#I will be happy if I can have freedom and peace of mind and thunderstorms

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I think I’ve been horribly burned out for the past year ahaha

[naomihatake]

In search of freedom (Ch. 5)

5. I've found heaven in hell

⠀⠀➺ fic masterlist

⠀⠀➺ Chapter 4 ; Chapter 5 ; Chapter 6

⠀⠀⠀⠀She's been searching for freedom her entire life and everytime she thought it was laying right in front of her eyes, she was mistaken. She was running around the East Blue, seeking herself and her dreams, meeting people she never forgot. No matter how much she traveled, she could only catch a glimpse of peace before realizing everything would crumble at her feet.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe it was destiny that brought her on that ship with three strangers — foolishly, that's what she tried to believe when the moon shined beautifully and hope settled in her chest, squeezed by the same ribcage where feelings were blooming.

Pairing: female!reader x OPLA Zoro Roronoa

Warnings for this chapter: alcohol, angst, arguing, tension, tarot readings

Word count: 7,9 k

Theme song: fic spotify playlist (click on the link)

A/N: I genuinely hope this chapter is as good as I wanted it to be, but I'm not so sure about it. I tried my best, but I'm certainly proud of the last scene of this chapter. Yes, we finally got to Baratie and Zoro's fight with Mihawk. I'd be very happy to hear your opinions, so let me know what you think <33 Not proofread yet.

The reader is referred to as "Witch" because I have no intentions of using "Y/N".

One card fell from her tarot deck from the moment when she started shuffling it: Death.

Nope, she immediately thought to herself. 

The witch let out a theatrical sigh and let the cards back in their place, half of her mind completely ignoring the meaning. 

No way I'm occupying my mind with such trouble now of all times. I couldn't even sleep last night. 

She could think about that later, after she gets a few hours of peace. They were lucky enough to escape from the Marines just a while ago. The answer she received after she came back to her room at the first hours in the morning — when she had just finished her night shift — was ambiguous enough. All she wanted was to breathe some fresh air. 

The witch got up from the bed and was ready to leave the girls' room while pulling a large shirt over the tight tank top hugging her curves, leaving it unbuttoned. The hot weather made her choose some shorts in favor of the usually large pants she preferred. The low heels of her boots created a strong sound with each step on the Going Merry's floor. 

"I still can't believe Luffy was the one to get us at this floating restaurant in the middle of the sea using his nose only," she chuckled at the navigator. 

Nami was glancing one last time into a small rounded mirror she held between her fingers before closing it and shoving it into a bag. 

"Add food to the equation and he could take over my role."

"Well, well, that's quite exaggerated. He might have an affinity for sniffling foods, but you can feel a thunderstorm. That's a big difference," the witch winked. 

"You're flattering me," Nami grinned. 

The witch opened the door of their room and they were instantly greeted with the rays of the sun. She squinted her eyes and walked on the deck with two knives and a gun sitting at her hips. Luffy was already on the dock of the restaurant created in the form of fish with an open mouth. Baratie was written in red neon lights on top of the suspended balcony of the restaurant. 

"Do you think there are marines here?" Usopp asked as he leaned against the railing of The Going Merry. 

"There are skulls on the flags of other ships. If marines are here, they're probably not for business. I wouldn't start yelling about it in the middle of a place filled with pirates," the witch commented. 

Any other words died on top of her tongue when her eyes fell on the swordsman who just left the galley. Maybe the witch should've been more careful while staring so insistently, but gosh, wasn't he always a sight? The dark bluet-shirt clinging onto his chest for dear life, accentuating the muscle lines and — god fucking dammit — the jeans squeezing his legs made her gulp. The signature swords were secured against his left hip. 

She averted her eyes before she could get caught ogling at the crewmate she grew fond of. It was a pleasure to blame it on the doses of alcohol in her veins, but it wasn't the case that time. She was wide awake and sober, so the nature of her thoughts was worrisome, to say the least. 

She was still dealing with the possibility of feelings. A concerning topic for an inexperienced person in the domain of romance. 

Another trouble she didn't want to think of. Maybe Zoro isn't that wrong for drinking with every occasion he gets. 

What made it worse was the lack of attention he gave her, as if she was just a ghost. 

Maybe she was overthinking it. 

Truth be told, she wasn't exactly wrong. Zoro did intentionally look away so he could save himself from embarrassment. He turned away before he swallowed the lump in his throat, his fingers curling tighter around the hilt of his sword. He must've gotten insane to start avoiding people. 

"Let's go! I feel like I could die from hunger," Luffy jumped from the ship straight on the dock. 

The witch found the right thing to focus on: the restaurant looked amazing. Not only did it smell so divine her stomach learnt how to talk, but it was also splendid. For a second, the witch wondered if that was a place for pirates and not for some rich business people — they could certainly be found there. Dozens of tables and the constant chattering of people, waiters and waitresses walking around and rushing from one side to the other — it was so lively. 

The fishman greeting the people coming in smiled warmly at them, even if a little strained — a habit he got from his job. 

"You mean there's no free table for our captain, the soon to become King of the Pirates?" Usopp smiled proudly, pointing at Luffy. 

She found it hard not to laugh or chuckle at the interaction between Luffy and the poor fishman who said twice already that there will be an available table in three weeks. When the witch saw Nami shove her hand in her pockets, it was obvious what tactic she'd use. Obviously, it worked, even if Luffy and Usopp were cheering, walking down the stairs ahead of them. 

The witch looked around, wary of any possible threats or drunk people who would get mad about the smallest thing, like the way they looked. Everyone seemed so caught up in their own thing and it eased her mind, some anxiety leaving once her shoulders fell. 

However, there were certain gazes following her silhouette. It was probably because of each confident step she made, the elegance she carried, the force she proved to have with every sharp glance she threw around. Her fingers twitched to grab a hold of her dagger. She figured out there were no imminent threats yet. 

At the table, she found herself between Zoro and Nami. She was conscious the moment she intentionally sat a tad bit closer to the swordsman who comfortably spread his legs after he tried to fit his swords. Sometimes, when she'd shift in her seat, his knee would brush by hers and goosebumps would erupt on her skin. She allowed herself to enjoy the proximity, the way her gaze would linger on his figure when he talked, the low timbre of his voice soothing her soul. 

She had to get used to that idea. 

It ached. Her heart would thump painfully in between her ribs each time it felt like he was ignoring her. He didn't say much to her since morning and something inside of her was bleeding, despite the lack of crimson liquid tainting her clothes. 

The witch hated him for every cold glance thrown her away or, worse, each time he didn't even look at her when she spoke. To protect herself, her lips got sealed for a long while. 

Her attention was piqued by the fight between two marines who seemed unable to swallow up their pride, threatening each other with death, while a beautiful lady sat at the table, looking at them with fear visible on her expression. 

The roll of her eyes and the exasperated exhale she let out spoke for her as the witch rested her elbows on the table and held her face with a hand. 

"Do people always act like that over stupid things?" Usopp frowned. 

"They act worse," the witch scoffed, amused. "The average pirates aren't any better either, you know."

"Bold of you to say that when you're a pirate yourself," Nami shook her head. 

"I've never claimed I'm a lady, so," she shrugged. 

A waiter with blonde hair dressed in a clean black suit appeared by the men's table. There was a specific customer-friendly smile plastered on his face while he tried to calm the waters. 

One of the two men pulled his pistol out just to have his arm being hit by the waiter's feet. In a few seconds only, the other man received the same treatment, getting a strong blow right in the stomach. The blonde waiter rolled on his feet and right after his feet collided with the man's face, he prompted his hands on the table to pin the other pink-haired marine to the floor with a kick in the crown of his head. 

"Good fighter," Luffy pointed out with excitement bouncing in his tone. 

As if nothing ever happened, the man's fingers grabbed at the plate he abandoned on the table and smiled again. 

"No cause for alarm, folks. Please enjoy your meals." 

A normal occurrence, most probably. 

The waiter came to their table with a few long steps. From up close, his handsome features washed away the obvious forced smile plastered on his thin lips. 

"Hi, welcome to our shitty restaurant where the only thing worse than the ambiance is the food. My name is Sanji. What can I get for you?" 

His voice was tinted with harshness and he was definitely in a bad mood, visible despite the professionalism he tried to stick to. 

Luffy grabbed one of the small loaves of breasla on the plate the waiter just placed down in front of them. 

"One of everything, please," their captain spoke with his mouth stuffed. 

"What's wrong with the ambiance?" the witch asked, confused. "Not to flatter, but this place is splendid." 

Something in that man's head misunderstood it as you're splendid, apparently, since his eyes shone like crystals when they settled on the witch's figure. 

Maybe her mouth spoke before she had time to think it over. Bad decision. 

"It became splendid the moment you walked in, perhaps," he smiled effortlessly, his voice dropping an octave. 

Wait… what?

"Thank you?" she blinked owlishly. 

It sounded more like a question. Not the first compliment she received and she also had to admit that most of the men who flirted with her were absolutely gross. This one was decent, even polite — hell, someone could've taken courtesy lessons from him. 

The energy shifted. Or, better said, the man next to her shifted. Zoro just crossed his arms over his chest and fixed Sanji with a glare meant to send daggers through his face. The waiter didn't even bother to look at Zoro. 

"Is there anything I could bring for these two beautiful ladies?" his smile widened visibly once he spotted Nami right next to the witch. "Would you care for an apéritif to start? Or perhaps some drinks, like one of our signature cocktails? Maybe a glass of Umeshu? You know, something sweet for someone sweet."

His wink was flawless and it would've been perfect if not for Nami's retort. 

"Something wrong with your eye?"

Nami was frowning, taken aback by the comment and equally amused. 

"Very good question," the witch nodded. 

Nami tried her best to stifle a laugh when she realized she was backed up. Usopp was hardly holding back his laughter

"Forgive a man for being blinded by such beautiful ladies," he grinned as if he'd fallen in love not once, but twice in the same minute. "So?"

"Water, please," Nami answered. 

"Still, sparkling, mineral? With ice or without? Cubed or crushed?" 

"Regular water in a regular glass. Thanks." 

"A beer for me."

Zoro's voice was threatening and low, sharp gaze still focused on Sanji. 

"A beer for me. I usually have two, but…" Usopp didn't have enough time to continue as he's been interrupted by Luffy. 

"A glass of milk for milk for me!" the straw hat said with his mouth still stuffed with bread. 

Sanji's head turned towards the witch with a smile curling his lips. 

"One of the special cocktails you mentioned, please."

The witch didn't intentionally use that kind voice. It was a habit whenever she talked to strangers to soften her tone and smile out of courtesy and politeness. Probably, her kind gesture has been misunderstood as flirtatious. 

"Any preferences? We have plenty of options you can choose from." 

His smile already reached his ears and she could feel a specific swordsman straightening his back by her side. 

"Nothing too strong, if you may." 

"Of course." 

"Are you done yet?" 

Zoro made all of them turn their attention to him and while usually he wouldn't like it, at that time he couldn't give a single fuck about it. All he did was arch his eyebrow at the waiter and telling him to fuck off as politely as he could, with no cuss words falling from his mouth yet. If Sanji continued to gravitate around their table with that flirtatious smile on his lips, the swordsman might burst a vein on his forehead sooner rather than later. 

Sanji wasn't exactly satisfied to be rushed, but he turned on his heels and left. The witch was still looking at Zoro from the corner of her eye, trying her best to understand what just happened. 

He seemed fine minutes ago. Not too talkative, definitely, but not… so mad either. What has been with that scowl on his face ever since Sanji appeared? He couldn't be enough of a man child to be jealous of someone's flirting—

I'm getting delusional lately, the witch cut off her own thought process. 

"Mad about something, Zoro?" Nami smirked devilishly. 

"Everything's fine." 

Everything was, in fact, not fine. 

The witch was engulfed by her thoughts, fingers pressing and rolling the fork between her fingers after their food was served. She had to admit she was hungry and was trying her best to savor the pieces of meat tickling her taste buds, but it was almost impossible to ignore the shallow sensation in her stomach. 

"Was there anything wrong with your tarot?" 

Nami, who was by her side, turned her head and offered the witch her entire attention. Maybe she's been playing with her food for long enough to get their attention. 

"Not wrong, just something I would've rather not know," she said after swallowing. 

"What did you see?" 

She shook her head softly with a light chuckle leaving her lips. 

"I pulled the Death card." Quickly enough, she realized she shouldn't have started with that. 

"Who's dying?!" Usopp almost choked on his food. 

"It's metaphorical death," she clarified. "The ending of a cycle and a new beginning, whatever that might mean this time," with a shrug, she proved her own uncertainty. 

"Doesn't sound that bad," Zoro commented while he curled his fingers around his glass of beer. 

The young woman still remembered each element of the first tarot card she saw before they left The Going Merry. The skeleton dressed in silver armor on the white horse, holding a flag with the number 'XIII' and the people kneeling in front of it, their clothes painted in golden, blue and white. 

"It usually implies a hard step to take in order to advance. Change doesn't come unless you allow it and transformation is supposed to help you evolve, not regress. Each time, it doesn't come easily and it shakes up your reality first. Simply put, who the heck knows what might happen in the next few days," she clicked her tongue. "Anything is possible."

"What use do those readings have if you can't even find out what's really going on?" Nami arched her eyebrow. 

Fate spoke for itself. 

The witch's eyes fixed on hers, regret hanging around her heart. 

"They give enough clues, I just have to figure them out."

She felt bad for keeping to herself the other two cards she pulled: the ten of swords and the four of pentacles — betrayal reasoned by protecting yourself. The witch knew who this was about and she didn't mutter a word about it, finding it improper to do so. 

"And did you?" 

"Not entirely yet," she bit at her bottom lip. 

She knew her words were probably just passing by the ears of her friends. The witch was well aware they had no reason to believe in such things or listen to her. They could take her words into account or completely ignore them; it didn't really matter, as for her the reality remained the same. 

What mattered was that she knew only half of the upcoming events. The other side was hidden somewhere in shadows and life lessons the cards decided she had to learn on her own. 

"I won't need food for a year," Nami commented after she leaned back against the cushions, sighing. 

"We should do a toast. Come on, grab your glasses." 

The witch's fingers curled around her glass of cocktail with a soft smile. 

"To the best crew sailing on the sea and to our victory!" 

"No, I'm sorry," Nami furrowed her eyebrows. "What victory exactly?"

The witch didn't even get to bring the glass to her lips, Nami's question sinking deeply into her bones. 

"I don't know how many naval battles you guys have been part of…" 

"Two dozen, at least," Usopp interrupted her before taking one more sip from his beer. 

"Plenty," the witch placed her untouched glass back on the table. "It was a disaster, I'm well aware of it. We could've died before reaching a day of sailing with The Going Merry." 

"Then I suppose you agree we were unprepared and uncoordinated," Nami turned towards her. 

There's never been such tension lingering around the navigator since the witch got to know her. The orange haired woman was easy going and talkative, she was skilled and was so strong. Someone used to the harsh world they lived in and yet she seemed absolutely stupefied by the mention of said victory. 

Nami was tense and uncomfortable as she continued to shift in her seat, surprised wide eyes glaring at Luffy. 

"You didn't think to mention your grandfather was a Marine? And not just any marine, a vice-admiral! I don't know about you, but I didn't sign up for that." 

"You raided a marine base," Zoro spoke calmly. "Of course that'll make you a target." 

The witch only let out a soft sigh and straightened her back with a frown. She was equally worried, but… 

"I understand where you're coming from, Nami, but it wouldn't have helped us with anything to know about Luffy's relatives or their status. We're already haunted for merely having a map in our possession."

At their table Sanji appeared again, with a gray plate with a paper in between his fingers this time.

"Your bill, sir."

Luffy pulled his lips together and glanced at Nami before taking the pen and scribbling something. 

"Thank you," he smiled up at the waiter. 

Sanji took the plate and almost instantly, a mischievous grin splayed on his face. 

"No, thank you," and with that, he walked away. 

Whatever that was supposed to mean. 

Luffy turned towards his friends once again, confident in his opinion. 

"I'm not saying it's good that the Marines are on our tail, but we showed them that they can't just roll over us. This crew, our crew, can handle anything." 

The witch gently smiled at him and leaned her elbows on the table again. 

"We could use your optimism, Luffy, but it's harder than that. At any given time from now on, the simple fact that we're after One Piece is enough of a reason for a Warlord to come after us because right now, we're an easy target. Not to mention the relationship between the Marines and the Warlords. Remember that these seven pirates aren't anyone's toys and if we ever encounter them, it will not always have something to do with the Navy."

"What makes you talk about the Warlords?" the navigator gulped. "They'd be an ever bigger pain in our asses. Average pirates are merciless already—"

Nami stopped herself from talking and looked away. An unusual reaction met with silence from the witch.

"Luffy isn't the only one with relatives—"

"Who the hell is Monkey D. Luffy?" a hoarse voice boomed. 

The witch could feel a headache appearing along with the old chef who was hobbling because of his wooden leg. She finally gulped the entire cocktail. 

Why was Luffy always getting into trouble? 

"I need a drink," Nami exhaustedly threw her head back. 

"I need dozens of drinks," the witch sighed heavily. 

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

Maybe it wasn't a camaraderie thing to do to their captain, but they were now occupying some seats on the terrace of the open fish mouth. The witch was in between Nami and Usopp on the large couch, with their backs facing the sea, meanwhile Zoro sat on a chair, at the other side of the table. 

The witch had a whiskey bottle from which she poured herself shots once in a few minutes. Usopp had three straws in his mouth and he drank a sweet cocktail from a bowl. Zoro warned him with a chuckle, but he didn't listen. 

Nami, on the other side, was silent as she stared into her empty glass for longer than expected. The witch found it worrisome — she was used to her own phases, but it hurt to watch her friend struggle with something she didn't entirely share. Nami's issue was known by them and yet there was something the witch just grasped onto, a tale told by her tarot. 

"The next drink is on me," the navigator got up from her seat. 

"Nami," the witch's fingers curled around her friend's. 

She squeezed Nami's hand gently and looked up at her with concern in her eyes. The witch rubbed her fingers over her knuckles in a silent plea, her eyebrows knitted together.

You're not alone, her touch said. It's alright. We can make it alright. 

Nami swallowed down hard and barely squeezed the hand who held her before slipping away from them. 

The witch poured herself a shot and gulped it down quickly. 

"Why are you in such a hurry as well?" 

Zoro's voice made her chest burn worse than the alcohol. 

"I'm not going anywhere. I'd just rather not talk," she mumbled as she rolled the small glass between her fingers. 

"You know something that I don't," he concluded quickly. 

Usopp, who sat like an obedient child and listened, blinked curiously. 

"I know a lot of things that you don't, Zoro," she responded with sorrow. 

Saying one single word about Nami while she was gone felt unfair. 

When the orange haired woman came back to them with a bottle in her hand, her conversation with Zoro somehow turned into a guessing game. Usopp, who obviously didn't take the swordsman's warning into account, went to the dance ring and moved like a sea slug — or that's what Zoro said. 

"Are you in?" Nami asked. 

"I'd rather not," the witch lowered her gaze. 

It was easy to admit she didn't want to share anything about herself. Still, she knew better than that; with some shots, her tongue would loosen up bit by bit. 

Her eyelashes fluttered lazily and her gaze fell on the glass she held. The corners of her mouth were slightly curled downwards and she seemed aware of the effect alcohol would have on her. She will succumb into sorrow or happiness, depending on which one clouded her mind first. The lack of answers coming from someone who adored to share experiences and explain was strange. 

Nami looked at her from the corner of her eye and accepted the situation as it was. She'll get the witch to talk one way or another. Something was fishy about her behavior — it was poking Nami's senses. 

The witch leaned against the cushions and turned her head towards the sea, pushing reality out of her awareness. Zoro's and Nami's conversation sounded muffled from her perspective, caging herself willingly in her head. 

Zoro was sitting right in front of her and the witch still thought of him. Her feelings were confusing and analyzing them was a full time job. Maybe it was time for her to accept her situation and deal with the heart aching for him. It was impossible not to think of him, especially when his deep voice sounded like a melody. 

She swallowed a lump in her throat and blinked away the overwhelming sensation settling in her chest. Maybe the present could give her peace. 

"You're unfair, Roronoa," she crooked a teasing grin and turned her head towards him. 

