#[ 'chris' you ask 'why are you incapable of writing happy things?' ]

[queenofbaws]

For the behind-the-scenes fic asks, could I get 12, 24, and 25 for The Almosts pretty please? I'm so insanely curious

heheheh aw man, any chance i get to rant and rave about t(a), you KNOW i'm gonna take it!! ;)c

12. Was there a scene you wished you could have included? Why didn't it fit in?

mmmmmmmmm this one's tricky. i wouldn't say there were any scenes that i wished hadn't ended up on the cutting room floor in the end (as the wordcount will attest, pffffft), but there are definitely some that i had sort of imagined going differently when first planning/setting about writing, and that ended up significantly different when all was said and done.

the two that come most readily to mind are: (1) the whole reason i had sam's dad scott be an er nurse was because i fully intended on him being the one letting her know about josh's hospitalization, and then there being a very, very awkward confrontation with chris about it later; and (2) the fight in ch17 was actually going to be, uhhhhhh worse, hahahaha. in the end, i decided i wasn't really feeling the direction of those decisions, and so ended up changing them. i for sure wouldn't say i regret that, though, or that i wish i'd stuck with my original plan, but i do think they could've changed the overall vibe of the story significantly.

EDIT: I AM A FOOL! THERE WAS A SCENE I WISH I COULD'VE INCLUDED, AND THAT WAS SAM AND ASHLEY GOING FULL PARENT TRAP ON THEIR PARENTS TO GET THEM TO DATE SDKLFJLKSJDFKLJSDF hahahaha, not exactly an important part of the story, nor a necessary one, but........i had plans for scott giddings and jamie brown, oh yes i did. oh yes i did. hehe.

24. Did you write every scene in order? What was the first scene you wrote, and what was the last?

god no, oh jesus, oh no. nonononono. i am like, pathologically incapable of writing things in order. i WISH i had that sort of discipline, my gosh. hilariously, the first scene i wrote was...well, okay, yeah, the first scene of the fic!!! hannah and sam having a little chat before The Big Party, but after that, all bets were off, babyyyyyyyyy. i jumped around.....everywhere, and the one thing i remember most about writing t(a) is that i was, at ALL times, actively working on 3 chapters. nightmarish. don't recommend it. absolutely the only way i found i could get my brain to work XD the last scene i wrote.....man, was josh and hill in that last session. everything after that had already been written, it was all set in stone, but that last session, man...that one took me.......a long time to write, hahaha.

25. Is there anything you would change now about this fic? Why or why not?

so, here's the thing. i feel like it's really easy to look back on an artistic endeavor and pick out all the stuff you don't dig about the final result. i have, in all honesty, not gone back and FULLY reread t(a) start-to-finish since finishing it BECAUSE of that. i am positive that if i really sat down and looked at it with a magnifying glass, yeah, there are some things i'd change - pieces i'd get rid of, segments i'd rework, commas i would delete by the dozens.................

but at the end of the day, t(a) is, was, and always will be my baby, something that not only served as my first step into the ud fandom, but something that introduced me to so many AMAZING people - writers and artists and readers and editors and gifmakers and not-so-silent lurkers all - and so looking at it and thinking about the things i'd change doesn't really occur to me. it is what it is, and i'm very happy to leave it as is :) <3

that being said, i would've loved to format some of the...stuff in the ending where they (starve) in a more house of leaves sort of way, but ao3 proved pretty tricky for that, alas!

behind-the-scenes fic asks!

[buckyownsmylife]

Do I wanna know? - Chris Evans smut

The one where you’re pregnant, and Chris can’t keep his hands away from you.

Warnings: smut, masturbation, dirty talk, daddy! kink, kind of breeding kink?, possessiveness but kind of in a cute way?, pregnant reader

A/N: Day 10 of kinktober prompts were pregnancy and watching the other get off. Still publishing smut unrevised because I can’t be bother to both write and revise everything in the same day, so if anyone wants to become my beta, I’ll love you forever.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

Even when my belly was barely visible, he was already incapable of keeping his hands to himself, always holding, and rubbing and kissing and then his hands would go a bit lower and he’d find me wet and ready for him, like I always was.

Only now that I was big enough that I was waddling my way everywhere, it was like I was some sort of visual viagra for Chris. He was always hard, always in need of my help to get through the day. Our sex life had never been slow when he was back into my arms, but now it was impossible to do anything without finding myself getting pounded by my boyfriend wherever we could find any semblance of privacy.

Which was why when he gave me those puppy eyes after seeing me take off the dress I’d put on for our weekly date night, I decided it was time to try something new. 

“Chris, I physically can’t have your dick inside of me anymore, at least not for a few days,” I warned him, holding the hands with which he was trying to grab me to pull me against his body. “I’m serious.”

He was full-on pouting, now, and I could see from the corner of my eyes that there was already a tent on the sweatpants he had put on to bed, so I sighed, getting on my tiptoes to deposit a quick kiss on his lips, and quickly running away before he could grab me again.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do…” I started, sitting on our bed by the headboard, and stretching my legs open as I held my nipples between my fingers. “You’re gonna sit on that chair by the corner of the room, and you’re gonna play with your cock as you watch me play with myself.”

He groaned, immediately wrapping his hands around himself over the sweatpants and almost falling over his own legs while trying to reach his seat. “Fuck, you look so sexy, princess… If you could only look at yourself right now.”

The sight of him licking his lips as he stared at me, sprawled out for his viewing pleasure, had me whimpering. Fuck Christopher Evans and his eyelashes and his stupidly pink mouth. “You like it, daddy? This is yours, all yours. I’m all yours, baby.”

I pulled on my sensitive nipples, just enough to get me whining. I really was roughed up from the amount of times I’d had Chris inside of me the last few days, but if I was gentle enough, I’d be able to still put on a show for him and pleasure myself without hurting my lower parts.

“Shit, yeah, baby. Pull on those sweet nipples for me. I love sucking on them so much, I can’t wait to see our child drinking from you.” Fuck, one of the things I loved the most about my man was how filthy he could get when we were down to business.

“Oh, yeah, daddy? What about this pussy, so you like tasting it?” I allowed my hand to travel further down my body, until my middle finger was grazing my opening and I could use it to circle my clit. It was so enlarged from my hormones getting me horny despite the fact that I’d been fucked every single day of the week that this simple touch felt like heaven, making me throw my head back and expose my neck to Chris, who cursed at the sight of my breasts bouncing slightly from the sudden movement.

“Hell yeah, baby girl, I love it so much. You taste so fucking sweet, I miss it every single time I’m not down on my knees, with your legs over my shoulders. Collect some of that wetness and taste it yourself, honey. Want you to understand why I love eating that pretty pussy.” He’d made me suck on his fingers after they were inside of me a thousand times, but doing it myself, under his watchful gaze, made the whole thing so much hotter.

He was right, I was sweet. But I don’t think I would have appreciated it as much if he wasn’t looking at me like that, like he wanted to devour me whole, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, the veins in his neck popping from the restrain he was exercising as he tried to keep himself from cumming.

His thick cock, the reason for many of my wet dreams, was dripping from it’s red tip, and I had to bite my own lip to contain my desire to have him in my mouth. There was always time for that later. Right now, this little experience we were sharing was more than enough.

Chris’ P.O.V.

“So fucking hot, baby. I love you so much. I could spend the rest of my life between your legs and I’d die a happy man. And you’d let me, wouldn’t you? It doesn’t matter that your pretty little pussy is red and abused, if I asked you to spread your legs for me, you’d do so in a second.”

I had to chuckle at the long, drawn-out whine my girlfriend emitted at my words. “Don’t whine, baby. You know how it gets me too fucking hard when you whine like a pretty little baby. If you whine, I’ll have to put you over my lap and punish you.”

She gasped at my words, her little fingers finally plunging inside of her hole as she stared down at me with those fuck-me eyes. Oh, how I loved her. She was my partner, my equal in every single way. 

“I don’t think we can get any kinkier, honey,” I joked, squeezing my dick as I watched her thrust her fingers inside of her pussy. She let out a tiny choked up laugh at my teasing, still too busy with chasing her high as I watched her from the chair.

“I don’t know… I can think of a few new ways to experiment when I’m no longer knocked up.” I growled at her response, suddenly feeling my cock throbbing against my fist. Not only the knowledge that she truly was as horny as I was, and up to try new things anytime, already had me feel like cumming, but the reminder that she was pregnant with my child almost made me lose control then and there.

Of course, the visual reminder was there, and I fucking loved it - it was the main reason why I’d been unable to keep my dick in my pants these last few weeks - but to hear it in her mouth, it only made the entire experience even more real.

“You like being pregnant with my child, baby? You like knowing that I ruined you for any other man, because the only cum you’ll want between your legs is mine?” Her breath hitched at my words, her movements on her clit accelerating, as I mirrored in my own cock. “Tell me you love my seed, honey. Tell me you love the fact that I turned you into a mommy, that you can’t wait to be knocked up by me again.”

It was enchanting to see her cumming, and one of the many reasons why I knew I had to have her for the rest of my life. I couldn’t imagine myself without her anymore, and I wanted to be the one bringing (or, in this case, witnessing) her pleasure until our dying days. 

The sight of her mouth hanging open, her fingers deep inside of her - where I wished I could be - and her breasts jumping from her effort to get more air in her lungs had me cursing as I, too, reached my own high, spurting cum all over my stomach. 

“You okay, honey?” I asked after I grabbed a wet towel to clean ourselves with, sitting by her side on the bed, where she laid like she didn’t have any ounce of energy left in her body.

“Yes,” she guaranteed me, but I could hear it in her voice that she was almost asleep already. “Chris?” She asked as I softly ran the fluffy fabric in between her legs, and I hummed to let her know I was listening. “Why are you so attracted to the idea of me being pregnant?”

My lips twitched up in amusement at her question, but nonetheless, I knew the answer already. “I like the idea of the world knowing you’re mine. Yes, it’s possessive, but that’s me, and I know you love me, sweetheart.”

I kissed her little nose as I curled up behind her, my hands protectively holding my unborn baby and my very sleepy baby mama. “I do love you, you absolute caveman,” she joked, and with a laugh, I went to sleep with barely contained excitement for the next day, when I would finally be able to add a ring to the list of physical evidence that she was mine and mine alone.

[marvellovegalore]

Breaking You

Chris Evans

Parte Deux - Hurting You

Synopsis: You begin to feel the true consequences of you hurting Chris and it's beginning to overwhelm you - and him.

Word Count: 2,483

Author's Note: I listened to quite a few songs to truly get into the vibe of this but The Cinematic Orchestra - To build a home (slowed) really got me into the energy I want to be delivered from this write-up. Happy Reading! Feel free to let me know how you feel!

Warning: Explicit Language, Mention of Mental Illness, Sexual Content

You’ve rarely had to consider yourself as someone who runs from her problems. You’d probably proudly tell anyone that asked that you quite confidently tackle your problems head-on.

However, you’ve created quite a serious problem for yourself. A broken heart.

What you have periled numerous men with, is now afflicting you. The odd thing is, is that you are exulting in it. It’s an oddly familiar sensation; it drowns your body in an intangible sickness that paralyses and asphyxiates you.

You sit at your piano, watching the silent and unmoving countryside. The fields of Portofino showered with golden sunlight, the brio reflecting into your room.

You haven’t pushed aside the sheer curtains since you arrived four days ago. You’ve taken your first shower this morning, the water sinking you into its comforting, warm embrace. You don’t really want to tell yourself aloud why you chose to come back to your grandparents’ old house, when stuff is going wrong. You’ve decided that playing the piano and smoking your days away is better than confronting yourself in the mirror - good thing all the furniture is covered with sheets. The sorry state of your face would make you plunder even deeper into your melancholy.

You will yourself to forget him and try to forget his existence.

But it’s virtually impossible, with him promoting a new film three towns over.

Good thing is you feel physically incapable of stepping outside of the confines of the house. The ladies that tend to the house scurry around the town buying food for the house and maintain its upkeep, they attempt to feed you three meals a day or four. You refuse most of the time, and they regard you with concerned gazes.

How could you begin to explain that with breaking a man’s heart, you subsequently had broken your own? His words blistered with bitterness bit you and dragged you down to the same pits of sadness that you plunged him into. You can probably say that you loved him, but you’ll probably truly never grasp why you can’t stay in something that requires such cemented commitment.

“Signora?” Your house governess interrupts your train of thought, you pull your cigarette away from your lips. “Sí?” She presents you with a letter addressed to you. The handwriting vaguely familiar to you. You thank her and dismiss her, the cigarette back in between your lips.

The letter doesn’t inform you of who it is from, but you hope, in the depths of your ribs that it’s from him, but you couldn’t possibly understand why he would ask to meet with you. He left you wordlessly two months ago and hasn’t been in contact since, not even through subliminal messages on social media. You can wager that you’re probably dead to him. It was made clear to you when you stood at the beach outside of your friend’s Malibu compound. He would rather die than get back with you; you don’t blame him.

You turn back to your piano, the keys feeling like lead beneath your shaky fingers. You play out a melancholic tune, your fingers feeling like they’re losing blood, you play clumsily, your eyes welling with tears.

You do have to admit, you feel extremely guilty for leaving him.

Life was beautiful with him.

He would have served you the sun on a platter if it meant making you smile - but you’re meant to destroy beautiful things.

It was what your father told you. You ruined his marriage to your mother; your sheer existence drove her to the brink of insanity. Since you were conceived you were a parasite that took the love your mother had for your father and you guzzled it out of her, taking all of her focus and affection. When you were born your parents refused the diagnosis of postpartum psychosis. Your mother believed you were an angel sent from heaven and doctors were trying to take you from her; so, she slowly succumbed to the madness and your father eventually was forced to send her away. The resentment he felt towards you all but scented the house, you were a poisonous leech, and you were treated as such.

You take the last drag of your cigarette and drag yourself to your walk-in closet, you decide on taking another shower - scrubbing away the odour of tar and smoke. You ready yourself for your strange and mysterious encounter. You dress yourself and half an hour later rush out to your car. The sun is low in the sky by the time you start driving away from the house, the countryside hugging you from all sides.

The drive is long into the town centre. The sky is blushed with pink and tinges of orange. You park your car and take a slow walk to the Splendido Mare; you enter the hotel’s restaurant and are led to a table. Your order a glass of wine and wait. After ten minutes you take out the letter, you read it from start to finish and confirm that the invitation was not a figment of your imagination; you were indeed summoned here by a mystery writer. Whom you hope is him.

You sit for half an hour at your table, you sip your anxiety away through two glasses of wine, you step outside and smoke two cigarettes and yet you’re still waiting. You flit through your phone notifications; you decide against your better judgement to type his name into the Goggle search bar. You fleetingly glance around the sparsely attended restaurant. You lock your phone without looking at the updates about him.

The thought of him makes your chest ache, harshly. The pain is tangible, you place your hands over your chest and wince. Something is not right.

You’re not aware of his slow approach, his hands wringing around each other, his cheeks red with nervous energy. He wishes he had had a shot of something - anything before getting here. He doesn’t recall what filled him the mad inspiration to send you a stamped letter to meet him at his hotel restaurant. He doesn’t know whether he wishes he had just called the brunette and spoken to her tonight; but he misses you. Madly.

He pulls out the chair in front of you. You can both tell that you’re holding in your breath.

Every time you see him it feels like the first time, all over again.

And he feels the same, but for either of you to admit it would be succumbing to defeat. You’re engaged in a silent and unspoken battle of wills.

“You sent me a letter?” You show him the letter. He nods, you sigh. “What is it you want to talk about?” You’re afraid to look into his eyes, they’re huge lakes filled with your dreams and deepest desires.

He hesitates, a ghostly sentence is formed on his tongue – he decides against materialising it. “I heard you were nearby; thought we could catch up.” He motions for the waiter. You narrow your eyes in - almost offence. What does he think, that you’re old pals?

He wants to catch up, but you want to do everything. Mostly profess your adoration for him and make love to him.

You despise the feeling; you’ve never felt like this for anyone. The alien feeling makes you heat up, your chest rises and falls quickly; agony filling your body as if you were a vessel to claim. “Right,” is all you can utter.

“What have you been up to?” He’s ordered two martinis, his eyes connecting to yours. You wince as the pain in your chest returns. How can he be so close yet so far?

“I was filming a fragrance campaign recently.” You speak quickly, an itch to smoke tickling your fingers. He nods, his eyebrows raised high.

“Nice.” He sighs and extends his clasped hands further onto the table. You look even more beautiful than in his thoughts, which he can’t expel you from. It seems your haunting presence is with him to stay, and his imagination can’t do any justice to your face and your intoxicating smell.

The conversation you have over your first drinks is dry, emotionless and full of hidden desires.

After each of you have three cocktails you let out the first laugh. He’s released himself a bit from the shackles of wanting to one-up you, his joke about his dog’s stubbornness reminding you of the good days of domesticity with Christopher and his dog. You move out to the terrace, candles flickering in the wind; you share more laughs. Memories being shared between you about life together.

There’s a clear shared emotion - longing. You crave the late summer nights sharing the dance floor with his friends or yours; him undressing you slowly in your pool; the nights watching the fire pit in your Santa Barbara home; the dinners enclosed in brick walled Italian restaurants with candles illuminating your elated faces.

“Come up with me.” His suggestion is quiet, his lips edging closer to yours. You nod, overcome with emotion. He grips on to your hand, the grip of a man thanking his lucky stars. He leads you to his room, on the top floor. A paradisiacal view of the sea and hills greeting you. The sun has set completely, and the moon casts a pale light over the buildings across the water.

Chris closes the door, and no sooner is he clutching at your lips with his. His hands smother you onto him and you meet him with the same desperation. Your hands slip under his shirt and moan into his mouth, your lipstick smearing over his lips. You feel him inhale your smell; he sighs desperately as he pulls you closer to him. You fall onto the chaise lounge in front of the open doors leading onto his balcony. The wind whispers sweet nothings onto your skins as you meld together, your bodies wanting desperately to be combined. He removes your clothes with familiar precision and your fingers touch him where you know he likes it.

