giving him a few dollars. The person thanked him before leaving.

Marmalade smiled sinfully as he hid to see the results while his stand faded away when no one was looking.

The person's memories started changing when the person came by.

Then some dust on another person's memory as well when the person walks by them.

Before the two people walked farther, they collapsed onto the ground, causing a panic.

‘It worked.' Marmalade thought as he exited the market, putting the money in his pocket when he saw them both collapsed.

Marmalade noticed Ruby, who was now grown up, getting out of a shop with a new paper in her hands as she went to a bench, waiting for her ride, which was Pam.

Marmalade walked over to her. “Excuse me, young lady.” he called out, getting her attention.

"Hey, I'm just waiting for a friend to pick me up." Ruby said, looking at him.

Marmalade hummed and nodded. “I see but I noticed that you have a newspaper. I was wondering if I could see the headline, if you don’t mind.” he said, pointing at the newspaper.

Ruby nodded and handed him the newspaper. “The headline is interesting.” the young woman said as Marmalade took it.

'The rich son of Vinnie Wolf missing'

Vincent Wolf, the owner of the well known Vinnie Motor shop, reported that his son, Mason ‘Moe’ Wolf, is missing.

Police are already looking for the young man and Vincent is offering $1000 for whoever finds him.

Vincent’s whereabouts of his son is still a mystery and Mason has been gone for a month after the engagement announcement and introduction of the debutante daughter of the oil tycoon, Mary O’Cross.

As of this moment, there's no signs of Mason yet.

“That is interesting.” Marmalade hummed and handed the paper back to Ruby.

The young woman nodded and took the paper back from the short man.

Then there was now a honk from a car driving up to the curb, it was Pam.

“Nice talking with you.” Ruby said, getting up and going over to the car to get in when the car stopped.

Marmalade nodded as he went to an alleyway and then his shadow appeared on the wall when he was out of sight.

Taking the money out and checking it, Marmalade couldn’t help but think about the newspaper.

“We should let the others know that we might get a new soul soon. Maybe two or more, if we’re lucky.” Marmalade said to his shadow, a dark smile on his face.

◇

Around downtown, at the train station, a young man with tan skin just got off a train with another man and a woman, and all of them were in jackets.

The young man had just put on sunglasses and the other man noticed.

“Moe, it’s ok. You don’t need to wear them.” the other man said, about to get the sunglasses off of Moe.

Moe put a hand over the hand and said, “You don’t know if it got to the news, Herbert. If they see us, they'll report us!”

"Well we might need to wear something in order to blend in before we meet up with a couple of my friends from here, just in case" the woman said, looking at both of them.

The two men nodded.

Luckily they packed their bags before leaving.

Of course they noticed some people walking out of the station.

"We should get into the crowd." The woman said, pointing at the crowd. “Also, we need change.”

"Good idea, Webs." Moe said, getting out a disguise that he packed just in case.

He went to the restroom to change with Herbert.

Moe got changed into a white dress shirt, matching white suit jacket and pants, bucking his belt, and put on his new gray socks and brown dress shoes for the thrift shop from

Herbert got on a Hawaii shirt, tan khaki pants, and a bucket hat.

They meet up Webs after changing.

Webs got a black hoodie from her backpack and she put it on with the hood up.

They all got some sunglasses to hide in the crowd as the three left the train station with their bags, unaware not that someone was following them.

◇

Pam and Ruby picked up Emily Lou at the Hogwild penthouse.

Emily Lou came out and walked over to them.

“Hey, Emily!” they both said, waving at Emily Lou.

“Hey Pam! Hey Ruby!” Emily Lou said, waving back as she got to the car and got inside.

They began talking about the news of the newspaper as they went to Cole’s.

◇

Diane went outside to give some orders and get some dirty dishes when a woman bumped into her.

“Oh! I am so sorry!” the woman said in worry.

"No, no, it's fine." Diane reassured the woman, looking at her.

Diane didn’t know what she was feeling but it was different.

They began touching hands for a moment as they looked at each other.

“Um… Webs?” a man called out to the woman.

That made both women jump and they step away from each other.

Diane looked to see two men, who might be the woman’s friends. One of the men was holding a fast food bag while the other had a duffle bag.

Diane got herself back on track by shaking her head, rolling her eyes and she went back inside as the woman went walking with the two men.

Diane began doing more work and getting more orders.

"Order up!" one of the chefs called out as Diane got the plates.

"- Another coffee here!" a patertin ordered as Diane walked by.

“Coming right up.” she told the patertin as she continued to go to the kitchen to put the dishes in the tub and get the next meal.

As Diane walks and gives out the meals and refills the cup of coffee for the patertin, she notices her two friends came in.

"Hey, Diane!" Called Joy, a tan-skinned goth with a black t-shirt and black ripped jeans, black hair with purple highlights on her short hair. With Joy was Rhonda, a short woman with blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail, black t-shirt with a white smiley face on it.

"Hey, Joy! Hey Rhodona!" Diane said, waving at them.

The two went to a table as Diane went to them.