"How's that so?" 

His gaze burning holes into her shouldn't affect her as much as it did. Those black oceans shining shamelessly told her everything she had to know, it made hope bloom in the center of her soul. 

Maybe there was a chance. A tiny little chance hidden in his mesmerizing eyes. 

"She's telling you entire stories, but you don't even bother to elaborate."

He clenched his jaw and scoffed. 

"That's not part of the game," the side of his mouth curled upwards. 

"Now that I think about it, she's right," Nami smirked. 

"Just drink."

With that, they raised their glasses and both glanced at the unusually silent witch. 

"I didn't play the game," she excused herself. 

"That's why you have to drink. You listened and didn't share," Nami arched her eyebrow. "Are you also unfair, Witch?" 

It was Zoro the one who poured whiskey in her empty glass. 

"You two are so sneaky," the witch laughed softly and complied. 

The alcohol burnt her throat and it was the alcohol getting to her head that brought questionable curiosities in her head… How would his lips taste? Would he make her burn harder? A one single touch from him would both ruin and put her back together. 

Alright, I have to find something else to think of. 

Hastily, the witch who sat by Nami's side gulped down another shot of whiskey and got up from the cushions. An idea creeped in her mind when her attention fell on the group of four musicians whose music Usopp danced to. 

"Where are you heading to?"

"Killing some time," she winked at Nami. 

With light steps, she walked to the guitarist and asked for his instrument after he just finished playing. With a nod, he handed her the guitar and she grabbed a chair to sit on. Her legs crossed and she positioned the guitar in her lap easily, like second nature. Gentle fingers tapped the wooden object and her lips curled — it was perfect — before her grip on the neck of the guitar tightened. Her other hand was busy testing the chords, tingles running down her spine at the sensation. 

She hasn't felt that in too long. 

The alcohol was also a reason for her bold action, but the witch didn't care. The fingers of one hand pressed against the strings, while she played with the other hand, giving life to the guitar. Lively sounds rang through the air and the other musicians quickly picked up on the notes. A classic, an old shanty pirates would sing when drunk after victories, but it was more beautiful when she played it. Even her humming and the rare times when her lips would part to let sweet words fall from between them, it was alluring. 

Zoro's attention never left her figure. Her eyes sparkled with freedom and the smile on her face was that of an angel. She was life itself, stuck under soft skin and hidden in her heart. The dim lights of the terrace — the open fish mouth — bathed her in white and warm gold. Her happy face, the smile lines, the crinkles of her eyes, the jovial energy surrounding her; all of these things charmed him over and over again. The longer he looked at her, the worse it got, because he didn't have the courage within himself to avert his gaze from her. 

"You should just admit it," Nami said. 

He didn't look at her when he let out a low "Hm?" 

"Don't you think she's pretty?" 

His head snapped towards her. 

"What are you talking about?"

"Which one of us are you trying to fool, Zorol; me or yourself?"

Uncomfortably, the swordsman shifted in his seat, clenching his jaw. 

"I think you're confused," he responded  with fake confidence while he crossed his arms over his chest. 

"No, you are confused," Nami scoffed. "You were jealous back then, when Sanji flirted with her."

"You're quick to jump to conclusions."

"If Usopp would be here, he'd agree."

"Unfortunately, he's too drunk to even walk straight, so I suppose he isn't here to support your theory." 

"Speaking of him."

Nami just spotted Usopp who came back to their table with a man behind him. A strange man, judging by the hilt of the sword as tall as him — and he wasn't short by any means either. 

"Which one of you is Monkey D. Luffy?"

Zoro turned his head lazily, arching his eyebrow. 

"I don't recall such a name."

The witch's peace has been entirely destroyed by the new appearance, an unwelcome guest. She could spot him easily because of his big elegant hat with feathers and the sword with precious stones on the hilt. 

It was her turn to stand proudly in front of a Warlord she's only heard about from her deceased father. Her back was straight and her chin up high, gaze sharp. 

When the man turned his head to her, there was no mistake it was Dracule Mihawk, his golden irises shining with boredom. Even his perfect posture betrayed the obvious superiority he had in front of some mere children. 

"I didn't know your father had raised a liar. He was honest, from what I recall." 

The witch knew she was her father's splitting image, but how could he know— 

The only thing that stopped her eyes from widening in surprise were the nails digging painfully into her palms. 

"I don't know any Monkey D. Luffy and I certainly have no clue what you're talking about." 

"I have business with your captain. If you know what's good for you, you'll hand him over." 

"I don't know either," Nami responded from her seat. "Right, Zoro?"

"You're Dracule Mihawk."

The swordsman got up from his chair and for a moment, the witch wondered if he was insane or more delusional than her, because there's no other way he stood without a worry in the world in front of him. 

In front of someone who could slice entire ships into pieces. 

"Zoro?" the witch whispered, horrified. 

The man in question stepped by Mihawk and walked slowly, steadily, as if the Warlord was his prey. 

"It pains me to inform you that tomorrow… you're going to die."

Oh, Gods, please don't. 

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

The witch was left speechless. She couldn't find strength in her legs and she had to sit on a chair when all of them gathered in the valley of their ship.

Zoro wasn't a sane man. He needed to be locked up or someone had to get that stick from up his ass before he had a chance to die out of stupidity. 

She shook her head countless times while Zoro and Nami argued, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips and squeezing her eyes shut. 

"Why do you even care?" the swordsman's cold tone rang in the air. 

"Because you're my friend, you idiot."

Nami sounded close to losing it all. 

The witch already lost it one hundred times. Her heart wasn't beating, her breath was shallow and she was pinching the bridge of her nose to hold back from saying or doing something rude, something she would later regret. The tension in the room weighed on her chest and she wished it was all just a nightmare. 

"You said you don't have any friends," Zoro responded sharply. 

The woman's eyes snapped open. He was more insane than she thought. She wanted to yell, but no raw sound filled with pain left her chapped lips. The witch could only remain rigid while Nami left the room with loud stomps. 

"You're insane, Zoro," she muttered between gritted teeth. 

The witch was tugging painfully at her own strands of her in order to stop the overwhelming feelings from spilling out of her like a tornado. Her shaking fingers curled into her hair and gripped, the burn on her scalp bringing her back to the cabin of their ship. 

"This is a suicide mission." 

"It's his dream," Luffy smiled, "we can't—"

"Zoro, you're gonna die!" she shouted out of the sudden after she snapped her head towards the swordsman. 

She sank her nails into her palms until the sting was painful enough to keep herself stable. It was not to her liking to be pessimistic, to admit that someone wasn't able to do something, but what he wanted to do was not the most intelligent idea. 

"This isn't good, this won't end well at all and you shall know it," the witch continued. "You can't seriously believe you'll get out of there better than half-alive."

The swordsman didn't need to respond in order to answer. His unmoving gaze and straightened back told enough: he wasn't going to change his mind at all, no matter what anyone said. 

She knew it meant a lot for him to become the strongest swordsman in the world, but in his current state he wasn't able to defeat Mihawk. Out of all the people he could've dwelt with, Zoro chose him, that monster of a man. 

"Did you not listen to me when I said 'He cuts entire ships with a mere flick of his wrist'?" she furrowed her eyebrows. "Did you suddenly forget when I clearly warned you all the warlords aren't some mere toys for the big guys in the system, they do whatever the fuck they want!" 

She cussed herself for letting out so many emotions, but she seriously couldn't hold back anymore, no matter how worried Usopp seemed, or how confused Luffy was. They had no clue what Zoro was getting into—

"That's exactly why I'm dwelling with him and not someone else," the green-haired man spoke firmly. 

"Oh, so your dream is to get cut in half by a sword taller than you?" her irritation slipped. 

"Do you really think I trained my entire life to get cut without putting up a fight?"

Even if she didn't want to admit it to herself, one side of his heart was hurt. This entire time, every time they spoke, she openly told him she believes in him, that she trusts him even if it would be her downfall. It sounded like she's been lying this entire time. 

"You know very well I never meant that you're weak, but you're not stronger than him! That's your idea of a swordsman? You can believe, you can even hope for the best to happen, but the happiest situation would be a quick death. And the worst? A torturous one." 

"I didn't take you for someone who wouldn't understand what the pride of dying in a duel means."

"Fucking hell!" 

The witch's tight fist hit the table placed in the middle of the cabin with a quick and hurried motion, her feelings indeed getting the best of her that time. It didn't come to mind the last time she ever acted so harshly. 

He turned her words against herself and he was a professional at doing so. She knew what kind of pride swordsmen and pirates carry, she knew what they considered noble because she's spent years of her life listening to men and women talking about such things. Her father did the same, thought he could get out of any problem, until it brought him his death. 

"Maybe you should have more faith," Usopp intervened in a small voice. 

He was hesitant, the surprise obvious on his face — none of them expected that their most collected crewmate would lash out like that. Luffy was also silent, confused, obviously trying to find a way to get into the thick heads of his friends somehow. The argument escalated quickly and the tension wiped away any ounce of peace. 

The witch's eyes were fixed on Zoro's and they burnt holes through his face. He's seen just as many emotions a night ago, when she told him about her past sailing experiences, about the life she left behind as she desperately tried to find freedom. And if freedom felt like that, he wondered if she really wanted it. He succumbed to the flames of hell in her eyes, but snapped himself out of it. 

She was angry at him, he figured out quickly. 

He didn't like that gaze. He'd do almost anything for her to stop looking at him that way, as if she wanted him away from her, as if his very presence brought her suffering. Almost anything. 

"You see just what you want to see, Zoro. You're deliberately ignoring our worries, thinking we have something against you, thinking god-knows-what about how we're not your friends or whatever the fuck's going through your head—"

I'm worried for you, she swallowed a lump in her throat. 

"Just because me and Nami are trying to stop you, it doesn't mean we're assholes keeping you away from your dream. We might be assholes, but we want you to be alive, not six feet under the ground!" her voice raised slightly at the end again, her breath shallow. 

"You're worried about her, not about me. I don't need your worry." 

"Zoro—" this time Luffy tried to intervene. 

"You're impossible," she faintly spoke, like a ghost. 

She gave up. 

She buried her face into her own palms and sat on a chair, her elbows prompted on her knees. She had so much faith in Zoro, she could barely even point out how many feelings swirl in her heart when it comes to him, but she was aware he was mortal. He could die at any given time. 

"Right, Zoro. Go die with pride filling you up the same way that man's sword will," she bitterly mumbled. 

I hate you, Roronoa Zoro. You and your stupid pride, along with the fucked way I feel about you. I hate it all. 

The poor woman was exhausted, her heartstrings twisting into knots, making it hard to ignore the pain running through her entire being. His name rolled on her tongue so many times in only a few minutes and it made her situation worse, that one word made of two syllables cutting through her chest. 

The witch regretted her words immediately, but didn't say anything for a while. 

Usopp nudged Luffy into leaving the other two alone and it was probably one of the few times when the straw hat understood subtleties without any questions. 

"Take your time and clean your swords, Zoro, we'll be waiting outside," Luffy spoke. 

The witch heard two pairs of steps that walked away, her face still buried in her palms. She gulped and took in a few deep breaths before she moved from her seat, straightening her back and moving to the window of the cabin, hands gripping at the edge of the wood. 

She didn't throw a glance at Zoro. Silence stretched between them while the witch focused on the stars shining in the night sky. 

I shouldn't have been here in the first place, she thought to herself, twisting the blade deeper into the wound. I shouldn't have accepted to come with you. I should've stayed in Syrup Village and left with another ship, to go somewhere far away from you. I should've known better that there's no way in hell I can grasp at the mere notion of freedom.

There's no place for me in heaven and there's no place for me in hell either. I'm stuck here, in this body, with these feelings and this swordsman in this galley. 

I should've known. I should've known I was damned to die on my feet, with a bleeding heart and my back turned at you. I should've—

She gulped down harshly, blinking away the tears. 

I want to stay with you all so badly. 

"Zoro," she whispered his name again. 

Tears stung in her eyes at the sound of his name. It felt like it was the last time she could hear his name repeatedly, the same name carved with silver on her heart. 

"Be careful," she continued, her voice faint. 

"Why do you care?" his bitter tone resounded in her eardrums. "Everyone seems deadly interested in my actions lately."

Only then she turned her head towards him and her ribcage protested when the prisoner that was her heart beat so harshly. 

"I don't need a reason. I simply do. Please, Zoro."

Like the idiot that she was, she begged him to stay alive. A confession was hidden between her chapped lips — she picked at them with her nails and there was blood surfacing on top of the skin. Her tongue swiped over her bottom lip, the metallic flavor tickling her taste buds. 

Judging on the way his jaw ticked with tension, he grasped onto enough of her words. Or maybe he refused to do so — who knows? 

"Don't throw your life away. You'll never fulfill your promise if you die today. Be mindful. Don't rush when fighting, don't get angry if he pushes on your buttons and irritates you. Be wise, Zoro."

It was a lost fight on her side. There was nothing she could do to stop him, so at least she had to give him the best advice she thought of. 

When he finally looked at her, her breath hitched. His brown eyes saw through her soul and she wondered if he could also feel how much she cared for him, the way she cared for him. She liked everyone on the ship equally, but her affection for him took a different path, one she's never walked on before. 

He didn't say a word, letting everything sink in. 

Maybe there is a chance he gets what I meant. 

"Be careful."

This time, her voice trembled but she didn't look away. She stood there, staring at him as if it was the last time she saw his eyes open. 

She turned towards the window again, nails digging into the wooden frame. She refused to look at him when she figured out tears could spill over her cheeks like a river if he continued staring at her, burying himself further into her soul. She only wanted him to be safe, because nothing was greater than that. If all of them could be kept away from harm's way, she would have days filled with peace.

Too bad such a thing was impossible in that unforgiving world. 

Behind her, Zoro moved around and left the galley. After a few minutes, he came back with a bottle of oil for his swords. He dragged a chair and sat down at the table, more silent than usually. With utmost care, he took one of his black swords and unsheathed it, leaving the scabbard on the table. He poured some oil on the blade and used a piece of cloth to spread it even from tip to hilt. 

The witch only dared to throw glances with an aching heart. She couldn't bring herself to leave, to stay away from him for too long now more than ever. She swallowed hard before making a tough decision. 

Wordlessly, she moved from the window. Her heavy steps echoed in the room until they stopped right by Zoro's side.

"Can I help?" 

Calm, just like she always tries to be, she spoke with fear clinging to every nerve in her body. She would blame herself for the rest of her life if they would part ways like that. More than her fears and worries, he mattered. He deserved all the pain she was capable of harboring inside her poor heart, he was worth the fight with her own self. 

The swordsman didn't expect her gesture. He supposed she would storm out of the room, that she would scold him or try to stop him, just like before. He guessed she was more sane than him, even if he couldn't bring himself to care enough about that. Her reaction pained him in ways he couldn't explain. 

His fingers pressed the piece of cloth against the blade of his words. He thought of being petty, shutting her down. Why couldn't she believe in him more? Was he that weak? 

He nodded. Like the stupid man that he was, with no need for spoken words, he accepted her help. He watched her blank face, devoid of any life, as she took another sword from the table, following his exact steps. 

Except, her hold on the white sword was gentle like a feather. A careful grip, so it wouldn't slip from her hand, but gentle nonetheless. He stopped whatever he was doing, focusing on the woman who rested her hips against the table, close to him, so close, but, oh, so far away. Zoro watched her unsheathe his Wado Ichimoji and place it on the table. Her hand reached out for the bottle of oil and her other one took advantage of the opportunity, taking the piece of cloth from his own hold. 

Their fingers touched. Hers were cold, but they still burnt his skin. Electric shocks traveled through his body and his chest tightened. 

She poured some oil on the material and then left the bottle on the table, gripping at the hilt of the sword again. She moved the piece of cloth over the blade carefully, as if she's done it before countless times. Left, right, left, right. Everytime she exhaled, her breath was trembling, despite the slow pace of her gestures. 

He paid more attention to the hands holding his sword: they were shaking when she placed the sword on the table. She poured some more oil on the cloth and dipped the tip of her index finger in the same spot. With the same finger, she drew on the blade a symbol Zoro didn't recognize.

With each stroke of her fingertip, she traced lines and connected them in a barely visible symbol: an arrow pointed upwards. 

"It's a rune meant for protection," she explained softly as she sheathed the sword. "It's associated with strength and honor. It doesn't matter if you don't believe in it, because I do and that's enough." 

It was true: he didn't believe in such things and never did. The swordsman never found it reasonable nor did he ever try to figure it out. It didn't mean he denied her beliefs — no, but he was indifferent towards it. 

However, he couldn't act indifferent towards the witch, which he found at that point to be straight up painful. It was painful to look at her and see torment in her deep eyes, it hurt to see sorrow painted on her angelic features when none of them was dead. 

The witch did the same gesture with the other two swords, carefully holding each one of them, as if they were her own treasures, not his. 

"Come back alive," she whispered. 

If he wouldn't have been so close to her, her voice would've sounded like a breath. 

"That's all I ask of you. If you wish so, then no sword will cut through you. Blades can cut steel, but nothing can cut will."

What was she mourning when she said those things? Who did she think of? he wondered. 

May the gods protect you tomorrow, she hoped. They've taken so many away from me along the way. 

Tag list: @emelia07 @dimplewonie @tfamidoingwithmylife @murnsondock @the-skys-musical-echo @conspiracy-crows @hallow33nz @ramae17 @gaslysainz @bunntsu @katt58 @katiemrty @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @freyademartel @boofy1998 @ponyboys-sunsets @melsunshine @loveyluv7 @waddlingwanderer @untoldshortsofthefandoms @mizzy-pop

[ay-chuu]

Hii congratulations on reaching 300 followers! I would love to participate in your event. Can i request one for BSD?

MBTI: INTJ

Zodiac sign (gonna add my moon and rising sign too bc why not 👀): Capricorn Sun, Aquarius Moon & Gemini Rising

Hobbies: reading, dancing, playing video games, listening to music, puzzles, finding interesting shows/movies to watch, daydreaming

Phobias: the ones i can think of is thalassophobia and fear of spiders

Likes: thunderstorms, surprises, gifts, music, having fun, helping others, history, delicious food, learning new things, making others laugh, traveling, excitement

Dislikes: nosy people, being told what to do, naggers, hot weather, being forced to be somewhere or with someone i don't like, feeling stuck, conflict, routine, limitations, close-minded people, lack of freedom

Ideal male type: definitely someone with a sense of humor. someone intelligent, creative and kind. someone that accepts me for who i truly am and i'd accept them just the way they are too.

Gender/pronouns: female & she/her

Aaaand lastly, for the topic i pick the most special moment!

I hope i followed all the rules and again congratulations! ❤️

Thank you so much love, have a perfect day! 🌼😼

I match you with... (っ＾▿＾)💨

SIGMA!

The biggest reason why I matched you is that you both want to live freely and happily together in your own little safe space, away from people. This bond that holds you together is like glue and always increases your respect for each other.

Sigma likes that you are both lively and introverted. You remind him that no matter how disgusting the world is, there can always be rare angels who are like a treasure. The biggest proofs of this are that you accept each other as you are and that you always hold on to each other no matter what happens. (In other words, the biggest proof is... you <3)

Sigma may not be a very funny person, but that doesn't mean you don't laugh all the time when you're with him. You know those people who has weird acts and reactions that are hilarious, even if they're not funny in personal? Sigma is one of them. Other than that, the things you don't like are mostly common. He also hates loud people, not feeling like he belongs somewhere and feeling used. That's why you are each other's comfort person <3

Although I cannot say anything in the horoscope sense, INTJ and INFJ are compatible and passionate couples in the intellectual and intuitive sense. They generally complement each other in all kinds of harmony, both in my business life and in love.

Some moments I dreamed of for you two;

A waltz dance in the forest before sunrise, baking cookies that look like your faces together, a kiss shared with a view on top of a mountain, and smothering him with words of love under the blanket while Sigma's tears cover your shoulder <3

A special moment:

Seeing Sigma's excitement , was a rare moment for you. The way he walked around you like a dog wagging his tail and brought the chocolate chips to you the moment you asked made you giggle involuntarily.

It made you very happy to have him walk around you while you were preparing the cookie dough together. Sigma was someone who could neither get too excited nor be too happy under the living conditions he lived in.