The grooves of his skin are familiar, his dick entering you slowly as your fingers caress his tanned skin. He looks spectacular underneath you, his skin illuminated by the moonlight. You ride him slowly, you lips adventuring each other, like your bodies are each other’s long lost home territory. Your lips touch again, but it feels like the first time all over again. You feel yourself melting, your brain feels high, your limbs terribly relaxed. You guess this is what true love feels like. There’s nowhere else you’d want to be.

You love him. Only him.

He turns you over, on all fours, one hand gripping your throat and the other around your hair. He thrusts into you - with passion, his lips ghost over your shoulder. You feel your eyes close, the strength to fight the sedation unable to be found. It goes on for a while, and he flattens you onto your stomach. He lays on top of you, his hips gyrating against your skin, his arms encircling your torso. You feel safe, his head laying to rest in between you shoulder and jawline. He inhales your scent and kisses your shoulder, his lips printing their mark on your skin.

He turns you over and takes a deep breath, his eyes hold your entire world. They’ve trapped you into his universe and you have no desire to leave. He’s your whole world and you gave him away on a silver platter - but he’s here. He accommodates himself in between your legs and gives you a hug, his lips find yours in the darkness. The moonlight bathes you generously and he nestles himself inside you again. His lips refuse to leave yours; his thrusts grow in fervour; he wants to bury himself inside you and never leave.

He’s so deeply, and madly in love with you.

He can’t believe you hurt him. He hates you for it.

He pulls away from your kiss, his breathing heavy and slightly laboured.

His hides his face in the nook under your head. You feel like crumpling when you feel tears run over your shoulder, you hug him tighter. You want to stitch his wounds closed, tightly with your bare fingers and your lips. You want to mould your bodies together and live forever in this moment. His fingers reach for your clitoris and he makes love to you in two different ways. Your head lolls back and you feel ecstatic, currents washing over you slowly and you orgasm.

Chris kisses you desperately, swallowing your moans. He thrusts into you, complementing your orgasm. He releases himself into you, slowly moaning into your mouth.

After a few moments he stands up from the lounge chair and heads to the shower, as he walks through the door, he turns to you. He smiles in a way that you understand is an invitation to join him in the shower. You stand slowly, your legs feeling like jelly. You join him for a warm shower, peppered with tender kisses and saccharine touches.

Your bodies unconsciously refuse to part until you’re lying in his bed. He turns off the lamp and lays facing you.

A sweet look embalms his irises. His hand lifts itself to nestle under your cheekbone. He regards you softly.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice shaky.

You smile sleepily, “I love you too.”

You’re hypnotised to sleep by his soft breaths.

—

The sunlight reflected on the lake wakes you out of you slumber, the first dreamless one you’ve had in months. You turn to the side where Chris is and find nothing but empty air. You sit up quickly; the room is deadly silent. Nothing but your movements on the bed make noise. You scramble out of the bed and look for him.

There’s no trace of him in the room. You let out small wail of desperation. What if it was all a dream?

You pace the room, an uneasy feeling setting itself in your chest. You feel the space between your ribs tighten and your head feel faint. Your legs feel weak and unsteady, you crumple into a heap near the chaise lounge. Your breath feels constricted, massively so. The world begins to spin, and you fall onto your back.

It feels like a heart attack.

You can barely feel your heart.

You drag yourself to the counsel table, desperate to reach the phone. Your hand misses it massively, instead a hotel branded paper flickers down next to you. You pick it up, the tightness in your chest limiting your movement.

I guess this is goodbye, I can’t get over the fact that I’ll never be able to trust you. No matter how much I want to.

I hate you for ruining us

I’ll miss you, forever.

With all my love,

C

--

Parte Quatre -

Tags -

@chvntelle-99, @krispy-toes, @hampass, @calimoi, @saltyflowermakertaco

[spacecowboysfrommars]

cracks knuckles boi you have no IDEA the kind of lunacy you've unleashed by asking for readers' feelings about "These Webs We Weave" within my hearing. Emotionally while reading your fic I was just making pterodactyl noises. I am STILL not okay.

but alright alright so. Theories.

I have an awful suspicion that John is going to get Peter back at some point and I HATE it. I've got my own Peter Tingle about it called foreshadowing and I hate it so much (but also it's really artfully done though. Chekhov's evil man gonna show up at some point to cause more pain). I'm miserable about it.

I kind of wonder if Tony's going to end up captured too. We do be enjoying when Tony has to watch his kid get tortured. Sucks a lot. Angst, mayhem. Horrible. My only evidence for this being a possibility is like, all that scarring on Peter's back makes me think Tony's going to have to, at some point, bear witness to the location where it happened.

SHIELD is being shady as hell and (Chris Evans voice) I Don't Like It.

The very end of the last chapter (ch 5), for example. Fury: "Call me when you change your mind" Tony: "won't be doing that" and it's like... Tony, babe, why are you ASKING the universe to step on you.

I have another theory where Peter slowly, slowly gets more comfortable being apart from Tony, ease up on that codependency, only for New Trauma to get that whole plan shot to hell and send both of them right back to separation anxiety square 1

Peter deserves to grieve more for the teenage experiences he missed out on. I hope he gets to do that. I hope Tony gets to support him through his journey of doing that.

Here's another theory: Part of Peter's healing could end up being him having to hero the fuck up. Like, he clearly feels really incapable and helpless right now, which makes sense given he's been victimized and tortured for 2 years straight. But if it ends up being up to him to save the day, and if, in spite of his fear, he manages it -- would be absolutely soul ascending

Questions I still don't know ANY answers to:

wtf WTF is up with the clone thing they buried???

(which by the way side now, oh my GOd poor Tony. Stabbing me in the heart would've hurt less thank you)

Is Happy going to eventually encounter the person he reminds Peter of right now? because if so I hope Happy gets to 1-hit KO destroy him

Did the public ever make the connection between Spider-Man and Peter?

Are we going to get any paparazzi trope in this fic?

is Peter going to go back to school? (....I do want Peter to get to graduate, actually :( he deserves it)

Is his body permanently scarred now, even with his super healing?

Does the not eating impact his super healing or strength or powers at all?

Feel free to not answer these questions and just go >:) because yeah I realize now that these are just more theories in question form.

HOWEVER, here are two actual questions for you:

What was the first spark that inspired you to write this fic?

Are there scenes that you're looking forward to writing in later chapters? Will we know when we get there?

To understand my pterodactyl psyche whilst reading your fic, just imagine all of this nonsense happening in my brain ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

YES YES YES I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS

I can’t confirm or deny anything but I WILL say that you’re on to something pretty important >:)

I’ll also say that in terms of his scarring, it’s sorta slowly healing, but it’s a pretty horrific injury that’ll take a lot longer than usual, even with his super-healing. And yes, it’s kinda sorta a little bit implied (in later chapters) that being half-starved for two years impacts his strength, but not by much.

and for the two amazing (seriously you are my favourite person to rant with) questions:

1. The first spark of inspiration was actually a re-read of my all-time favourite fic, Come My Darling, Homeward Bound by buckleyirondad. That was the fic that got me back into irondad back in early 2021, after being absent from the fandom for over a year. It got me completely obsessed with the kidnapping trope, specifically long-term captivity and trying to fit back in to a world they were taken from. I’ve wanted to write something similar for a while but didn’t really figure out exactly how I wanted to do it until my most recent re-read. Highly recommend checking out Liberty’s irondad stories (as well as her 911 fics) because she’s an incredible writer and CMDHB profoundly effected me.

2. Absolutely! I literally get giddy looking through my chapter notes sometimes. Once I actually get the chapters finished and uploaded, I’ll probably post again about what scenes I enjoyed the most. With the adoption storyline in play, there’s a lot of domestic stuff and family drama that I’m really looking forward to.

I adore every single thing you post on here.

[orionwhispers]

Sweet Disaster// Tommy Shelby

(A/N - hello. so basically, i had a dream about chris evans, and then i modified it into this tommy imagine. it was supposed to be a drabble but i physically cannot write anything less than 12k words so thats great. honestly this is very similar to ‘fools gold’ but hey, im in the mood for some angsty fluff and fighting with our main guy tom. next tommy imagine will be the lolita wedding and that will be the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed. thanks for everything, PLS let me know what u think. see you soon! stay safe!) 

trigger warnings: fighting, tommy being a douche, everyone being a dumbass, tommy getting jealous and implied sex.

You saw him on a Saturday night, at a bar on the outskirts of the city.

It had been three months, and you had hoped you would have managed to slip through the cracks; pass through the night like the foxes that roamed in the back alleys - but you had never been that lucky, especially not when he was involved.

It was your friend’s birthday, and you tipped back glass after glass of expensive champagne that bubbled and burned at the back of your throat. The lights were blinding, twinkling chandeliers and the smell of cigarettes and french perfume, something like bergamot and vanilla, lingering in the air.

Your dress was cherry red, your hair tied back with a sequinned headband and your lips and cheeks painted in rouge, but you had never felt so awful. It had been bad enough trying to find something to wear, the contents of your wardrobe tipped all over your floor, a mess of mesh and feather and lace, almost everything reminding you of him, as if he had been stitched right into the fabric. You had ended up curled in a ball on the floor, wiping your tears with the Chanel blouse he had bought back from a business trip in Paris.

Stupid fucking boys.

You could hear the girls talking around you, high pitched giggles and exaggerated voices as they gossiped about something or other that faded into static around you. You had spent the past three months holed up in your flat, only leaving for work or the street market on Sunday, stocking up with bread and wine and cheese, everything carb filled and rich to fill the hole in your heart. 

You weren’t used to the company of others or the hustle and bustle of a crowded room, and you sat back against the plush cherry velvet seats, dreaming of climbing into bed and devouring the slab of dark chocolate you had been saving.

Your close friend Emma, the one who knew the reason you were staring into space and not laughing and drinking with the rest of the girls, placed a manicured hand on your shoulder, and tilted her head slightly.

“How are you holding up?”

You snapped out of your trance.“I’m fine. I’m sorry I’m not much fun right now.”

“Nonsense.” She pushed you lightly, her voice as soft and playful as ever. “At least you came out! It hasn’t been the same without you.”

“Yeah - I’m sure everyone missed having me bawl like a baby and mope around.”

She elbowed you, “Stop bloody feeling sorry for yourself and have a shot! Christ! You can spend the rest of the week wrapped up in your duvet, but tonight - suck it up, and have a drink!”

She handed you a glass of something dark, and you brought it to your lips, tipping it into your throat with a wince. It felt as though you were drinking petrol.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. All that matters is that it’s top shelf and it came from those fellas over there.” She pointed towards a group of men huddled around the bar. They were shooting quick glances and sly winks towards you and your friends. Sure they were relatively attractive, most likely handsomely rich and dressed in suits that looked finely tailored - but they made your skin crawl.

You hated the way that you would always be comparing other men to him, and you especially hated how they would always come up short.

An hour later and whatever liquor was coursing through your bloodstream had done its job, and everything seemed infinitely brighter. You even found yourself laughing at jokes and stories that you only caught halfway through, the alcohol wonderfully dizzying your brain.

You were so caught up in the rush of being drunk and finally feeling somewhat happy for the first time in forever; that you didn’t realise you had caught the attention of one of the men across the bar. You felt him sidle in next to you, following his friends who had snaked their way into your booth, their arms slung around the girls shoulders, whispering sweet little sentiments into their ears.

“Can I get you a drink?” He asked, so close to you that you could smell the sour whiskey on his tongue, your nose wrinkling.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Perhaps you had spent so long being ‘Tommy Shelby's girl’ that you had forgotten what it was like when you were being hit on. You had spent so many nights safely tucked under his arm, his hands possessively wrapped around your body, an unspoken threat sent out to everyone and anyone around you - it had been a long time since a man had tried his luck with you.

Perhaps you were so infatuated with him that you never noticed anybody else. Your mind forever filled with visions of oceanic eyes and three piece suits, his Birmingham accent ringing through your ears like a gospel. He invaded all of your thoughts and infiltrated your dreams, and you loathed and loved him for it. The way that he filled your brain and heart like smoke, clouding your decisions and judgments, like some kind of magical elixir, blurring everything but the shape of him.

The man beside you didn’t concede. He cleared his throat, running a finger over the rim of your glass, ignoring the way your eyebrows furrowed and lip curled.

“Let me get you a drink, pretty girl.”

Pretty girl.

It sounded so wrong. It was never pretty girl. It was - darling, sweetheart, princess. It was - my love, honey, kitten. It was said teasingly and exasperatedly, it was whispered in your ear and buried into the space between your thighs. It was never said in the sticky corner of a club, from the greedy mouth of a stranger undressing you with his eyes.

“I’m - ” Taken. But you weren’t, not anymore, and you hated the way the thought of him made your lip wobble. It’s had been three goddamn months, why did the memory of him still make your body go up in flames?

Emma stiffened beside you, waving a dismissive hand at the gentleman speaking to her, and turned to face you and your unmoving suitor.

“We’re alright here, love. Thanks.”

A flicker of annoyance. His fingers tightening until his knuckles turned white, his tongue running across the ridge of his front teeth. He obviously didn’t take rejection well, and he was doing a shitty job at hiding it.

“Are you sure? It looks like she could do with another drink.”

You swallowed thickly, eyes rolling back at the way he dismissed you and spoke as though you were incapable of thinking for yourself.

“I’m fine.” Your words were curt and clipped, a clear indication of your disinterest, but he refused to back down.

“You shouldn’t be here all alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Really? What kind of man would leave a pretty little thing like you all by herself?”

“The kind of man that would punch you in the fucking teeth for speaking to her like that.”

You froze.

Oh Christ.

A million irreverent, evil, blasphemous phrases hurtled inside of your mind, and you knew that if Polly somehow ever caught wind of what you were thinking, you would be on the receiving end of a sharp slap around the head.

He was here. Of bloody course he was. He had a knack for showing up out of the blue and knocking all of the wind from your lungs.

It hurt like an open wound, feeling his eyes on you, the same ones that had looked at you with love and humour and gentleness, and not being able to fully meet his gaze - knowing just how much it would hurt if you did.

“She’s with me.”

His voice was firm, laced with the same sort of dismissive irritability he used to use whenever somebody tried their luck with you. This time was different however, you couldn’t roll your eyes and kiss him, you couldn’t put your head in the crook of his neck or mutter that you were his under the golden chandeliers, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hip.

You couldn’t do any of that anymore, because you weren’t.

The man seemed pick up on the tension, clicking his tongue slyly, unaware of the consequences his words would have. “Doesn’t seem like she is.”

“Get the fuck out.”

The penny must have dropped for the rest of the boys. The booth going silent as they realised just who the handsome shadowy figure towering over them was. You felt them slowly inch away, head down and gazes low, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire. A few hushed mumbles of “holy shit! That’s Tommy Shelby! One of those blinders!” hurtling around the tables beside you, not completely drowned out by clatter of the jazz band.

“I have every right to be here.” The ballsy stranger said, stiffening up beside you. His spine curled as he tried to make himself bigger. “Who says I have to leave?”

You huffed at his words, exhaling like a balloon. “That’s enough.” You didn’t want to cause a scene. You were exhausted, the night taking such a sudden turn you felt like you had whiplash, and the alcohol sat deep in your gut like a rock. You just wanted to get home, away from the man you wanted so badly your fingers ached to hold him, and crawl into your bed with your cat and a mountain of chocolate.

“Well, considering I own the fucking place, I think that I do - and if you don’t, I’ll shoot you.”

That seemed to do it.

You kept your eyes focused on the mans paling face, the grim look washing over him like salty sea air, you didn't dare turn and face the man you could feel burning holes in your neck.

“I.. I...” The man spluttered almost incoherently, rising to his feet and stumbling out from beside you. From behind you you heard Emma giggling coyly into her glass. “Sorry.” He mumbled quickly, his knees buckling when Tommy clapped a hand around his shoulder, holding him in place like a dog.

Tommy’s voice was still, almost too controlled, and you knew that his words were deadly. “If I see you around these parts again, I’ll put a fucking bullet in your skull.”

He gulped and nodded, darting into the sea of bodies in the crowd.

You kept your eyes low. Fumbling with the pearl clasps of your purse you squeezed Emma’s hand in parting and rose to your feet, wanting to leave as painlessly as possible, not even daring to look up at the face staring you down.

“I should go.” Was all you said, sliding out of the booth and onto the marbled floor. You saw the way the rest of the girls were watching the scene unfold before them, and you knew that by Monday you would have a lot of questions to answer, but right now you needed nothing but the safety of your flat.

You didn’t even let your shoulders brush against him. You coiled around him like a snake, your feet moving so fast your embroidered shoes were nothing but a blur of scarlet. You only made it to the hallway, he let you go far enough that you were in private before he reached for you, a familiar, large hand curving around the dip in your shoulder. You hated the way your body reacted, goosebumps rising to his touch unconsciously.

“(Y/N), wait.”

Your name on his tongue was sweeter than honey and richer than wine, it sounded so right that it hurt. It had been so long since you had heard him call you by your name, so long since he had spoken to you that your gut was twisting inside of you, your whole body aching for him to do nothing but repeat that word like a mantra.

You inhaled, thinking of a way out. It was too dangerous, you were playing with fire and you couldn’t get burnt, not again.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t know, it’s Jessica’s birthday and we - ” You hated how you stumbled over your words. You had never felt so uncomfortable around him and it made your skin crawl. You had kissed him under the stars, laughed with him in the corner of a private party, made love to him in every room of his fucking mansion, and now he felt like a stranger.

You knew what he looked like when he woke up, with his sleepy eyes and tousled hair. You knew what he looked like when had spent the night doing something unholy, you had cleaned his knuckles and kissed his wounds as you sat pressed up against him in the tub, his hands wrapped around your waist. You’d stood by his side, your hands intertwined in the middle of some expansive ballroom, and listened to him sweet-talk his way into a new business deal, all the while stroking his thumb over yours. You had seen him vulnerable, pulling you so close to his chest that it was like you were bound together, whispering to you how he loved you, how he couldn’t live without you.

