#+ my interpretations here but. again. like to be open for peeps

[piningprecussionist]

why don’t u ask your discord server people for one to be stepehen?

It's come up before! But if no one feels like they could do him well, or run him on top of other blogs they may have, then that's simply the way it is.

Ehhh besides, it'd be fun for there to be more people in the scope of this maybe, I think. Idk. I'm enjoying getting to see other people's love of the media; more people to theoretically engage with is just appealing to me I guess.

[burningvelvet]

A very long analysis on Heathcliff, his relationships, and his origins: or, how Wuthering Heights drove me insane :)

Links to my previous WH analysis (which aren't required to read this post!): 1) my post analyzing heathcliff & his relationships with cathy2.0/isabella/hareton / 2) smaller post analyzing heathcliff & the earnshaws in relation to theories about his parentage / 3) misc. heathcliff/cathy analysis

-

On Heathcliff's origins, his mysteriousness, and his arrival to Wuthering Heights:

As I mention in that 2nd link, I think the theory of Heathcliff being Mr. Earnshaw's son is an interesting theory of conjecture because even if not true (and it probably isn't) it allows us to more deeply explore the generally accepted basis of the canon, which is that Heathcliff is not related to them, but nevertheless is still caught between the labels of "family" and "outsider," just like he would have been if he had indeed been a bastard, a step-child, or even more formally adopted. Under Mr. Earnshaw's wishes Heathcliff shares a room with the children, he is given equal gifts and clothes as them, and he is preferred over Hindley. And while he may not be in line to inherit legally, he ends up inheriting anyway, an idea which lends itself to the novels Joseph-approved theme of predeterminism/fate.

So I'm not dead-set on any singular interpretation or theory as to Heathcliff's role in the story or the details of his background. Much of his character is inherently mysterious: his race and age are unknown, his family history and origins are unknown, what he was doing for 3 years of Cathy's marriage and how he acquired his wealth are unknown, some of his feelings and motives are highly debatable (as I discussed in my post about his odd dynamics with Cathy 2.0, Isabella, & Hareton: https://www.tumblr.com/burningvelvet/738901817580290048/my-analysis-on-heathcliff-and-his-relationships), & whether English was his first language is also questioned (many people including myself have wondered at the line where we're told he "repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand," though it could have just been panicked child's speech).

Many academics have noted how Wuthering Heights follows various testaments of the Gothic literary tradition, not only by the involvement of death, violence, ghosts, etc., but also in the use of incestuous themes (whether literal or metaphorical) and the use of the Other in Heathcliff, aided by the mysteries of his origins and his racial ambiguity.

As for Heathcliff not revealing much about his childhood, I believe this part of it could be due to trauma as well as regular childhood amnesia. He may not remember anything. A lot of people don't have many memories from before the age of ~6 anyway — and I just looked it up— his real age is never given but he is believed to be around the same age than Cathy who was described as "hardly six years old." I had thought they were a little older for some reason. He's also said to have been "speaking gibberish" which I once considered may have been indicative of a foreign language and/or accent but now, because of his age and probable low background, it may have been due to his just being very young and maybe unsocialized and shy. It actually makes my heart ache when Nelly describes him :(

Here's an excerpt from chapter 3 describing Heathcliff's childhood:

"He threw himself into a chair, laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly killed—he would not have such another walk for the three kingdoms.

'And at the end of it to be flighted to death!' he said, opening his great-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms. 'See here, wife! I was never so beaten with anything in my life: but you must 'en take it as a gift of God; though it's as dark almost as if it came from the devil.'"

We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy's head I had d peep at a dirty, ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed, its face looked older than Catherine's; yet when it was set on its feet, it only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad? The master tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there: because he was determined he would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was, that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children.

Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till peace was restored: then, both began searching their father's pockets for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, erushed to morsels in the great-coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing; earning for her pains a sound blow from her father, to teach her cleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw's door, and there he found it on quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there; I was obliged to confess, and in recompense for my cowardice and inhumanity was sent out of the house.

This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual), I found they had christened him 'Heathcliff': it was the name of a son who died in child-hood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated him: and to say the truth I did the same; and we plagued and went on with him shamefully: for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged.

He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said precious little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.

So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at Mrs. Earnshaw's death, which happened in less than two years after, the young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his paren's affections and his privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries. I sympathised a while; but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed my idea. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he lay at the worst he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose he felt I did a good deal for him, and he hadn't wit to guess that I was compelled to do it. However, I will say this, he was the quietest child that ever nurse watched over. The difference between him and the others forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me terribly: he was as uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble."

From this excerpt we see that Earnshaw 1) despite being racist toward Heathcliff, is also wildly protective of him - so much so that he kicks Nelly out of the house FOR DAYS for initially not allowing Heathcliff to sleep in his childrens room 2) Earnshaw doesn't like Cathy that much, and prefers Heathcliff over her; later when he dies he has a nice moment with her, but still asks her why she can't be a better child (lol) 3) Earnshaw did not name Heathcliff on his own accord but Heathcliff is named after Earnshaw's own son that died!!! And that says a lot; we're also never really told how Mrs. Earnshaw felt about him being named after her dead kid, or if she had a part in it or not, or if she grew to like Heathcliff too — she just dies soon after - however, I think we can all assume she always favored Hindley over Heathcliff, since we're told Hindley's jealousy grew after her death 4) Heathcliff is described by Earnshaw as a "gift from God" which I find kind of suspicious because Earnshaw struggled so much just to get him home... um, God had no part in that, Mr. - unless he's referring to the kids existence imo. At any rate, if Heathcliff isn't biologically related to Earnshaw, we're still led to have the sense that Heathcliff is sort of predestined to be there 5) Heathcliff was indeed a bit scraggly/unkempt when he arrived, but imo that doesn't mean he was necessarily a homeless orphan; if he did have a mother/family, they probably would have been living in harsh conditions anyway just by being impoverished, and if not, maybe he was just a bit dirty from wandering outside like normal kids do, and like he's so fond of doing anyway on the Moors later on - he could have just been playing outside when this white guy comes along and takes him under his coat! 6) Earnshaw says he asked around for the kids parents and felt obligated to take him on, though the kid was struggling... so yeah, regardless of if he's omitting other info or if he's his father or not, we can infer that he essentially kidnapped Heathcliff.