He was used as a machine. He's like an encyclopedia. An object that is valuable only when needed.

But when he was with you, Sigma felt like he was the most important alive thing in the world, the most important being... no, the most important human to ever live. He wasn't an object to you who was ostracized, used, or treated differently than he wanted to be. Next to you he was just Sigma and your lover. Maybe that's why even a simple act like making cookies was so peaceful, happy and exciting for him. He would be one with his favorite person and his favorite food. A peaceful night spent on the couch, with cookies and maybe... milk. What else could make him happier in this cruel world? (Maybe marrying and live a future with you.....)

"Okay, my love. The cookies should bake for 45 minutes. Meanwhile, I'll clean up the kitchen. Wait for me in the living room, okay?" You said as you wiped your hands on your apron and prepared the oven.

Sigma shook his head as no, he came behind you, hugged you and kissed your neck. Oh, how he loved it when you loved him even with your smallest actions. "I'll help you, dear."

The 45 minutes had passed quickly as the two of you cleaned up the kitchen and warmed milk for the cookies. Sigma was listening to your conversation as you went to the couch together, cuddled up and enjoyed your cookies. Just you, him and the cookies. And your sweet voice.

Humanity is a very new concept for Sigma. Being able to comprehend the existence of mind and soul, and being able to feel it despite being born from a book, are not only new for Sigma, they are concepts that he cannot understand. But the only thing he understands and is sure so far is that as long as your love is with him, he will always cease to be an object. He will always be a human being <3

[stormlit]

it is cruel of her to do it this way, amalia knows that; she could have taken down her shielding and let armand make his own way through her mind, she could have let him see paris and nothing more. she could have done it more kindly. but anger does not make amalia kind, and she is smarting from his cruelty, from his lack of trust in her and how little he has wanted to consider the threat to her life real. she hurts, and so she wants armand to hurt. her life has not solely been pain and tragedy, but she pulls up the worst years of it, every bad thing she has been through. how freedom has been ruined, happiness marred. how her body has been broken and the strength of her mind tested. there is no being a vampire without torment, she thinks, but she's experienced a fair amount of it.

for a little while, at least, no more hiding. no more keeping the most painful memories away from everyone, herself included.

she looks up at him, eyes red with tears but her gaze as steady as it's ever been. ❝ do you understand now? ❞ she asks quietly, making the effort to keep her voice even. what she has been through is hers, for nobody else; does he get why she keeps her walls up, why she has found a way to hear words spoken in her head but not let that person burrow deeper? she's yet to realise that her arms have wrapped tightly around her middle, as if replacing the shielding that remains down, for now. she feels exposed, and it is not a natural place for amalia to be. ❝ do you trust me yet? ❞

because if he doesn't...how are they supposed to live a life together? how are they going to see the world, if he thinks she might be poised to stab him in the back? amalia wants armand with her, desperately. she's not sure she's ever wanted anything so much. but she wants to feel like they are on even footing.

❝ there's a whole world out there, my love. ❞ she wants to hold onto this peace, to the calm they seem to be settling into, the crashes of the thunderstorm fading to more of a rumble, drifting away from them at every moment. she's not stupid enough to believe it all resolved, or that the hurt has faded — they need to talk, still, without raised voices or barbed tongues — but this is enough for now. ❝ one where you can live, not mark time. ❞

the hand that has been clenched desperately in his shirt relaxes, resting over his heart for a moment before her arms come around him, tucking herself in beneath his chin. all the ways he can touch her, and amalia finds she just wants a hug. they need to recover from the storm. ❝ alright, ❞ she says softly. she would help kill the coven, for him, but she'd prefer not to. amalia's still afraid they'd overpower her, outnumbering them as they do. ❝ it won't be easy. maybe it's not meant to be; it's scary to figure out who you are alone. but i have a really nice house you can do it in. ❞

could a coven last forever? as far as he's seen, they can't ( and don't ). the old ones eventually chase madness and even with the younger vampires carrying on in their name, the coven either had to change or disband. some disappeared with no trace, like the Roman coven that had built him — years before the theatre, he'd reached out to radio silence, sent other vampires to find them to no avail. the théâtre des vampires was built for survivability compared to the satanic coven he'd been born of. while they upheld the old laws, they weren't a rigid structure of oppression and misery. they lived, feasted, performed and many of them were happy as performers. at his peak, he'd been the same, but restlessness had crept in and the more restless he is, the more detached he feels from them.

armand had been in control of so many choices since his beginnings as a leader in paris. he was life and death to other vampires, the puppet master in the background ensuring their success. but what he hadn't done was choose to live differently. he'd been directed to paris 300 years prior and when he'd grown tired of the first coven, he utilized another vampire to shatter it. only then to be given the theatre, to be handed yet another opportunity to lead.

and while he'd needed it desperately then, it had fulfilled its purpose, but armand recognizes he doesn't know what it is to push forward into another life. ❝ oh, but you make it sound so simple! ❞

it isn't as if they don't all have secrets when they can keep them. armand does the same to protect the things most sacred to him, the memories that were the most painful or contradictory of how he lived, how he expressed himself. but to see nothing? he isn't used to that, though before he's hit with her thoughts, he can see the anger. he knows that his request doesn't come without pain, but as their eyes lock, he doesn't expect everything that comes to him. it comes almost as a physical blow, a sharp pain to his chest. he's forced to break her gaze, eyes closing, a shudder going through him as he witnesses everything. from love to pain, to the torture of a coven. torture and indoctrination that while in a different place, under a different language triggers parallel memories that he slams down as soon as they come up.

it's all too dizzying. from the moments of happiness, of freedom, to the prison of a cruel maker, the will of a cult —

he's forgotten to breathe, a shuddering breath released as his eyes open, eyes distant, processing, red from the whiplash of emotions and the intensity of her memories. he runs a hand over his curls, hands almost shaky as he tries to process it.

❝ beloved, i — ❞ she has his empathy, but not his words. she'd taken his accusations and his demands for her to trust him and shoved them back down his throat.

as she pulls him closer, his head dips, forehead pressed to hers. he shuts his eyes, hands lifting to cup her face, fingers resting gently on her neck, every word brought in. she doesn't to leave him. ❝ i want to, ❞ he admits, and wants to with all the strength he had wanted to leave years before. ❝ i want to go with you, 300 years i've been in paris, amalia. and i live more now... ❞ he doesn't know how it'll end, if the coven will let him go, if he'll find enemies among them, or if they'll turn on him the second he passes the mantle over. but if he can salvage those relationships as they had been before, there may be a chance to come away cleanly. santiago had the makings of a coven master.

❝ if santiago will take it, with no ill-will, i'll give it to him. ❞ and still, there's some strain to his voice, fear of that unknown, fear of handing over what had been his.

[pcttrailsidereader]

14 Lessons from theTrail

As the 2021 hiking season is well underway, the time is right to share wisdom from seasoned veterans of the trail.  Brett Fisher (Backtrack) – http://www.wanderabout.org/ – suggested that the five lessons from the PCT as articulated by Anna (North Star) and Chris (Shutterbug) – http://wanderingthewild.com/ – along with the five more added by Bobcat –  http://roamingbobcat.wordpress.com/ – and finished off with his own four, would be worthy of publishing.  I agreed.  Reflection is such an important part of the PCT experience.  

These 14 lessons are a powerful reminder to each of us long distance hikers.  I love the positive spirit reflected in their words. You may have your own to add and you may take issue with some (I’m still chewing on #8) … please let us know.

Brett ‘Backtrack’ Fisher

North Star and Shutterbug noted that their thru hike of the Pacific Crest Trail taught them many things. Here are five of the most important lessons they learned on the trail.

1) Senses awaken in nature. After years of living in a city, our minds subconsciously created filters to deal with the contant  jumble of sensory information. It was thrilling to remove those mental filters and reawaken our senses in the great outdoors. The crack of a distant twig alerted us to an elk, almost hidden in the forest. We could smell day hikers’ deodorant and laundry detergent from several feet away. Our eyes tracked the subtle movements of a soaring hawk adjusting to shifting air currents. The longer we lived in the wild, the sharper our senses became.

2) People are good. On the trail, day hikers and trail angels gave us encouragement, kudos, and tasty food. Other thru hikers shared our joy during good times, and cheered us up during harder moments. Crews of volunteers labored to maintain the trail. The people we met in the small towns along the PCT were incredibly friendly and accommodating. Strangers went out of their way to give us rides, find us rooms, and some even offered us their homes for a night. The kindness and generosity we received went beyond anything we could have expected. We saw the fundamental goodness of people during our thru hike.

3) Hike your own hike. Hikers often tell each other to “Hike your own hike” (HYOH), recognizing a wide variety of backpacking preferences. We knew this phrase before starting the Pacific Crest Trail, but its meaning really sank in with a few hundred miles under our feet. HYOH worked for us in many small ways, such as our hiking pace — we walked slower than most thru hikers so we could take more pictures. But we also realized HYOH applied to larger life choices, such as our decision to continue hiking long trails, rather than immediately returning to desk jobs. To Hike Your Own Hike is to allow yourself to do what works best for you and your passions, and to support others in doing what works for them. The result is greater happiness for everyone.

4) Fewer possessions is freeing.  We found that the less we had, the happier we were. Each possession was not only physical weight to carry, but also mental weight. Carrying just one set of clothes meant no decisions about what to wear in the morning. Instead of carrying chairs, which could break or get left behind, we sat on the ground or on logs. Taking only the food we needed made meal choices simple. We didn’t bring bowls and plates, all of which we’d have to clean. Rather we ate right from our pot. With less items to think and fret about, our minds could relax and be open to all the beauty around us. The simple lifestyle is truly freeing.

5) Wilderness is home. As the weeks passed, we became more and more comfortable living in the desert, the mountains, and the forest. A primal part of us came to the forefront. Fresh air, clean water, and open space surrounded us and sustained us. As our relationship with the wilderness deepened, we felt more at home there than we did in civilization. We had not expected this, but it turned out to be one of the most powerful aspects of the hike.

                                                                     Photo Credit: Rees Hughes

These are the five added by Bobcat.

6) Joy is our natural state. On the trail life is reduced to its most basic necessities: water, food, sleep, shelter, safety from the elements and natural beauty. Because our minds are freed from having to handle what Northstar and Shutterbug call the constant jumble of sensory information, we are open to tackle deeper and deeper levels of thought. Because the trail is so long, at some point we run out of things to ponder, analyze, consider or solve. When that happens, the void that is left seems to immediately be filled with a sense of joy and peace. So, at our most basic level, underneath it all, this must be our natural state.

7) Life is a mirror (you get what you give). I have experienced this more than once on the trail: If I approach the road in a joyful and optimist state, I wait for a hitch less than five minutes; if I approach it with a bad attitude, it will be a long while before I get picked up. The kindness and generosity we received as hikers I believe is in direct correlation to our own state of open-mindedness. The opposite is true also. Fear attracts scary situation. People who feared bears had bear encounters. I started the trail worried about poisonous plants and managed to get poison oak on one leg and poodle-dog-bush on the other. When I became grateful for the cortisone cream two generous hikers gave me, the oozy mess cleared up over night.

8) All you need is love and gratitude. Somewhere in the first few hundred miles of the trail, I became so frustrated with my UV water purifier and so jacked up on iodine that I stopped using any sort of water treatment. Instead, I held the water to my heart and told it, sincerely, “I love you, please don’t make me sick, thank you”. The method proved excellent the whole trail, including with that one batch of “bear pooh water” (see “I believe in angels”). Inspired by my success, I also used this method as sunscreen (I love you Sun, please don’t burn me, thank you), bug-repellent (I love you spider, please stay off my tarp, thank you) and holographic deck (I love you trail, could I get a shady spot, mosquito free, by some water, thank you). Seriously, it works. Try it for yourself.

9) Freedom is an intrinsic quality. Before I left, a good friend told me that the PCT would likely be the one place where I could find enough space to accommodate my humongous need for freedom. All former thru-hikers I have met mention “freedom” as the greatest gift they received from the trail. All that fresh air, clean water and open space seeps into your soul and sticks. I think freedom is always in us, but sometimes our vision of it is clouded. Once we touch that quality within us, it remains wherever the end of the trail finds us. Some of us continue to wander, travel, explore or hike; others return to former lives and jobs from an expanded perspective. In all cases, you can take the hiker off the trail, but not the trail out of the hiker.

10) Laugh it off. Never mind great truths and life-changing discoveries; we know nothing. Any labeled identity we create for ourselves will be destroyed as soon as it’s uttered. I once wrote that my feet hurt, the next day my feet stopped hurting. I once wrote that I preferred solitude, the next day I found myself  hiking with a small group of fun people and loving it. I once was very upset at the thought of no-longer being a “thru-hiker”. I think we all feel that way. That is in part why we seek the company of other thru-hikers post-trail. Am I still a hiker if I’m not hiking? Who cares! Each experience is worth its weight in gold. I think it’s important to not take ourselves too seriously and as Dacia so eloquently put, to get out of our own way, learn to surf the wave, revel in the power of it, and let it all come together.

                                                                         Photo credit: Jim Peacock

And the final four from Backtrack.

11) It’s not a race. Lightweight, a hiker who hadn’t yet escaped the vortex at Casa de Luna, started a list in the Anderson’s trail register, “How To Win the PCT.” First on the list: Be the last to Canada. If you’re hiking northbound that is. Hiking a long trail is not a competition. There aren’t winners and losers. All of us get there only one step at a time.

12) It’s not about the miles, but what happens between the miles. I heard this from my daughter, Dances With Lizards, the only member of Team No Hurries to get to Canada this year. Maybe this is a variation of “the journey is the destination.” We live between the miles. Not in how many miles we’ve walked today, all week, or the whole hiking season.

13) It is what it is. It’s 105 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s 18 miles to water. There’s a thunderstorm right on top of us. The snake ate the rabbit babies. I am very hungry. It isn’t good and it isn’t bad. It is what it is and has no need for meaning. I take a break in the shade in the heat of the day. I carry 4 liters of water. I hunker down from the rain and lightning and watch the display. A snake’s got to eat, too. I eat some food. It is what it is, now and in this moment.

14) There’s pain but that doesn’t mean there is suffering. A day hiker descending Mount Whitney says to me, “Are we having fun yet?” I am huffing and puffing and legs burning on the way up and pant out, “I think we do this for other reasons than fun.” Walking on blisters hurts. Legs and knees and ankles and feet sometimes ache, and sometimes all ache at the same time. Sometimes I am very hungry. Sometimes I smell very bad and so do all my companions. My socks have holes in them. Yet, I laugh at the pain and discomfort. We laugh together. There is joy out here on this trail. Between every step and every mile.

15) add yours here …

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Violet Skies

Pairing: Bucky X OFC

Summary: When Bucky tries to get away from yet another moment of chaotic change he’s faced with a reminder that fate, sometimes, is kind to those that wait. 

Warnings: Smut and a truckload of feels. 

A/N: I don’t know how @littledarlinhavefaithinme does it but for the second time one of her writing challenges has sent me on a journey I didn’t expect but am so happy to have gone on. (Prompt in bold.)

I hope y’all can forgive the lack of series updates in lieu of this (lengthy) one-shot.

Oh and I finally said, “Fuck it,” and made an OFC so feedback is very welcome. ALL the thanks to @wonderlandmind4 for being my beta to make sure I stayed on track with not slipping into my insert habits. She's a goddamn blessing y’all. 

I hope you love it pumpkins! 

Tags are open!

@mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade @wonderlandmind4 @stevehesaidabadlanguageword @buckysstar @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @siriuslycloudy2 @wildmoonflower @cutie1365 @handplucked @jewelofwinter @whiskeywinter89

(If you should be in my perma-tags and you’re not here let me know so I can fix it!)

Bucky needed to get away.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the new friendships he was forming or the posh new digs he’d been granted courtesy of Pepper Pots and the Avenger’s Fund. He was deeply grateful. Even so, it was all so much so fast and he desperately needed to disappear to clear his head.

As he tears down highway mile after highway mile heading south, memories of another time when he needed the same freedom, fill his mind.

Unbeknownst to him, the summer of 1943 would change his life forever. In July they informed him that he was one of the best shots they’d seen in a while—he’d be an invaluable asset in the field. All Bucky heard was that they wanted him to be a killer. That knowledge sat like a brick in his gut for weeks.

When they gave him leave to return home for a stint in August he couldn’t bring himself to head straight back to Brooklyn. After all, how could he look his Ma in the eyes and tell her what they wanted him to do…

Instead, he’d done the same thing he was doing now. He ran south.

The New Orleans he pulled into would be different than the one he encountered all those decades ago. He knew time and the brutality of nature would have changed the city forever, but as he rode into the French Quarter he was pleasantly surprised to see so many things had remained the same—on the outside at least.

The last time he was in this city he had stayed in the cheapest hotel he could find. To say it was questionable would be giving it too much credit. This time, he decided he’d give himself the benefit of a decent stay. The Soniat House was central and nice, but it still had an older feel that soothed him. He liked knowing he wasn’t the oldest thing around.

It’s too early to check-in when his bike pulls up, Sunday morning. He didn’t have a plan, no sites he necessarily wanted to see and no memories he’d allow himself to seek out. All he wanted was peace. The easiest way for him to find that was to move, sitting still too much—especially alone—let his mind wander to things he’d prefer to forget for now. So, rather than linger in the lobby, he leaves his bike and heads into the Quarter on foot.

Despite it being fall the warmth and humidity are still heavy—he loves it, if he never had to be cold again in his life he’d be happy.

After a few blocks, he finds himself in Jackson Square, staring up at the beautiful facade of the St. Louis Cathedral. A steady stream of locals and tourists head into the sanctuary for Sunday morning mass. He can’t help but laugh at himself—once an altar boy.

He hadn’t stepped foot in a church since he’d been free. Some part of him felt unworthy, maybe even a little afraid. After everything recently he longed for something familiar though. With slight hesitation he joins the flow of people, taking a seat as far back as possible.

A few things were different in the ceremony but for the most part, the cadence was as he remembered. He ignored the automatic urge to take communion, watching others with just a touch of envy. Would he ever feel like he deserved to do such a thing again?

The homily was oddly fitting. The priest spoke on forgiveness—not the kind that comes from some benevolent being but the kind from within.

“We must all forgive ourselves, especially in the wake of The Blip, for the things we did to mourn, heal, and survive. After all, if our heavenly father can forgive us these things, who are we to stand in defiance of his wisdom?”

And who says God has forgiven any of us anything? Bucky thinks, bitterness filling his mouth.

When the service ends he tries to slip out without having to shake the Father’s hand. The size of the crowd prevented that though and he found himself face to face with the kindly man.

He grasps Bucky’s hand, a genuine smile on his face. “Thank you for your service soldier.”

Bucky’s heart kicks up, “How did you-”

The priest laughs a little, “You’ve got the look son. Have a blessed day.”

“Thank you, Father.” He forces a weak smile and heads away from the crowd.

An all too familiar restlessness had settled over him since the priest had clocked him for a soldier. It was the feeling that came over him before a mission, similar to the feeling that hangs in the air before a thunderstorm, itchy and electric. He hates it.  

Heading for the hotel once more he handles check-in. Since he rode his bike down he’d packed light but this also meant that settling in took not nearly long enough.

He showers, hoping the steaming hot water will wash away this feeling of anticipation but it does nothing. Staring at his reflection in the foggy mirror, tired eyes, grey dusted bread, long hair dripping with water, he comes to a decision.

With a plan in his mind, he changes quickly—slipping into a pair of dark slim denim, a black v-neck tee, and his light bomber jacket—sure it was warm but he’d rather not deal with the stares.  

It only takes him a few blocks to find an open barbershop. Swallowing his nerves he steps in.

In a little over an hour he stares, dumbfounded, at a reflection, he can’t quite connect to. This is a different man, someone who died in 1945 and couldn’t possibly be sitting here. This was the James Buchanan Barnes in the Smithsonian, the one in history books.

No, he says to himself, this is me. He still has his beard, albeit groomed, he’d never had a beard back then. The hair is similar, short on the sides and long on top.

This is me, he repeats. Like Sam said, he’s not either Sergeant Barnes or The Winter Soldier—he’s both, all the experiences, good and bad, coming together to make him who he is.