But he still let you go.

He moved in front of you, leaving you with no choice but to meet his eyes. He looked good, but that was a given, he always did, no matter the circumstances. He looked so... soft. He always seemed that way around you, his eyes getting a little bit kinder, the harshness of his words dipped in sugar, even the sharpness of his jaw looked inviting and gentle, practically begging you to wrap your palm around it.

You bit your tongue. You were being ridiculous. You were seeing things that weren’t there. It was over between the two of you, he had made that very clear. You were grasping at straws and all it was going to do was hurt you.

He spoke suddenly, his thick accent cutting through the silence that felt so loud. “It’s alright. Only really been ours since last night, there were... problems with the last owners.”

Despite everything you felt the ghost of a smile tugging on the edge of your lips, immediately knowing what ‘problems’ he was referring to.

“Arthur?” You asked.

“Yes.” He said with a small grin. “Arthur.”

A moment passed. The air around you feeling all too hot and all to cold at once. It had been a long time since you had seen one another, and both of you were caught up in appreciating such familiar beauty up close. You had missed the small things about him, like the slight curl of his hair and the veins in his neck, you could remember running your lips across the curve and dip of his throat.

You were treading in dangerous waters. It wouldn’t be long until the current pulled you under, and you weren’t quite sure how much longer you could keep a rational mind. You inhaled, flittering your eyes to meet his in some kind of signal of parting, pulling your clutch tighter to your body as an attempt to keep yourself grounded. “I should go. It was good to see you, Tommy.”

You spun on your heel, heading for the large golden doors that led outside. Fresh air would clear your mind, the stars and the velvet night would be good for clearing out all of the junk rattling around in your skull, but you barely got two steps forward before he spoke, already knowing his next words before he even opened his mouth.

“Let me drive you home.”

He spoke so surely, addressing you the way he would one of his brothers or Johnny, as if he knew what was best for you. Once upon a time you would have believed that he did, let him grasp you by the wrists and drag you to the end of the world if he asked nicely, those fucking baby blues and pink lips dulling any warning sirens in your head.

Even now, after everything, you knew that he would never put you in danger, that he would always protect you. And it was with the knowledge of that striking your heart like lightning, you knew that you were still hopelessly, undoubtedly in love with him - not that you ever thought differently, but you had done a damned good job of pushing your feelings away.

“You’ve had a lot to drink,” He said, “and I wouldn’t even let you out on those fucking streets by yourself stone cold sober.”

You pursed your lips. “I’m not drunk, and you don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m driving you home.”

You looked up at him through your painted lashes, disarming him in a million different ways you didn’t even realise. You were oblivious to the fact that his breath felt trapped in his lungs.“You and I both know that’s not a good idea, Tommy.”

“Cmon. Get your things.”

You sidestepped away, pushing the bottom of your heel deeper into the champagne coloured carpet. “No Tommy, I’m not a child! I don’t need your help.”

He rolled his eyes, something akin to fond exasperation rising to his cheeks. You felt your heart drop and flutter like it was a sparrow inside of you, you had never thought you would see that face again, and it hurt how something so simple could twist and mould you in his hands like clay.

He pressed his hands to the small of your back, pushing you forward.

“I don’t care if you don’t want my help. I’m doing it anyway.”

You huffed. Too tired and drunk and confused to put up a real fight.“Fine.” He smiled coyly and his smug attitude made you click your teeth, running a hand through the curls in your hair, not stopping the childish retort on the edge of your tongue. “Prick.”

You felt his hand swat at you, dangerously close to the hem of your dress and you were certain that your cheeks were the same colour as the candles flickering on the tables below. It was such a playful, tender thing to do, and so horribly familiar - memories of his hands on you, pinching and teasing and digging in, a way of communicating without words, something so intimate and personal, something that only the two of you knew.

You wondered if he felt the same way. You wondered if he was reminded of the past, of peach moons and starlight kisses and strawberry lipstick, but as always he remained impassive, as poker faced as always as he strolled down the hall, pushing open the wide brass doors and waiting for you to pass through, him trailing behind you, like always.

———————————————————————

Through your hazy eyes the moon almost looked pink, like a spotlight shining down on you, illuminating the both of you as Tommy’s car purred down the streets, like a black cat stalking under the cover of darkness.

It smelt like him.

Like cigarettes and sin and mint and woodsmoke. You were reminded of driving at midnight with the windows down, his hand wrapped around your thigh, his eyes anywhere but the road. You thought of sticky skin and leather seats and the smell of sex, breathless little laughs and the feel of his teeth biting down on your top lip.

You stared at the polish on your fingernails, hoping for some kind of distraction from the man beside you. It wasn’t far to your flat, and you prayed that the drive home would be as hitch free as possible.

“Had a good night?” Tommy asked, looking over at you from behind the wheel. He’s not even sure what he’s saying, his usually mechanical brain almost short circuiting because you’re finally next to him again. Words and phrases seem tasteless and meaningless, but he wants to savour as much of you as he can. He knows it makes him hypocritical, especially given everything he’s put you through, but he’s never really been very conventional with his love.

“It was alright.”

“Friends from work?”

“Yeah. It was Jessica’s birthday, she wanted to get drunk, you know how it can be.”

“And that...that man - ?” He cleared his throat, hoping that his words came off breezier than they sounded in his head, pretending as if the thought of you with somebody else didn’t feel like a noose around his neck. “Who was he?”

“Just some stupid twat.”

Your words weren’t doing much to quell the fiery flicker of anger inside of him, half of his brain telling him to turn the car around and put a razor blade through the fuckers eye - but one glance over at your sleepy, beautiful face and all of his jealousy fades into mere smoke.

None of it matters.

Nothing will ever matter more than you.

“I shouldn’t have even been out tonight, but Emma practically dragged me.”

Emma. The name rings a bell. He flips through a mental picture book of everyone you’ve spoken about, and finally lands on the glamorous, dark skinned, velvet haired vixen that you called your best friend.

Memories come flooding back.

The nights you would spend with her when he was too busy with work. How in the darkness of his office with nothing but an empty feeling in his chest and glass of bourbon beside him, the phone would ring and cut through the silence.

He’d roll his eyes when Emma spoke quickly down the line, words slurred and filled with giggles as she would explain the drunken shenanigans you had both fallen into. He’d drive through the night and the dim city streets, his mind for once not filled with business deals or money, instead his heart tugging at the thought of his doe eyed, honey lipped girl waiting for him in the city.

“I think she had too much to drink.” Emma would say, clambering into a taxi cab she had managed to hail, teetering in her tall satin shoes. “I wanted to take her home with me, but she was causing such a big fuss and asking for you - couldn’t bloody say no.”

Outside the club his voice would be stern and his stare would be solid. Clipped, quick words to the doormen, feeling you press your cold nose into the base of his throat, mumbling something incoherent about how pretty he was. He’d scold you fondly. Settle you down in the back seats of his car and cover you up with his jacket, smiling ever so softly at the way you cuddled into the warmth and the familiar smell.

He thought of how lonely his nights had been without you.

“How is she?”

“Fine. Everyone is just fine.”

But how are you? He wants to ask, but he has a feeling that no matter the answer he’ll still end with a bullet in his gut, so he lets the silence engulf the both of you, nothing in the air but unspoken tension and the soft purr of the engine.

He had an idea. Something conniving and crafty, something that he’s been wanting to do since the night he told you that it wasn’t safe to be with him, the night he told you to leave. Thomas Shelby has always been a strong, level headed man, but something about you just makes him crumble. You have a way of twisting around him, snaking around his thoughts and feelings like a vine, and he gives himself up wholly.

He would never put you in a position you were uncomfortable with, but he can’t help the claw in his gut when he thinks of how long it’s been since you’ve been apart. He can smell the sweet liquor and perfume on you, can see the way your eyes are glossed ever and your hair is mussed. You’re tired, and after the way that goddamn leech of a man had been fawning over you Tommy is in no mood to leave you alone, he likes knowing that you’re safe, it’s the only thing that makes him able to sleep at night.

He glanced over to you, watching as you yawned into your palm, your soft, pretty eyes looking at the stars and the moon and his decision was made for him.

“You missed the turn.” You said a few moments later, perking up a little in your seat.

“Hmm?”

“You missed it. You should have turned left back there.”

He doesn’t say anything, and you’re pretty sure you know the reason why. Despite the part of your body that is sparked like a match at the thought of spending the night with him, you also know that it is too dangerous, that the two of you together are fire and gasoline.

“No. No, Tommy. I’m not staying over with you.”

“Yes you are. You can stay in a guest room - it’ll give you time to sleep off that hangover.”

“I’m hardly drunk.”

“Well, when we get home you can walk in a straight line for me, eh?”

“It’s not my home.”

That hurt.

He ignored you, feeling the familiar bite of irritation, hating that he wasn’t the same man to you that he once was. He could feel his tone getting desperate, and under any other circumstance he would be furious at being so weak, but never around you. “Just stay. Tonight? For me. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re not getting into any trouble.”

“Tommy Shelby never sleeps.”

You huffed and crossed your arms over your chest, sighing in defeat. Tommy smiled, and realised as the car lurched over the bridge that’ll take you back where you both belong that he’s the happiest he has been in a long time.

—————————————————————

His house was as intimidating as ever, even more so under the thick blanket of the night. The architecture looked gothic, the sprawling roof and high chimneys almost seeming menacing as the car pulled up along the gravel, the low sound of the rocks crackling like a fire.

It almost felt strange. A house you had stepped foot in hundreds of times, suddenly feeling unfamiliar and mystifying. It was like the very first time you had seen the house a few years ago, how the large rooms and the tall ceilings seemed empty and dangerous, as though they housed a million secrets.

But since then it had been full of so much light. You had danced with him playfully, barefoot on the kitchen floor, with the windows open and soft jazz flittering in the air like sunlight. You had slept on the sofa in the drawing room, tangled up against his bare chest, the room littered with wine stained glasses and cigarette burns. You had laughed until you had cried, kissed him on the vivaciously on the mouth, sat through dozens of rowdy family dinners, shared coffee and pastry under the sleepy morning light - and now it felt as though a million years had passed.

You let him lead you inside. Keeping a safe distance and a wary eye as though he was an unpredictable stray dog that needed to be kept at arms length. He sensed your suspicion and ignored it, marching forward like a solider, pretending that your distrust didn’t make him feel awful. He hated to think of you on edge because of him, he hated how small it made him feel. He never wanted to be insignificant to you.

You noticed how bare it was in the hallway. Once upon a time the coat rack would have been filled with your furs and shawls, your pastel pink boots and his forever charcoal posh oxfords lined next to one another, a poignant reminder of their owners and the differences that you both shared.

It wasn’t just lack of your belongings, somehow the house seemed much emptier. It didn’t smell as worn as it usually did, the warmth of a recently lit fire didn’t dwell in the air and there were no keys or shoes by the front door. You knew that Mary kept a clean house, but this was something different, and a sour thought suddenly hit you.

“You haven’t been home much?” You tried to keep the jealousy out of your voice and remain level headed, but it was proving hard when you were feeling so nauseous at the thought of him sharing a bed with somebody else.

“Lot of late nights at the office.” He shrugged his jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it around a hanger, his icy blue eyes catching yours. “Home didn’t feel like home anymore.”

You didn’t miss the implication in his words, but you chose to ignore it.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“I thought I was here to sleep.”

“You are. But what kind of host would I be if I didn’t offer my guest a nightcap?”

You made a noise. Something halfway between a scoff and a huff.

“Tea? Whiskey?”

“No, I’m fine thank you.”

“What about hot chocolate? I still have some of that god awful strawberry stuff you love so much.”

Memories of sickly sweet strawberry kisses flash in your head. Images of Tommy wincing and groaning as if you had poisoned him. Belly laughs and pillow talk. All things you had tried so hard to forget.

“No. I don’t drink that anymore.”

He looked at you. There were no diamond chandeliers or dark corners or red velvet walls distorting your appearance, just the two of you stood opposite in the hallway of his mansion. He looked you up and down, not in a sleazy way, like the man at the bar who had so desperately wanted to get his hands under your dress but almost - longingly. There was something in his eyes. Swimming right in those ocean eyes was something you couldn’t quite make out, he opened his mouth to say something but before he could speak you heard the whine of the door above you.

“Mr Shelby! You’re back.” It was Mary, stood at the top of the stairs. Still dressed in her maids uniform despite the ungodly hour, she looked as pristine as ever, and you couldn’t think of a time you had seen the elderly woman without makeup on. She flew down the stairs, eager to offer Thomas anything she could, but she stopped dead in her tracks when she finally saw you.

“Miss (Y/L/N)!” She said, trying to control the shock in her voice. She hadn’t been there the day that you left, but it wouldn’t take a fool to guess what had happened between you and her boss. Just like you, she probably assumed you would never return to the Shelby house. After a moment she smiled kindly, regaining her composure after the initial shock. “It’s a pleasure to see you once again.”

“And you, Mary.”

“Oh! Mr Shelby I’ve made up your quarters and -” she stopped, realising what she was saying and she awkwardly shifted as she tried to change the subject. “Can I get you anything? Shall I bring you some tea? Or some wine?”

“Oh no. I’m fine thank you, really.”

“You know what Mary,” You heard Tommy say, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Can you fix us some drinks? Whatever’s in the cupboards is fine. Oh, and bring us those chocolates Ada brought from New York. We’ll be in the sitting room.”

“Tommy - ” You started, but he was already gone, walking through his house with renewed energy, and you strained your ears to hear the sentences he called out over his shoulder.

“One drink. For old times sake.”

“Ugh. You’ll be the death of me, Shelby.”

———————————————————————

It should have been awkward. It should have been awkward and uncomfortable and painful - but it wasn’t.

He lit a fire, something about the yellow flames and the crackling wood soothing you like warm milk. You missed the feel of his sofas, the ones that cost such an outrageous price that it made your eyes water, and you sunk into the cushions far more easily than you liked. Mary had made your favourite drink, and the situation felt so familiar that it was ridiculous, but it was more ridiculous how good everything felt.

He was as charming as ever. Giving you those side eye glances and cheeky smiles as he spoke, asking about your family and telling you stories of the trouble his brothers had been in. He moved around the room in a blur of navy, because as God would have it tonight of all nights he was wearing your favourite blue suit, the one that made him look so beautiful and powerful.

He didn’t ask about work, and you were glad, because you weren’t ready to tell him yet.

Perhaps an hour passed, the two of you dancing around each other, neither one wanting to be the one that crossed the line first. Your mind was blurry but you knew that this had gone on too long, you needed to pull the plug before it was too late, but as always, Tommy got there first.

“It feels like fate.” He said, his voice so much warmer than it had been a few moments before.

“What does?”

“Running into you tonight.”

You scoffed. “Please. Tommy Shelby doesn’t believe in fate.”

“I didn’t. Not until I met you.”

Your whole body felt like it had been set alight. He knew just what to say to get you to curl around his little finger. He was watching you intently, moving forward so his elbows were on his knees, as though he was desperate to hear your reply. He was being honest, more so than he had been in a long time, but your mind was too filled with the past to give into his sweet words.

“So,” You said, knocking back the last dregs of your drink. “Are you just going to pretend it never happened?”

“What?”

“Cut the crap, Tommy.” You snarked. “You know what I mean.” A breathless laugh. “God, this is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Don’t say that.”

You rubbed your forehead, massaging away a migraine you could feel brewing. “I need to go to bed. I don’t want to get into all of this again.”

“(Y/N) - ”

“Goodnight, Tommy.”

You stood up and heard the sound of his glass of whisky hitting his red oak table. Your fingers touched the edge of the door handle, but he was pulling you backwards before you could leave. You were facing him, trying to keep your eyes away from his, not wanting to go falling into him the way your body desired.

“You might not want to talk but you can listen.” He said, so close to you that your noses were almost touching. You pursed your lips and squirmed like a child, but he raised an eyebrow and you huffed, letting him speak, his words shattering you like you were a sheet of ice.“Im still in love you.”

You bit your lip to stop from crying. The scab had been picked off, blood clotting down your ankles and onto the floor.

“Think I will be till the day I die. Even after.”

His words were so sincere and you wanted to believe them. You could feel him watching you, cornering you, willing you to say the words back, needing to hear the words fall from your lips.

You held up one finger, trying to stop him from speaking. “Don’t.”

“It’s true.”

You could feel the hot prickle of tears forming in your eyes, and the way your throat constricted like you’d been swallowing cotton balls.“Was this the plan all along? Invite me back, get me drunk and think I’ll crawl back into bed with you after you tell me a few lines?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never do that to you.”

He was angry. More so with himself, he’s always been in control, so articulate and calculated, but he was losing his grip on you, his knuckles turning white. He knew he made a mistake that night when he told you to leave, but his pride was too strong to do anything about it. Seeing you tonight had been more than just a coincidence, he knew that, and everything in him was screaming at him to fight for you.

“I miss you.” It ached for him to say it out loud, such a powerful man admitting that you were his weakness, that you bring him to his knees like he’s a child.

“I miss you too, Tommy, you know I do. But - ”

“I fucked up.”

“Tom.”

“I never should have let you leave.”

“We - Us - It’ll never - ” You couldn’t think let alone speak, all of your words twisting and tumbling from your mouth like loose marbles.

“We were a lot of things, but you can’t tell me that we aren’t supposed to be together.”

“I don’t want to talk about this... I can’t!”

“So let’s not talk.”

His lips met yours and you were on fire. The breath you didn’t know you were holding was knocked out of you by the force of his body on yours. His hands were all over you, checking you were real, feeling the curve and dip of your body the way his mind had conjured up in the dark in the months that you had been gone, he savoured you entirely, he devoured you.

“This isn’t - This isn’t right.” It was lie. Nothing felt more right. Your whole body ached and quivered for him, you wanted to breathe in his smell and run your fingers through his hair until they bled, but you also didn’t want to go down without a fight.