"How's work going?" Joy asked as Diane got to them.

“It’s good.” Diane answered, smiling.

“That’s good.” Joy hummed softly, nodding a bit.

"Hey, we wanted to ask you something. It's going to be one week until graduation. We were thinking of a trip to Las Vegas, you know, to end our college era. You want to come?" Rhonda asked, knowing sometimes to be the quiet type.

"Come on, Diane. You could use a little hard. You deserve a break every once in a while like the last couple years." Joy added with a chuckle.

Diane sighed softly as she did her work. "I would love to, but no thanks. Besides I’m gonna…” Diane said but stopped when she noticed a messy kid. “You need a napkin, sweetheart?” she asked as she handed a napkin to the kid before she continued explaining as she served. “I’m gonna work a double shift tonight…” Then she saw a woman with her third Bloody Mary coffee. “Here you are, That's enough Bloody Mary for you and here's your Belgian Waffles."

Then Diane went to her friends. “You know, so I…” Diane started as she went back to the two young women.

"‘So, you can save for your Future political career.’ I know, I know.” Joy interrupted, sighing. “Girl! All you ever do is work and study to the extreme like that Alexander Hamilton guy!"

Rhonda punches Joy in the shoulder, making the goth exclaim in pain, while Diane frowns sadly at them.

"Order up!" one of the chefs shouted.

"Maybe next time." Diane said to her two friends, a sad smile on her face.

“Ok.” Rhonda said, nodding as Diane left their table to get other orders and dishes.

Diane went to the kitchen area, gave out the orders that she wrote down to the chefs, and then started to get some food for the waiting customers.

“Were you talking about your dream issues again?” one of the chefs asked as Diane filled up a cup of coffee.

"Yeah, where I get a chance to study how to be a good politician in DC." Diane said, looking at the chef with a deadpan look and noticing that the eggs were burning. "Also, Arron, your eggs are burning.”

Chef Arron started to laugh as he took care of the eggs and flipped them to cook evenly. “You are NEVER gonna get enough for that big opportunity.”

“I’m getting close.” Diane said, getting the meals on her serving tray.

“Yeah? How close?” Aaron asked, a smug look on his face.

Diane, not wanting to tell him, gave him a glare and asked with sass, “Where are my pancakes?”

Arron laughed more as he gave her the plate of pancakes. “Your chances of getting that place is as if pigs could fly!” he laughed as Diane rolled her eyes and went to serve the meals.

◇

Ruby, Emily Lou, and Pam got to the restaurant.

Ruby and Pam were the firsts to go inside while Emily fixed her makeup.

"Good morning, Diane!' Pam and Ruby said as they went to the same table as Joy and Rhonda were.

"Good morning, girls!" Diane exclaimed, waving at them as she went to them with a few plates.

“Congratulations on getting your helicopter license, Pam." Diane said, walking over with a plate.

“Caught me completely by surprise … for the fifth year in a row. Guess all these practices have finally paid off." Pam said, " Now, how about I celebrate with-”

“Beignets? Got a fresh batch just waiting for you.” Diane said, putting a plate of beignets. Then she raise a finger to her lips and whispers, “Shush, don't tell my boss”

Diane had been a bit of a rule breaker since high school and college, but with good intentions

Pam nodded and the young women at the table laughed softly.

“Thank you, you read my mind.” Pam said, smiling at Diane, who was about to get back to the kitchen.

◇

Then the front door swung open and in came Emily Lou in big and loud fashion and personality. “OH DIA!” Emily Lou shouted loudly, which made everyone in the restaurant jump and look at her.

Emily Lou ignored the staring eyes on her as she ran to Diane and spun her a bit. “Dia! Dia! Did ya hear the news?” she asked excitedly as she went to the others and sat down in her seat.

“Hey, Emily, what is it?” Diane asked, shaking her head to make the room stop spinning for a bit.

"Did you get the news?" Ruby asked, getting a newspaper out.

Diane went to Helen, one of the other waitresses, and asked, “Hey, could you take care of my tables for me, please?”

Helen looked at her and nodded. “Sure.”

Diane smiled and got another two plates of beignets before talking over to her friends.

"Didn't have a chance to read it this morning." Joy said, shaking her head. “I was up all night trying to finish my poetry for the poetry club and study for my final science exam before graduating. That’s also why I’m having some black coffee this morning”

Rhonda shook her head too. “I was up practicing my wrestling skills for my wrestling club.” she said before going quiet and grabbing a beignet.

"I had my night job and was at my night class." Diane said when she got to the table. “So, I had a very long night and didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

“Aw… I feel sorry for you.” Ruby said, sounding sad.

“Don't worry. It'll all be worth it soon And all my efforts are finally gonna pay off.” Diane said as she placed the two plates down on the table before grabbing an empty seat. "So, what's the big deal on the news today?"

Emily Lou and Pam looked at Ruby as she pulled out a newspaper and put it on the table.

All of the young women at the table looked at it.

“Mason Wolf, son of The owner of Vinnie Motor shop; Vincent Wolf, is missing.” Ruby said, pointing at the headline on paper.