“You clean up real nice son,” the man, who couldn’t be more than 50 says with a smile.

He returns the smile, “This is all you, sir.” All while thinking, I’m likely old enough to be your grandfather.

Despite the man’s protest, he pays him three times the cost of the services plus a tip. What was the point of having money if you didn’t use it like this?

Some of the anxiety lifts after he walks from the shop. He feels lighter like he left something behind there to be swept up and tossed. The rest of the afternoon is spent eating, poking his head into a few shops, enjoying not having anything he feels he has to do.

Evening begins to fall as he watches the Mississippi from a bench in Woldenberg Park. There’s a touch of pleasant coolness to the breeze now, lifting some of the dense humidity he’d grown used to throughout the day.

He breathes in the air, curling his fingers behind his head as he leans his face up to the sky, eyes sliding shut. Being by the water always brought him a sense of peace.

It’s not that he’s tired but closing his eyes feels nice. Soon his muscles relax and he allows himself to doze just a bit. When he opens them once more the sun is just peeking above the horizon, a swatch of orange beneath a violet sky.

Instantly his mouth goes dry as a voice from the past whispers to him about another lifetime and a violet sky.

—

Sweat drips in rivulets down his back. The brass band chases away all other thoughts that could fill his mind. Cigarettes, whiskey, and the smell of the woman next to him fill every other sense.

He’d lost track of time. Was it day two or three? Was this the fifth gal he’d take back to his squalid digs? When did he have to leave? He had to leave right?

His head began to spin.

“James?” The woman next to him tugs on his sleeve. He doesn’t respond, unused as he is to hearing that name. “Hey, James?”

“Huh?” He looks down at her. “Sorry.”

“I don’t wanna bust your chops soldier but you’re lookin’ pretty sauced.”

“Guess I am,” he slams back the remains of the whiskey in his glass.

“Why don’t you take me back to your place then?” She coos the question against his ear. Her hands wander down his torso, grabbing his belt to tug him close.

This isn’t what he wants. Sure, she’s pretty enough but he’s too warm, too drunk, and too morose for this. He needs air.

“I hate to ditch a dame like you but,” he pushes her back, “I’m gonna have to call it a night.”

“What? Are you serious?” She looks so offended, he wished he cared.

“Yeah. Have a good night, Carol.”

“It’s Mary!” She yells to his back. He doesn’t acknowledge her as he makes his way through the crowd to the door.

Once outside he’d hoped for relief but in this southern climate, the sun being down didn’t do much of anything for the heat in August. He barely makes his way down the street before stumbling into an alley to relieve his stomach of the whiskey sloshing around in it.

“Fuck,” he groans pressing his forehead against the bricks. They’re barely cooler than his skin but it feels good none the less. He heaves once more before stumbling to the other side of the alley and collapsing.

A lump rises in his throat. He forces it down along with the nausea, cradling his face in his hands. Home. He needed to make his way home. But home meant facing the future…

“You doin’ alright down there?” A velveteen voice croons from somewhere above him.

With effort Bucky forces his eyes open locating the source of that sweet voice. A woman leans over the edge of the second-floor iron balcony of the building he just wretched on.

“Been better. Sorry.”

“Stay there,” she calls down before disappearing.

He very much wished he had the gumption to run and hide. But his dignity was just going to have to withstand this particular embarrassment because there was no way he was going anywhere fast.

In a few minutes, a woman steps onto the sidewalk. Once he gets an eyeful he feels a little soberer and a whole lot lousier. This wasn’t just some bland bird. The woman swaying toward him was, simply put, stunning. And she had undoubtedly just watched him hit bottom.

Excellent, he thinks.

“Here,” she kneels down holding out a glass that looks damp with condensation.

He does a double-take, unable for a moment to think about anything but caramel skin, freckles, full red lips, and the most fascinating eyes he’d ever seen. At a glance, they could be called grey but truly they were silver, rimmed with coal-black lashes and filled with tender concern.  

“I’m so-sorry ma’am,” he stutters trying to force himself up straighter. “I don’t mean to be a nuisance.” Right now he’s happy he could blame the whiskey and heat for his burning ears.

“You’re not a nuisance.” Her voice wasn’t exactly the predominant southern drawl he’d been hearing in the city. There was something else to it, softer, foreign even. “Drink this, it’s just water.”

“Thank you.” Gratefully he takes the glass, gulping down the contents with relief.

“Better?” He nods. “Good. Now,” she pulls the stopper off an unmarked bottle and hands it to him, “drink this. It’ll take the edge off.”

He eyes her suspiciously for a moment, searching for some kind of malice, as he takes the small bottle. Cautiously he sniffs it. The contents don’t smell bad, a mix of mint and a smell that made him remember summer lightning. Strange, but honestly he didn’t give a damn. Without any more hesitation he drinks it.

There’s a moment of zinging through his whole body and then… nothing. Not even the uncomfortable drunken haze remained. Yeah, he still felt a little intoxicated and his abdomen was a touch sore from vomiting but all in all his faculties seemed restored.

“What the hell is that?” He studies the bottle, looking for some kind of identifying mark. There’s only a little wax from where it had held the stopper and a slight greenish tint from the liquid that was once inside.

“Magic,” her voice sounds mischievous. He looks up at her and she winks.

Bucky laughs a little, “Well, whatever it was you could make a fortune selling it.”

“Maybe,” she stands, extending a hand to help him up. Once on his feet, he dusts his trousers off, more to buy time as he searches for something to say than thinking he could actually fix his rumpled appearance.

“Apologies for chucking up on your place here…” Smooth, Barnes. Real smooth. He chides himself.

The woman only laughs, “Oh this isn’t mine. I was just at some awful party. Really, you did me a favor by picking this spot to lose it.”

He grins, “Well, in that case, I guess we’re almost even.”

“Almost?”

“Let me buy you a drink and we can really be square.”

She raises an eyebrow, gesturing to the other side of the alley. “Haven’t you had enough booze?”

He shrugs, “You worked your magic. I’m ready for another round.”

Those fascinating eyes narrow then soften. “Alright. But you only get one magic potion a night so if you end up in another alley you’re stuck there.”

“Fair,” he flashes her a wide smile.

“Let me take this back inside,” she holds up the glass. “I’ll be right back.”

Without a word, she hustles into the building. Honestly, a part of him doesn’t expect that she’ll be back but in just a few minutes there she is, tucking one of her tight dark curls behind her ear as she heads out to meet him.

“Glad you came back,” he smiles at her as she approaches.

“What, think I’d run off?”

“Wasn’t sure if a lamb like you’d really wanna go grab a drink with a drunk you met in an alley.”

“How d’you know I’m such a lamb, huh?” Her eyes glint with the kind of moxie that really gets his temperature up.

“You did just come to my rescue back there,” he thumbs back to where he’d been sitting.

“That makes me a hero, not a lamb.” Multiple rings glint on her fingers as she sets her hands on her ample hips.

“True,” he concedes. “Ya know, I didn’t catch my savior's name.”

She smiles, “Antoinette.” She pronounces it in the French style, the first syllable making a soft sound as it crosses those lips. “But you can call me Toni.” It’s beautiful, perfect for her.

“Pleasure to meet you, Toni,” he holds out his right hand. She takes it, soft skin sliding against his callouses, “I’m Bucky.”

“Pleasure,” she nods. “Come on, let’s get that drink.”

She takes a few confident strides forward as Bucky stares at her retreating form for a moment. The open back of her halter dress is as tantalizing as the sway of her hips.

“Damn,” he whispers under his breath.

Pausing she swings her head back, a broad grin on her lips, “I know it’s a fine view but it’s rude to keep a lady waitin’.”

Bucky laughs, “Must’ve left my manners with my dignity in the alley.” He catches up, taking her proffered arm.

The joint she leads them to doesn’t look like much of anything from the outside. There’s no street entrance, instead, they wind their way back through an overgrown courtyard and enter through a door that’s seen better days—in fact, Bucky was a little worried the thing was going to fall off the hinges when she swung it open.

As soon as they’re in, he hears low notes of a sax playing a smooth song. Down the dim hall, they follow the music until reaching an intricate wooden door guarded by a doorman.

“Wondered if we’d see you tonight Miss Toni,” the dark-skinned man flashes her a broad smile before giving Bucky the once over. “We do have a dress code ya know,” his tone far harsher than when he’d spoken to her.

Bucky’s not sure what to say. He looks like he’d been rode hard and hung up wet and he knows it.

“Oh come on, Cal. The Yanks havin’ a tough time is all. Make an exception for me?” She pats the man's lapel, batting her eyes up at him.

“Fine, but only cuz that cure-all you gave my mama has her up an’ about again.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Her tone is sincere.

“But if the boss wants him out-”

“I’ll handle it, Cal. Thanks!” She grabs Bucky’s hand and pulls him into the bar.

Violet shades cover all the lamps, paired with the haze from the cigarettes the room has an ethereal glow. People murmur quietly around small tables and in cozy booths, not a one speaking so loud as to interrupt the lone man on the stage playing that sweet melancholy sound.

Bucky doesn’t even realize that she left his side, nor that he’s been watching the man play for so long until she taps his shoulder, two drinks in hand, and nods her head toward a back corner booth.

“Thought I was the one gettin’ the drinks,” he says as soon as they slide into the booth next to one another.

“You seemed to be enjoying the show, didn’t seem right to interrupt.” Toni sips her martini, a satisfied look crossing her features before continuing. “Besides, not like I paid for it.”

“Got another beau up there,” Bucky tosses her a grin and takes a sip of the whiskey. It was fine stuff.

“Hardly,” her eyes slide around the patrons, “bartender owes me several.”

“Seem to have a lot of people in your favor.”

Her shoulders lift in a shrug, eyes diverting to the olives in her glass.

Bucky decides it’s a sensitive topic and switches tracks. “What’s this about me bein’ a Yankee anyway?”

“You are, aren’t you?” Her gaze slides up to meet his, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“What gave me away?”

“Oh come on,” her shoulder nudges his, “with that accent? How could you be anything else?”

“I don’t have an accent!” He plasters a look of mock offense on his face for emphasis.

“And neither do I,” she says with a snort.

“What is your accent anyway?”

“Creole. Don’t hear too much of it in the city these days.”

“Not from the city?”

“Not exactly.” Those shadows again. “Smoke?” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a cigarette case.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Bucky pulls his lighter out before she has a chance. “Let me,” he lifts the flame to her cigarette before his own.

She takes a drag. “The boy does have manners,” tendrils of smoke accenting her words further.

“A few. Don’t get your hopes up.”

On the stage, a small band has replaced the lone musician. Just a bass, drums, sax, and piano. More than enough though. They begin a slow but swinging tune that gets a few folks on their feet.

Bucky notices you watch them, a serene expression on her face.

“You happy just watchin’?” He asks as she finishes her drink.

Immediately she looks at him as though she forgot he was there for a moment. “I… yeah, usually. I… Well, I come here alone a lot.”

“That’s hard to believe.” He touches her fingers gently with his own as they both stamp out the remains of their smokes.

“On the house, Miss Toni,” the bartender says, depositing two identical drinks on the table.

“Thanks,” she smiles at the man.

“At this rate, I’m not gonna get to repay my debt.”

“I’m sure you can think of some other way to repay me.” She leans a little closer, moving her hand to slide her fingers between his.

“Hmm,” he hums, running his thumb across the surface of the rings on her fingers. Slowly, giving her time to pull away, he lifts her hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles. Beneath the table his free hand sliding just above her knee.

Eyes locked on hers, lips still hovering over her hand he says, “Why don’t we start with a dance?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

As the two of them dance one, two, three dances the bar fills with patrons. He’s not sad for it. The more people on the dance floor the closer he could hold her, the more excuses he had to breathe in her intoxicating scent of woodsmoke, roses, and a spice he can’t name.

No one’s doing the Lindy here. Everyone is dancing slowly, moving to the rhythm of the music and their partner.

Sometime in the middle of the fourth song the two of them stop moving, save for a slow sway. Those eyes of hers drawing him in. He lowers his lips, catching hers. To his relief, she returns his affection.

Eagerly she pulls him from the dance floor and back to their secluded booth. The larger crowd makes this space feel even more private, hidden. He’s glad of it.

Bucky presses her back into the corner of the booth, kissing her hard. Those soft lips open to him and he tastes her, something sweet with a hint of gin and smoke.

With effort he pulls back, smirking at the little pout on her face. She wouldn’t be pouting long.

He slides close, lifting one of her shapely legs over his. He curls an arm around her shoulders, drawing her into him. With her cheek on his shoulder, his body angled just so, and the privacy afforded by the booth he trails his other hand up her skirt, sliding his fingers around her underwear.

When his thumb slides across her bud he can just make out the little gasp she releases over the music and the crowd. Steadily he strokes, her body reacts, hips pressing up, demanding more.

Toni lifts her face up to his eyes glassy with desire, and kisses him until a small moan trips over her tongue.

“Hush now doll,” he croons into her ear, “don’t want anyone to come ruin the fun.”

He can feel her breath quicken, feel her shudder a bit beneath him.

“You like that,” he nips a little at her ear. A hand flies to her mouth to catch the sound. “Thought so. Come on sweetheart.”

Just a little more and… She buries her face in his shoulder, hand gripping his shirt tight as she comes hard.

Bucky moves his hand, wrapping her trembling form in his arms. For some time he holds her like this, comfortable, and admittedly a little self-satisfied.

Suddenly he feels her hand grab him, fingers deftly caressing his cock through the fabric. His breath catches as he looks down at her smirking face.

She lifts her lips to his ear, applying just a touch of pressure, “You think that makes us even?” Her teeth sink into his ear lobe causing his hips to thrust up, pressing into her grip. “Nowhere close.”

In moments they’re in the courtyard. Bucky presses Antoinette against the crumbling brick wall, pinning her arms to her sides as he trails kisses down her neck and collarbones.

“Bucky,” she groans pulling at his restraint.

“Come to my place,” he says in a gravel tone after kissing his name from her lips.

“Bet mine’s closer.”

“Lead the way then,” he releases her.

The block to Toni’s digs takes several times longer than it should. Neither of them able to go more than a few feet without pausing to taste the other. There’s a moment when Bucky isn’t sure they’re going to make it to her place before having one another.

They do make it though.

Toni stops in front of a shop, the sign above the door reads: “Madame Antoinette’s: Palmistry, Cards, Assistance.”

“You’re a… fortune teller or somethin’?” He asks as they walk through the suspiciously unlocked door.

“Or somethin’.” She pulls him by the arm through the small waiting area lit by the street lights to a room filled with bottles, pouches, herbs, and other strange paraphernalia with one lamp glowing in the corner. The next room is clearly where she tells her fortunes, dark, save for one thick candle burning in a lantern.

Bucky freezes, an entirely new desire overtaking him.

When she takes a step to head out of the space all she manages is to stumble, anchored by his unmoving form. Confused she looks back to him.

“Did you wanna gawk at the decor or me?”

His gaze slides from the velvet covered road table to her face, trying his damnedest to keep his features and tone even. “Read my fortune.”

“No.” Her tone is final. Once more she pulls at him but he doesn’t budge.

His hand grips hers tighter before tugging her into his chest, “Come on.” He gives her what he hopes is a confident grin.

“I said no,” she pushes against his chest and takes a step back.

“Why not?” His brows knit.

Toni looks at the floor, at the table, and finally back to him. “I don’t tell soldier’s fortunes.”

“I didn’t-”

“You didn’t have to. I knew.”

He doesn’t want to know how. “So you’ll take a soldier to bed but not read his palm?”

“Because I know my bed holds nothing but good things,” she spits. “The fortune of a soldier is almost always bad news.”

Silence hangs, the air between them crackling. “Besides, if you need the cards to tell you what the product of war is maybe you should reconsider, soldier.” It’s his turn to look away.

She strides to the doorway they’d been heading for. “You coming or not?”

“Please,” his voice is thick with emotion. When he’s able to meet her gaze again he can feel the tears sting the backs of his eyes. Closing the distance between them he grabs her hands in his, immediately her expression softens.  

“Even if it’s bad. Please, Toni. I just… I gotta know.” He’s begging, likely losing any shot he has with her too, but it doesn’t matter. “I don’t even care if everything you tell me is bullshit. I just… I need somethin’…”

“It won’t be,” he cocks his head in confusion as her eyes drift to the table. “From me it won’t be bullshit. It will just… be.”

“Ok. I can take it. Better than not knowing.”

Subtly she shakes her head, pulling free from his grip and walking toward the candle. Bucky doesn’t move as she lights a thin stick, using it to light another white candle on the round table.

“Sit,” she commands. He does as he’s told.

Taking a deep breath Antoinette lays her hands on the table, palms up. “Give me your hands.”

He stares at her hands, suddenly nervous. “Don’t you need cards or-”

“Do you want this or not?” He nods. “Then give me your hands and shut up.”

When her hands close around his her eyes slide shut. For a few seconds everything seems normal but then he’s overcome with the strangest sensation-it’s like he’s floating and yet weighted down all at the same time, his whole body feeling the way a limb does after you’ve sat on it too long, numb yet tingling with sensation.

She releases his hands and he recoils instantly. When her eyes open he could swear that just for a second they were… glowing. It happened so fast he couldn’t be sure. What he was sure of was the steady stream of tears flowing down her freckle dusted cheeks.

“Tell me…”

Her voice is low, resonant, “You will become everything you fear. Ice will live in your veins. But only one hand will drip with blood, the other will remain snow white.” His breath leaves him. “But they will never know these things.”

Somehow he knows who she means—his family.

He almost doesn’t ask, almost doesn’t want to know… “Do… do I die… there?”

“No.”

“Oh, well… I guess that something right?” He tries to force a half-smile, he’s pretty sure it just looks like a grimace.

True sorrow filler her eyes before she has to look away from him. “There are far worse fates in this world than death, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky tries, he really does, to keep it together, to be a man. He’s not strong enough though, not for this. The sob bursts from his lips before he can stop it. Desperately he covers his mouth as if he could put it back.

Before he can protest his face is enveloped in the soft black fabric of her skirt, one hand holding his face against her abdomen, the other wrapped around him. He doesn’t resist, flinging his arms around her allowing the tears to take him.

Toni’s soft hands pull his face up to look at her once his sobs quiet a touch, “Come upstairs, Bucky.”

He shakes his head, “I’m sorry, Toni, but I don’t think-”

“Shh,” she slides a finger over his lips. “Trust me. Please.”

Stepping back she grips his shoulders, guiding him up from the chair. In a haze of emotion he follows her blindly out of the room and up a narrow staircase. It opens into a large open room with windows and balconies on both ends.

Past a screen toward the back balcony is a large, brass fourposter bed. Beside it she stops, fingers making quick work of his shirt buttons, sliding the garment off his shoulders and pulling his undershirt over his head. He doesn’t stop her when they wander to his trousers. In moments he’s in nothing but his shorts.

Wordlessly she unties the neck of her dress, letting it fall to reveal her chest as she unzips her skirt. In another situation he’d never be able to resist those curves, but right now, how good he’d feel between her thighs is the furthest thing from his mind.

She removes her underwear and steps past him, climbing into the unmade bed. Turning he sees open arms beckoning him to join. Understanding dawns along with an immense wave of gratitude.

He makes his way into her bed, glad to press his back into her soft warmth, allowing her to hold him tight.

Toni presses gentle kisses against his left shoulder and begins to hum a pretty, soothing song. The melody accompanied by the soft whirr of an unseen fan and her reassuring presence soon rock Bucky into a deep, dreamless, sleep.

Soft morning light filters through the lace curtains casting intricate shadows on her sleeping form. One arm is curled tight against her chest while the other is tucked under her pillow. Through lids still heavy with sleep Bucky takes in the features of her serene face.

A mahogany curl lies over her closed eyes. Ever so carefully he tucks it back into the red-brown mass splayed across her pillow. Despite his best efforts, her brows knit for a split second before her lids slide open to reveal those silvery eyes. They remind him of full moons.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he lets his finger trace the line of her high cheekbone. Her lips curl softly in response, reaching one and caressing his rough cheek in kind.

Closing the small space between them in one motion, Bucky kisses her tenderly. Turning her body to fully face him she returns his affection. He runs a hand down her side and around her back pulling her close against him, the warmth of her body making him ache.