He knew you too well though.

“Stop it.” He had you backed up against the wall, his body pressed in between your thighs. He’d caged you in, one hand curling softly under your jaw, manipulating you so that you had no choice but to look right into his damn sea foam eyes. “Stop being so stubborn.”

“Stop being such a prick then.”

Lips on your neck. His hands all over you. Inhaling your perfume and the smell of your hair, digging his fingertips into your hip, a jolt of pain that you knew would leave a bruise. He captured your lips again, relishing in the way you felt under him, he was desperate for more, and he smiled cheekily when he heard you moan.

“I thought you wanted to go to sleep.” He teased, his voice was playful but he was struggling to keep his composure, he felt like his head was being held underwater, the pleasure teetering on pain.

“I hate you.” You said, gasping for air, feeling adrenaline and liquor and lust flow through you.

“No you don’t.”

You bit down on his plump bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. He winced slightly, and rolled his eyes, shoving you backwards into his bookcase, kissing you even harder. A few novels and a porcelain figurine fell to the floor, the small black horse shattering at your feet. He grumbled slightly, and you giggled into his neck. You bent down to try and collect the broken pieces but he swatted your hand away, kissing and sucking all across your neck and throat, wanting to mark his territory.

“Stop that. I don’t want you cutting yourself.” He muttered into your flesh, clasping your hands together and holding you by the wrists, refusing to let you do anything but melt into him - not that there was anything in the world you would rather be doing.

Slowly the kisses got softer, more tender, all across your collar and shoulders like raindrops. There was something methodical about it, almost poetic, like he was trying to savour the taste of your skin, and the way your body rippled under him. After a moment he stopped, his hands tangling into your hair, gripping you by your jaw, looking into your glossed out, wide eyes.

“I really fucking missed you. I’m sorry.”

You shuddered. “I know.”

“Tomorrow we’ll talk. Alright?” There are a million things he needed to say. A million things he needed you to know, but there was nothing more important to him at that moment than having you under him, letting his body show you all of the things he couldn't put into words. He needed you, all of you. His head was fucked and he needed the wash of calm you gave him, he needed to feel whole, the way that only you could make him.

“Tomorrow.” You whispered.

He nodded solemnly. Ducking his head and pressing your mouths together, hot and raw and heavy. You were sweeter than sugar, stronger than whisky and prettier than all of the stars in the sky, and he struggled to keep himself from buckling at the knees under your touch. The only thing that could stop him from moulding your bodies together were the sweet little words that left your lips, the ones that rang like a gospel in his ears.

“Take me to bed, Tommy.”

————————————————————

He broke it off three months prior.

You had been missing each other, your schedules hectic and mismatched, and it had been a good few weeks since you had spoken for more than a few stolen seconds over the telephone. Finally, like the sun parting through rain clouds, there was one weekend that was empty in both of your diaries and Tommy told you to expect a car outside of your flat one Friday afternoon.

A whole weekend. Two days and three nights spent with your beloved, it should have been a time filled with late nights and rumpled bedsheets, coffee in the morning and wearing nothing but his linen shirts and the pretty lilac underwear he loved so much - but it turned soon turned sour.

On Sunday you had been making rhubarb pie. Folding and rolling the pastry between your fingertips, listening to the birds whistling through the open window and the lull of soft jazz from the radio behind you.

He had taken a call. A sullen look falling over his face as soon as he answered the phone. He had shut himself in his study, and all you could hear was the deep rumble of his voice and the sound of his footsteps, and so you left him alone, and busied yourself with other things.

It had all been so wonderful. Riding his horses through the fields, reading books under his arm as he rifled through papers, stealing kisses that tasted like hard candies and peppermint. You'd forced him to relax, made him take a bubble bath with you, poured lavender and vanilla oil across his aching shoulders until he let out an involuntary moan, ran your fingers through his hair until his breath evened out and his eyes fluttered shut, finally feeling at peace next to the woman he loved.

You’d laughed and made love and kissed and danced and it had all be so perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

For 48 hours he had been yours. He wasn’t “Thomas Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders,” he had been your Tommy. You weren’t a fool, you knew that work was always the most important thing to him, that he lived and breathed for the company he had built from his two bare hands, his work ethic and brilliance was something you admired about him, but it didn’t mean that it didn’t sting when he slipped back into business mode.

It had been about an hour, and you were cleaning the counters, something soothing about finding the dark marble granite under the mess of flour. You knew that Mary would have a fit if she knew you were cleaning, but you enjoyed the normalcy it gave you. You heard him before you saw him, the sound of his matte leather brogues on the tile in the hallway, and you lifted your head when you felt his presence in the doorway.

“You need to leave.”

His tone was so sudden and blunt that it almost made you laugh, but one look at the sallowness of his skin and the intensity in his eyes made you straighten up. “Excuse me?”

“It’s Sabini.”

“What about him?”

“He knows - he fucking knows.”

He was being uncharacteristically agitated, and it sent a deep chill down your spine. You lurched forward, hands spread, wanting to carry some of his worry. “Knows what? Tommy, calm down.”

“He’s had men lurking outside your flat.”

“What?”

“One of the new boys spotted ‘em. Fucking filth have been there all weekend.”

You felt your heart sink to your stomach. Truthfully, whilst the thought of Sabini and his men watching you made your skin crawl, you were more worried by the way it seemed to have frazzled Tommy. You weren’t used to seeing him so... anxious, and that sent red hot warning signs to your brain.

Your relationship had never been a secret per se, but you never made it public. After a few months of rendezvous in hotels and bars up and down the country, and Tommy realising his feelings for you were much more than just lust - he laid everything out bare. He told you he wanted you. But he also told you what the consequences of hanging off his arm were. You knew the risks, knew what chaos his love could bring, but you were falling so deeply that none of it mattered to you. You weren’t stupid, and Tommy did everything in his power to keep you safe, and the two of you found a mellow middle ground, a place where you could be happy and young and in love, without all of the mayhem.

“Well - it’s alright. I’m here. I’m safe aren’t I? He was probably just scoping the place out, he probably thought you were there and - ”

You were rambling, and most of what you were saying was untrue. You both knew the reason that Sabini was there, it was a message, a warning. A threat to Tommy that he could take away his weakness with one snap of his slimy little fingers.

You shrugged off your apron, and stepped towards him, shaking your head. “We knew that one day this would happen. That people would find out, it’s not your fault Tom.”

“We were stupid. We were reckless.”

“And what? We were supposed to just stop living our lives in case somebody saw us?”

“Not just somebody. Somebody who could fucking kill you.”

“Tommy.”

“You need to leave.”

“Listen to me -”

“I’ll get Bernard to drive you to the station. Your friend...” He paused momentarily, trying to remember a name he had heard in passing. “Sarah? She still lives in Manchester doesn’t she? You’ll stay with her till I’ve sorted this out.”

You scoffed, your eyes the size of dinner plates.“I’m not leaving.” You tried to make him see sense, but you were having a hard time keeping your voice levelled. “I’ve got work, Tom. I can’t just up and leave.”

He ignored you. You could see his brain whirring a mile a minute, the wheels inside his mind frantically looking for a solution. You marched over to him, forcing him to look at you. “I’m not scared.”

“Well then you’re a fool.”

“Am I? For not running at the first sign of danger?”

“Don’t fucking start with me. Not about this. This isn’t some fucking game.”

“I never said it was, Tom. But what? I’m supposed to hide out in another fucking city until all of this settles down.”

“Stop being so fucking difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult. I know what I signed up for, we both did. We knew this would happen eventually.”

“And now that is has - we have to be smart.”

“Not everything in life is a business deal.”

“What would you know about that?”

It was a low blow. Something that struck you like a winning punch to the gut, you stepped back from the impact, shaking your head and pursing your lips. You’ll let him brew in his anger, let him get worked up and pissed off, and you’ll wait for his apology in a few days, something expensive and designer showing up at your front door, his way of saying “I’m sorry I was such an asshole.”

“You know what? I’m leaving. Call me in a few days when you get your head fucking screwed back on. We can talk then.”

“No.”

It came out strangled, like the word sliced the inside of his throat when he said it.

“What?”

“You need to stay away. We need to end this.”

“End this?” You scoffed. “What? Like we’re just a business deal?”

“It’s not safe, and I can’t do anything that’s going to jeopardise the company.”

“The fucking company?” You were furious, your body stinging with hurt, feeling betrayal wash over you like sour milk. “How - How dare you!”

“I think it’s best if we spend some time apart.”

“So this is it then? You’ll throw away everything just because some fucking man has been looking around corners?” His silence made you more enraged, and you willed him to fight back. Fight for you. “Do you want me to leave? Do you want me to go, Tom?”

Silence.

And then - “It’s not safe.”

“Fuck you.”

That was the last thing you had said to him. Three words replaced with two that shattered around the room like an earthquake. You had tears in your eyes, and you rushed upstairs to pack your things, your heart breaking into sharp little pieces inside of you. He could hear the start of your sobs, the ones you tried so hard to muffle with your hand and he truly fucking hated himself. He gripped the marble above the fireplace and steadied his breathing, pushing out any thoughts of the weekend. He willed himself to shove away the happy memories, the sound of your laugh and the smell of your skin, the way he didn’t hear the shovels when you were beside him, safe and warm in his arms.

He needed to do what he did best, regain control and protect those he cared about, and right at the fucking top of the list was you. Any niggles of rationality and guilt telling him that pushing you away was wrong quickly turned to ash in his mind, he was certain that this was the right thing to do, despite the way that it really fucking hurt. He had to keep you safe. Men like him didn’t get to have nice things like you.

So he shut the door to his office, muffling the sound of you rummaging around upstairs, a part of you wishing and hoping that he would open the door and kiss you and apologise, and instead he picked up the phone, and went back to work.

———————————————————————

You woke up to sunlight painting your skin, and an empty bed, the silk sheets in disarray and bundled beside your bare body.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

Like an ice cold bucket of water dropping over your head, you remembered every detail of what had happened overnight. Your skin relived the feeling of hands and fingertips and oh god, tongue dragging all across you, branded into your memory like a burn. It was the best nights sleep you had gotten in a long time, and the bed was so warm and soft and smelling like sin that you struggled to even lift your head from the pillow to check the time.

Mid morning.

You hadn’t slept in this long for a while, and you knew the reason why. Head slightly pounding from too much alcohol and adrenaline, you crawled out of bed, washing the remnants of last nights makeup from your face and pulling on your crumpled dress and stockings that had been haphazardly flung over the furniture. Your heart lurched a little when you freshened up in the bathroom and noticed your toothbrush still in the holder on the sink, right next to his.

You could hear cluttering downstairs and followed the noise, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, unable to stop the small smile that the sight gave you. He had evidently sent Mary on an errand, something far away so he could make you both breakfast in peace, away from prying eyes. He looked so boyish, so domestic, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, nimble fingers turning the bacon on the pan, his hair mussed from sex and sleep. It made you feel like you had swallowed a match. Your whole body alight from seeing him so gentle and vulnerable, so bare for just you to see.

Thomas Shelby whisking eggs and squeezing oranges, barefoot in his own kitchen, the sight rarer than a unicorn, and you were the only person who ever got close enough.

“Hi.” It left your mouth awkwardly and rolled off your tongue like an ice cube.

“Morning.” He turned and smiled, his lazy eyes trawling the length of your body. You hadn’t noticed it, but he felt a flicker of hurt that you were in your own clothes, a part of him wanting and hoping that you would be in one of his shirts, something that he loved much more than he could comprehend. He shook his head, willing the thoughts away. “It’ll be done soon. I think I’ve burnt the toast though, and probably added too much salt to the eggs.”

You smiled thinly, the light not reaching your eyes. This was all too much, all too soon. He was here and he was beautiful and you were right at the frontline, ready to get your heart broken all over again.“Last night,” You cleared your throat, as though the words were lodged deep inside. “It was a mistake.”

He didn’t blink, cool stare focused on the meal he was preparing, long fingers methodically slicing and dicing, as though your words didn’t make his heart thump against his rib cage. He didn’t like it, not one bit, the way that it sounded as though you regretted the time you had spent together. He never wanted you to feel like that, like the intimacy you had shared was something crude, as though you were a one night stand of a drunken fuck at a bar, this was so much more than that. This was love.

But Tommy liked holding his cards to his chest, and it was much easier to tease you then tell the truth.

“It didn’t feel like a mistake. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

You scoffed, hating his cockiness yet knowing that he was obviously right. “Don’t be a twat, Tommy.”

The ghost of a smile on his face, if you had blinked you might have missed it, but you were always the best person at reading him - the only person he had let close enough to see him, flaws and all. He always liked when you bickered with him, his little firecracker. He didn’t tolerate just anyone speaking to him the way you did, but he would let you get away with bloody murder and he couldn’t deny that it didn’t bring a flush to his cheeks when you got particularly feisty.

You opened your mouth to speak but he cut you off, his hands full with cutlery and plates filled with slap up breakfast foods, and you couldn’t deny that your mouth was watering.

“Eat first. We’ll talk later.”

You let out a sound halfway between a huff and a groan but caved in, clambering into the seat he had pulled open for you and piling your fork high. He watched you with a smile, the way you looked so young and pretty and angelic in the morning light, no makeup on and eyes still drowsy with sleep, like some kind of Renaissance painting he wanted to hang above his fireplace and stare at whenever things got rough.

He filled the silence with small talk, noting the weather and a story about one of John’s kids hiding a puppy in her room for almost a week without anyone noticing. You listened as best as you could, but you were distracted by the palomino mare you could see grazing in the fields behind his house, and something was prickling at your skin like brambles.

You cleared your throat, acting as nonchalant as you could muster. “Emma tells me that May Carlton is training your new mare.” Your knife sliced through your yolk, rich butter yellow bleeding across your plate. You tried to keep your voice steady, but you could feel the thickness in your throat as you remembered how it hurt like a bullet wound when your best friend had told you of his new associate. “I hear she is quite beautiful.”

“Yes, I suppose she is.” He murmured, cutting the edge of fat from his bacon. “But she’s nothing compared to you.”

You tried to pretend that his words didn’t make you swoon, and he tried to hide how much he loved it when you got jealous, something about the fire in your eyes making him want to push you up against a wall and kiss you till you couldn’t talk.

He paused, a coy smile on his lips. “Have you been keeping tabs on me?”

You scoffed. “Well, it’s only fair. What with all those Blinders following me. Can’t even go to the bloody shops without one watching me.”

So you had noticed. He had half been expecting a blazing call where you yelled at him for having men watch over you, and it had left a hole of disappointment in his gut when it never came.

“You know I would never let you be unprotected.”

“I know.”

Your eyes met, a wave of warm affection washed over the both of you, but you pulled your gaze back quickly, focusing your attention anywhere else.

“You should come and watch her.”

You froze, wondering if Tommy had just invited you to spend the day with May Carlton, you were sure that would be one evening that would end in blood and tears.

“The mare.” He said, picking up at your uncomfortableness and biting back a smile. “We’ve called her ‘Wicked Gypsy’, and she is brilliant. I reckon she could win the whole bloody thing.”

You liked how passionate he got when he talked about horses. Liked the way that he seemed to light up like a child, despite all the finery and bravado, you liked knowing that the little boy inside of him was still there, hidden deep, deep down, but still there. You were too busy being captivated by him that it took you a moment to realise that he had asked you to join him at the races.

You wanted nothing more, you truly wanted nothing more than to be his girl again. Cradled under his arm, dressed in lace and fur, his lips pressed to the heat of your throat, sweet little words whispered in your ear, a hand tight and possessive around your waist - but it just wasn’t that easy.

You sighed, crossing your cutlery. “Tom. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I want you there. I need my good luck charm.”

“Tommy, after everything. I don’t think we should.”

Firmer now, he looks at you, emphasising his point.“I need you there. When she wins, I need my best girl to be right by my side.”

He was so slippery. So sickly sweet that you could drown in him, struggle to move in the molasses that dripped from his tongue. He was dangerous, carnal fire and sin, but he wasn’t lying, he needed you, really fucking needed you.

You exhaled, thinking things through, and massaging the migraine brewing in your temples. He could see you trying to think of an excuse, another lie about how you’re bad for each other, but he got there first, not wanting to hear it.

“I’ll have a car pick you up on Friday.” He turned his hands so his palms were facing the ceiling, eyebrows raised playfully, “Or... maybe you can stay here the night. You know you’re welcome.”

Always so bloody charming. But you can’t stop the tsunami of thoughts, the mistakes of the past. “What is this, Tommy? What are we doing?”

“I fucked up. I never should have let you go.”

“But you did. And - I don’t want to get hurt all over again.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“You always do.”

You words stung him worse than if you had slapped him across the face, and he had to take a moment to swallow the sour taste that had been swimming across his tongue. He reached his hands out, clasping them with yours, so large and warm and safe, and he spoke with intensity.

“Just - Come with me, Friday. Please. I can’t do this without you.”

Friday. Suddenly it was no longer about slipping up or falling back in love and wondering what your friends might think when you told them, it was about something else that you needed to tell him.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? Why not?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Leaving? Leaving where?” His tone was one of disbelief, his eyes sizing you up, wondering if this was some kind of elaborate excuse.

You sighed, taking your hands away from under his, noticing the lack of warmth immediately. “To Oxford. Peggy transferred me to the company over there.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because I asked her to.”

“You did what?”

You could see him thinking, wondering how none of his boys had found out this priceless piece of information that makes him want to throw his expensive fucking china at the wall.

“I did it all through work. Emma’s the only one who knew. I’m getting the train Wednesday night.”

He stood up so quickly his chair squealed across the wood floor, his mouth agape. “So what? You’re just going to leave?”

“There’s nothing here for me.”

He pointed one finger at you, scolding you like a child. “Don’t say that.”

You narrowed your eyes, shaking your head. “It’s true isn’t it? Why should I waste more time on this stupid cat and mouse game?”

“Is that all this is to you? A game?”