"Oh?" Diane asked, tilting her head a bit while she fixed her uniform a bit before fixing her curly hair in the tight bun.

“Yeah. Oh! And also, there’s a big money count for whoever finds him.” Ruby said with a chuckle, taking a beignet from a plate.

"Really?!" Joy asked excitedly and laughed, also getting a beignet. "That's probably begging to find him!"

Rhodda nodded with a big smile, already eating one of the beignets.

Diane rolled her eyes in disappointment. "That man probably ran away from his problems." she said sarcastically, shaking her head in disappointment. “Like what is his problem anyway?”

"That's the thing. No one knows why he ran away." Pam said after eating the beignets from the first plate.

"Well actually, it said there's no reason or whereabouts of that man or why he ran away." Ruby corrected, pointing at the paper again and looking at it. "Just says that he ran away, police are looking for him, there’s even the 1000 dollar reward for anyone who found him, and the engagement-"

"What?" Diane asked, get the newspaper off the table to quickly read and look at it.

It does mention the things that Ruby said. It also shows a picture of Vincent on the left and a black silhouette of his son on the right with a question mark on it.

Diane took in a breath and calmed down. "But for now we should stay focused on what is important, which is our future." Diane said, putting the paper down on the table.

“Like you going into government and me planning to be a cop, for a couple of examples,.” Ruby said, smiling softly.

"Oh! And let’s not forget, focusing on the party coming up tonight." Emily Lou said. "Which only the university students can come to. It could be like big pot luck."

The other young women cheered, except for Diane.

Diane looked at Emily Lou in a deadpan look. “Emily…” she started, crossing her arms across her chest. “I’m working a double shift tonight. So, that means I won’t be able to go tonight-”

Diane was cut off by Emily Lou shoving a beignet in her mouth. As Diane chewed it, Emily Lou got some money out of her purse.

“What’s this?” Diane asked after chewing, pointing at the money.

“It’s money. It’s for you. Here.” Emily Lou said, smiling softly at her as she handed it to her. “Would this cover the meal, the potluck, and big tip?”

Diane's eyes lid up in excitement as she took the money and looked at it. She began to feel excited because the money was enough to achieve her goals.

“This is it!” Diane exclaimed happily. "Washington and politics, here I come!"

The young women cheered excitedly while everyone looked at them, including chef Arron, who was in shock.

◇■

Little did Diane know that Marmalade was in the restaurant hearing the whole thing, making him smile with his shadow.

“Oh, yes… Looks like we have a possible soul or work partner.” Marmalade whispered to his shadow.

Then his shadow went back being a shadow as a waitress walked over to him.

“Hello, sir.” the waitress said with a tired smile.

“Hello.” Marmalade said, smiled at the waitress before ordering some food.

◇

Diane was walking out after her shift was done. She went to the docks to see a place that she planned to have after studying at DC. She was looking at the abandoned place as she arrived in front of the place.

Then she jumped when she heard two voices from behind her.

"Looks like Ms. President or Ms. Senator is getting a head start where they campaign for a building." one voice said.

“Or Ms. Governor. Depending on which she goes into.” the other said.

Diane turned around to see both of her parents. “Mom. Dad.” she said, smiling at them.

Her parents had changed a bit over the years, with them now being around 42 years old. They had a couple of wrinkles, their hair started showing its age with a few white and gray streaks (After many years of hard work). Margaret's hair had grown a little but was tied in a braid, only reaching to her shoulders. Owen, who recently had gotten bone cancer and is trying treatment to get better, was in a wheelchair.

Apparently age may sometimes look kind to them.

Diane walked over to them and hugged them.

"Just came to see our little girl on break from work for today." Margaret said during the hug.

Diane smiled softly at them. “Can you believe it?” she asked, looking at her parents and the building.

"Yeah, imagine living like this as a politician after years of hard work." Owen said, looking at the building.

By then the owner of the building came up and saw the family.

“Oh hello! Are you here about the building?” the owner asked, walking over to them. “Let me guess, the previous owner's family?”

Diane and her parents looked over as the owner said, “Just remind you. This quite collects dust over the years no one has nobody ever bought it, But hopefully the buyers will come. But it would be quite helpful to get this place cleaned up.”

The family looked at each other before looking at the owner, knowing the place used to be in their family.

Dinae nodded. “Yes. Could we go inside, please?”

The owner lets out a sigh and begins sending a timer.

“You got 15 minutes, I got some buyers about to come and check out this place today.” the owner said to them, unlocking the door.

The family nodded as Diane opened the door to reveal an old dusty looking place, almost similar to the White House.

Diane laughs as she runs in, her mind imaging where things will be, while her parents slowly follow her in.

“Just look at this place!” Diane exclaimed excitedly. “Don’t you just want to cry?”

“Yes…” both parents said, a bit of worriedness and sadness in their voices as they went over to her.

"I could remind you that your maternal grandparents, my parents, once owned the place before their deaths." Margaret said, looking at the old place.