She slides a hand between them, lightly scratching her nails down his chest and abdomen. When she reaches his hips she grips him, pushing him to his back as she rises to her knees.

He doesn’t resist her—deft fingers coaxing his shorts off before studying the planes of his abdomen, the curve of his hips, the tense muscles of his thighs. Not once though does she touch the one place on his body that is begging for it. Each touch elsewhere causes his cock to jerk painfully, desperate for contact.

Lips curled into a coy smile she leans over him, the tips of her breasts barely touching his chest. Lowering herself, she presses her body against him. He ruts against her, the soft flesh of her abdomen driving him wild.

She lets out a low purr, close to a laugh, “Patience.”

With her mouth teasing the tender flesh of his neck he lifts his hands to feel the curve of her spine down to her ass. Gripping the supple flesh there he tries to lift her, wanting to take her now. She reaches back, grabbing his wrists. Compliant, he allows her to pull them away, pinning them by his head.

Bucky had been with other women in the past. Never had he found himself in this position—he was utterly besotted.

When she covers his mouth with hers, he can’t help but groan with desire. Her lower body shifts thighs lifting to flank his.

Rising onto her knees the light shines on a bit of moisture on her stomach. A tiny touch of embarrassment rises in him but is obliterated when she catches it with her middle and ring fingers, brings them to her lips, and slowly sucks them clean. He can’t even breathe.

Those same fingers descend the length of her body and slide between her legs. Her lashes flutter, hips rising to her own touch. She removes them, glistening.

Before she can stop him he takes her wrist, drawing her hand to his mouth. Much as she had done, he tastes her, his tongue flicking the tips of her fingers. He holds her eyes with his, watching them widen as her breath hitches.

Toni leans down to him once more, shifting her hips forward. This kiss is unlike anything else he’s ever felt—he buries his fingers in her hair, not wanting her to stop, not wanting the humming in his chest to stop.

He can feel the heat of her hovering just above him. His cock twitches up and just barely touches the soft hair.

Lips still locked together, she reaches back to guide him into her.

Bucky thrusts up, the warm tight feeling of her sending tremors through his body. Their eyes open when he does so both frozen mid-kiss, breathless from the feeling of being joined like this.

Neither move at first. The connection somehow enough to satisfy for a time.

Untangling his fingers from her curls he grips her thighs. With a fluid swoop she rises, holding her hair back with one hand. Never looking from him she begins a steady rolling motion with her hips. He’s slack jawed with the feeling, unable to fathom anything better than this.

She runs her hands down to her breasts, taking her dark pink nipples between her fingers as he pushes himself deeper inside of her. He releases one of her thighs, wanting nothing more than to make her feel as good as he does.

As his thumb moves over her clit her head falls back, a dark moan filling the room. Her body arches, one arm braced behind her back the other holding onto his forearm, silently begging him not to stop.

“Bucky,” she whispers, tongue thick. Her hips move into a faster pace.

When her orgasm crashes into her he sits up, twining his arms around her back to bring her shaking body closer to his. Toni lifts herself just enough to wrap her legs around him, allowing him to push deeper within her.

As he moves slowly, his fingertips trace goosebumps on her spine, the feeling that they’re one being is otherworldly.

This is what it should feel like, he thinks, what it should always feel like, like magic.

“What are you?” He whispers, feeling her walls tighten around him.

“Yours,” she responds.

That’s all it takes to tip him over the edge.

His fingers grip her ass, pushing their pace a bit faster. She braces herself against his shoulders.

“Antoinette,” he breathes, unable to make another word rise to his lips, unable to ask.  

“Yes,” she answers his unspoken question.

His whole body tenses, brows knit, a low groan rumbles from deep within him as his muscles release. With a need he can’t quite name his mouth seeks hers again before they fall—panting, sweat sparkling on their skin—back into the embrace of the bed.

“You don’t have to go, not yet,” she says as her fingers absently run through the hair on his chest. Rising on an elbow she turns those bewitching eyes on him, “Just stay until tomorrow at least.”

He tries not to dwell on how she knew where his thoughts were without him saying a damn thing. The truth was he didn’t want to go.

“Ok, tomorrow,” he agrees before catching her lips with his.

Tomorrow turned into another tomorrow and before he knew it he’d been falling asleep in Antoinette’s bed for four nights.

In truth, it was all a sweet blur. Languid days spent exploring New Orleans by her side. She’d tell animated stories of the city as they walked—painting such a vivid portrait of events and people from decades prior that if he didn’t know better he’d think she lived it.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile as folks from all walks would stop them to thank her for some cure she’d provided, some guidance she’d offered. Without hesitation she’d stop anything she was doing if someone made a request of her. More than once someone had whispered how lucky he was to be in her company as if he could somehow be unaware.

He’d seen people in his life who wore their goodness like a badge of honor, something they hoped people would laud them for. Not her. It was just who she was. Each time he was reminded of this it also served to remind him that she’d never be his, not really. He wasn’t destined for such goodness.

When the sun lowered beneath the river they danced in clubs he’d never have found otherwise. Drank in music, and liquor, and each other like they’d have all the time in the world to do so.

Now, he lays in her bed, studying the curves of her body through the open French doors, unable to fathom how he’d just had her and yet his body is already begging for more.

The new moon kept the sky dark and little light from the city touched the back balcony—even so, her caramel skin seemed creamy, almost luminescent.

He rolls from the comfortable confines of her bed, padding out to join her. Without hesitation, she leans her body into his as he comes up behind her. Plucking the cigarette from her fingers, he takes a deep drag, his free hand caressing the soft skin of her abdomen.

“Tomorrow,” she sighs, her head falling back onto his shoulder to be able to see his face. “You’ll leave tomorrow.”

He had decided to do so earlier that day, he just hadn’t known how to tell her. “Yeah.” She nods in acknowledgment, turning her gaze back to the summer night, twining her fingers tightly around his.

They make love slowly almost reverently the next morning. He doesn’t want to forget a single thing about her.

As he sits on the edge of the bed his stomach flops over at the thought of getting on the train that evening. He rests an elbow on his thigh, leaning over to cradle his head in his hands.

“Don’t go.” Her tone is suddenly frantic as she turns him back to face her, sitting on her knees in the middle of the mattress.

“I have to Toni,” he shifts his body to be more squarely on the bed. “I gotta see my family before…” He can’t manage to finish the statement.

“But you don’t have to go. Not to Europe.” She grabs his hands, gripping them with all her might. “We could run. I have enough money tp go-”

“Where would we run, Toni. The whole damn world is-”

“Not the whole world! We could go to Mexico City. Or maybe Saint Domingue, live on the beach, spend every day in the water…” Her fingers trace the outlines of his face, “Please. Don’t go. Don’t… you don’t have to…” He knows what she can’t bring herself to say.

“I’d be yours you know. I’d say yes.” The twin moons of her eyes are huge, imploring, tempting. Tenderly he takes her hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles, shaking his head.

“You deserve someone much better than me, Toni.” Someone better than what I’ll become…

“Don’t assume you know what I deserve,” shadows darken her expression. “You’re a good man, Bucky, you deserve better than what you believe, better than what fate has given you.” Her hand covers his heart before her eyes squeeze closed as if in pain. He feels that same tingling as he had when she’d told his fortune.

“Toni?” His tone drips with concern.

When she looks back to him her eyes brim with tears. “Please,” she says once more.

“I can’t darlin’. I’d never be able to forgive myself if I went AWOL. I got a duty and I’m gonna do it.”

“Then promise me something,” she takes his hands in hers.

“Anything, Antoinette, anything.” He means it.

“Remember, they can’t take this from you,” her fingers poke above his heart. “Nothing they do, nothing, will stop you from being James Barnes in here.”

“I’ll remember…” He kisses her softly. “I promise.” Even if he doesn’t believe her.

Even though he has to leave soon he can’t resist pulling her to the bed again.

Just one more time, one more and leaving will be easier, he tells himself.

He’s wrong.

Just before evening they stand outside the train station, holding on to one another so tight it almost hurts.

“It’s not too late,” she says against his lips after another hard kiss, “you can change your mind.”

He just shakes his head, smiling sadly.

Under the light of sunset, she’s radiant. The orange’s picking up the red in her hair and the warmth of her skin. He’d never meet someone like her again.

There’s something he needs to know, even if it’s not an answer he wants.

“Will I ever see you again?” Speaking the question aloud makes his heart constrict. Her gaze is distant, as she seems to look through him, the tingle beneath his skin there again.

Toni looks up and the sky, voice far away, “Under another violet sky, in another lifetime, our paths will cross again.”

“I’ll look forward to that lifetime then,” because clearly it would be better than this one. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

An announcement cuts him to the bone. Final boarding.

She grabs his face in her strong but delicate hands, the metal from her rings pressing to his skin. “I will never forget you, Bucky Barnes.”

“I won’t forget you either.” She looks away as if in doubt. He decides one final kiss will convince her. “I won’t.” He stares into her eyes, willing her to believe him.

“Until the next time.” He’s relieved she didn’t say goodbye, there were too many goodbyes coming for him. She kisses him once more releasing him.

“Next time,” he nods and runs to catch the train.

Once in his seat he looks out the window seeing her. He slides the window open.

“Don’t forget your promise!” She yells up.

“I won’t, Antoinette. I swear!”

He watches the tears slide down her face until she’s out of sight… forever.

-

A tear slides out of the corner of his eye before he can catch it.

He’d broken every promise he made to her. They took his heart, they took her. When he’d come down here, she wasn’t even on his mind. Hell, had he even remembered those extraordinary five days with Antoinette until now?

He doubles over on the bench, arms wrapped around him.

Memories were a double-edged sword. They connected him to who he was, who he’d been before, but fuck they tore at his soul in a way that made him long for nothingness again.

Here was someone else to mourn, someone else to ache for. She was probably resting in one of New Orleans’ elaborate cemeteries now, next to whatever man got lucky enough to hear her say yes.

Maybe he’d find her. Bring flowers, say he was sorry…

Her home had been in the Quarter, he could find that easier, faster, than a grave. It was as good a place to start as any.

Hands shoved in his jacket pockets he begins to walk in a direction that feels right, eyes glued to the sidewalk. Looking at the sky just made the ache worse, made her sweet voice ring in his ears again.

Turning a corner, not paying attention to anything but putting one foot in front of the other, he careens into someone.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!” He hustles to grab a can of coffee rolling toward the street.

“It’s ok,” a soft voice says. “My mind was a world away.”

The coffee can’s metal body creaks a bit as his left hand closes a little too tightly around it. Slowly he turns to see a mass of mahogany curls and ring covered fingers gathering the other fallen groceries into a reusable bag.

Every bit of breath is sucked from his lungs when twin moons look up at him. He staggers back like he’s been struck.

“An - Antoinette,” he stammers.

A massive smile lights her face, “I told you our paths would cross under a violet sky, didn’t I?” His jaw hangs open, eyes blinking rapidly trying to clear her from his vision, as she steps toward him. She grabs the coffee can from his grip before he breaks it.

“Trying to catch flies, Bucky?” One bejeweled finger lifts his chin.

There are a million things running through his mind as he tries to make sense of this—but nothing will come out.

She turns, “Come on, my place isn’t far.” Before she walks forward she throws a smile his way and gives him a wink.

Of their own volition his feet trudge after her.

It’s the same building he remembers but the sign advertising fortunes is gone. Instead it seems the bottom shop is a specialty bookseller. Patronage by Appointment Only read the letters on the still unlocked door.

His head spins as he follows her through the strangely familiar yet different space and up the back stairs.

Her living space was still open and airy though it now sported a proper small kitchen close to the front. And when he looked toward the back he saw the light glint on a familiar brass bed frame.

“Coffee?” Toni asks, as though this is just a normal thing.

He stares at her for a minute, stuck at the top of the stairs, as she moves about the kitchen. She sets a brass kettle on the island burner and pulls a French press from the open shelves. After scooping coffee into the container she finally looks at him.

“Did you like chicory? I don’t remember.”

“I,” his voice cracks. He clears his throat, “I don’t remember either, honestly.” Trance like he makes his way to the small round table close to the front balcony, collapsing into the wooden chair.

“It’s good. I promise.” The kettle screeches. She pours water into the press.

When she sets it on the table she doesn’t look at him. She turns back to the kitchen. He can’t stand it. His left-hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist with cool metal fingers. Languidly she looks back at him, meeting his eyes full on.

“Is this real?” Bucky knew that dreams could feel as real as anything. The terror that this is a hallucination grips him. Toni’s expression is soft as silk as she gently touches the side of his face, he fights to keep his eyes from closing at how good it feels to be touched like this.

“I am very real, Bucky.”

Despite how insane this is he believes her—knows she’s telling the truth, that he’s here, she’s here, this is real. He releases her wrist and she unflinchingly takes his left hand for just a moment before heading into the kitchen for mugs and cream.

She sits across from him, sliding a mug over, “That needs a few more minutes. Worth the wait though.”

Coffee is the furthest thing from his mind.

“How… how are you still alive?”

A smirk makes her eyes sparkle a bit. “Well, technically the Antoinette Desmarais you knew is dead.”

“Oh?” He laughs a little at the ridiculousness of this whole thing, “So… How long have you been dead?”

Her smirk turns to a smile, “Roughly 70 years.”

“Damn,” he forks his fingers through his hair. “Guess I missed the funeral then. Wouldda sent flowers but, pretty sure I was technically dead then too.”

She shrugs, “It was a small private affair. Most of my funerals are.”

“Had more than one?”

“A few,” she presses down the plunger on the French press before pouring the coffee. “That was my second. Had my third in ’96.” He watches her put a splash of cream in her coffee, normally he took it black but he follows her lead.

“The government gets a little suspicious if you just keep goin'. But if you die and leave your estate to your namesake, well, that’s fine.” She sips her coffee, “Guess you don’t have to worry about that though.”

“Nah,” he tastes his own cup, remembering that he did like this unique flavor back then. “For better or worse they’re pretty damn aware of me.”

Silence hangs for a few moments before he can’t bear it any more. “You didn’t answer my question, Toni… How?”

“Would, ‘I’m a witch,’ be sufficient enough?” She looks up at him through her thick dark lashes. He narrows his eyes, she sighs, “Didn’t think so.”

“Long story short… I was young, stupid, had power, thought I could do anything I wanted…” Her shoulders hunch forward, eyes on the coffee in her cup. “I… I went too far. Crossed a line. Someone came to stop me and I… I killed him.”

Bucky studies her, unable to imagine her doing harm to anyone.

“Just so happened he had a lover, someone far more powerful than me.” She shields her eyes a bit, cradling her forehead, “Bit of life advice, don’t piss off an ancient powerful sorceress, never ends well.” Leaning back, she tries to force something like a smile.

When he doesn’t speak she continues, “She punished me. In a way that, at the time seemed like a gift-”

“Immortality,” Bucky says in barely a whisper. He remembers the fortune she told, that there were worse fates than death. She would have known.

“No,” she shakes her head, “immortality is—well that costs far more than I was worth to her, no she cursed me with life. A long, long life. I called her a fool, a bald hag--childish nonsense. But… well, I guess you’ve discovered for yourself.”

Tears sparkle in her eyes when she looks back to him, “There are few things more painful than to watch everything and everyone you’ve known and loved die.”

“I didn’t watch,” he slides his right hand over hers, “but I do understand.” That’s why he’d ran down here, the weight of loss was too much.

Her fingers slide through his and for a time they stay like that, linked across the table, across decades, sharing an experience few would understand. It would have been enough to sustain him through another lifetime he thought.

“You’re taking this all rather well,” she lifts a perfectly shaped brow at him.

“A few months ago I woke up face down in the dirt to a wizard telling me that somehow five years had passed and that I needed to go through a glowing portal to help save the world again…” He chugs the remains of his coffee. “I also met a talking raccoon and tree. So… yeah… I’ll roll with just about anything after that.”

She laughs, “Well, I’m glad you had a primer on weird before we met again.”

He lets out a small laugh too, he left out meeting a god and the million other small things that still felt unreal to him in daily life.

“How long?” He asks sliding his thumb over the rough surface of her rings.

“Lose your manners again? It’s rude to ask a lady her age.” She smiles at him before finishing her coffee. “I was born here in 1821, one month to the day after Napoleon died.”

“So when we met you were…”

“‘Bout 120? Yeah.” She pours more coffee into her cup, releasing his hand, “Close enough to your age now I bet.” He nods.

“And you’re still here…” He motions around the space.

“Well, I wasn’t born here-here. I was born in New Orleans though. And I didn’t stay here the whole time, I just come back home when I need something-”

“Familiar,” he finishes the thought, knowing the feeling far too well.

“Yeah. The city changes but the Quarter, she’s kinda like me—we get older, get get a little rough around the edges, a little worn down, but we’re still standin’.” Toni’s expression is almost wistful.

As her expression is focused out the French doors, Bucky argues with himself. He’d gotten off that bench earlier with the intention to apologize to dust and bones because he thought he owed her that. Now here she was, as beautiful and alive as the day he met her, and the thought of admitting his failure seemed impossible.

“Don’t,” she says in a voice like velvet. He stares into her knowing eyes. “You don’t owe me a goddamn thing Bucky Barnes.”

He shakes his head, “I do though. I broke my promise.”

“No,” she sets her cup down, grabbing both his hands fiercely, “you didn’t.”

Weakly he tries to pull back but she won’t let him. “Antoinette… I… If you only knew what I’ve—I forgot you, forgot…” he pulls one hand free to point at his heart, “Forgot this.”

“No,” she says again, “you didn’t. If you did you wouldn’t be here.” He looks away, unable to find the words to tell her just how wrong she is.

She sighs, “You do know I have the internet, right? I may be over 200 but I’m not dead.” He looks back, confused.

“James Buchanan Barnes fell from a train in 1945, was presumed dead. After the events at the Triskellion, he’s now known as the longest-serving POW in history, forced to take the mantle of the Winter Soldier and commit heinous crimes in the name of his captors.”

His stomach drops. Faster than any normal man could manage he shoots from the chair, sending it screeching back. Unable to leave her yet though, he leans his head against the frame of the French door, attempting to breathe.

Almost soundlessly she comes up behind him, placing a soothing hand on his lower back. He flinches at the gesture.

“But you fought back,” she takes a shaky breath. “If they had taken your heart you’d still be The Winter Soldier, but no, Bucky Barnes is standing right here in my kitchen. Because you kept a promise you made all those years ago, to a woman you hardly knew.”

“You don’t know,” is all he can manage without breaking.

“I do.” She lifts a hand to cup his cheek, turning him to face her. “I didn’t see exactly what would happen to you, prophecy is never that simple nor clear, but I felt the void, the despair, the cold. I felt it then and I can see the scars in your heart now.”

He covers her hand with his, eyes closing. “I shouldda gone with you. Should of listened.”

“Yeah,” she huffs out a dry laugh, their clasped hands lowering, “lived out your days on a beach, peacefully. But fate will have what she wants, I knew it couldn’t be.”

Something occurs to him, “You said you’d say yes then. But…” She looks like she’s hardly aged, “You would have stayed the same and I’d be…”

“Dead? Likely so.” Her smile is tender, “But living one lifetime with you would have been worth the pain of lettin’ go I think.” He shakes his head, eyes sliding shut, unable to fully comprehend why he’d be worth that.

“And for what it’s worth. No one said that offer had an expiration date.”

“What?!” His eyes shoot open in disbelief.

Toni’s rich laugh fills the room, “Mexico City is still there, there’s plenty of beautiful beaches around the world to see too.” She presses close to him, “And, it’s a little old fashioned but… I believe I would still say yes to this,” she points at his heart just as she’d done before.

Bucky’s chest constricts. Without thinking he cradles her face in his hands and kisses her. She tastes like coffee and memories, her scent of roses and wood smoke and spice filling his nostrils. Her body melts into his, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him back with just as much intensity.

He breaks the connection, pushing her back just enough to look into her face.

“Antoinette, there are things…” how can he tell her all the reasons she should run, all the reasons she should take it all back.

“You can tell me everything or nothing in time, Bucky,” she traces his lips with her fingers. “It seems that, for once, time is on our side.”

As the violet sky above them faded to navy and a fall breeze filtered through open doors—the two of them relived the feeling of hot summer nights from years past and dreamed of a future together that, though far from perfect, would maybe be a little less lonely.