“You left me. For three months I was completely alone! What happens when something comes up, huh? How do I know that you won’t leave me all over again?” It was hard to keep the emotion from your voice, hard not to show just how badly the impact of those three months had been. “We need this! Some...some fucking space. Maybe being a few cities away will be good.”

It was a lie. Nothing sounded worse, but you had to say your piece because god knows you can’t keep holding everything in.

His voice was frayed, split like the hairs in an old rope. “Don’t. Don’t give me space. That’s the last thing I want from you.”

His words and his actions never lined up, and it made your blood boil. All of the anger you had turned into tears had remoulded into red hot rage, and you slammed your hands down on his expensive counter tops, flesh on marble ringing around the kitchen. “So then why did you let me go? Why did you tell me to leave?”

“Because I thought that was best for you!”

“You aren’t the one who gets to decide that!”

“Everything I do. Everything I fucking do - is to protect you.”

“Don’t say that. Protecting me isn’t making me leave, and then not speaking to me for three fucking months.”

You could see the click in his jaw, the vein in his throat throbbing. “You knew what you signed up for when you met me.”

“No, actually, I don’t think I did.”

It was true. You expected late nights, days of no contact, blood staining your bathroom counter and men watching your every move. You expected fights and make ups, going to the races in your finery and then walking down the shit filled streets of Small Heath, but you never expected that he would just leave you the way he did.

He was breathless, trying to control the rise and fall of his chest and the way that his fingers clenched. He never thought that you would leave, he had some fucked up feeling that you would always come back to him, that the two of you would always end up on the same ship, drifting along the same ocean. It was maddening. He had tasted you once again, had you under him, his girl reduced to putty in his hands. It had all made sense, the night seemed to be sweeter and the stars a little brighter and his lungs a little looser when you were next to him. It had all felt so right, and now you were going to leave.

He put it down to exasperation at not being in control anymore, the fact that he was watching you slip between his fingers once again like grains of sand, and so he said the worst thing he thought of, something that he knew would rip through you like a shot to the heart.

“Well at least I got one last fuck eh? That was all you were really any good for anyway.”

He could hear it immediately, the sound of the bullet leaving the gun, or perhaps that’s your heart shattering in two. He regretted it, he regretted it so badly that he wished he could pull the words back down his throat and swallow them like they were poison.

Your eyes watered but you didn’t let him see you cry. Your mouth opened and then closed not wanting to waste your breath on a reply, not wanting to hurt him the way he’d hurt you. You didn’t bother with a reply, not trusting yourself enough to talk, only wanting to be alone to like your wounds in peace. So you turned and left, last nights heels echoing through the hallway, the sound of the front door creaking open and slamming shut, silence falling once again.

Tommy pushed the plates off the table.

—————————————————————————-

Wednesday night and you were listening to your favourite record, something to distract you from the suitcase you were packing. Since the fight you hadn’t heard from Tommy, the first thing you’d packed had been your phone, pulling it off the wall as soon as you got home, not wanting to be on edge waiting for his call.

You didn’t allow yourself the time to wallow, refused to let yourself be beaten up by the words he had said, the ones that hung around your head like dead files. You hated that you let him speak to you that way, and you also hated that you missed him with every bone in your body.

Lilac, sapphire and emerald green. You threw your clothes together, watching the colours fade into a blur. You hadn’t packed anything he had given you, but you didn’t want to throw them out either and so they sat in a lonely purgatory in your wardrobe; a little gift to the next tenant.

You knew who was there the second the doorbell rang. Well, rang three times. The sound so shrill and violent that you tipped your head back in frustration. You considered leaving him outside in the summer rain, but soon the rings were switched with incessant knocking, your door surely about to break from the weight of his fists.

“Fucking hell.” You seethed, dropping your shoes onto the floor and stepping over the piles of toiletries stacked in the hallway. “Fuck you, Tom.”

You wanted to say those three words to him as soon as you opened the door, hoping your eyes reflected the anger bubbling inside of you, but he cut you off with a sigh of relief.

“Thank fuck you’re still here.”

“Not for long.”

You tried to shut the door, you really did, but he pushed past and into your flat with little effort.

“Get out, Tom. Now.”

He spun round to face you, and you finally got a good look at him. He looked rough, frazzled almost. His hair messy and his shirt ruffled and his eyes were mostly white, frantically watching your face.

“I fucked up. I fucked everything up.”

“You came all this way just to tell me that?”

“I should have followed you sooner. I should have followed you the second you walked through that door.”

You quirked an eyebrow in challenge. “Which time?”

He spread his hands out, biting down on his tongue. “Don’t go. Don’t leave.”

You sighed, kicking a stray shampoo bottle with your feet, something to fill the emptiness that surrounded you. “I’ve made up my mind.”

He moved one step closer and you moved one step back. “Is this what you really want?”

“We can’t always get what we want.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You threw your hands up in despair. “I’m not doing this with you now, Tommy. My train leaves in an hour and I have my first day tomorrow and I don’t want to fuck it all up.”

“If it’s what you really want, then you should go. But don’t leave if it’s all because of me.”

You scoffed. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

“And I’m not going to let you go without telling you that I love you. I really fucking love you.”

“Tommy.” It’s a warning. It’s a threat. But it hangs between you both, lingering in the air like smoke.

“I know you love me too. I know you do. I also know that I’m a massive twat who fucked everything up, but I’m not letting you get away, not again.”

You're exasperated. His words like honey, but you’re scared that that’s all they are, and you’re more scared that they might be so much more. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because I’m telling the truth. I don’t care about anything. Nothing matters to me more than you. I don’t care if Sabini has men outside my house every fucking night, you’re only safe with me, and I can only do this with you by my side.”

“Talk is cheap.”

“If I have to spend every day proving how much you mean to me then I will. I can’t - I can’t be without you.”

He was so close to you. Your noses almost touching, the hair on your arms and your spine sticking up, something electric about him. You want to hate him but you can’t. Not when he’s standing in your dimly lit hallway, looking dishevelled and beautiful and dare you say, broken. The edge of his jawline caught the light, shimmering like a jewel, and the pools in his eyes were so sincere and so deeply blue that you wanted to fall right into them.

Were you going to do this? Were you going to let him in again? You thought of everything - rain splattered kisses, dancing under the pale moonlight, sour whisky in the corner of his office. You thought of all of the chaos, all of the blood, all of the family arguments and shouting that echoed around his manor. You thought of all the tears you had shed, all the times your throat had been raw and your heart shattered into pieces. You thought of strawberry fields and his hand in yours, laughing with his brothers until you couldn’t breathe, the way that he felt and smelt and spoke like home.

It had been bad, but it was also the best thing you had ever been a part of.

You sighed loudly, clicking your tongue, meeting him somewhere in the middle. “Fuck. I’m never going to get my deposit back.”

His whole body trembled, relief coming from every pore, and he made a vow to go to Church with Pol on Sunday and thank whoever was listening for getting you back. “Well you’re moving in with me so there’s nothing to worry about.”

You rolled your eyes, his large hands wrapping around your jaw, making you look at him. He smelt like woodsmoke and peppermint, like a million bad decisions and the tang of a smoking barrel. It took everything in you to not buckle at the knees and let him carry you like a child.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He cradled your face, hoping his words came off as strongly out loud as they did in his head. He’s not going to fuck up again, but even he can’t stop his brain from short circuiting at the sight of you, so pretty with your doe eyes and raspberry lips, the skin on your throat just begging for the tug of his teeth.

You buried your head in his chest when he pulled you close, your words muffled through the cotton of his shirt. “If you ever speak to me like that again I’ll rip your fucking balls off.”

A soft smile, one that washes over him like warm candlelight. “I know.”

He’s not letting you go, not again. You’re a fucking part of him, like the blood that runs through his veins and the steady thump of his chest, you’re a part of his body, the reason why he can breathe and run and love. You’re the thing that stops the tremor in his hands, the thing that makes him so unshakeable, so tough and in control.

He had something to fight for.

And only knowing that you’re by his side, safe and warm and pressed into the crook of his body, does he finally allow himself to exhale.

[proudgodot]

Gratitude

I was not initially planning to post about this, given that my unfortunate tendency to over-share has caused me quite a bit of grief in the past, but the truth is that I simply couldn’t resist this time. Typically when I am overcome by an uncontrollable desire to post it is because I am desperately in need of attention or validation, so much so that I can’t actually remember a time when I posted because I was genuinely eager to share something. It was always out of some perverse and misplaced sense of obligation, but it finally feels as if that burden is lifted. While I was writing this post, it was because I felt a genuine…. pride over something I had accomplished, something I genuinely wanted to share with the world. When I chose the name of this blog I didn’t earnestly expect that I would ever feel anything other than shame about myself… it seemed more an ideal than an actual plausible prediction. I’m just so relieved my wish came true.

Anyway, I suppose that is quite enough navel-gazing for the time being… I can only imagine my followers have probably had enough of that to last a long and fulfilling lifetime. I reckon it’s time to move on to the actual story.

As most of you well know, following the dramatic events of the Kristahlia drama, I suddenly found myself with the new responsibility of parenthood. There are certainly aspects of my new lifestyle that have been difficult to adjust to… principle of which is that I am supposed to serve as a sort of role model for these developing and damaged boys. I have never been particularly aspirational, in fact you would be hard-pressed to find someone as underperforming as me. Although I was prone to overcompensating for such things, always desperately trying to prove that I was capable of as much as the bare minimum, looking back I see that I grew too comfortable with those low expectations. When it registered that as a caretaker I would suddenly have to perform a sort of excellence, not for the sake of my fragile ego but for the betterment of these children… I was immediately overcome by a painful inadequacy. However, as our first week together progressed, I came to realize that in certain regards all of us were personally inadequate, and it was for that very reason we had taken on this responsibility together. Although I certainly had my short-comings, that wasn’t something unique to me, and over time we all began to coordinate better and help manage each other’s weaknesses. I was somewhat surprised to learn this was not only true of the adults, but the children as well. The dynamic we developed as a family was rather symbiotic… I found that regardless of age we all had something to offer each other.

Regardless, I promised myself that I would do whatever it took to keep my found family as distant as possible from my most severe personal issues. My past was something I felt I had to resolve independently, no matter how tempting it was to once again depend on the people in my life to solve my problems in my stead. That is why when I made the decision to start looking into Anton’s whereabouts, I never spoke a word about it to my housemates.

Facebook made finding his account incredibly easy, distressingly so in fact. I became acutely aware of the possibility that he might have been recommended my account numerous times over the years and had consciously chosen not to send me a friend request, which although completely understandable still hurt immensely to imagine. Perhaps my hopelessly romantic dream to reconnect with the man was unrequited, and would be rejected with extreme prejudice if vocalized. Eventually, however, I managed to muster up the courage to actually inspect his profile. I discovered that after our quarrel six years ago and his subsequent transferral Anton had moved back to his hometown in Ann Arbor to complete his degree in art and design. Since graduating, he had been working as a freelance artist and animator… he often posted about how proud of his projects he was, and it was reassuring to see his enthusiasm had not diminished in the slightest over the years. One detail about his profile that immediately jumped out at me was his relationship status, which was currently set to single. Despite myself, I immediately felt a small flicker of hope ignite within my quickened heart. Upon further investigation, it appeared he’d been involved in several relationships over the years that had ultimately ended in failure, although the circumstances were unclear. I only hoped he hadn’t made a habit of dating unappreciative losers…

I managed to quell my anxiety briefly and force myself to send him a friend request, which almost immediately filled me with a sense of mounting dread. My anticipation wasn’t even allowed much time to simmer, because mere minutes after I sent the message I was notified that it had been accepted. Instinctively, I slammed my laptop shut and jumped out of my seat, forgetting that I was incapable of standing up so quickly without losing all feeling in my legs and face planting into the floor. I instantly regretted not taking Addy’s advice and getting that checked by a doctor, because soon enough the entire family was in my room gathered around my body and asking questions with varying degrees of concern and amusement. Although I had wanted to keep my activity a secret, at that moment I was swept away in the drama, and so I began to mindlessly rant about the situation.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but soon enough there were six pairs of hands all frantically scrambling for control of my keyboard. While I laid incapacitated on the floor, my friends had taken it upon themselves to respond to Anton’s messages, each expressing their own thoughts from my account in randomly alternating orders depending on who had managed to prevail in the wrestling. It seemed that Iara maintained the upper hand most of the fight, although it was admittedly difficult to tell over the frenzy at times considering my limited view from the floor.

Eventually, the chaos subsided and everyone turned to look at me with beaming smiles on their faces, some more devious than others. I immediately began to worry that they had sabotaged me somehow, be it in light-hearted jest or in an earnest act of betrayal, and so I asked them nervously what exactly they had done. For a moment it seemed they were trying to contain their excitement, but it didn’t take long for them to erupted into an uproarious celebration, complete with victorious chants that Anton was coming to meet us in person this evening!

I didn’t know how to react. All at once a tempest of conflicting emotions completely overpowered me… and I mean that quite literally. I knocked out cold, and when I finally woke up I discovered that not only had Kyler been trying to shock me awake by applying Takis to my tongue, but that the situation had not miraculously resolved itself. Although everyone else had mostly settled down, my mind was whirling a mile a minute with all of the things I had to do to prepare. I had a whole bucket list I needed to accomplish before I was comfortable standing in front of Anton again… and as much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t possibly get everything done myself over such a brief time. To my surprise, I didn’t even have a chance to put my reservations aside before they had already agreed to help me based off of my panicked listing of errands alone. Despite my reluctance to involve my new friends in the more turbulent aspects of personal life, it seemed they were actually eager to get involved themselves… I discovered that my problems were not an inconvenience to them, but rather something they were excited to help me work through.

The first obstacle I had to overcome was also the hardest… that being that I had never properly apologized to Gabriella and Lana for my dishonest and frankly abusive treatment. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t have the words to express my remorse or that I hadn’t processed my guilt, but that Gabriella’s parting words to me specifically informed me not to contact her and I didn’t want to once again disrespect her wishes. However, after some words of encouragement from the family, I managed to write a relatively concise three thousand word email taking responsibility for my past actions and wishing the couple well. As I was writing this post, I actually received a response from the two telling me they appreciated my apology and were glad to see I had grown into a more mature person. Apparently they have just finished settling into their cottage and are now doing better than ever. Lana even expressed an interest in meeting Addy and Iara in particular sometime… I suppose it’s a sapphic thing. I’m just glad that they’re finally living the happy life they deserve without being held back by backwards men.

My email took longer to type then I had expected, and although I certainly can not regret pouring my heart into the message given its importance, it did mean that we had to pick up the pace with the rest of the bucket list. Kyler took this quite literally, speeding at what must have been 100 miles per hour towards the mall despite nearly giving me a heart attack and my insistence that he not set such a bad example for Chris and Klav. We actually ended up getting pulled over, but luckily Iara managed to scare the officer away with her signature scowl. The next few hours were a frantic rush of errands, all focused on helping me actually express myself without the burden of repression. There were moments when it was a struggle, such as when I nearly hyperventilated in Claire’s before they pierced my ears, but ultimately I am immensely satisfied with the results. The most fulfilling moment was finally getting the tips of my hair bleached white to match my new profile picture. Chris actually got his hair dyed alongside me, changing his style from pale blond to black and white to reflect his new kin. It was incredibly rewarding to accomplish this alongside him… I had never been the subject of anything but disappointment from my parents, so it was an incredible feeling to be able to experience that absent parental pride for myself, even if it was with a different perspective.  

By the time Anton was forecasted to arrive, my appearance had been upgraded to better reflect my current sense of self… all that was left was for me to get in the right mindset. Luckily, my family was perfectly eager to act as my own personal “hype beasts,” as Kyler put it. They offered excellent emotional support in the half-hour we sat in the den patiently awaiting his arrival, especially Addy, who really took my mind off things by offering to play me in a game of chess. I lost quite handedly, but for once I don’t have it in me to be a spoilsport. When we heard that fateful knock at the door, they all immediately ran into the nearest closest and shut themselves inside to give us some space, but not before giving me a final set of encouraging thumbs up. I hesitated for a moment, questioning once again whether I was really ready to take such a big step in my life. My hand paused, hovering over the door knob uncertainly… until I heard the faint sounds of Steely Dan’s Come on Eileen coming from inside the closet, accompanied by the muffled sound of Klav’s giggle. Reignited by the familiar sounds of my favorite musicians, I swung the door open with a new and uncharacteristic conviction.

And there he was… I was immediately captivated by just how strong his presence was. My memories hadn’t done him justice… it really was like I was in the presence of an angel. I was comforted by certain familiar aspects of his appearance, such as his golden brown eyes that glistened like stars, his long curly hair with its comforting strawberry aroma, and his signature checkered scarf that he had been consistently wearing for almost decade now… but what really excited me were those new features. Normally I am turned off by change, but I was positively breathless as soon as my eyes wandered to the golden butterfly tattoo on his exposed shoulder. I felt as if I was going to faint for a second time in one day. 

I couldn’t find the words to express the depths of my emotion no matter how hard I searched my impassioned soul... there were no words strong enough. Instead I just cried, and wordlessly he accepted me into his arms… just like he had on that life-changing night all those years ago. I finally told him everything I had so obstinately refused to say during college… that I was gay, that I was in love with him, and that I was sorry. Although I was openly weeping, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more relieved in my life.

Eventually, he managed to pacify me… and so I was able to explain to him the entire story of the Kristahlia drama. It was difficult to explain that I had managed to go from discoursing with these teenage kinnies to adopting them, but he was as understanding as he ever was. He was so excited to meet my family that he even brought his cat Apple all the way from Michigan just to introduce her to them. I don’t think I have ever mentioned this publicly, but when Krissy died I had to take her dog Diogenes in myself, and I was surprised to find that the two animals got along perfectly. It really did feel like the entire house was accepting him... it was as if this was meant to be.