“I remember.” Diane said, smiling softly at her and nodding. Diane began pointing and imagining new and exciting pieces to the place and walking around the place.

"I’m sure, this place is gonna be just wonderful." Margaret said with a smile before sighing sadly. "But it’s a shame you’re working so hard.”

Diane looked at her parents. “But how could I stop now when I’m so close and also helping you two with the medical expenses? I have to make sure that all of the hard work means something.” she said, power in her voice.

"Diane!” Owen exclaimed, power in his voice that made Diane go quiet as she looked at him.

“Our family may not get the ambition we had but we have something better. We have love.” Owen said, holding his daughter’s hand. “And that’s all we want for you, sweetheart.”

Diane nodded in understanding and sighed softly. "Look, I understand that you're worried about me, but I just need to work my way… I’m almost there." Diane said to comfort her parents. Then she smiled softly and added with a chuckle, “Plus… I don't have time for romance, anyways.”

Her parents started to chuckle. “How long are we talking about?” both parents asked.

Diane shrugged again and all the three started to laugh.

They looked around for a bit before they left the place, closing the doors and letting the owner know that they were done looking around.

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expirisims · 1 year ago

Text

Long time, no see

It has been in game years since we’ve last checked on Alyson, Terrell and their little one, Jerrod. When I clicked in, Alyson was on her way to the McCalister home in the middle of the night! I’m not sure they really want company at this time of night...

Or, maybe I was wrong Joanna was wide awake! Oh my, what did my game dress poor Joanna in for maternity!?

I know I’ve seen Terrell and Alyson fighting around town and they are autonomously sleeping in different rooms so I checked on their relationship status. Well they are still dating and definitely attracted to each other, but look at that bar in the red! Oh no, that doesn’t bode too well. I guess it stands to reason, they are complete opposites.

I gave Terrell his makeover at home when I first entered, but I discovered the hairstyle I chose for him was completely blacked out in his portrait panel and notifications. It showed up correctly actually on him in live mode, but I was still leery so I checked in another save on a different sim...

Yep...still showing blacked out in the portrait, while showing as normal on the actual sim. After scouring the internet I found one post that said this may have to do with poly count and should be fine, but I’ve used this hair before with no problems and I don’t want to take chances, so I settled for a different hair on Terrell.

As soon as the sun was up I sent Alyson for her makeup. Armando is back to wearing full ancient Egyptian guard garbe again I see! LOL! That Armando, what a character!

Well, my retinas may be burning, but Alyson loves the outfit he picked for her so it’s staying! I gave her a haircut. She seems to be a short hair type of girl so I chose an adorable pixie cut. This is literally the first time I’ve seen her entire face! She’s so cute!

Alyson is a photographer and Terrell is in a band so neither has a rabbit hole job to go to. Alyson worked on teaching Jerrod to walk and Terrell met up with his bandmate, Marisela to jam in the park. Is it just me, or does she seem to be a little into him?

Artist’s Pointe seemed to provide just the inspiration they needed, but they weren’t getting any tips. In fact, to my dismay, “Zombie Roommate” hasn’t had a single gig since forming 3 years ago! I did some digging and found out I had a lot of work to do in order to make them eligible to earn any money as a band...so I may have cheated just a little bit ;) It was my fault after all.

Back home Jerrod has learned to walk!

Hey some sims have finally arrived to at least listen! Nice, Marsha...real nice, like you’d be any better at playing piano!

I couldn’t resist a picture of Kyle in robot mode LOL!

I bet you’d be down to chill again!

Alyson was invited to the McCalister home for a party, but I called a babysitter and sent Terrell with her; hoping to increase their relationship. Unfortunately, Alyson stuck around only a couple of minutes after sneaking up on Joanna and Terrell spent most of the evening watching Jody while Joanna cooked mac and cheese.

Haha! Don’t you mean thanks for taking care of my kid while I ignored you?

Aww...sleeping in the same bed now. Maybe that party helped their relationship after all.

#Sims 3 #ts3 #sims 3 gameplay #ts3 world stories #alyson farrell #terrell thigpen #jerrod thigpen #joanna mccabe #jody mccalister #marsha stockton #kyle baldwin #corinna grubbs #Armando the stylist #zombie roommate

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nagy-bari · 8 months ago

Text

standards

aph hungary and romania have a little chat about a future project regarding an archeological find.

no human names used -if i did it right no country names used either.

cussing and swearing and the most awkward tension ever.

cause i still fall back to write semi-personal rants using these two horrid little portraits, and cause i should really focus more on my uni but it was kinda inspired by uni.

The small kitchen with the two chairs filled with old times, smoke and dust reminiscence of a battle or a wine cellar. The two figures in it looked more akin to a painting waiting for restauration or half way saved from the teeth of time dulling their colors. One sitting at the table, the other next to the counter, glass in hand looking out the window.

The lazy afternoon basked them in warm, familiar almost kind hues, soothing out the acid in their tone.

‘ so he’s back. And you invited him back.’

‘not exactly. He found out I found where he stored his precious little favourite toy for 42 days and now he wants a guest room for him there.’