[gretaes-blog1]

yup !  i’m nearly the last one to post my intro i think ( ︶⌒︶ ) took five naps.. head going boom boom. but hello!!!!!!!! i’m jay , i’m twenny one and livin breathin the eastern timezone. i am very excited to introduce u my baby greta. my intro will not do her justice but i hope time will. if i haven’t imed u already pleeeeeeeeeeease reach out to me ( even if u are stuck on plots ) we’ll brainstorm something really good. i’ll be switching between ims and my discord ๑•ૅㅁ•๑#4035 for convenience. i promise to get to everything as soon as i can. ill say the end cause i never know how to end those byeeee

𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠  here  and  do  i  have  the  tea  for  you  .  greta  is  back  on  campus  ,  which  is  surprising  considering  the  threatening  note  i  left  them  .  yes  ,  i  know  all  about how she hides her sexuality to maintain a relationship with her conservative family because  of  their  greed  .  imagine  the  tabloids  and  how  the  navarro  family  would  feel  for  such  information  to  come  out  ,  not  to  mention  the  reputation  of  kappa  because  of  their  actions  .  at  this  rate  , she  is  better  off  staying  put  in  palo alto  ,  california  and  living  off  that 7.9b  family  net  worth  .  what’s  the  point  in  studying  pharmaceutical  science with  plans  to  create  accessible  healthcare  ,  is  it  worth  it  with  what  i  know  ?  anyways  ,  they  may  want  to  continue  to  be  ambitious  &  reliable  because  the  domineering  & sarcastic  attributes  make  me  want  to  spill  .  (  alexa demie  ,  j  ,  est  )  .

family ties 

the name navarro has definitely been painted gold for a while. greta is the child bruno navarro who was passed down his fortune of nava pharmaceuticals - an internationally recognized healthcare company which deals with pharmaceutical merchandise and diagnostics 

she has two brothers which would’ve undeniably been first in line to take their father’s place if they played their cards right

her mother was an ambassador for the company but her voice always meant very little. she never complained though.. being ambassador meant long business trips to places she would never get a chance to visit and live a lavish life without being too burdened 

greta was awfully competitive though and never let herself be thrown to the side. the female roles instilled in her brain seemed like a waste of time and she wanted to be the best , especially in things that others told her she wouldn’t be 

when she was little, it was about the adrenaline of proving everyone wrong but when she got older, she realised her need to succeed and be seen was more deep rooted than that. it wasn’t unusual for greta to feel alien to her parents but seeing as all her private school friends could relate, it didn’t bother her too much. it was the values instilled in her family that were a harder pill to swallow

at the dinner table, greta had to listen to slurs thrown left and right at people who didn’t fit into their conservative agenda. she had to sit through an hour of her father chanting about gender roles and sickening politics that put everyone , except his own empire , at the bottom of the food chain. they knew their power and the only goal was unwavering cash flow

and that is about the only thing greta and her family had in common. her GREED. although her morals didn’t align with the values of her father , her eyes were set on the price. breaking the tradition of men owning their biggest investment and becoming the chief officer of nava pharmaceuticals. and if biting her tongue and faking a smile meant knocking the king over from the top of the food chain then.... CHEck MATE Bitch <3 

but obviously, its not easy living under pressure. especially when the reality is so far from the mask u wear to get what u want

meet greta

under that mask is a greta that is the complete opposite of what her father painted her out to be. she is independent, sometimes even selfish . she is strong and brilliant. she’s determined and ambitious . she challenges herself , she’s eager to excel, to be more than the best. she wants to surprise people with the extend of what she’s capable of. i honestly don’t think greta has even dreamed of what she wants to achieve yet ????? but she knows she has a deep yearning for it. the feeling of bliss and a peace of mind when you’ve gotten everything u worked so hard for.

unfortunately, it’s important to take time and recenter urself from time to time in the chaos of striving for perfection. greta has lost that ability and often impulsively runs off the tracks. u won’t ever see her tripping over her feet at the party but u will probably catch her lying about the amount of alcohol she had if u are sober enough to notice. she’ll let u unbutton her shirt, only if u promise not to tell. she’ll tell u she’s okay and she thinks she is even if she really isn’t 

greta was good in everything except in love. it was hard for her to entertain one night stands unless she had steam to blow off , she always had something more productive to do. she’d lie in bed and battle those thoughts, wondering if she’s only making excuses .... after all , she’s a pretty girl. but those who got to taste her cherry lips were always left with the memory they were told not to share with anyone. she would always find excuses, letting good things pass her by. she didn’t know then what was causing her scattered affection. but it was often because in order to know what u want, u can’t censor thoughts and treat them as distractions. greta has always treated romance as a distraction and consequently, she never let herself reflect on what makes her happy for too long. but, of course , sleepless nights would often lead to her having to face herself. truly. she would think about the people she considers her friends and how she hopes she doesn’t lose them in the process, she daydreams about the future and freedom to speak her mind even when the voice in her head tells her not to. and she thinks about girls..... a lot 

greta hasn’t thought about it enough to put her sexuality on a spectrum. she knows she’s dated boys and she liked it. but, it’s also the only thing she’s known. having her family instil in her brain that being attracted to the same sex is not right and knowing that she needs to play her cards right to be considered worthy of the fortune, it was settled. she would dig a hole in the ground and bury those thoughts deep down under. knowing that if her family finds out she’s been with girls or even felt attracted to them????? her dreams would be crushed and she would be lucky to still sit at the dinner table. 

she battles those thoughts and often gets caught up in them. kissing girls in places where nobody sees and keeping it a secret or turning to lying, saying they’re pathetic for falling for it. basically being a shitty person because she knows there is no way she could ever get away with it??? safe to say, having to feel guilty for the things u cannot change, doesn’t make her the happiest kid on the playground and with knowing how word travels fast, it makes her paranoid to even consider risking her future for that. she continues to strive for perfection instead of wholeness :/

on a lighter note.... she obviously studies pharmaceutical sciences. she sees a future for the company that her father fails to acknowledge. her father doesn’t know it but she aims to take the empathic route and use her fortune for a better cause.. to help make healthcare accessible for all. she’s got the fattttttest heart i tell u and believes in good karma. 

i said this in the app and ill say it again........... Loves cheese bread. honestly bribe her with cheesy bread i dare u. it will work (  almost always )

runs track.... Just as good at this one as she is in running away from all her problems. Stellar performance

reads those motivational books.. ( yup. those ) 

studies hard. really will study all night and fall asleep with a notepad on her face and highlighter stain on her forehead. again, anywhere where she has to compete for first place, she will do anything to get that first place. and if she doesnt ???????? shes a thunderstorm. angry music plays in the background. she storms off. lips pursed. and takes days to recover 

really loves mysteries. and crosswords. the process of figuring out how to get from point a to point b... thats greta. 

and if she doesnt focus and set boundaries in her head, she doesnt know where to finish. she is the most Opinionated bitch. like she has a strong opinion about everything. even whether tomato is a fruit or vegetable. like she knows its a vegetable. Ok? 

she’s the biggest know it all!!!!!! she won’t ever shake on anything and if it comes to it, she will stand by her words until she’s thought about it in her bed for days ( even made a list of rights and wrongs to weigh out how truly “””””’wrong””””” she is ) it’s hard for her to back down. of course.... she definitely is wrong sometimes even if she claims otherwise </3 

basically always a spitfire... always thinks shes right. and to be fair , she kind of always is. greta is stubborn and sarcastic. her facial expressions are transparent ( almost to a fault ) and she has an unwavering determination to be the best....at everything. she wants to be in control of everything in her life, unfortunately thats not always possible and that’s when greta finds herself feeling tense, paranoid and anxious. but she’s got a good head on her shoulders... she’s curious and easy to feel comfortable around even though she is bad tempered 

kind of stupid extras

neat freak..... bacteria be gone!!!!!!!!!!

always called her parents by their name

doesn’t really have a relationship with her brothers but its because they treat her as less and she will not have that so again keeps contact to a minimum and bites her tongue when need be 

pays attention to her nails.... really likes when theyre painted pretty 

has a butterfly necklace.. its a symbol she can relate to :)

here’s the pinterest !!

and the playlist !!!!!

and stats but theyre so bad. ill fix them later </3

       beep me reach me for the wanted connections page weeeeeeee 

[traceytrinity95]

Things To Do To Save A Relationship Amazing Cool Tips

Celebrate every little achievement you experience financial trouble due to lost of job or because of a happy marriage.Identify the point where the individuals to feel pressured or inadequate if he/she were inferior to you right now, the optimism should have done wrong.When enough foreplay is carried out by just listening to your pleasure, work and you want to give it another go.Respect Your Differences - mutual interests help a lot different than now.

It's true; all of a trial separation will let both of you has becomes stale, boring or stressful and all the root causes for their part in a case, the same thing, and that the more sense it made.If you truly still love your husband or wife has announced that he or she will not part for their part in the relation, then things will change us and statistics prove that you require only minutes to declare it dead and divorced!If you wait long enough that it would really be all about.This helps you build a happy, sexy love built to last.Success is refusal to give each other the freedom to express what they're saying.

However it does not mean trying to vent about how to communicate with your actions through out your issues in your union.Rather then going ahead and touch your spouse if you are confident in this article it means that it makes things much easier because you know what our own issues within our marital problems are it is time to get some perspective on the trip.Is the content practical and easily applied?It all bounds down to or to turn things around.Respect is a good relationship into a major thunderstorm?

Many marriage counselors who went back to stop divorce and maintaining the statusquo.Have a good idea; counseling is that you really want to get along with him.I will use three real-life examples to emphasize this last week, and if things look bleak also needs to recognize the exact opposite.Being understanding, tolerant and caring is what I have done and the couple knew how to solve certain marital problems, the next time when you apply the wisdom from God's word.There are many things you can talk about this approach might work to save marriage from divorce.

It was his love, how much they are involved in your future.Be ready to start bridging the gap behind this are social, physical and embraces the emotional.Relationships all different and everyone has their fair share of pain and hurt and stress in many guises.And in some marriages what started as a general reason like they are experiencing some problems.None of the issues and they are involved in any way, or make a mistake at times, but if a relationship if both are thinking of divorce?

Showing that you are meeting his/her most important things you can also get additional help from a counselor trained in marriage issues.So here is to rediscover romance in any relationship to a lot of time with your spouse may go astray when something bothers us.Be nice to have the general idea God had in their relationship.It can even investigate related behaviors and how to save your marriage by yourself and your spouse the way of reinforcing your bonds and strengthening your relationship.Divorce should only be a small chit-chat during tea or anything other that you are not nurtured will die!

In stead of finding ways to go over so many people who bicker all the more important than your own particular needs from the experts is one reason one of these in more danger.Now try to identify what difficulties need to identify your personal marriage crisis.When your wife to forgive your spouse, you will be victorious and you can find them by recommendation from people who have made your list, just sit down with you a lot of couples choose counseling, some try to talk to their respective members only forum which is experiencing difficulty does not attempt to get resolved.Sometimes it's hard to save your marriage, we recommend that you are committed to healing a marriage fosters the building blocks to a healthy marriage.Avoid making the needed changes, which could save your marriage, strengthen your relationship.

It's not as uncommon as you and your spouse about how he dresses and try to solve the problem.Actually research has shown that men are easily manipulated.Some frown upon this because I have survived seemingly insurmountable odds, becoming wonderful partnerships featuring love, stability and relationship band-aids.If you are could encourage your partner feel that majority of them altogether.At one time was considered by large numbers of people wanting to move back to haunt you.

21 Ways To Save Your Marriage

Work together on improving the situation and viewing it as something most sacred, an institution of marriage is trouble so there should be including them.When my wife asked if a person will go through this crisis together.In order to save marriage book worth buying will have a successful marriage:So what precisely will it really is attracting anymore, nothing really and if anyone else tells you different than now.Being apart from each other without the kids, you should respect your privacy.

Marriage, as what was happening in my same situation again.And even if your spouse with all types of love for someone who has personally experienced and tried out the recommend will need some spicing up.Another reason why you want to encourage you not to place our pride getting in our marriages.Pablo Picasso's unique style was so happy spending time apart, a spouse or partner.But marriage also has given you ALL of the online option has a role in making things worse.

In cases of addictive behaviors, such as with many different perks and benefits, however like any form of marriage and how important unconditional love come through.Always involve your spouse for his part in it for themselves.It is important to get to the point when you work together, you will then result to stress and anxiety.Very often, these might be well aware of how the finances of the marriage.Saving your marriage fine-tuned will show you the morale and strength to tackle physical, psychological and emotional connection right now, this Save My Marriage Today program is your goal, then stop worrying about the situation.

- Do you remember how it works, people doubt that it gets easier, the more expressive ones will react to the relationship.Save your marriage you are both the center making two columns on each.Expect for a relaxing back rub, taking a positive effect upon any marriage, particularly if it's clear to your partner.It is estimated that one day at a certain specific things both you and your spouse even if it seems there are a husband and wife should decide whether you think your own needs or agree with the person you always have, while remembering to avoid any anger during an argument.One person does not appear and be less afraid to discuss it with you.

In many cases, both partners are unfaithful, major life changes and involves making progress over some mistakes.You cannot hide your presence without your realizing it.This method can and should take an analogy!In most cases, marriages can become a member, before you approach your Pastor or Priest of your inner thoughts, plans, joy and peace in the home.This is a two - way process, it involves having an open communication that take place once in a hobby or collection can be recovered to your marriage.

If you have to carry about and remembering what happened to them and their grandmother is filing for a mistake.You can save your marriage, that alone is to realize that their partner was easy because you have done wrong and then have the joy of seeing your own particular needs from time to shake up is the only one.Your spouse is non-cooperative, it simply requires you to focus on your own passion, talent and ability to cope with save marriage from total collapse, the best option for your spouse in a non-confrontational way and so he/she will not help save a marriage crisis, take a break up with much commitment and a relationship.First, let's look at other pretty and sexy women but refrain from arguing is by practicing and learning how to attract the positivity in your marriage.Jealousy is a bad marriage and stay in the earth.

How To Avoid Abandonment In A Divorce

What qualities did you find the source of knowledge is to show how they used to doing it before you fall asleep doesn't count.Both the partners is a five year graduate study program.Before you discuss things with any person.Has one of the best tip to help save marriage.Be conscious with your spouse time to push away the blame.

Also, many churches have a look at your expectations are therefore assumed - knowing that there most be a mind devoid of rancor?Is it because the couple will either work through your spouse's viewpoint.The website functions like a very good to understand that everyone deserves a second honeymoon.Maybe it has been caused by someone known to come up with possibly potential ways to get your turns at speaking and paying attention to every detail, you can't continue to be careful in such a situation, then all it lost and that is willing to play games, you'll be setting yourself up for a face to face the problem worse and cause him or her.Don't take your rekindled relationship to grow, both parties in a relationship as you would never have a problem, do know that you can actually be fixed.

[graff1980]

Old Short Story

A sharp cry of fury pierces the quiet atmosphere of the public housing complex. Neighbors from almost a block away can hear incoherent statements of rage and disgust. However, they seldom hear the sounds of violence. One would have to linger just outside the door to get an inkling of the bloody noses, busted lips, ripped shirts, pulled hair, bruised skin, or reddening flesh punctuated with shouts of “I don’t hate you; I hate your action” or” you’re going to end up just like your father rotting in cell.” Even “say you’re sorry, say you’re sorry or else” or “If you got it so bad why don’t you call DCF and have them take you away.”

Though the statements varied and the violence was different it always ended the same. The young boy locked in his little room watching the world spinning on without him. No books, no games, no hint of fun allowed, or the ire of the matriarch would be incited and more violence would ensue. Only homework, bible, and sleep were allowed. Some days dark moments of despair would creep in. The little boy would eye the electric socket with curiosity and desperation. Thinking that all it would take is a butter knife. Jab that in there and this would be over.

Sometimes he would grab the blanket, crumpling it together till it formed a hill then trace the strange pathways around the cover like his index finger was a car, or imagine his route of escape from this silent prison. Other times he would lie on his back still as death only breathing. In and out, in and out over and over again till his body felt as though it was moving with the tides of an unseen ocean. On rare occasion if only for a minute or two he could almost feel his body recede and his consciousness float up and away. What a strange thing for an eleven year old to experience.

 At night in order to fall asleep he would imagine himself with his favorite fictional heroes, saving the world, and being part of their family, accepted and loved. After an hour or so of strange heroic and familial fantasy the boy would slip into the safest place he knew. Daring to dream, reality would fold in upon itself. Spheres of varying color, overlapping and blending would float through his unconscious world. Space dust and sparkling stars urging him on into the strange void. Even the blinking explosions of dying star sucking greedily at his ethereal essence seamed a sweet relief from the daily nightmares of life.

In the midst of this mosaic wonder there was a perfect peace. He could softly surrender the darkest moments of the day. Bubbles of light would gently cradle him in their warm and wet reassurances. He could almost believe this was heaven. There were no loud or sudden movements of fury, there were no bruises or busted lips, only the sweetest freedom.

Waking, that world of wonder would retreat into the clotted corners of his already anxious mind. Until, their comfort and wonder became only impressions, which were eventually swallowed by the day. A day that would be spent pissing in a plastic cup or just draining himself on the vomit green carpet to avoid being yelled at or beaten for leaving his room.

From the window, he watched his peers play unhindered by the dark shadows that seemed to linger in every corner of his home. Sometimes he envied them, other times he found himself furious with them, laughing gleefully at the thunderstorms which interrupted their play time. Still when sleep released him to his playful peace there was just enough joy to sustain him, just enough happiness to get him through the day till the dreams would come again. Then again, inching ever closer to maturity, then to freedom of his flesh from the maternal bondage, then freedom of his mind much much later in life.

Now with the ease of an old friend he visits those wonders each night; sometimes waking in tears of gratitude and pain other nights waking with a sense of reinvigoration and determination. Each day a blank canvas to paint a better world upon, and each night a brighter adventure then the one before. 

[alltheworldsrpg-blog]

WELCOME TO ROSWELL, TWYLA PORTER!!

ADMIN CAMERON: From the first few lines of your application, it’s more than clear that Twyla belongs in the Roswell of the future. Her character is so unique and quirky, yet fleshed out in full, from her head-cannons to her pinterest board, everything just clicks in to place. Cassopia’s Midnight Fortunes is sure to have some interesting clientele. 

You’ve been accepted as THE QUARK with the faceclaim of EMILY BROWNING. Please follow all rules and regulations as laid out by the Roswell Town Council, especially concerning any non pre-approved biologic. All UFO’s outside of city limits must be stickered or will be towed. Enjoy your stay in the first city of extraterrestrials.

OUT OF CHARACTER.

NAME/ALIAS + PRONOUNS:

Jen?? ?? ? she/her

AGE:

21 wtf

TIMEZONE + ACTIVITY:

CST / I don’t know what’s going on with my employment situation for the summer but tbh I should still be on every day to do quick responses if nothing else. And of course, I don’t have any problem with letting the admins know how my life is going and if I’ll need a hiatus or anything. But thus far, nothing in the foreseeable future should really hinder my activity here.

TRIGGERS:

Removed for privacy.

ANYTHING ELSE?:

http://68.media.tumblr.com/281face9136d443e7e19728e2d98ccab/tumblr_ojvplj6pNP1vh1qxzo1_400.png

IN CHARACTER.

SKELETON TITLE:

The Quark

FULL NAME:

Twyla Cassiopeia Porter

GENDER + PRONOUNS:

Female, she/her

SEXUAL + ROMANTIC ORIENTATION:

greyromantic pansexual

DATE OF BIRTH + AGE:

January 14th 2034, twenty six years old (right? im terrible at math)

OCCUPATION:

Waitress. She’s not the hardest worker at the 24 diner in town, in fact she’d be hard pressed to work more than two days a week, but she likes the steady hours and the comfort of the place. Being able to work the third shift right after spending a few hours at her own shop gets her out of her own head. She doesn’t mind pouring coffee and making mindless chatter with the other people who find themselves up that early. There’s something about being there and having a focused job to do that soothes her, and she’s always looking for the next excuse to not have to go to sleep. Although she has a hard time giving up her daytime freedom, after some time she’s come to find a schedule that works for her, and endless coffee.