Since Anton had gone to all the trouble of making the ten hour drive to Iowa, he suggested that we might as well all hang out together in Cedar Rapids over the weekend. I suppose it’s a date... I must say that I am looking forward to it, as are the others. I know I didn’t deserve to be accepted by him again just because I spent a few hours shedding tears and profusely apologizing, but for once I don’t feel guilty that I have received something I don’t deserve. I just feel... an overwhelming gratitude for the opportunity.

I am certainly still inexperienced at this whole family business and have accepted that I will inevitably make some mistakes in the future, but I don’t think I’ve done too poorly for a first week, if I do say so myself. I am truly grateful to all the people in my life who have supported me through my journey, who have taught me that it is possible to rely on others without being a parasite and to be relied on without shouldering the entire burden. 

To my partners, my friends, my children, and my love... from the bottom of my heart, thank you. 

[rational-mastermind]

A/N: Hey!! Everyone wants more Quinnvoyant right? Right?? Well too bad, it’s all I have. And an au! Soulmate au where if you write on yourself, it’ll show up on your Soulmate.

--

  Everyone knew that if you wrote on yourself, it would appear on your soulmate as well. And Chris Quinn was no exception to this. Though, for a long time, there was only cute things like drawings of cats and rainbows and stars. Cute poems. Reminders. It was fine enough when he was a kid but as he got older it was just embarrassing. So he would wear long sleeves and hide the writing as best as he could.

   Sometimes he would talk with her, but she was too shy to reveal where she lived or who she was. Which kind of annoyed him. Wasn’t the whole point supposed to be that they would meet?

   When they got to high school, they talked less. Life got busy for her. Life was busy enough for him as well. Sometimes they would check in. Sometimes it would be reminders of homework assignments, or notes in class. Just kind of easily forgetting the other can see what they wrote.

   Then one day, his skin started getting covered in words, very quickly. Bright red marker showed up all over his arms and hands and it crawled all over his body. The same words over and over and over.

   “FREAK”

   “PSYCHO”

   “CREEP”

   “KILL ME”

   None too surprisingly, the only place she didn’t write was on her right arm. She was too busy writing, after all.

   Chris found a nearby ballpoint pen and began writing.

   “Et tu?”

   The scribbling suddenly stopped. For a moment he was worried. But then the ink began running off. It looked wet and began to run down his arms.

   Tears.

   After watching it a moment he began writing himself.

   “What happened?”

   “Bullies.” was the eventual reply.

   “Why?”

   “Cause it’s true.”

   “Same.”

   “What do you mean?”

   Chris sighed. He knew he wasn’t like other kids. They would all avoid him, be afraid of him, or talk about him weird just cause he talked about blood and death and demons and stuff that went bump in the night. He wasn’t gothic. Not by a long shot. He just...liked gore. He liked pain. He once got into a fight. One of the kids had a knife.

   He couldn’t stop giggling.

   There was something so...so thrilling, when he saw the red.

   The voices in his head only encouraged it.

   “I’m a psychopath.” he wrote.

   “I don’t think you are.”

   “That makes one of us.”

   “Well what makes you so weird?”

   “I… hear voices… And… I see things.”

   “Really?”

   “Yeah. But I’m told it’s not-”

   “Me too.”

   Chris stared at the two simple words. Somehow, it utterly stumped him. He felt...weird. He wasn’t sure why though. But he wasn’t entirely opposed to it.

   “What kind of things do you see?” he asked.

   “It’s hard to describe. Sometimes it’s people. Sometimes it’s just screaming. Or loud talking. Sometimes it’s colors and random pictures. What about you?”

   “More about dogs and demons and the end of the world and shit.”

   The rest of the writing on his body started to disappear. She was wiping it off.

   “Can we switch brains?”

   “Yeah, yours sounds more fun.” he chuckled to himself. After a moment’s thought he ventured forth to ask. “So what do you imagine I’m like?”

   “I don’t know. When I try to read you I get this weird image of something dirty and gritty like a horror movie. But at the same time, I also get this...warmth.”

   “Warmth?”

   “Like a towel out of the dryer. It’s warm and soft and it feels like home. It’s funny... Reading your words…”

   Chris felt a bizarre fuzziness grab hold of his brain. The world seemed to darken around him as she continued to write.

   “I can almost see you

   Christopher Quinn”

   Suddenly Chris felt very uneasy and quickly began rinsing off their conversation and scrub the words away. An unsettling chill surrounded him. It was weird. It was creepy. It was...sexy?

   Chris then proceeded to dunk his head under the sink and run cold water over him as well.

   They stopped talking after that.

   Chris got into writing. Finished high school and began making his living.

   Then the asylum.

   Then the Shadow.

   Then the Ministry.

   Chris went through so much hell. Of course it had its positives. There was Trilby and kicking demon ass. A good use of his psychotic tendencies. Making the world safe from the Shadow and keeping magic a secret. The people around the Ministry weren’t too bad. Yarrow was a bit...boring. But Jim was fun to mess with. And Claire was fun. There was always something to do, even if that something normally made Trilby roll his eyes.

   Then one day, well… It was bound to happen.

   Trilby was going to be out of action for a while. A mix up with a vampire left him incapable of going on assignments with Chris. But anyone who ever called Chris a “loose cannon” would recommend that he got someone to tag along in place of Trilby. Someone responsible and level-headed.

   Well who better than the absent-minded psychic he was pounding in the off hours?

   Yeah they were knocking boots. Nothing to get too attached over. It’s not like Chris got to know her life story or anything. Just letting off a bit of steam whenever they could hook up. All he knew was that she was very very much a psychic. Something he found interesting and she found best kept swept under the rug, much to his own disappointment.

   At first she seemed hesitant to go on a mission with him, but after some convincing, and a lot of unusual head shaking and slicing motions from Trilby behind her, she finally agreed.

   It was a simple mission. Done and over in a day. Of course it was the traveling that took the longest. It was on the farthest end of Ireland, naturally. It had some cultists and brainwashing and something to do with summoning a pagan deity. Claire was a natural and it was actually kind of fun getting to do work stuff with her.

   They were traveling back and Claire was already writing up their required report on a notepad. Chris couldn’t help but notice the way she gnawed on a pencil as she tried to focus. The way her fingers drummed through the air like she was at the computer back at HQ, if not fiddling with her large, round glasses. The way the air around her became still and focused as she accidentally projected her feelings about them. Chris could practically hear the gears grinding away in her brain as she tried to recall every needed detail.

   He chuckled to himself and it instantly snapped the tension in the air as her brain derailed.

   “What? What’s funny?” she asked, looking up.

   “Nothing. Just.. I dunno.” he shrugged. “You’re so focused.”

   “Well… I mean..” she shrugged as well. “It gets kinda hard to report faithfully.”

   “Eh those pricks in the higher-ups always find flaws in our reports. No matter what.” Chris rolled his eyes.

   “Hm. True.” Claire sighed. “But it’s not just them. You go looking through so many different minds, so many different vibes and lives it’s kinda easy to forget what’s happening in the real world. You know?”

   “Well.. No. I wouldn’t.” Chris glanced back at her.

   “Oh.. yeah, I guess you wouldn’t.”

   Chris chuckled again.

   “Hey by the way, you were pretty great back there.”

   “Hmm.. I wouldn’t say that.” Claire shrugged.

   “You kidding me? The way you fucked with that one-”

   “Ummm.” Claire interrupted and Chris noticed she looked horribly uncomfortable as she fidgeted with her glasses more. “If.. If it’s all the same Chris.. Can we not talk about...that?”

   “Oh.. Right. Sorry. Forget that makes you uneasy.”

   “Just…something drilled into me, I guess.”

   There was a moment of silence. Then Chris spoke up.

   “Hey um.. Can I...ask something?”

   “If you wanna know if I can predict the future, the answer is no.” Claire rolled her eyes.

   “Damn.” Chris clicked his tongue in disappointment. “....Did you always hate your powers?”

   “Mm..” Claire was quiet for a moment before she shrugged and looked out the window of the car. “What was there to like?”

   “Um, cause it’s fucking psychic powers.”

   “Yeah, exactly.” she sighed. “They always got me in trouble.. It.. Creeps a lot of people out.”

   “Come on. It couldn’t have always been that bad-”

   “No. It was.” Claire growled, her voice taking on a tone akin to earlier that day, but somehow lacking the same venom behind it. “It was always that bad. It was awful. You’ve no idea.”

   “...Well… Like what?”

   “....Like earlier.” Claire shrugged. “But.. By accident. I would...hurt them.. And scare them.”

   Chris frowned. Claire was normally so bubbly, happy, a bit forgetful, but chipper despite the depressing and horrific nightmare that their livelihood was. He hated seeing her this downtrodden. It was wrong. Like on a fundamental scale, this was just wrong.

   “...Did.. Something traumatic happen?” he asked. “Something that made you hate it so much?”

   Claire gave a dry chuckle before replying. “I wouldn’t say...traumatic but.. Well.. It did drive a wedge between me and some really important people.”

   “Was there a guy?”

   “....Yeah…”

   Chris felt something grip him. A sudden kind of deep-rooted anger. The kind akin to staring down a vampire or some other unholy abomination. Not counting Trilby, of course.

   “Who-”

   “Should get some gas. Before the ferry.”

   Chris sighed but found a station and pulled over. Clearly she didn’t wanna keep talking. While he was filling up, she went inside to use the bathroom.

   “Look over the report. Jot down anything I missed, got it?”

   “Yeah..”

    Chris felt crummy and stupid and angry. Claire was a great person! Why would anyone hate her for having psychic powers? Okay yeah so she kind of really mentally fucked with that one guy. And yeah okay so maybe she kinda caused another to have an aneurysm. Yeah sure that might’ve been a more common problem when she was a kid and yeah it might’ve been like Stephen King’s Fury, but so?

   And it’s not like Chris would’ve hurt this guy…. Much.

   He growled and kicked a tire before getting back in the car. He sighed and leaned against the wheel, waiting for Claire to return. That was when he noticed Claire’s notepad left laying on the space between their seats. Oh right.. Reporting.

   Chris sighed and grabbed it. He looked over the notes. Everything seemed in order. She left off at the part where cultists were about to start sacrificing the local children but she’ll likely finish jotting down the basic plot when they got back. Chris grabbed the ballpoint pen she had been using and was about to go back and fix her grammar when something caught his eye.

   A small doodle Claire had in the corner. It was a cat.

   Chris squinted and looked it over carefully. It looked familiar.

   Suddenly it dawned on him. He had seen this before.

   Chris’ mind started racing, putting all the pieces together. But.. But how could he prove it? And how could he prove it without worrying Claire?

   Chris then looked back at the pen in his hand and had a perfect idea.

   Meanwhile Claire was hiding in the bathroom. She knew this was a bad idea. She knew this was gonna be horrible! She knew this was gonna happen and she just had to keep playing with fire, didn’t she??

   “Stupid stupid stupid!” Claire banged her head on the wall. “Listen! To your! Intuition!!”

   Of course she knew who he was. Ever since the first day Trilby introduced him at the STP.

   Claire and Trilby were discussing the differences in using iodized salt compared to sea salt, though ultimately, they both knew pink Himalayan was best. But then Claire felt it. A familiar presence.

    She suddenly felt an oncoming wave of giddy excitement that made her almost tremble. And a familiar warmth that quickly wrapped around her like a towel fresh out of the dryer.

   “Claire? You okay?”

   “Think someone’s-”

   “Trilby! We gotta go do a thing with cake- Oh. Hey.” Chris had rounded the door to Trilby’s cubicle but stopped short seeing Claire.

   “Hey.” Claire waved.

   “First of all, never again. Secondly, I never introduced you two, have I? Chris, meet Claire. Claire-”

   But she already knew who he was. But a deep anxiety prevented her from saying anything. But after getting to meet him, within all of five minutes she forgot entirely, simply living in the moment. And then she forgot again when they agreed to meet up after work. And she kept forgetting to a point it would’ve felt awkward to start saying anything then and gosh dammit.

   ‘Claire, why do you do this to yourself??’ she sighed and stepped out of the bathroom. ‘Always have to make everything awkward and weird…youfreak Can’t just remember to freaking speak up and say what’s on your mind?’

   Claire only hoped Chris would drop the subject and they could return to their normal status quo. At least she got to see him. At least they got to talk face to face. It was better than what most people could hope for. After all, some people never find their soulmates.

  ‘But they write every day.’  her unhelpful thoughts reminded her as she returned to the car. ‘When was the last time we wrote to each other?’

   She opened the car door and-

   “I KNEW IT!!!”

    “Aah!”

   Claire stumbled back, tripped on her heels and fell backwards onto the pavement.

   “What the hell, Chris?!” Claire scolded as she picked herself up.

   “Take a look in the mirror!”

   She got up and looked at her reflection in the window. She gasped, seeing a rather crude doodle of a cat across her cheek. She looked through the window only to find Chris with a matching mark and a wide grin stretching from ear to ear.

   “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!” he asked.

   Claire stammered, laughed, and ended up crying. Her heart was pounding, she felt scared and worried. Chris’ smile disappeared and he got out of the car and came around to her.

   “Hey.. Hey hey hey. Hang on now.” he came over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “What? What is it?”

   “I thought you’d hate me.” Claire managed to get out with a hiccup.

   “I know.. I’m sorry.. I didn’t hate you. I never did! I just.. You…”

   “Scared you.. Like.. I scare everyone.” she sniffled.

   “No! You didn’t scare me! I just.. I.. I dunno.” Chris shrugged. “I was a dumb teenager. I didn’t know what I was feeling.. I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry…”

   Claire simply shook her head. Chris ran a hand through his hair and thought for a moment.

   “...If it’ll make you feel better I could still kick my ass.”

  Claire laughed. She choked and then giggled some more and finally started wiping away her tears.

   “Please don’t.”

   Chris smiled and hugged her tight. She weakly hugged him back.

   “I’m sorry.”

   “I know..”

   After that, they began writing to each other more and more often. Little notes, here and there.

 “That was a lot of fun last night.”

 “There’s coffee in the breakroom.”

 “Fought a ghost. It was gross.”

 “Kissed one the other day.”

 “I’m stealing the last slice of cake. Don’t tell Trilby.”

   It was nice. It was fun. It was one thing that Claire would say was normal about their lives.

  “You wanna do something else after work tonight?”

 “I got a new cat figurine!”

 “Got to see the sunset while on the job. Reminded me of..”

 “Hey you’ve been quiet. You okay?”

 “Can I tell you something?”

   “I love you.”

[multiis-blog]

whether it be melodies that give you inspiration for your muse, or songs that get you into the writing mood, pick ten songs you find give you the urge, the drive, or the creativity to write for your muse, then tag your friends to get an insight on their musical inspirational feels.

TAGGED BY:    @entirelyqualified

just a note : this varies wildly by what muse i'm writing.

01.   merchant prince  —  tom bergersen / two steps from hell 02.   five am  —  amber run 03.   therapy  —  all time low 04.   love & drugs  —  the maine 05.   black flies  —  ben howard 06.   old skin  —  ólafur arnalds ft. anór dan 07.   this is gospel  —  panic! at the disco 08.   shiva  —  the antlers 09.   horse to water  —  tall heights 10.   hallelujah  —  panic! at the disco

TAGGING:  @sunshcned ;   @vimvitae ;  @equesv ;  @outcftheash ;  @ashesriising ;  @whiskeyandtwoshotglasses ;  @attrcversiamo​

[louisdupont]

Come Here Often? (I Do, Actually) - Part IV

This chapter is not as happy as the rest, which is why it’s shorter. I literally kicked and dragged my heels on this one, and I freely admit I am not great at angst. 

Things to Know: Alex is a copy/speechwriter at a generic firm in NYC.

Part  I -  II  -  III

Putting the last few touches on the apartment–which is now tidier probably than it has been in months–Alex pours two glasses of the actually-posh wine he’d splurged on earlier after he’d gotten phone call he’d been wanting. It’s Wednesday night, and he hasn’t seen Eliza in some 50-odd hours (since Tuesday morning)–bad enough under normal circumstances, but it’s even worse given the great news he’s got to share with her. John had to take his phone all evening to stop him texting her in paragraphs when they’d gone out for drinks (which Alex secretly agreed was stupid and might dilute the celebratory making out), and he’d only just gotten it back after he’d kicked all his roommates out.

 He’s practically vibrating with excitement when the door swings open to reveal Eliza a few minutes later, sweeping her up into his arms for an apologetically firm kiss as a greeting.

 “Well, hello,” she says breathlessly, arms still wrapped around his neck after they pull away, faces still close.

 “Good show?” he manages to ask, still holding her feet a few inches off the ground so that their faces are level and bodies are still pressed tightly together. They’re practically the same height, so all of this is unnecessary–except for the touching, obviously.

 “I tripped running away from Nino, so my knee kills right now, but yes, mostly,” she grins, letting him walk her backwards toward the couch now that he’s let her feet back to the ground. With one last affectionate stroke of his cheek, she lets herself sink down into the cushions while he pads off to the kitchen.

 “As long as you did get away,” Alex smirks with a twinge of mostly-in-jest jealousy. Acting is acting, sure, but the guy who plays Nino has a pretty okay face, great voice, and is basically paid to kiss Alex’s girlfriend every night–for that, he can only manage like 79% chill with the guy.

 With two wine glasses and now an ice pack in hand, Alex returns to her and they arrange themselves carefully so that he’s sitting with his arm along the back of the couch with her tucked under and facing him. He steals one more kiss and that’s it, all his chill is gone, and he grins excitedly.

 “So listen, I have some news.”

 She looks mildly surprised from the rim of her glass. “Is this why I didn’t hear from you for four hours? People were taking bets on what happened to you. My money was on you falling into a manhole.”

 He’d always thought she liked that he was incapable of anything less than a paragraph text, but that was a conversation for another time.

 “Chris Pike’s people called me.”

The same Christopher Pike that was the Democratic candidate running for New York’s governorship, who Alex had been writing for sparingly at first, but more regularly as of late. Normally, his assignments had a little more parity, but apparently the Pike campaign had taken a liking to how Alex spun his word webs.