‘that’s… and you’re gonna set up that guest room?’

‘yep.’ The woman took a gulp of her glass. ‘what would you do?’

‘not tell him in the first place?’

‘as if that was ever an option.’

‘yeah it is. You found something you don’t say shit, end of problem.’

‘even Mr. ‘Murika found out before I could finish the search, there was no chance in hell he wouldn’t find out about it.’

‘so you’re just gonna set up a guest room for him to march back whenever he feels like it.’

‘yep.’ Another gulp. ’politics don’t really care about historical sentiment.’

‘ya crazy? That’s all it cares about, how else do you think people gonna vote?’

‘to be honest I’m still hoping people will be so fed up at one point they just don’t go to vote. Like any of them.’

‘dream on.’

‘but you know the same shit as me, forgiveness is our cultural corner stone, and if I’m half a good a Christian as my government makes me out to be, I should really be happy to be in the position to set up that guest room – as a sign of good faith and forgiveness and cultural friendship.’

The other snorted an ugly laugh.

‘and you believe that bullshit?’

‘as much as you do.’

The two figures raised their glasses at each other and took a swig. The one standing reached for the bottle to pour another round. The wine looked amber gold in this light, the sour taste mixed with the smoke from outside still reminder of old times that were never quite there.

‘so what now?’

‘hm?’

‘you’re done with your little speech, I can go I assume?’ She smiles, a crooked smile.

‘thought you would love to ridicule the shit out of this clusterfuck.’

‘it really is just sad if anything.’

‘I’m trying to re-learn a bit of comedic sense here.’

‘by rolling over for an abusive ex?’

‘might as well get used to being the punchline.’

She’s laughing. He’s just looking somewhere with hooded eyes.

‘and why do you think I give a crap?’

‘I know you don’t. it’s the best practice.’

Silence. She shrugs and looks out the window enjoying the last rays hitting the building and he studies her from behind his glass. Then he takes a gulp, sits down his glass on the counter and rolls his shoulders.

‘you know this is exactly what fucks you up more right?’

She hums and turns with a smile, question in her movements.

‘and you know that this fucks me up as well.’

‘and?’

‘and I was never a good enough enemy to be such a supportive boxing bag. I don’t wanna deal with your bullshit of choices.’

‘I don’t want you to.’

‘you told me about it.’

‘yeah so you get the whole story and can laugh more.’

There’s real mirth in her eyes when she smiles, the ones he last only saw under the soviets. The absolute nonchalant acceptance of a grotesque reality. It makes him all the more angry.

‘what sort of heartless monster do you take me for?’

‘a lucky enough bastard to still have a better image in grand total globally.’

‘so you do want me to suffer.’

‘i thought you don’t care enough about me to have any kind of effect on you.’

‘you told me this whole thing.’

‘you can always leave.’

‘don’t pull that shit on me.’

She’s all smiles and he hates how serious he sounds. As if he cares. As if they are actually friends binding over past trauma.

‘why aren’t you telling this to your precious little phoenix friend? He would actually care.’

She looks at her glass.

‘he was more on the trading side of the Ottomans. I was more on the get fucked part.’

‘so what, this whole thing here is just a get fucked pity party?’

She looks out the window again.

‘like you’re actually want to get a fuck out of this or some shit?’

The neighborhood is still painted in soft glow of the afternoon but their building is already in the shadows.

‘no, I’m not gonna let you use me in some twisted self-depricating spiral, no. Jesus woman get a grip.’

‘this is me getting a grip.’

‘no, this is some toxic shit you’re too gone to notice and too sado-mazo to not enjoy.’

‘as if you don’t get a kick out of it.’

‘again, what kind of monster do you take me for.’

‘the same.’

‘the same what?’

She glances at him and smirks and he hates how it gets him to hyperfocus again on her lips and eyes and how actually this is ridiculously working for him too.

‘as me?’

And it’s gone. The light behind her is faded, the colors are an ugly gray her face is tired and wrinkled, her hands are calloused and her nails have seen better days. Her lips are chapped, her eyes are sunk in and her hair is just a bunch of brown strings knotted in the mother of all nests.

And it’s still working. Cause those tired eyes have some remnants from a by-gone time where they hid together in the market, a little time for themselves between errands. She looked way better then. Being forced into the palace and the garden did wonders for her look. The subtle smell of flowers and that wild fire in her eyes worked wonders all around. But her harsh humor stayed. And he got them in trouble and she got them in trouble and it was way back and they were maybe just kids, maybe never adults and maybe it doesn’t count this time as it didn’t count then cause who keeps records anyway. They can enjoy the stolen moments and still hate each other.

It's always been like this. They got each other in hell – if all fails, this remains.

‘so what, you want me to use that guestroom too? Are you inviting me over to be your next ex-tocix shitty partner?’

‘would you? Or am I beneath your standards?’

He straightens up, crossing his arms anger boiling all memories into nightmares.

‘you’re not gonna drag me into your fucked up pity party.’

‘okay.’