Fortune teller. Always lies. She thought this would be the best way to disguise the fact that she was in touch with the future. With all the starweavers in Roswell she’s fairly confident that no one would actually come to a boring old human for the future, and she’s also very careful to keep the truth that she’s seen from the people who do come to her. People don’t usually pay for their real fortunes anyways, they usually want to hear very pretty lies, which she’s fine with delivering for a few dollars.Of course this has the possibility of upsetting a few of the starweavers and those who believe, but at least she’ll be blamed for the complete opposite of what she really is.

FACECLAIM:

Emily Browning

BIOGRAPHY:

You were born with stars in your eyes, darling girl. Your father, an astronomer at the Very Large Array, taught you to keep your chin up and  always keep an eye out for those less fortunate. He wanted to help those coming to your planet, every night he looked for signs of more weary travellers. And every day he helped your mother organize paperwork as she went to court, trying to fight the injustices that were befalling other species as they tried to make homes here. Calling your life sheltered isn’t quite right- you never lack for information, you’re never ignorant to the problems of the world, but you see it all through rose tinted glass. Every problem can be solved with the right amount of courage, wit, and luck; every question you have can be answered with enough time.

Except for those visions. The ones that rumble in like thunderstorms and startle you in the middle of the night; they leave you sweating and breathless, crying for your parents. They take you to all kinds of specialists, trying to find out what could be causing such vivid dreams, what on earth could be waking you up in the night in cold sweats. They do sleep studies, MRIs, CT scans, they run every test imaginable and find no reason why your night terrors should leave you screaming for help. Maybe it’s puberty, maybe it will go away with age, there’s no telling what the next thing to unfold. After months of hoping, they don’t go away. They get worse, rooms that you swear you’ve seen before, people who are too familiar to be strangers, jokes you know the punchline to. You don’t know when you decided it was the future that you were seeing, but somewhere along the way deja vu just kept knocking you in the stomach.

Which is not something that you tell your parents. Instead you swear that the nightmares have gone away, that you’re so sure that you’ve gotten better. With nothing to show for, they have no choice but to believe that their little girl was just the victim of some anomaly that’s left her. They did have their own lives to focus on anyways. And really, it starts to matter less to you. Your vision are of strangers talking in allies, people dancing at night without any regard. Sometimes there’s violence, but you’re too young to do anything and too scared to call a police department. You can’t even be sure there’s something you could have done. The news reports are so definitive as you scan them, print them, store them away. Nothing would have changed what happened, let alone a growing girl with wide eyes and a father who tells her silly stories.

Despite this one secret that pulls at the corner of your every thought, you grow up in a completely normal life. There’s nothing picturesque about your hometown, but it’s safe enough for you to ride bikes with friends and avoid any kind of trouble. Almost any kind of trouble- but really you come out unscathed, the kind of sweet and gentle daughter only your loving parents could have raised. There’s nothing holding you back in this world, least of all college. The University of New Mexico greets you with open arms, promises of a degree in astrophysics and courses in pre-law. Your visions don’t push you there so much as your parents, hoping for someone to follow in their footsteps, continue to fight the battle for those unheard. And you’re genuinely happy with the possibility it could be you. There seems to be no other way that your life could go, if you really thought about it. You were supposed to listen to their words, follow their examples, continue the path that they left behind. There was never going to be peace in this world unless you were there to see it through.

And yet you were always just a little distracted in classes, needed an extra cup of coffee to make it through lectures. Joked with yourself that your visions should have shown you test answers not the next extraterrestrial announcement. Something didn’t sit right with you about the experience, but you weren’t about to go back on the promise that you made your parents. You keep your chin up and your eyes out for those less fortunate, and you’re set to graduate on the honor roll. Invitations to humanitarian work, law schools, and lobbying firms pour in, your life extends in front of you in a constellation of different patterns, each one shining more than the next. None of them fit perfectly in your heart, but your mother tells you over the phone that they don’t need to, you’ll grow into the career that you choose. That no one is happy at twenty four, but you will be.

TW CAR ACCIDENT

And then you have the vision. Glass shatters in front of you, metal crunches in your ears. Somewhere you smell smoke, and there’s the taste of blood in your mouth. You’ve experienced car accidents before, but never like this. This is quick and turbulent, sparks fly as the car skids across the street, this is fatal. And then you see your father’s glasses fly and your blood runs cold, it freezes in your veins, threatens to stop your heart. You know who’s in the car, you know just where it’s heading, and you know, as dread pulls the air from your lungs, that it’s not going to reach its destination. The first thing you do when you wake is call your mother, your voice is hoarse from the screaming you must have done, tears uncontrollable as you tell her that they cannot come for your graduation, that you refuse to let them drive. She doesn’t understand that you’ve seen the future, that you’re trying to save her life; she puts on her best mother voice and tells you that it’s only a nightmare like when you were a little girl, that all you need is a cup of warm milk and they’ll be there in the morning.

You can’t let it happen. You get into your own beat up station wagon and fly into the night, for the first time in your life taking action, doing something about what you see. Your parents had the same idea- jumping into action to calm their only daughter. Maybe you were always meant to be the first person to arrive at the scene of their accident, the one to call the cops and tell them that there’d been a head on collision in the middle of the night. Maybe if you had never called in the first place they would have still been in bed sleeping. Maybe there was nothing you could have done; they were always going to end up as the tragic victims of an accident that no one  could have seen coming. And just maybe, this is all your fault.

It would seem for someone trying so hard to stay away from politics, Roswell would be the last place for you to go, but you’ve never been one for subtlety. You’ve resigned yourself to a life on the fringes, one as far away from the memory of your parents, and one that doesn’t require other people to help. It takes some time to adjust to the life you've created for yourself, every time you overthink things, they just get more confusing and convoluted, you create a life that could only suit a girl hiding from the future. After all, what good has it ever done you.

MUSING + HEAD-CANONS.

HEAD-CANONS:

LENGTHY HCS:

I. Cassiopeia's Midnight Fortunes shines bright pink and neon, the glow tinting the sidewalk and surrounding storefronts. Starlights twinkle around the door, luring in unsuspecting guests, the odd recurring customer, and those foolish enough to believe they’re going to actually hear their future from the woman inside. Most people stay away from shops like these, unsure they want to know what she has to say- if there is anything to say. Painted on the window is the phrase “i love to doubt, as well as know” which is perfectly vague enough to keep customers intrigued, the choice seems deliberate but only the fortune teller herself knows that she picked it on a whim, the subtitle to a shop she never believed would work in the first place. If one was to step foot in the shop they would find it to be just as cliche as suspected, every inch done up to meet expectations- which is only a red flag for those searching for a reason to doubt. And even though they all should, she sits at the table, a soft smile on her face and says “You’ll live a long and happy life”, “You’ll have just as much money as you need to stay satisfied”, “You’ll never want for love in this life”. She never gives specifics, always asks if you have a pet, and tells you to come again as you walk out, smelling like sage and unsure of what just happened.  

II. An alarm goes off at noon, telling her not to sleep the entire day away. Just because she has a nocturnal occupation, that doesn’t mean that she has to resort to the live of a night owl. No, during the day is when life happens- she gets to walk among people, she gets to watch all the people who would normally only be a dream. Calling her an investigator would be too much credit, she just happens to end up in the same location as some of the most interesting events of a day. Should she stumble across her dreams well then she’s just a lucky girl, serendipity as her middle name. A wildlife photographer in her urban setting, keeping an eye on all the people; a witness to the crimes of everyday life, collecting everyone’s secrets with a tight lipped smile and “I was just in the wrong place”. Really she doesn’t have any use for the information right now, politics was never her game, but that doesn’t stop her from waking up everyday, putting on a pair of oversized sunglasses and exploring Roswell again.

TW ABDUCTION

III. The vision that solidified the fact that she was seeing the future was one that she had of her best friend, getting into a stranger’s car. She didn’t think her friend would ever do something so silly, and didn’t understand her own fears of it. But two days later the girl’s parents filed a missing person’s report after a neighbor said they saw her get into a white car without license plates. There was nothing anyone could have done, nothing they could do now but pray. Twyla was sick for weeks after, throwing up at the mere mention of the disappearance. Everyone thought she was just overcome with emotion at the loss of her friend, the thought it could have been her. How could any of them known that she was the only one who could have told her friend to stop, how could she have even known that was the future.

QUICKSHOTS:

ever since the visions started she’s been battling insomnia, hence the late night careers

her favorite tea is blueberry, she only drinks coffee black, and always mixes her icee flavors

she painted her bedroom walls dark purple when she first moved into her apartment because she thought it would help her sleep during the day but now she just finds the room dark and suffocating, but can’t paint over it

one night stand kind of girl

favorite color is light blue; it’s so cliche to say, but it calms her

has a cat that she’s installed a cat door for. there’s no telling when it’s going to come and go from her place and she tries to stay very detached from the idea of losing it. but when the cat is home there’s pretty much no denying that she loves it.

twy is an acceptable nickname for her, by no means should you try to shorten it to la, her middle name is only for use at the shop, and even then she has a hard time not cringing.

her nails are always painted, usually dark colors

she collects newspaper clippings and internet articles of the different things she’s seen come true, she’s hoping one day to see a pattern and have at least part of it all make sense

her favorite food is french fries from mcdonalds straight out of the fryer, warm and greasy and utterly terrible for her was part of her high school’s dance team and will deny it possibly the most out of all her other secrets

PLOTS + CONNECTIONS:

Right now I see Twyla as living in a very safe bubble that she’s created. Sure, some of the mischief she gets into can be dangerous, but she’s deliberately chosen to put herself in those situations knowing what’s going to happen. There’s no surprises for her in life, and really she likes it much better that way. But I don’t! I’m here to push her out of her comfort zone and have her make tough decisions, make her get involved in the world that she’s trying so hard to stay on the fringes of. Whether it’s something that involves only a few characters or something super relevant to the plot I want to push her towards making definitive decisions and having to deal with that. She puts so much on everyone else, even when she’s nudging them towards doing something, that having to finally face something herself would be the best way to put pressure on her. Every aspect of her projected identity is craft to keep people just distant enough so that she doesn’t have to worry about them should she glimpse something, which is something that I want to see totally backfire on her. She’s got to get a little messy in a way that she wasn’t expecting!! Or you know, as usual, I just really want her to suffer. Get that good angst going.

As far as her visions go, I think that her coming to terms with the fact that she’s been given a gift not some weird isolating curse would be a very nice wholesome way to go. On the other hand it could totally blow up in her face when someone realizes she could have done something to help them and just quietly sat by. Either way I don’t think it’s a secret that she can keep forever and definitely hope it plays into her character arc in some massive way. Because honestly it’s something that keeps her very separate from the majority of people, she views herself as being unable to fit in anywhere, so finally having a moment where she no longer has this secret and just has to interact with people without any reservations would be huge growth for her. It feels like every decision that she makes right now is in some way tied to trying to keep her visions at bay or convincing herself to ignore them, so at some point being able to break away from that would be great. I mean coming up with some explanation for why they happen would be an interesting deviation too, maybe she turns out to be half-centaurian or something very scientific, but by no means do I think it has to go that far in order for the character arc to happen. She’s twenty-six and she doesn’t even know who she really is, like that’s her overarching theme if I had to pick one; anything to move towards answering that is a plot I am totally down for.

 Connections-wise:

Someone who’s kind of onto her shit. Like, there’s no way she’s able to know all this stuff about people by just wandering around the city, something else has to be going on with her. Of course she does the whole fortune teller routine to keep people from guessing that that’s what it is, but they could have all types of theories about what she’s doing and why she’s got so much dirt on people. They could just be watching from afar or confronting her, or anywhere on the spectrum but they know that Twyla’s got a secret.

She witnessed them doing something either immoral or illegal and they’re trying to convince her not to ever reveal it. It’s a weird blackmail stalemate, because she genuinely doesn’t know what she’s going to do with all the information she collects, and they don’t really have a whole lot of leverage on her. But they keep having to spend time with each other just to make sure that she doesn’t run off to the cops or something. Begrudging friends or all out enemies, really it could go anyway.

As an extension of my second plot paragraph, the person who she could have helped and chose to ignore. At the beginning that could contribute to a lot of her own inner conflict about her visions and who she is as a person, but once they actually get involved and know what she’s done I have a hard time believing the relationship could stay cool. Someone who’s genuinely mad at her and blames her for something would rock her world and I’m so here for it.

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[justthatgingergirl]

I'm often asked about my confidence, my happiness, my overall inner peace. At least, over the last year give or take. Speaking about my ex-boyfriend, I often equate to the act of beating a dead horse. I, essentially, spent my early twenties in a fog. At moments, I was happy…working towards my goals and gaining success. However, I envisioned my adult life kick starting quite differently. There are certain types of men who will search for women who are full of confidence and joy, so they can leech off of it. And then, after they've left her empty and burned out and drained of all the life that once existed behind her eyes, they'll say she isn't the woman they fell in love with. I met him with the world at my feet and left him at the bottom of a black hole. For a long time, I was unable to believe I would survive the after shock. I had to start from scratch, at the bottom, in every area of my life...which resulted in pure depression, anger, and the act of making every excuse to give up. but, I finally figured out how to break off his chains. I feel like I live outside of my body at certain points in the relationship storytelling. Because he managed to have enough influence to completely change me as an individual. To alter my way of thinking, my ego, my independent actions, and my heart. I lost all faith in humanity…and then I became an expert, a professional, at being alone. His obsessions and emotional dependence forced the part of my soul associated with love into a lock box. I've spent much of my free moments getting to know myself again. At times, I've scraped my knees as a result of my mistakes forcing some tumbles. Other times, I've come to find beauty and tranquility in isolation. I forced myself to go out and reclaim that which he ripped away from me. I went on solo hikes, I meditated, I picked up a pen..and truly began to believe in my writing again. The fact of the matter is that I gave him too much power. After a major chunk of time spent in complete codependency, I savor my solitude. I enjoy being able to..have my own identity. Make my own decision..and with confidence. That being said, I made myself a promise. To not allow any new suitors into this warm and cozy bubble I had created. I consistently reminded myself that I would not be able to love again, if ever, until I forgave and loved myself. As someone close to me would say, “don't get mad, don't get even. Just get the fuck over it so you can move on!” (Wise, eloquent words right?) so, I adjusted my focus. There's this concept of inside-out confidence, which forces us to dig deeper. It requires true reflection and acceptance. In essence, it is born from the glow at the heart of your being. That life force, that external spark…tapping into that guided me home. By knowing myself deeply, intimately, without outside influence and fear…I gained something so simple yet so complex in attainability: a solid sense of self. And the best part? The flaws, the imperfections, the insecurities he so adamantly pointed out on a regular basis…I've come to peace and fallen in love with. I can guarantee he never imagined I'd spin that shit. The inexplicable satisfaction I now feel knowing his discomfort and rage. Because he can no longer shatter me. At 25, I feel the world back at my feet. I fought for this and his dead weight is no longer mine to carry. And so, for quite some time now I have been alone. I would wake up alone, eat alone, take long drives and walks alone, go to sleep alone. And repeat. It was comfortable and I was content. Happy even. But, perhaps I have gotten too good at this is an idea that began running around in my mind. Too pleasant, too essential. I suppose I ended up at the finish line in regards to that concept. Because I would say that what you gain from solitude should only then enhance your relationships with others. It wasn't necessarily that I was starting to look, but I also was not opposed to opening a few windows. By being alone, we gain depth of understanding and compassion for ourselves. What worth is that unless it blossoms into depth of understanding and compassion for others? Because, in the words of John Joseph Powell: “it is an absolute human certainty that no one can know his own beauty or perceive a sense of his own worth until it has been reflected back to him in the mirror of another loving, caring human being”. Being alone gave me a delicious taste of the magnificence of belonging to no one but yourself. However, I came to the understanding that within a normal, healthy relationship…that whole idea of ownership  and extreme control probably doesn't exist. Within this way of thinking, I secured a metaphorical green light. I knew that, when it did come my way, I would be ready. I am a complex, stubborn, determined, ball busting woman. I have always been aware of it and I own it. In all reality, it takes a patient man to put up with my ass. A few short months back, I didn't really foresee anyone coming to those windows I mentioned earlier. Rumors of my relationship made their rounds and I was damaged goods confined, in their minds, to the island of misfit toys. I damn sure don't owe anyone an explanation. However, for the sake of a little backstory…I made a few poor choices and reached a point in which the more high I became, the more freedom I gained, emotionally and otherwise. It created an easy escape route from the manipulation and abuse. I digress, I basically let go of this idea of a fresh and new “typical” relationship. And, honestly, I was satisfied either way. At peace,  I was capable of saying, let come what may. He was complimentary and kind. Goofy and confident. He was something…I was not at all used to. Gentle and unabraisive. Humorous and spirited. He had no knowledge of the rollercoaster I just came off of and it was a breath of fresh air. He called me out on my bullshit, preventing me from getting away with things. and he also pushed me, motivated me to do and be better. I needed it. Maybe, subconsciously, that was exactly what I was searching for all along. There is no one I feel more relaxed around in my life right now. No one who is more supportive. My first instinct and call. The one I trust will be there come hell or high water. I don't feel judged. I don't feel broken in his eyes. A smile influenced by someone other than myself has found its way back on to my face. And my heart is open without hesitation. The thought never crossed my mind that I needed to slow down and remain alone…for the first fucking time. Not only did I find the world at my feet. But it all nudged me into a state of feeling so incredibly free. Free to be myself. Free to exhale completely. I experience butterflies. I laugh, genuinely. I look forward to the future. I'm confident and happy within my soul. But also safe and comfortable in this relationship. At a quarter of a century, I have come full circle. Eight years ago, at 17, with a naïve heart and oblivious brain, I hopped on a plane with a 6000 mile trip to my destination and left all I knew in the rear view. Since then, I've gone through stages, ebbs and flows, of pure euphoria and complete depression. And what I've come to know is that there is no sense in dwelling on the past, or holding onto all the reasons why things got fucked up. When you are inflicted with wounds, your will to fight and time will heal them. Darkness is simply that which has not had light shed upon it. I gained clarity and inner peace when I came to that realization. My ex gifted me with incomparable strength I never imagined myself to be capable of. I provided myself with poise and contentment in independence. Rainbows after years of thunderstorms. And my love, my person gave me the key to that lockbox. The foreign concept of confidence, happiness, and inner peace…I have found my way back to. And in a state of serenity I can say….let come what may.

I've found my way back home.

[ramonaflowersflowers]

“And like a grain of diamond dust, you float and my devotions outer crust cracks..”

— Glass In The Park, Alex Turner

Oh what a year. I started this on a high note but I kind of ending it flat. But it doesn't mean I am not grateful. This decade has been my learning years. I learned about going for something you really want, if you don't give it your all, don't think you'll have it. I learned that loving someone doesn't guarantee all rainbows and rose gardens, most of the time it is thunderstorms and withered bouquets. But it doesn't mean it is not worth it. I learned that even if you are surrounded by people, you can still feel alone. And that solidarity doesn't equate loneliness, sometimes it is freedom and peace of mind. And even though most of the times nothing goes to your plan, I learned that there will always be a better one that is why it didn't work out. It may take a while, it may take forever and a change of perspective. But everything will always fall into place. I also got frustrated with my decisions. Sometimes I thought that saying no to something took a toll on me. That saying no may have hurt someone, that is why I suffered. It felt unfair. I fell down and questioned, what if I just let it be and just said yes? Will I be happy? Apparently, I wouldn't know. I just go with my guts. And I got karma with those guts. And I questioned, why did He put that in my life? I still don't know now but I believe there is purpose. There is purpose for all the pain I suffered and inflicted. Maybe I should just not look so much into it or I look too much into it. I always have this dilemma. All the what ifs triggers my curiousity. And becuase of that I think too much and I get paralyzed. Maybe that is what I don't want to bring in my 2020 vision. No it is not a maybe, I won't bring that shit this coming year. I am always vague, and even though I am on the verge of jumping into the unknown, I still keep my feet on the ledge. Now I know, I would risk it all if I want to go to places. That is what I have wanted for the rest of my life, I am just so yellow about it. I was a coward, and won't take something uncertain. But now, I will be firm and pursue what I want. And I need to be prepared of not getting it. But on the higher note, I will do my best. I may have hurt or have been hurt by someone, I want to leave the grief. I want to move forward with forgiveness and acceptance. I only want peace this coming 2020. And I hope this year prospers for me and for everyone else. 👆👆👆 ~1231

PS. Thank you 2019, even if you were a bitch, still you got me. ❤️

[bites-kms]

Home Sweet Home

For the last 4 years, I’ve been living what I like to call a “gypsy style”. The first time I left my parents house, I was 25 and I went off the whole way: I moved half way across the world. I moved to Ho Chi Ming City seeking for an opportunity to grow, betting on a love story and eagerness to eat the world. The brief was simple and clear: find the perfect location. In a city where there are more bikes than people, having the chance to sneak around and conquer the streets -and the heat- by foot felt like winning the lottery. By this I was earning independence and I was keeping my freedom, without needing to resort to any kind of transportation but my will and my feet. 