 “You know how they’ve been using my speeches?” Eliza nods, sitting up a little straighter. “They want me to come on staff officially, join them on the campaign–they’re offering deputy speechwriter. Their primary guy apparently shat the bed and they need someone quick to go on the road and start putting together talking points so they don’t lose momentum. I leave for Albany on Friday.”

Eliza’s face hasn’t changed really as he lays his bombshell on her, but she’s probably just processing how huge of a break this is for him. Chris Pike is a well-respected Democrat within the party and the state–he’d served in Congress and the man had a ton of connections. Being asked to join a gubernatorial campaign as an official speechwriter was an even bigger break than Alex had been waiting for, and it was his first real chance to make his mark on something important. Being able to share it with Eliza was so great–as someone who looked well on her way to a possible Tony nomination (he’d been reading theater blogs, yes), she would appreciate that his career was taking off to match hers.

 It’s weird that her face doesn’t reflect that joy he’s sure she feels.

 “The election’s in November,” she says a little flatly, wheels in her head still turning. “It’s not even August.”

 Alex’s lips purse and he half shrugs in a non-verbal ‘I don’t get it, please continue so that I may better understand why you’re not congratulating me’ way. And she obliges.

 “No, I mean, it’s great, obviously, but,” Eliza rubs her forehead, which is still creased in thought. “I know it’s a good job, but that’s four months that, what? You’ll be gone….?”

 Alex nods, still not grasping her muted reaction. “Yeah, he wants me to go with him to the DNC first”–” which Alex plans to network the SHIT out of–“before we restart local campaign efforts.” He scoots closer, scooping her hands into his as he tries to further explain. “Babe, I’m not writing random shit anymore. No more fundraiser keynotes, no more dumbass corporate press releases. You know Pike! His politics are great–the man wants to affect real change, and I will be there. Helping him communicate, helping him build.”

 She finally smiles, but it’s lopsided and still not fully bright as she squeezes his hands. “Of course I’m happy for you, and you’re right–Pike is a great candidate to serve, just like you wanted. I just–” one shoulder comes up in a half-shrug. “I thought you’d talk to me before just taking it. Two days isn’t–”

 “Of course I’d take the job,” Alex cuts her off, confused. “Why wouldn’t I take this ridiculously amazing opportunity?”

 Eliza blinks. “I didn’t say you wouldn’t, I said–”

 “Why aren’t you happy about this? I thought you’d be happy about this.”

 Again, he interrupts, and this time she withdraws  her hands from him. The bite in his tone wasn’t a mistake the first time, it seems.

“All I said was that I thought we might’ve talked about something like this, since it’s kind of a big deal–”

“It’s a huge deal, Eliza!” Alex stands and starts pacing, but he’s only half-aware–his brain is already off and racing, zooming back towards those pits of insecurity, of worthlessness. “I graduated top of my class after working my ASS off, I deserve this. Pike takes me to the Democratic convention, I could get on with a senator, or another congressman. If I do well, maybe Pike keeps me on. This is it, ‘Liza, my life can finally start now.”

He doesn’t have to be nothing any longer, not with a platform this big.

“Your life can finally start now,” Eliza parrots, albeit slower, like she’s not quite sure but he really did say that. Her careful tone is abandoned, and she looks up at him, her lips forming a thin line. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were so unhappy. So stuck.”

 Oh.

“‘Liza, that’s not–I meant, my career. Obviously. There’s so much we need to do as a party, as a country, and now I’m getting my foot in the door. How do you not understand that this is a good thing?”

“No, I get it.” She’s firing back more quickly now, and if Alex could see beyond his blinders, he might heed the warning. “I just thought that you already had a good thing, but apparently it’s fuck that, you’re ready to abandon it without even considering speaking to me.”

Now Alex is confused, and Eliza’s angrier than he’s ever known.

“Did it ever occur to you that good for you might not be the exact same thing as good for us?” She waits a beat, and Alex can only gape, speechless for the first time, maybe ever. His girlfriend isn’t done making her point. 

“Of course I want you to have all the things you’ve worked so hard for–Alex, you’re brilliant, and locking you up in a room pumping out one-offs for every corporate stooge that’s too lazy to even try is a ridiculous waste. You deserve a chance, and I know you’re going to spin gold for this guy. I am so proud of you.” 

The corner of her mouth almost quirks up in a smile at that before she remembers and pushes out a huff of a breath. “But now, what? You’ll gone for months, no discussion at all? Do you understand how selfish that is?”

Her tone has mellowed into something a little pleading, a little wheedling, but they haven’t been dating long enough for her know how to back him down entirely.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me to turn down the best opportunity I’ve ever had,” Alex says stonily, and she blanches.

“This isn’t–oh my god. I never said that. This is about your attitude, and how I feel about the fact that the last two months don’t even warrant two seconds of your brain power in light of this. That you wouldn’t even stop to think about how we would work this out now that you’ll be moving all over New York and I’ll be here. It. Didn’t Even. Register.”

 Finally, she softens, if only a bit.

 “I just wish you would’ve talked to me first. That’s all.”

 In the back of his mind, Alex knows there’s something else he could say. He can see the light at the end of that tunnel, the path he should take because in a universe where maybe he hadn’t had to fight for every goddamn thing he could grasp, hadn’t had to shout constantly to even be heard, hadn’t had to be happy with scraps until NOW–maybe then, in that universe, he would say the right thing.

 But it’s not that universe.

 “Don’t act like I don’t fucking care. You know I do. The only difference between then and now is, now, your boyfriend isn’t going to be some grunt pushing paper in a back room anymore. I can actually make something of myself, someone you can be proud of–this is my shot.”

Something glimmers behind Eliza’s eyes, an emotion he can’t quite place. Somewhere between resignation and outright sadness, he guesses.

“I know. So why didn’t you just wait to talk to me about this? What are we going to do?”

[mind-the-space]

Am I too old to try Location Independence / the Digital Nomad lifestyle?

Breaking with convention.

Why is it that both of these terms still feel a bit dirty to me? Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s still not widely recognized, that freelancing over the internet is actually a viable way of making a living. Not everyone goes into affiliate ad sales or drop shipping (there is nothing wrong with either of these, by the way. It’s just not for everyone), or ponzy schemes or alternatively, living like hoboes on the verge of starvation. The other reason, perhaps, is that for most people it seems undesirable, and for still others absolutely horrifying, to be without the stability of a 9-5 job, villa and meticulously trimmed hedge. But here’s the thing. I can’t seem to put it away again. It’s like I’ve tasted forbidden fruit, and now I have to have it.

It fills a lot of my time, trying to figure out a way to make this work for the future.

First of all, I feel like I have no transferable skills. And that’s just ridiculous. But, honestly, making a real plan for taking the leap into solopreneurship is one thing, adding to that the intention of making a business for myself that allows me to travel, and be independent of location, can at times seem totally unrealistic.

When I posted the intro to this page (which has now been edited, but you can find the post here) I received quite a bit of feedback. Interesting feedback, but not unexpected. I published this post, knowing that it was extremely personal, and because of this I was prepared for reactions. I have been lucky, because no one has attacked me in a confrontational manner or spread “online hatred” in any way. But, I found it extremely illuminating to read the comments none the less.

For the most part, I was met with the opinion that it was somehow a little sad, and I think they felt a bit sorry for me. As if I am searching for something, a missing piece if you like – an inability to settle down and be content with what and where I am. But here’s a shocker: I am searching! I am missing a piece, and I am not content where I am, if I were to stay there forever.

Now, I realize that this lends itself to a whole can of worms regarding my future happiness and ability to settle down, and general mental health -  but that is exactly the topic I wanted to discuss here today.

Antiquated Views.

Is it antiquated to think that being a roaming human, looking to see and experience as much of the world as possible, guarantees unhappiness and an unfulfilled future? I think so!

I have tried for years now, to quell the urge to just pull up stakes and travel. It’s where I feel most alive, most like a version of myself that I truly recognize – and more importantly,  a version of myself that I really like! I did go to New York for three months quite spontaneously, and then moved to Spain from Denmark for 2,5 years. I’ve been back in Copenhagen for 3 months now – and I am absolutely chomping at the bit to get out!!

But am I fooling myself? Am I so busy with new impressions when I travel, that it drowns out the otherwise constant chatter that runs as a narrative inside my head? Perhaps. But why is that bad? I feel so calm, so at ease, so creative yet focused when I travel. Most of all, when I am in nature.

Curiosity: Every. Single. Day.

Walking the Camino de Santiago on a 62-day solo hike last autumn, is perhaps the most self-indulgent and absolutely bewitching experience of my life. In actual fact, the more time that passes since having returned (5 months and counting, as I write this), it becomes increasingly clear to me, that I was extremely happy, energetic and best of all: curious. Every. Single. Day.

How often can you say that at home, in a stifling monotonous daily routine? Don’t get me wrong – I completely reserve the right to change my mind in the future!! Perhaps, if I do manage to find a viable or several good sources of income while being location independent, and I live that lifestyle for a while, then I still eventually choose to settle in one place. I actually can imagine that happening. Particularly because the level of unrest and wanderlust that I feel, to a large extent I believe, is a direct consequence of my upbringing. Funnily enough though, my brother feels quite the opposite I believe, and relishes having a stable base. So maybe it’s just how I am. And that is okay too.

Wanting to be independent of any given location does not make me a freak, it doesn’t make me flighty or unreliable, and it doesn’t make me incapable of forming deep and meaningful relationships.  On the contrary, I am much more present and empathetic when I am thriving too.

One of the main reasons that I want to be location independent, is so that I can spend more time (quality time) with my family. We are spread far and wide on the planet, and I imagine being able to earn a real income, while travelling to see them would be the ultimate luxury.

Having a home base.

If at all possible, I intend to keep my apartment as a home base – although again, I reserve the right to change my mind. What if that just doesn’t make any sense? What if I want to use the money from monthly expenses saved, on converting a van? (Which is pretty high up there on my wish-list!!). What if I meet the man I am supposed to settle down with, while on the road, and we decide to travel intensely before finding our spot, or what if we want to keep travelling? What if, on my travels I discover that being a digital nomad really was just a dream, and now I want to come “home”?

I reserve the right to be me. I think I am, by now old enough to speak from personal experience. And up until now, the easiest and most fulfilling decisions I have ever made were New York, Spain, the Camino etc. Actually, deciding, planning and walking the 1350km through Spain wasn’t scary, difficult or tiring at all. I didn’t lose interest, the dream didn’t fade and I didn’t regret going. Not once. So, if actually completing this (a physical challenge, that when I think about it, still kind of surprises me) was so easy, then it must have been fueled by something different. Something special. Something magical.

I want magic in my life.

Today, more than ever before, due to the internet being a completely integrated part of nearly every single field of employment, it is much more viable to roam. Many employers are also getting onboard with the idea of employees working remotely (some have been into this for years), but now it’s gaining popularity in the main stream as well.

Why shouldn’t I be on this wave? Because I’m too scared to fail? Too conventional? Too old?

Rubbish. I am 33 years old, and yes I do want children, and I do want to get married, but I also know that I haven’t found peace in the conventional work setting yet, so why not go for it?

“Location Independence” and “Digital Nomad” are terms that seem strange and novel to almost every single person in my network. Once again, I feel that I am in some way on the fringe.  To most of my friends and family, that have seen me bounce around the last couple of years, with an ever-ready stream of new ideas, projects and plans, I must seem like a pitiful mess. But like many within the online community of travelers, entrepreneurs and digital nomads – I am quite normal. Some nomads of course, knew exactly how they were going to make a living on the road. Most apparently effectively transferring their previous corporate or industry jobs, to freelance positions. But for others, like me, they are still going by the age-old adage of trial and error.

I’m in the R&D phase of my life.

How am I supposed to know what my passion is, if I don’t try all of it?

I hate that term. Passion. But I understand why it has gained such popularity. Who wouldn’t want to be passionate about what they do every day? And that is exactly why my desire to “help” others is once again floating to the surface of my priorities in finding a profession. But I am not going back to working as a medical doctor. (If you think I’m being ridiculous, read this). Surely, I must be able to find a profession whereby can I help others and spread some good energy in our world, without being tied to my academic training. I’m still working on it….. Coaching, volunteering, motivational speaking. Or maybe, I should just let myself off the hook, and forget the conventional definition of “helping”, and spread positive energy, by actually being creative and doing something that is purely for me? As I write this, I am striving for a bit of everything. Only time will tell how that pans out. I am in the R&D phase of my life.

All I can say is, so far, the thing that has me feeling most passionate is the general concept of being location independent. (Shout out to Simon Sinek for making me ask myself “why?”). Why am I doing what I am doing, and perhaps more importantly, what is the one thing that consistently gives me the ability to refocus, when I get sidetracked or overwhelmed? At the moment; that is my intense desire to be productive, self-reliant and happy, while being able to spend more time with my family. A top priority, that anyone that has ever met me, knows is the epitome of me. Making a living doing something that brings me joy, money and flow (thanks to the brilliant Chris Guillebeau. Check him out, if you don’t know who that is), are the most important goals in my life right now. I am confident that I, like many before me, will figure this out. But if it could be soon, please, that would be great, because my feet are getting itchy…….

[genericpseudonyms]

teach me how to live

Chris comes to me in a dream. She looks exactly as I remember her from 2005, before she got sick.

“Buck up kiddo,” she says. There’s a mysterious quirk of her lips, not quite a smile. And she does it again. She takes her thumb and forefinger and plucks the shoulder of my shirt sleeve. She used to do this to me any time I was being an overdramatic teenager, which was often. “You’ll be fine.”

It’s been about three years since she died and longer still since she was a big part of my life. This is the first time I’ve dreamed of her since the funeral.

-

K-Town is always so crowded on Friday nights these days. It’s strange to think it’s so popular now—you actually see people of all colors walking 32nd at all hours of the day. It’s a relief. They’ve stopped assuming I’m one of them.

I used to hate coming to K-Town for food. Mainly because it felt like the servers always knew I was Korean. They’d come, ignore all my friends, and speak to me. I understood every word they said, but could only answer in English. I wasn’t brave enough to try piecing together the phrases I knew in public.

The look of surprise on their faces always hurt.

I push these thoughts away as I walk into the BCD Tofu House. I picked this place because soondooboo jigae has always been my favorite. I can’t go too long without it before it becomes a craving. Lord knows, I’ve never been able to cook it for myself.

John is already standing there with my roommate. They spot me and I wave. Maybe it’s weird to still get dinner with your high school guidance counselor more than ten years after you graduated. I don’t particularly care.

We used to cram into his tiny office, a whole crowd of us. Didn’t matter if we had class, didn’t matter that he wasn’t our assigned counselor. We’d pop in at odd hours of the day when we should’ve been in class.

“Oh god,” he’d say. “I know this isn’t your free period.”

“Nope,” we’d reply, as we shrugged off our bags and piled into his chairs. He’d sigh but he never kicked us out.

Now that our party is complete, the servers sit us down at the very back. It’s a Friday, so after a week of trying really hard to be optimistic, I am as usual, worn down. That’s how my weekends usually go these days. Cry a little on Friday night, mope on Saturday, rally with friends on Sunday.

“You look tired,” he says.

“I’m depressed John,” I quip, and I flash him a toothy grin.

“Oh,” he says, nonplussed. “That’s not what I said though.”

“Okay, okay. The long answer is ‘I’m not tired John, I’m depressed.’”

“I warned him,” my roomie says. “I already told him that tonight was gonna be heavy.”

Good, I think. This is only the millionth time I’ve had to recount the trials of the past eight years, but it’s John. It’s easy to be honest when you’re talking to someone you know won’t judge.

“I dreamed about Chris recently. She did the thing,” I mimic the motion of plucking my shoulder.

He smiles.

-

When Chris was dying, Mama kicked me out of the house. Or, more accurately, she could not stand my grief and I had to leave.

It’s hard to speak of my teenage years with Mama. She gets cagey. She forgets. But that time, she exploded. She accused me of being so caring for a woman who wasn’t family. I was making multiple hours-long treks from the outskirts of Queens, deep into Brooklyn. All to visit a dying woman I hadn’t seen in ten years.

There’s no way, Mama said, that I would do the same for her. She knew already that I would not take care of her grave. That it’d fall to my cousin, the good one. I was rotten, she said. I was a curse of a daughter. Ungrateful and spiteful and with a heart incapable of love.

I forget exactly what she said that made me pack up my bags and leave. I know I was upset though—I only told her about my grief because I needed  help processing the impending death of someone who meant the world to me. Someone who helped me through the darkest moments of my adolescence.

I told her, I showed her my heart, and she reached in with her hands and smashed it.

I spent the next week on my friend’s couch. I went to the memorial service and saw all the teachers I loved. It’s weird seeing them as an adult—you relate differently. They’re people, with their own grief and problems. Chris had helped us all through them.

I kept it together mostly until I saw the scrapbook we’d made for her when she retired my junior year. It was a little yellowed, but she’d kept it. All those years,  she’d kept it. I read the message I’d written her and the pictures I’d drawn.

But the only thing I could think was: She’d kept it.

We took turns sharing our memories of Chris at the memorial service. Her children spoke first, then John. He cried and called her the great love of his life. And to my surprise, I also spoke. How could I not? I don’t remember what I said, just that I started sobbing halfway through because I never got to thank her properly. 

She gave a lonely kid a place to feel safe. She was the first one to encourage my writing. She talked me down off ledges. For three years, she listened to me and made sure the things I said were heard.

She saved my life.

-

After dinner, we go to the Pret-A-Manger between 6th and 7th ave. I have dropped many truth bombs tonight. My rape, my childhood abuse, my heartache, my depression, my nervous breakdown.

Conversation starts light. Black Panther and Wakanda Forever. TV shows and why John should give Stranger Things a chance. He is a nerdy, crotchety old man and it is wonderful. A part of me wonders if having a kind father is something like this. Then I wonder if I will be looking for surrogate parents my whole life.