She smiles and turns back to her glass, turns back to the window, giving him a way out, giving him time to collect all he needs from the kitchen and leave. He knows. This is his chance. To stick to what he’s saying and remain clean from her mess. Saving himself weeks of headache and self-doubt, a migrane a-

He sits down across of her, hands laced over eyes piercing this mess of a woman across him.

‘I still hate you, and I love to see you suffer but you need to get some help. Some serious help.’

‘if you look at it this way it can be a little art-therapy. Cultural things are art in every form, if I can make that room pretty enough it might work out.’

She’s talking to herself and he accepts for now, it’s better than to have her eyes on him daring him to leave her or jump her. Her profile is still carrying something from her golden days centuries if a millennia ago. It’s not fair how good she looks exhausted. How she has something from those classical romantic paintings’ sadness, that melancholy etched into her lines, her form. She spares him the dilemma of saying anything as she rambles on.

‘maybe this way I can finally get some kind of closure as well. Naïve I know. But I hate how good it feels to be a woman and know that I can thank him for learning that. I hate how much stuff I adore in beauty he loves too. I hate how he still think we’re good friends enough to just ask me to set up a guest room. I hate how I have to forgive and he doesn’t even think there are things he should maybe ask for forgiveness. I hate how if I act upon my part of the story I’m a moody bitch who cannot ever give another chance to anyone and the tackles idiot who can’t appreciate culture. I hate-‘

He reminds himself to breath as her voice trails off, slight tremors, a telltale sign of tears to come but she’s just smiles sharper at the window, her eyes creaking with spiteful cheeriness as she marches on.

‘ cause I know it’s pointless. Cause even if I make a nice enough guestroom and all the media covers it as some archeological historical great point cause ‘oh my Gosh that sultan was buried HERE, in the middle of fucking nowhere for HOW many DAYS, why yes of course you have to make a whole ass museum to talk about that culture’ and not about the ACTUAL fuckin CULTURE that it destroyed and damaged on the way, the actual living fuckin planecrash of a clown culture still kickin and screemin in my own fuckin language hogy a jó büdős kibebaszott élet kurná szét az egészet, mert tényleg felesleges. Az egész. Annyira. Felesleges. De jól mutat.’

Her voice gets quiet at the end. She retorted back to her own language and he hates how he gets the swears but not the end. She chuckles with centuries of resentment and it sounds nice when it’s not aimed at him but he squashes out that thought. He waits to see if she’s done. If he can leave. If he still has a way out of this.

‘don’t you love to watch a trainwreck fumble around parading as some super railjet?’

He lost. She’s looking at him through bitter smile, and he wants to snarl back, to behave cool and collected to correct her, to drag her to shore cause this is fucked up, cause she cannot be right all the fuckin time, cause he got better, he stopped this nonsense why does she have to drag him down again-

‘you need help.’

‘yeah. But no one’s gonna go out of their way to do it.’

She laughs

‘and honestly I get it. Everyone has their plate full. Wars and genocide all around and here I am crying about a fuckin museum for a 5 hundred dead skeleton who’s not even here.’

‘you need help from professionals not fuckups like me.’

‘now, don’t say that. You’re dealing with this waaay better.’

‘you trying to be positive is the most horrifying thing I’ve seen. Don’t do it.’

‘afraid your perfect little hate-able image will get morphed?’

She’s riling him up cause she’s desperate for a simulation, anything to voice out the self hate he knows all too well.

‘if anything it made it permanent.’

‘don’t you find it funny how we give up everything for the empires.’

The tonal whiplash hurts more with her eyes back to the window. He lost his chance to leave. He still could just get up and walk out but it’s too late, she wormed herself into his thoughts and he hates how much he wants to act. How he has this urge to do anything to shake her out of this. How he knows the next steps in this little dance.

‘the once ruling wonders built on our blood and cries upkept by never-dying-myths of grandure and culture we made reality. And yet. And yet…’

She burries her fingers into her hair, hiding behind her arms, folding in on herself.

‘it’s so fucked up to search any solace in a culture you were taught to hate on principle, something that did and didn’t do any lasting damage and change on you, something you find wonderful and horrifying, alien and oh so familiar. It’s so fuckin wicked to celebrate the man and the culture that destroyed your own. Yet…’

She looks at him again, her eyes burning in a haste, a carnal hurry and he’s afraid it’ll scorch him beyond repair.

‘yet, if you cannot appreciate the true value of all of this you’re the stupidest of all to live.’

Her voice is soft again, her eyes holding him in place for a moment before his lips betray him.

‘just poison him.’

She blinks in surprise.

‘when he comes over to the guestroom and you get down again just poison him.’

‘in this economy?’ she barks a laugh.

‘if you hate this so much do something. Refuse. Twist it. You’re the woman, you know how to be oh so better than us, just kill him in his sleep.’

‘but still get in his bed. Is what you say.’

He stops, she looks at him with sharp unbearable smile.

‘you do agree that I should just endure this whole and be what I am. A whore.’

He ruffles his hair in frustration. She keeps the paper thin smile pointed at his neck like a poison blade.