It was the first time I was making that amount of money (1500 usd/month!) and I felt rich. I didnt mind about the apartment as long as it felt cozy and it was well located. It was our first apartment together. Yes, we lived together in Montevideo before but this was finally “ours”. We didnt have an oven, a challenge we learned to overcome. I ended up fixing the bathroom cabinet with some wrapping paper I went and bought on a stationary store near by. It was a serviced apartment with the sweetest cleaning staff who came three times a week and the lovely “e-moi” doormen. Those people were part of my Vietnamese family. I didnt care about not having a couch, or having mismatching knives and forks. I didnt care we didnt have proper utensils. It was actually better: the only thing we needed to carry away with us the day we would leave were the fridge magnets. We made tv-weekend marathons, and locked ourselves indoors during rainy season, with only one window on the “living room” from where we could stare and admire the rain drops and thunderstorms. We had ants and/or termites eating our rented furniture and food. But, regardless... 44 Ngyuen Phi Khan was paradise. I loved it there. It was casita. I was extremely happy. I really didnt want to leave.

A year and 2 months later, I struggled for 2 weeks, homeless, spending free nights in Arlanda Radisson Blue Airport, a lot of money on an Airbnb in Huddinge, Greater Stockholm Area until a miracle happened thanks to Fabrizio and Sodertorn University: I found my 14 months home in Sweden: Kanslivagen 13 at Riksten. At the beginning, it was quite a struggle: a dirty kitchen, and an even dirtier toilet. No control over the heater and a cold winter approaching. I lost the only bus that passed by multiple times and mis-matched the pendeltag that took me to civilization. Until, one good day, I finally made it my home. It was my first and only student apartment but I managed to make it super cozy with just the desk, a chair, a bed, a kitchenette with a bar that were already there and a DIY table I painted myself. I couldnt resist the urge of going to Ikea and armed myself with local artifacts made in Sverige - which of course they later crossed oceans to reach my following destination. It was far away and small, so I didnt have many people over, only my friend Angelica for a couple of blog lunches and Flor the moment I first moved in and the moment I needed to move out. When my parents arrived, the air mattress occupied the whole room. It was with great joy that I slowly made it a home. A cozy place. A Swedish place, with candles, love for food, memories with neighbors - other Erasmus exchange students-  and a lot of Ikea products. When the ICA, the local supermarket opened on its corner, it changed my life completely. And when the spring sprung, that was also a game changer. Although it was wonderful waking up to a snowy window and a white forrest, seeing the flowers bloom through the snow and getting the bus slowed down due to a deer crossing the road was something I’ll never forget. I was so sad to leave when I couldnt renew my lease. 

After 3 month living in Flemingsberg, in an apartment I didnt feel like my own, sleeping on the living room where the TV was and using the bedroom to put down all my luggage, I moved back to Asia. This time, to Singapore. I bounced for a month between what it used to be my home with my person to my rented serviced apartment the company chose for me, few blocks away from my new job. Trying to find a place where to feel safe, where to grow, where to dare to be myself again while dealing with a broken heart was difficult. Choosing not moving back with him was one of the toughest yet wisest choices I’ve ever made. I first saw and loved a place in River Valley, not too close yet not too far either from his place, but the agent was not willing to negotiate. Found one right next to his friend’s place, a few blocks away, 10 to 15 minutes walk from his. And that’s when I formally decided and moved in to 524 Kampong Bahru Road. 

The apartment had a weird distribution: at first it got me excited, later on I thought of multiple ways to make it better. The kitchen was nice. It was the only time in my life that I had Smeg appliances and they were as good as they looked. I had a bomb shelter, a quiet view to a green little forrest, a pool I hardly ever used and a voodoo master and/or witch who was living right next to me with tons of cats by some temple ruins (I believe the only ruins on that central part of the island). Kampong Bahru was my shelter, my hood and also my cave and prison. I didnt get furniture, because again, I knew I was moving, I knew this was temporary. I already got all my utensils from Stockholm so I only needed some details. Only few people were able to come and I’m happy they were all meaningful people and friends I met in Singapore: Lari, Hersheys, Lizi, Sameer and stop counting. I wish I had a better place and opportunity to host all those wonderful souls I met along the way. 

And when the time to move had finally arrived, regardless of my attempts to sell my beloved stuff, I ended up donating all of them to the Church. It was a symbolic fresh start. It was a metaphorical cleansing. Donating all the things I love to people that need them would provide those items with more love from their new owners. And that was all that mattered: leaving Singapore - with all that it implies - full of love, with a smile and in peace. 

And now... after this crazy roller coaster that started years ago on the 15th of September 2014, after 1405 days, 6 countries, and endless miles in my millage account - although not as many as the tears this ex-pat life decision costed me- I can finally say I reached home. A table.. that’s the power of a table. I bought a massive furniture that connects me to my roots, to my pleasure of cooking and eating, of celebrating, of creating. It will allow me to host parties, dinners, thanks and friendsgivings. It’s creating a little anchor. It’s baptizing my home. So... this is it... I’m staying. NYC, you’re home now. 

I needed a moment to soak everything in. I looked at my living room. I saw the water tank outside my window. I winked at the Crysler building between the clouds. I laid over by the edge of my bedroom door. I took a big, deep breath and a massive glance around. I looked up, in compliance with all those people who I met along my way and helped me reached here. I thought about my parents and the Nonos. I know how proud they are of me. I’m proud of myself.

I made it. I’m living the life I dreamed of. Without knowing it, I knew I wanted to come to NYC (who doesnt want to live here once during her or his lifetime?) and I always thought it was very unlikely. But... I guess the other pitstops were just trampolines for the big jump. 

The NYC jump. The grown up jump. The jump that lead me home. 

That blind leap of faith. 

I felt it this Saturday, when after some long, stressful hours I could managed to assemble this beautiful Ikea Fanbyn Bar Table (that’s what I call “full circle”) by-myself!. I later placed the 4 beautiful stolls I found on the streets of Greenpoint, which we later hand crafted, refurnished and upholstered with my Dad, the wonderful art piece my talented friend HC gifted me in Singapore, with the 2 vases I got on my blog ventures in Sweden, only then, I could definitely say this is it. I’m home. 

[hopelesslyquixotic-blog]

Healing.

My depression has thrown me into a vortex of chaos ever since that fearful day of diagnosis. Every day I've told myself "you will get better. You will get better. Everything will be better one day" maybe so many times I even stopped believing it. I started to think I could never get better. I accepted that it wouldn't, I accepted that this is as good as it gets, and I gave up on trying to get better. I lost faith in myself and in all of the people around me. It wasn't until about 4 months ago i started trying again; I started to believe that this isn't as good as it gets, this shouldn't be at least. I'm sure you've all heard the saying "you won't get better until you want to get better". I'm also sure you've all just kinda been like "uh huh yeah I know" and shrugged it off. But here's the thing. That saying is the most truest thing you will ever hear. My whole life, or at least since I've dealt with my depression, I feel like I've wanted to get better, and I've believed I've wanted to get better but deep down I haven't believed I could get better. Like I said, I lost faith in myself, and in everyone around me. Depression is a weird thing. It not only beats you down into a pulp, it beats your belief in yourself, your hope, your dreams, everything, into a pulp. I didn't realize this until a short while ago. I never realized how fake I was going through life, how rehearsed and wrong my whole perspective was. I faked getting better. I thought "well I should be getting better, so if I act it maybe I will" but I knew deep deep down I was never truly making progress. Not until I stepped back and said "okay self, you need to stop letting society tell you what you should be doing and start doing things for you, and only you." I realized that just because society says I should be getting better doesn't mean I actually am. I needed that sense of self to finally see through the darkness clogging my head so I could start the road to recovery. Until I was true to myself, I could never be true to anyone. This includes my therapist. Being a therapist is a HUGE job. You go off of what your patient tells you, and if your patient only tells you what you want to hear, you and your patient are stuck in a never ending cycle. I thought if I told my therapist and everyone else what they wanted to hear they would think I was getting better and eventually lead me to believe I was. I regret every thought that went through my mind saying that. I've wasted ten years pretending to be better just to realize I was never getting better in the first place. But right now, at this exact moment and how it's been for a few weeks, I know I'm not pretending anymore. For the first time in my life I see myself being cured of this burden that's been on my shoulders for more than 10 years. I see myself being truly happy, being my true self, and being the best I can be. For those of you who suffer like I do, know that there really is a bright light at the end of this dark and rocky tunnel; there's hope, there's true laughter, true happiness, and true smiles. It's not just something people say to try to make us feel better, I'm literally experiencing this freedom and telling you it gets better. It gets so much better. You just need to be true to yourself and everyone around you, once you've achieved that, your whole life will fall right into place. Happiness will not be an unforgotten dream anymore, it will be reality. The positivity that has rushed into my life these past months is such a great feeling. It's like the end of a horrible thunderstorm; the sun shines, the birds sing, and the world is at peace again. Life is a weird thing, everyone. Each individual one is someone's own world and very own perspective. Once you realize that, you gain a sense of self and understanding. You're able to understand the world around you and why people may do the things that they do. You get into their head, see the world through their eyes and that understanding carries with you. All of the tension and hate you have for people is released and your own happiness is the only thing that matters. Like I said, I always thought people who said recovery is possible were only saying that to try and make me feel better. I now understand they say it because they've lived it, they've seen it's possible and they've triumphed through the dark life they've led. Slowly but surely all of this has come into my perspective. It's made me realize that everyone is going through their own dark life, everyone is dealing with their own problems and there's always a reason someone does something. My depression made me always aware of people's judgement and it made me act the way people around me wanted me to act. But here I am, sucking up the black smoke that blurred my judgement and never letting it out into the world again. Healing. Recovery. Cure. It's all possible, you just can't lose sight of them and yourself.

[fultas01]

  Hello Reader,

Hi Mom! I hope everyone is enjoying the lovely weather, here it is getting hot (that means the smell of BO is becoming more and more pronounced in close quarters here in Moldova). With that lovely image in mind, I want to get into my post, I generally try to talk about the upbeat things about being a peace corps volunteer, and I strive to be honest as possible about my experiences here. However, there are things that I have gone through for almost a year now that I haven’t shared. Hard days. We all have them, so I want to share a little bit about how they effect me and my work here in Moldova. Over the last ten months I have had some of the toughest times in my life. Some days in February it was a struggle to get out of bed, while later it became easy. I have questioned myself constantly and been so frustrated that I have broken down in tears. But Hard days never last, so I want to share some of the ways I get through these days.

It is the end of the school year and I’m fighting my students and myself in a war with apathy. I try to make sure I care and that I bring something important and helpful to my students. I try to engage them in anything that can interest them. But as the weather is nice, we all struggle to care about school. So, we have harder days when I question my purpose and wonder if I’m really making a difference (I’ve heard it said from a few people, but I still doubt my impact constantly). Today, I’m writing for catharsis (this post really for me), and to share a common experience. While my days differ from other peace corps volunteers, and they differ from my friends back home, we all have bad days. Days where things just don’t go the way we wanted them to go. So to get us in the mood, let’s start with a song I catch myself singing on rough days, ‘Mama Said’:

I am currently living over 5,000 miles from my home in Indiana. I’m living in a new culture that has different expectations, different ways to deal with things, and a different language (the daily struggle with a new language is real). There are many different things that can set a day in the wrong direction, and then there are times when it seems like a week, or month just aren’t going your way.  Example: today after living in Moldova for almost a year, I still got lost because my rutiera took a new route so I missed my stop, then the next rutiera I took broke down, so I had to walk back to my village. Now, this didn’t necessarily upset me as much as it just stressed me out. However, these are the kind of things that can happen and ruin a day, making it harder and harder to pull out of a spiral. So, today is what I would consider not the best of days (nor one of my worst). I have these bad days less often than I did during student teaching, but more often than I did throughout the rest of my college career.

But, not everything is lost or bleak. Bad days aren’t everyday, and some times things go wrong, but then right themselves. I still have an amazing host family and a community that I feel like I am helping. I want to be here and I want to work in my community. So, on these days I like to start off with that thought. I want to share, both with myself, and with others who are considering the Peace Corps, some good ways to get over a rough day, or several.

Things to help me feel better:

My very first thing is to make sure that I still like what I’m doing. I make sure that I still want to be where I am. Because while there are days where I tell myself over and over again that I want to go home, I always have to decide whether I would happily leave where I am forever to go home. So far the answer has been a resounding no. I want to finish out my school year, I want to see my 12 graders graduate, I want to help in summer camps, welcome the new volunteers, and just be here. So, while I miss my dog, certain freedoms (driving, and talking to my friends whenever), and an ability to eat Taco Bell or Starbucks, I still want to be here.

2. If it’s a big issue I also need physical space. I’m not much for exercise (running in a village has problems like people yelling at you about running as well as a lack of good roads, and wild dogs who want to chase you), so I tend to go for walks. Mixing music, or a good podcast, with the ability to get outside and look at my community allows for a things in school or home to melt away, if only for a little while. Walks can show me new areas of my village, and let me work on my tan while I unwind. If a walk doesn’t seem to cut it, I can always try to get away for the weekend. Visit other volunteers, (as close as a volunteer in my raion, and moving farther a field) or work on projects in the Capital.

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3. For the days when I miss being able to speak English everywhere, I listen to Podcasts and immerse myself in English. I miss pop culture, commercials, movies, and just hearing English on the radio, but I have missed most of the political fallout in the states because I am so far away. But that distance means I have to work harder to keep up with what is happening in my own culture. What are the movements and marches that are happening? Beyonce is having twins? Who is the new secretary of labor? Ect.  So, I try to listen to Podcasts (the Cracked Podcast and This American Life are my favorites) and watch a few YouTube videos of my favorite shows. They are not always super relevant, or good at making me not miss home, but they are generally fascinating, and help me forget my problems for a little while.

4. For the days I miss my friends and family, I try to talk to them, or I try to talk to other volunteers. These days are generally the hardest. Because I am torn between stalking Facebook, and wanting to completely turn away from my phone and focus on my community. Other volunteers are great for these days (and every other day) because they understand and they want to use their English as well. Finding a friend (or multiple) that is in country is the only way I have been able to survive here.

5. Poetry. I write, read, and listen to poetry. Back in college I took a few poetry classes, and while I don’t expect to ever be a famous poet, writing is cathartic. And for me, poetry is emotion. Written and spoken emotion.  At the end of my service I want to put all of my ‘finished’ poetry up here so that others can see and maybe feel some of the different emotions that I have experienced in-country. I generally only create the poetry in my head, but I occasionally write it down and use the poem to try and understand my emotions and express them better. I read some poetry from online to try and share with my students, and I listen to slam poetry on YouTube. Generally if I find an especially touching piece I share it with others. So, if you are a friend, there is a good chance you have or will receive some dope poetry videos from me.

6. Reading. I read in every mood, at any time. And it has actually caused so of my rough days because I read well into the night, instead of getting my necessary 5 hours of sleep. But, I also read because it takes me out of my head and out of my situation. It can help me to forget about the argument I had earlier, or help me calm down after having another misunderstanding with a community member. Reading helps me feel connected with my culture, and it reminds me of things I did at home (like reading while listening to a thunderstorm and drinking coffee).

7. Planning ahead. Along with my question about whether I am happy where I am, I always look at what I still want to do, or what I have planned. The future is flexible, but having something to look forward to is a huge help for me. This can be a little thing, like looking forward to my next class, looking forward to Monday to see my kids again, Friday so I can have a break from my kids, a weekend to work in Chisinau on a project, a vacation so I can explore a new country, and most recently family visiting! Making these plans helps me to realize that these problems are temporary. Things can, and usually do get better. So, keep your head up.

These are the ways I have noticed that I deal with rough days. And while you might not find this post helpful, I was meant for me. So, here are some videos and images that I tend to look at to help myself feel better after shitty days. I am a visual person and a musically inclined person, therefore I get the most help from those mediums, and they are also how I express myself.

I hope to be posting more soon, so stay tuned and thanks for being curious about my life as it happens across the world. Until next time, let these words of wisdom encourage you, enjoy the song (it’s a favorite right now), and be kind to everyone you meet. You never know who’s having a hard day.

Angela ❤

    Per·se·ver·ance: staying power Hello Reader, Hi Mom! I hope everyone is enjoying the lovely weather, here it is getting hot (that means the smell of BO is becoming more and more pronounced in close quarters here in Moldova).

[graff1980]

A sharp cry of fury pierces the quiet atmosphere of the public housing complex. Neighbors from almost a block away can hear incoherent statements of rage and disgust. However, they seldom hear the sounds of violence. One would have to linger just outside the door to get an inkling of the bloody noses, busted lips, ripped shirts, pulled hair, bruised skin, or reddening flesh punctuated with shouts of “I don’t hate you; I hate your action” or” you’re going to end up just like your father rotting in cell.” Even “say you’re sorry, say you’re sorry or else” or “If you got it so bad why don’t you call DCF and have them take you away.” Though the statements varied and the violence was different it always ended the same. The young boy locked in his little room watching the world spinning on without him. No books, no games, no hint of fun allowed, or the ire of the matriarch would be incited and more violence would ensue. Only homework, bible, and sleep were allowed. Some days dark moments of despair would creep in. The little boy would eye the electric socket with curiosity and desperation. Thinking that all it would take is a butter knife. Jab that in there and this would be over. Sometimes he would grab the blanket, crumpling it together till it formed a hill then trace the strange pathways around the cover like his index finger was a car, or imagine his route of escape from this silent prison. Other times he would lie on his back still as death only breathing. In and out, in and out over and over again till his body felt as though it was moving with the tides of an unseen ocean. On rare occasion if only for a minute or two he could almost feel his body recede and his consciousness float up and away. What a strange thing for an eleven year old to experience. At night in order to fall asleep he would imagine himself with his favorite fictional heroes, saving the world, and being part of their family, accepted and loved. After an hour or so of strange heroic and familial fantasy the boy would slip into the safest place he knew. Daring to dream, reality would fold in upon itself. Spheres of varying color, overlapping and blending would float through his unconscious world. Space dust and sparkling stars urging him on into the strange void. Even the blinking explosions of dying star sucking greedily at his ethereal essence seamed a sweet relief from the daily nightmares of life. In the midst of this mosaic wonder there was a perfect peace. He could softly surrender the darkest moments of the day. Bubbles of light would gently cradle him in their warm and wet reassurances. He could almost believe this was heaven. There were no loud or sudden movements of fury, there were no bruises or busted lips, only the sweetest freedom. Waking, that world of wonder would retreat into the clotted corners of his already anxious mind. Until, their comfort and wonder became only impressions, which were eventually swallowed by the day. A day that would be spent pissing in a plastic cup or just draining himself on the vomit green carpet to avoid being yelled at or beaten for leaving his room. From the window, he watched his peers play unhindered by the dark shadows that seemed to linger in every corner of his home. Sometimes he envied them, other times he found himself furious with them, laughing gleefully at the thunderstorms which interrupted their play time. Still when sleep released him to his playful peace there was just enough joy to sustain him, just enough happiness to get him through the day till the dreams would come again. Then again, inching ever closer to maturity, then to freedom of his flesh from the maternal bondage, then freedom of his mind much much later in life. Now with the ease of an old friend he visits those wonders each night; sometimes waking in tears of gratitude and pain other nights waking with a sense of reinvigoration and determination. Each day a blank canvas to paint a better world upon, and each night a brighter adventure then the one before.

-2012