And then my mind spirals. I hate when it does that. I am with people I love. Why is that not enough? Why can’t I snap out of the funk? Why won’t my brain stop hamster wheeling the same negative, repetitive thoughts over and over and over again?

“You know,” John says. “It’s sort of like being in mourning. You’re grieving what you’ve lost. Right now, you’re going back and forth between anger and denial. A little bit of bargaining. The goal is to get to acceptance.”

“I don’t know how to be angry,” I say. “Or, I don’t know how to stay angry at people. My therapist says I don’t let myself externalize it.”

“But you are angry,” he replies. “That’s the simplest definition of depression. Anger, turned inwards.”

I don’t know what to say, because it’s true. I have a hard time staying angry at other people. I’m quick to empathize and forgive. Because I know how hard it is to wake up everyday, try and make sense of life, and then be a good person on top of that. But against myself? I will always, always blame myself first. I will never forgive myself for mistakes. I will never forgive myself for not being better, for not being perfect. For not trying harder. For being unable to fix things. For not helping more people. For asking too much from others. For being such a burden.

For not being the type of person that people want to be around.

For not being the kind of daughter my parents would have loved.

“Why do you give them so much power over you?” John asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” I say. I’m being honest. “It’s easier to stand up for myself when they’re right in front of me. But I carry their ghosts with me. They haunt me constantly, and I’m so tired of it.”

“You’ve let them define your story. You’ve let them define you.”

“No I haven’t,” I say. “Not entirely. I’m a writer. That’s a long and sad story, but I fought for that. I fought really, really, really hard for that. I just think of having to fight that hard for everything and...it’s too much.”

“So why do you let them limit you now?”

It’s reflex. Every child wants their parents to love them. You learn to adapt to their needs, to make them happy and proud. I didn’t care if it was at the expense of myself, because I loved them more. They were unhappy and lived such hard lives. Was it really so hard for me to be the daughter they wanted?

“It’s only been a little over a month. It’s going to take time,” I say. “They taught me to view the world in absolutes. False binaries. Black and white. This or that. I know that’s not true. Life has shown me it’s not true. I know that everything is a spectrum. I know that up here,” I point to my head. “But I still don’t understand that here,” I point to my heart. “I don’t think I’ll ever get it.” 

“Well, all these things that have happened—it’s a lot for any one person. You’re trying to process everything at once. You’re just being pessimistic right now.”

I snort. “Have you met me John?”

“I have. And I think you’re an optimist at heart.”

“What? Really?”

“You’re sitting here right now. To go through what you have, to be here alive and trying—that requires some measure of strength. So yes, you are.”

I don’t feel strong. Most days, I feel weak and stupid. I tell John this and he sighs. When he asks what I want from my life, I tell him I just want to die a kind, open, and honest person. That if I manage to do that, I will have led a good, worthwhile life. 

“Do you not think you’re those things already?” “What? Kind, open and honest? No. I don’t.” 

“Well,” he says, “I completely disagree.” 

-

The last time I see Chris, death is knocking at her door. I’d heard the phrase skin and bones before, but I’d never actually seen it. She’d always been rail thin, but now there really is no flesh to her. Her skin is stretched tight over her frame, and when she curls up in the bed, it is like watching a skeleton come to life.

It is so hard to see someone you love in that much pain. She is bleeding in her jejunum, a part of the small intestines. It is killing her slowly.

“Chris,” John says, “Do you know who these people are?”

“I knew them as soon as they walked in the room. Come here and give me a kiss.”

We do. I kiss her temple, which is soft and leathery. I forget what we talked about after. She isn’t lucid for much longer. Her blue eyes start to glaze over and she starts muttering gibberish. I keep a smile on the whole time, even though all I want to do is cry.

It’s not always about you. Chris taught me that.

Birthdays were a sore spot for me in high school. We stopped celebrating mine after I was seven or eight. My parents said I was too old for it. But Sweet Sixteen. That was a thing I wanted because every other girl had one and I wanted to be normal. Sixteen is a magical year—it’s the year in The Sound of Music where a boy will dance will you in the rain in a gazebo. Everyone wants to feel special and I only ever felt invisible.

And what do I do when I’m hurt? I pretend like it doesn’t faze me. I still do, to an extent. Back then, I said things like “I don’t see the point in celebrating birthdays. You’re just going to die anyway. I hate them.”

In the week leading up to my birthday I was insufferable. Chris just gave me a look and plucked my shoulder. So I told her and she listened. Really listened. Then the bell rang, and I went to class.

And then on my birthday, there in her office, there was a surprise party. There was decorations and all my friends had skipped class. Someone had bought a cake. There were presents and card. I didn’t know what to do so I just cried. Chris was there, and I didn’t have to ask to know it’d been her idea. In her soft voice, she told me that sometimes, birthdays are not about you. It’s for people who love you. And all you have to do, is let them love you.

Then she read me a poem she wrote for me. I still remember it.

I think of it, and her, on my birthday every year.

-

On the train ride home, we talk of simpler things. My morbid love of Darren Arronofsky’s The Fountain. Why we should let Hugh Jackman sing all the show tunes he wants now that he’s no longer Wolverine. My roomie and I bicker about something or other, and how she’s leaving me soon. John rolls his eyes. We get off the G at Church Avenue in Brooklyn. It’s a bit of a walk for all of us, but the F train is a piece of shit. I don’t mind. I don’t really want to say goodbye yet anyway.

“What they did was child abuse,” John says, “If we’d known, we would have called the ACS.”

Relief washes over me. I didn’t know a fever dream in January would unlock so many memories, but I’ve been questioning them this whole time. Whether I was overreacting or not. If this just wasn’t part of the immigrant family experience. To hear him say it fills me with validation.

“She hid everything back then,” my roomie replies. “None of us knew.”  

“I miss Chris,” I say.

“You can visit her,” John replies. “She’s right by here in Greenwood Cemetery.”

“We will,” my roomie says. “And let’s get together again soon.”

John nods. “When the weather gets warmer, you’re welcome to my house. We can do a barbecue.”

Before we part ways, he plucks my shoulder.

I smile.

[maxhain563841-blog]

Just how Great The Papa's Passion

The chart below series, baseding on the American Organization from Individual Investors (AAII), entrepreneurs currently have the highest allotment to supplies, and most affordable to money, because the blister in 2000. I think her point is actually that if the Papa exists, getting involved and certainly not harrasing, why carry out some females provide heck. Then there is actually a vast assortment from presents to select off, if your father is a garden enthusiast. Numerous Brides select a song which symbolizes just how they experience concerning their Dad or exactly how their Dad thinks to their Child. Her papa might instinctively have actually loosened his grip, yet that he thought her durability leaving from her, and found an untamed dilating fire in the eyes steadfastly regarding him. I recognize in his peaceful seconds he considers himself a failure as a daddy due to Sara battling with him," she claimed. These free-of-charge papa and also boy clipart sites included in this particular write-up may be from personal make use of, as well as a few of the cartoonists might also allow you to place their focus on your web site. After numerous telephone calls, Mr. P. asked his father if he would like to satisfy in person. There is actually a time that he cannot have it any longer then he phone's the spirit from his papa despite where he experiences, through voicing aloud to his dad to become current even through simply a min, prior to he transforms insane. That is actually the worst thing a daddy may do. Instead pick up from the errors from your Others as well as parents and also see to it that you carry out not duplicate all of them also. The 5th guru of Sikhs, shri authority Arjan devji when talks when I discovered the treasure house of my ancestors (papa and splendid daddies); in comparison to my thoughts was actually happy and also enthusiastic". When their dad dedicates suicide while their mother is actually undertaking procedure for cancer, siblings Barbara, Karen, as well as Ivy return home to help with plans as well as care for their mom. Readers do not appear to look after Ignace's Daddy of gymyourlifeblog.de League is a different colour compared to Hamilton Gray in real world. Not simply was Mary outlawed coming from viewing her mother, she was not allowed to find her daddy either. I was actually Chris Gardner, papa of a son that was entitled to better than exactly what my dad could possibly provide for me, boy of Betty Jean Gardner that mentioned that if I desired to gain I might gain. To begin our look at vacation decorations motivated through Scotland: a high quality tartan Daddy X-mas porcelain figurine for a Scot's cheery table. According to Thiruvalluvar, this is actually the role of a dad to create his kid beam in a culture. Nobody searches positively upon a dad which is actually resistant or incapable to offer his children. At 16 she obtained a task as a carolers lady in Blackbirds from 1928, a large performance that took place to excellent results. Also when the son is expected to hold his father in wonderful respect, the emotion performs not nonetheless carry all of them an in deeper.

[butch-lesbian-marshadow]

Answer all of those questions u hottie

1. Who was the last person you held hands with?-Nobody cuz im lonely2. Are you outgoing or shy?-uhhhhhh probably the first one usually3. Who are you looking forward to seeing? Literally anyone my age and gay4. Are you easy to get along with? I honestly have no idea, don’t really get feedback on that dept.5. If you were drunk would the person you like take care of you? Probably, Id trust them, but I don’t really need to be taken care of that much when Im drunk6. What kind of people are you attracted to? I dunno, I guess anyone who shows interest I suppose, although it tends to be expressed in weird ways,7. Do you think you’ll be in a relationship two months from now? No clue, I’d guess no if only because not really the best with those  things.8. Who from the opposite gender is on your mind? An ex of mine,9. Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable? Nope10. Who was the last person you had a deep conversation with? She’s the bitch that made me do all of these11. What does the most recent text that you sent say? ok12. What are your 5 favorite songs right now? that changes so rapidly, question meme, im not even sure13. Do you like it when people play with your hair? If I know them and want them to, yes, but 90% of the time, Fuck off my hair14. Do you believe in luck and miracles? Yes15. What good thing happened this summer? I got tiddies16. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again? never have ):17. Do you think there is life on other planets? Probably, yes.18. Do you still talk to your first crush? I literally have not seen my first crush in like, 17 years.19. Do you like bubble baths?  No idea, ever had one20. Do you like your neighbors? haven’t met officially, but they seem nice21. What are you bad habits? Forgetting, procrastination,  dismissal, hesitation, isolation, and a few other bad ones22. Where would you like to travel? uhhhhh somewhere hot, ideally.23. Do you have trust issues? nopes24. Favorite part of your daily routine? daily what? if I had one, it would be enjoying hot summer days, maybe writing something25. What part of your body are you most uncomfortable with? irritated skin26. What do you do when you wake up? figure out what day it is/debate on what i wanna do27. Do you wish your skin was lighter or darker? nope!28. Who are you most comfortable around?  mom i guess? a few other peeps.29. Have any of your ex’s told you they regret breaking up? one or two, maybe,30. Do you ever want to get married? That might be a nice thing someday,31. If your hair long enough for a pony tail? Gettin there!32. Which celebrities would you have a threesome with? uhhhh a lot, my dear question meme.33. Spell your name with your chin.  zxshgkl;’34. Do you play sports? What sports? No35. Would you rather live without TV or music? I’m dead either way, the answer doesn’t really matter, does it?36. Have you ever liked someone and never told them?  as in never told them ever, or  never told them until it was too late, because I've done both.37. What do you say during awkward silences? Nothing, although i don’t really find it awkward unless the other person is like, visibly disturbed.38. Describe your dream girl/guy? Nice personality, nicer ass.39. What are your favorite stores to shop in? Good ones40. What do you want to do after high school? i am after high school41. Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance? Mhm.42. If your being extremely quiet what does it mean? I forgot what i was doing, im angry, im happy, im sad, im bored, im interested, im sleepy, im awake, im hungry, im thirsty,  im focused, im distracted, literally anything.43. Do you smile at strangers? sometimes44. Trip to outer space or bottom of the ocean? space45. What makes you get out of bed in the morning? Waking up46. What are you paranoid about? being incapable of love, 47. Have you ever been high? nope!48. Have you ever been drunk? hell yeah49. Have you done anything recently that you hope nobody finds out about? not that i can recall, no50. What was the colour of the last hoodie you wore? i have no fucking idea i can’t remember colors for shit, my dear question meme.

51. Ever wished you were someone else? Not really, no.52. One thing you wish you could change about yourself? the amount of money in my bank account53. Favourite makeup brand? i dont know enough to know54. Favourite store? one that sells store55. Favourite blog? Mine,  im amazing.56. Favourite colour? look im colorblind stop asking these57. Favourite food?  uhhhhhhhhhh fuck i dont know shit.58. Last thing you ate? Pizza.59. First thing you ate this morning? Pizza60. Ever won a competition? For what? uhhh  a science one in 5th grade, and a concerto competition in like, senior year of HS61. Been suspended/expelled? For what? nope!62. Been arrested? For what? Nope!63. Ever been in love?  I used to answer yes but now I have no idea if i can love64. Tell us the story of your first kiss? im lonely u buttmunch65. Are you hungry right now? uhhhh now that you mention it66. Do you like your tumblr friends more than your real friends? half these freaks are my real friends67. Facebook or Twitter? I hate both of them,68. Twitter or Tumblr? I hate both of them69. Are you watching tv right now? nope!70. Names of your bestfriends?  im not actually 100% sure? like  its kinda nebulous weirdish, since I have a weird concept of “friend”71. Craving something? What? i dunno, burritos probably.72. What colour are your towels? Rot in hell you slime cuck72. How many pillows do you sleep with? 0 to 473. Do you sleep with stuffed animals? not at the moment, no74. How many stuffed animals do you think you have? do pokemon plush count?75. Favourite animal? Gecko76. What colour is your underwear? I will murder your ancestors and eat your descendants.77. Chocolate or Vanilla? Chocolate78. Favourite ice cream flavour? chocolate79. What colour shirt are you wearing? I will flay the skin from your face and peel your eyes. Also shirtless atm.80. What colour pants? I will plunge britain back into the boiling seas and  devour any mortal with color vision. 81. Favourite tv show? uhhhhh fuck i don’t know82. Favourite movie? i like movies, yes.83. Mean Girls or Mean Girls 2? THERES A MEAN GIRLS 2??!?!?!??!?!?!?84. Mean Girls or 21 Jump Street? MEAN GIRLS85. Favourite character from Mean Girls? Regina is such a wonderful person, really.86. Favourite character from Finding Nemo? Dory87. First person you talked to today? the bich that made me write this88. Last person you talked to today? @mayxwolf​89. Name a person you hate? The bich that made me write this90. Name a person you love? The bich that made me write this91. Is there anyone you want to punch in the face right now? The bich that made me write this92. In a fight with someone?nopes93. How many sweatpants do you have? are you trying to ask how much of a slob i am? because i am absolutely a huge slob94. How many sweaters/hoodies do you have? See above.95. Last movie you watched? MOANA96. Favourite actress? no idea97. Favourite actor? Chris Evans.98. Do you tan a lot? Lmao99. Have any pets? I want a pet ):100. How are you feeling? Kinda hungry? a tad bit chilly, and uhhhhhhhh  i dunno101. Do you type fast? I either forget to type, or its uncontrollably fast,102. Do you regret anything from your past? until like,  the past  month or two ago, no, not really, but then shit hits the fan and you forget to duck. 103. Can you spell well? Yse and no. its a tos up really.104. Do you miss anyone from your past? two people  recently, and occasionally an old thought to  old friends and people i knew, that i dont really see or talk to anymore, 105. Ever been to a bonfire party? mhm106. Ever broken someone’s heart? I think, I have, probably, and im not sure what to make of it,107. Have you ever been on a horse? Fuck those big shit factories.108. What should you be doing?probably in grad school,109. Is something irritating you right now? not right now no110. Have you ever liked someone so much it hurt? Why yes, question meme, my first ex actually, and second, somewhat to an extent, actually that’s a somewhat recurring theme?111. Do you have trust issues? Didn’t you already ask this..... (yes you did it’s question 23)112. Who was the last person you cried in front of?  Never have, not that i could remember, except maybe as a child???113. What was your childhood nickname? Pooh bear114. Have you ever been out of your province/state? Yes115. Do you play the Wii? Yes116. Are you listening to music right now? Yes117. Do you like chicken noodle soup?Yes118. Do you like Chinese food?Yes119. Favourite book?Yes120. Are you afraid of the dark? No121. Are you mean? Yes122. Is cheating ever okay? Never but i seem to be chill with it if it happens to me123. Can you keep white shoes clean? yes and no124. Do you believe in love at first sight? Yes because the very first time I saw Fareeha Amari I immediately realized what a humongous gay I was.125. Do you believe in true love? Yes.126. Are you currently bored? Always and forever127. What makes you happy? Things I’d rather not talk about128. Would you change your name? Already have,129. What your zodiac sign? Aries, Dog, 130. Do you like subway? Yes131. Your bestfriend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?  If you’re asking if I’d fuck him, probably.132. Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? you asked this one already, too, you uncreative piece of shit.133. Favourite lyrics right now? lyrics are boring and overrated, and meaningless. Also the ones from Reflections. Mulan is my shit.134. Can you count to one million? I don’t think i have the patience or  physical ability to do so without collapsing.135. Dumbest lie you ever told? None of my lies are dumb unless i make them intentionally dumb.136. Do you sleep with your doors open or closed? closed137. How tall are you? floating around 6′2″138. Curly or Straight hair? both, surprisingly, 139. Brunette or Blonde? neither140. Summer or Winter? Winter is the season of death, despair and bullshit, old man winter can suck it141. Night or Day? Day,142. Favourite month? any month thats hot as fuck, also My birthday month is good too, 143. Are you a vegetarian? nope144. Dark, milk or white chocolate? Milk145. Tea or Coffee? both make me sleepy, both are pretty good though.146. Was today a good day? havent been awae long enough to know147. Mars or Snickers? Venus, and both.148. What’s your favourite quote? “and in all my great vast knowledge and wisdom, of all the Grand stars, of all the galaxies and nebulae and  cosmos, Of all the heavenly bodies,  to say that hers was the most heavenly would be blasphemous, for her body was beyond compare with divinity.”149. Do you believe in ghosts? Yes and No150. Get the closest book next to you, open it to page 42, what’s the first line on that page? “Splendid, Young man!”@bvcharest u bich