‘cause that’s how it looks no matter what I do. It’s pointless. No matter how much personal growth and therapy I sneak into that room to help me, it’ll always be just a glorified holding cell for a bed to fuck me in.’

‘you talking like this is not helping you in any way. And you know it. I know you know it.’

‘What? It’s the 21th fuckin century, strong independent woman can’t talk about how she’s a sex worker in the same room as lawyers about paid healthcare and social benefits?’

She was riling him up again.

‘How has this anything to do with the museum and all?’

‘Don’t tell me you think now that whore is a diminutive thing to call a woman? You loved to call me a bitch. Still do.’

‘You calling yourself that too?’

This finally shuts her up a bit. But hey eyes are liquid acid and he hates how it thrills him.

‘I thought you don’t care.’

‘does it look like I don’t care? Does this whole conversation sound to you like I don’t give a fuck?’

‘well, do you give a fuck?’

He stops himself from just grabbing a shaking her. To just shout at her to finally tell him what to do, how to help right now, not on the long run, not throughout the horrid journey of healing but right now, in this cursed moment where she wants to hit rock bottom, what on earth does she want him to do in this damned scene.

‘will you make that guestroom?’

‘not my decision. Government wants it, looks good for the media, for diplomacy, for culture.’

He’s off the hook for now, her eyes averted back to her glass.

‘so just make it about you. Tell your side of the story.’

She looks up with genuine laughter hiding in her crushed eyes. She gave up long ago.

‘do what you’re doing to me with style. Make it art. Sell it. Make it more alluring than that dead man.’

‘how could one conquered part of an empire ever be more interesting than the man who created it.’

‘you killed him didn’t you? Maybe that’s the spice. The place that cost the empire its greatest.’

‘and what did I get out of that kill? Wasn’t even me, it was old age and sorrow and my suffering only started then. It was only the beginning.’

‘you are still here. With your own language, own land, own history, make it about survival, make it about how empires fall yet some things remain.’

‘the hate. That remains. The disdain, the miscommunication, the different narratives. The complexity of it all never trully explained, that’s what remains.’

‘you are clever enough to leave all the breadcrumbs for others to find.’

She looks at him amusement mixed with the acid that drips from all deliberate wrong choice in life.

‘isn’t it naïve to think people will have the attention to even look for the crumbs?’

‘they will.’ He doubles down, hoping his voice comes across as determined and unvavering and not hungry. He licks his lips. Tossing a coin and jumping in without the result. ’after all, who doesn’t love a good mystery.’

Her eyes turn two shades darker, the same hunger echoing in them. Neither of them move. Old memories flash in, with the descending shadows, the outside slowly turning from gray to black with fizzling oranges and yellows splattered in it. Neither of them move to flick on the light.

It might be the last stop before the fall. The last moment to steer back the conversation, to even continue the conversation in any way. The next would be only actions. So the kitchen remains in dark, cause movement is an action.

It goes like this.

The only light in the small kitchen comes from under the door and through the window. Two set of eyes stare at each other centuries old dares echoing in them.

To see who moves first. Or who looks away. Who breaks the rules to create the exception.

The window paints her in muted gold and murky greys, her dark circles all the more prominent. She parts her lips a bit, maybe trying to say something, maybe to just get some air, cause it’s a stalemate, and the kitchen is filled with dust like a wine cellar long abandoned. She decided long ago where this was going. Yet-

His eyes are like fire, twinkling embers turning to charred ash, if she wasn’t already burning from the rot inside, he would scorch her. She tries to bat away his voice from the beginning, the raw worry in it spoils her determination. She wanted to feel like shit, he would make her feel like shit, the sky was blue the grass is green, these things should never differ…

A part of her appreciates the irony of the situation. She wants to believe so hard in how things are complex and if given enough time people can understand, better yet accept those complexities, and here she is, clinging with all her claws into such childish rules set up by oh so many variables.

She doesn’t want to hear the worry in his voice, doesn’t dare to think about the what ifs, the meaning of her own words on forgiveness and Christian compassion. She wants to feel like shit. How she thinks she should.

All these slow stops and ways out freeze her. The shadows helped so far yet now she hesitates. If she goes for it, just simply does what she wants she’s no better than the problem she talked about.

But she was always a problem. So now what?

He closes his eyes with a sigh, taking a deep breath. One of his hands come up to smooth over his face blinking back at her again. Shoulders slumped, exhausted.

The stalemate is broken. The tension – no. the moment is gone.

She blinks as well, still burning from the rot festering inside but biting back on the stench. He warned her multiple times, he wouldn’t do it. She’s almost proud for him. If she was anymore collected she would say it to him. Now all she does is reminding herself to blink, to quiet the fires, to get a grip.

He moves to stand up, taking her glass to move it to the sink.

‘you up for some hot chocolate?’

She shrugs, looking out the window, trying to focus on anything besides the rapidly approaching disappointment. Cause she’s gonna vomit all that bitter acid on to him. She’s gonna be that bitch who never appreciates a good deed. She just wanna feel like shit in a different way.

Hah. Ain’t she needy to boot.

He’s trying to busy himself with the process of heating up milk and dissolve the cocoa in it.

‘sweet or salty?’

‘bland.’

‘you mean bitter.’

She doesn’t trust herself with an answer. She’s looking out the window, he’s turned towards the counter. After some clinking with a spoon his voice is hesitant.

‘you need help. Not from me, not from the eu, not from the higher ups. Not politically or culturally. You need – fuck, it were so much easier if we were just humans – but you need simple humanitarian help. Like with compassion and shit. And I’m the last person you want this from but right now a simple hug and a real cry-out would help you more than you getting me to fuck you raw.’

He doesn’t turn towards her as he puts the two cups into the micro to bake the chocolate a little bit. Her voice is as dusty as the air.

‘Humanitarian help is what needed in Ukrain and Gaza and all those other places no news station can reach.’

‘yeah but you also gotta live. You made it this far. Would be a pretty miserable joke to give up now. It’s just a museum. You had worse.’

‘I have worse.’

She sighs, finally letting a tiny bit of tension out of her shoulders, hand trying to rake through her locks. She lays down on her folded hands over the table, still looking out.

So far the nicest rejection she got from him. Another one for the exceptions.

‘look what I try to mumble is that you deserve help. Isn’t that also in that ridiculous bible of ours?’

She closes her eyes muttering some half assed retort. The darkness is familiar behind her eyes, the quiet beeping of the micro is the next thing she focuses on cause if she let her emotions check in she will cry. And that would be just annoying at this point.

He places the mug down the table, slightly nudging her crossed arms as he sits down across, taking a sip. She doesn’t move. He feels like he ran a marathon and managed to knock over a blind kids sandcastle at the last step. He doesn’t know if he’s okay, if he can walk out now and he fears he’ll ramble something stupid so he tries to concentrate on the sweet warm drink in his mug. Not sure if it helps with anything. He tries not look at her crumpled form on the table basked in the lights from outside. Too much, too heavy, too… simple.

The air is still dusty and smells like old times, the silence almost domestic and her mug slowly stops steaming.

His voice is gentle if a bit croacked.

‘it’s gonna go cold.’

She finally moves to cup it in her hands, her head like a sad soggy sack of potatoes hung low as she gazes into the mug, not trusting herself to look at him. He clears his throat.

‘should I call a friend over?’

Her head moves a tiny bit, before a sullen shake tells him no. He takes another sip, trying to let the warmth of the drink solve this gordian knot.

She finally takes her first sip of the drink. Shoulders dropping, a sigh mumbled into the mug and he pretends to not see the tears and the snot on her nose.

‘thanks.’

‘yeah… just… just get help.’

‘you’re kind. Too kind.’

He ignores the acid around the words, how he knows it could have also played out and takes a sip again.

‘when the guestroom is ready you’re also welcome. To test if my little art-therapy worked.’

He cannot fight off the smirk.

‘you want to piss him off?’

She chuckles, her voice hoarse and crooked.

‘within survival reasons.’

He dares to look at her again and she has her eyes closed, a wobbly smile on her lips.

‘you’re gonna be okay.’ He tells her, surprised at how warm his voice is but chalks it up for the exceptions. ‘mixing high culture and history with passive aggressive narrative sounds like a fun task.’

‘yeah.’ She doesn’t open her eyes, just clutches her mug closer, sniffing as quietly as she can.

He imagines kissing her forehead for a moment but doesn’t move. They are too far apart, and anything like that would drag him dangerously close to just give into her despite his resolve. Instead when he’s done with his mug he searches for a napkin. Washing his own mug, putting the napkin next to her he stands, one hand on the doorhandle. He’s hesitant.

She blows her nose and it’s eerily soundless but she sighs again, a bit more straightened up and glances at him. His hand find the back of his neck, unsure what to say.

She cracks one of the saddest smiles he seen, nodding with her head.

‘run along, you outdid yourself tonight.’

‘you sure you don’t want a friend around?’

‘what, just cause you rejected to have sex with me and made me a pity choco we are friends now? How cheep do you think I am?’ the snark in her voice is shacky but back, her head held a little higher. ‘I’m quite picky with my friends, unlike my hookups.’

She’s finally smirking at him and there’s an itch to just march back and kiss her senseless cause she wanted this so bad, he’ll show how he’s above a cheep hookup but stops and just laughs a little snort.

‘well unlike you, I have standards for my friends and hook ups. But don’t worry, there’s always time to raise them some more.’

‘like only hookin up in a place dedicated to memorate a long gone empire you were partially slave of?’

‘sounds like a date.’

He winks and opens the door, seeing her wave an uncertain hand after him.

#aph hungary #aph romania #fanfic #semi-personal rant woven into a fanfic #rohun adjacent stuff #cause it's still my favorite toxic couple but i never let them get it on?#like they are too proud to give into stuff? kinda?#hetalia fanfic vaguely mentioning real history #i'm really bad at tagging.#also this was supposed to be the work that pushed me out of the procastination freeze i have for weeks now #not sure if it did it's job

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