After re-reading this excerpt, I don't think it's as likely that Earnshaw had seen/known Heathcliff personally prior to his taking him home, but I still don't think any of this totally disproves the theory that Earnshaw could have been lying to Mrs. Earnshaw/omitting certain information.

Why was Mr. Earnshaw in Liverpool to begin with? I and many others often assume it was some sort of a business trip, and it probably was, but after re-reading the part where he leaves, I can't actually find anything to definitively confirm what he was actually there for. He could have been in Liverpool specifically to take Heathcliff with him. Another thing that doesn't make any sense is the fact that he walked all the way there alone: "I’m going to Liverpool today, what shall I bring you? You may choose what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back: sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!’"

He's then gone for 3 whole days. Meaning according to him, he walked 120 miles in 3 days, half of that while carrying/dragging a struggling small child, who he says he took because it would be his easiest option: "his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there."

He's contradicting himself, because if he was so concerned about finances then he never would have taken on another child, as Mrs. Earnshaw immediately supplies (meaning if he was on a mission to retrieve Heathcliff, he didn't tell her): "Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?" Ummmm you're telling me there isn't something a little suspicious or weird about any of this?!

And why would he be walking in the first place when he has horses — was he really so tight on money as to not want to support/feed them on a journey, or did he just not want to be recognized or attract attention, or did he not want to deal with a child riding on a horse for the first time? I assume carriages/wagons were out of the question for costs, and I know people walked a lot back then, especially in rural farmlands, but that is a very long journey as he himself says. What was so important? Did he even go to Liverpool at all? And why did he bundle Heathcliff up as if to hide him? To avoid suspicions about having a bastard child, etc.? And we're told Mrs. Earnshaw was expecting him home earlier, and we get no indication if she knew Mr. Earnshaw's plans or whereabouts.

And why does Mr. Earnshaw act so upbeat and nonchalant about all of this, when we're told he's usually really stern? Ie he supposedly treats Nelly well eg, telling her he'll bring her back fruits on his journey, but then he LOCKS HER OUT OF THE HOUSE FOR MULTIPLE DAYS for not following his orders about putting Heathcliff in the children's room on his first night there.

Where tf did she even go lol? Am I forgetting some part about her family having a nearby house? How far did she have to walk to get there, alone and unaccompanied as a young woman? Probably less than 120 miles in 3 days, but still! He's known Nelly her whole life, and he's supposedly known Heathcliff for a day (in which time Heathcliff has already led him into physical exhaustion), and yet he already prefers Heathcliff over her as well as his own children.

Even excusing Nelly being a narrator of debatable reliability, and being sometimes contradictory & biased against Heathcliff, Mr. Earnshaw's behavior still seems a bit outlandish and it makes sense that Mrs. Earnshaw would ask him if he had gone mad. I course, I may be looking too far into this, but how can I not?

Heathcliff's trauma, his relationship with Mr. Earnshaw, Earnshaw as kidnapper, and race:

I think Heathcliff is certainly severely traumatized. I'm not a psychologist but Nelly's line "hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble" is textbook childhood CPTSD, and it is partly due to Earnshaw indeed being a kidnapper with a white saviour/"white man's burden" complex.

I think the following quote by Nelly supports this kidnap view, in that she actually refers to him being kidnapped; Emily may also be encouraging us to speculate on even the most outlandish theories of his origins like Nelly does:

"‘A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad,’ I continued, ‘if you were a regular black; and a bad one will turn the bonniest into something worse than ugly. And now that we've done washing, and combing, and sulking—tell me whether you don’t think yourself rather handsome? I'll tell you, I do. You're fit for a prince in disguise. Who knows but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen, each of them able to buy up, with one week’s income, Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kidnapped by wicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would frame high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I was should give me courage and dignity to support the oppressions of a little farmer!'"

Like in Charlotte's Jane Eyre, Emily also borrows taboo Romantic and Orientalist imagery and racializes the gothic Other figure, because this idea of the foreign/non-white body was a source of anxiety to a lot of white British Victorian readers. This is a popular concept in Gothic literary studies & a lot has been written on it, so I won't go into it too much.

Like Charlotte's Bertha Mason, Linton Heathcliff's identity as being mixed race is essential to his character — in the narrative, him being white-passing is supposed to relate to his identity being more Isabella/Linton (as also evidenced by his name) and less Heathcliff's, who is disappointed not to see his own resemblance in his son.

Since we seriously don't know Heathcliff's true origins, we can't ascertain his ethnicity (given his descriptions/epithets/Nelly's speculations, he is likely fully or part Roma, South-Asian, or African), and we can't tell if he or his family/mother were highborn, enslaved, or simply free, but we do know that slavery was still very active in England in the late 1700s when Heathcliff is a child, and his hometown Liverpool was the center of the slave trade, so connections to slavery either ancestrally or during his hiatus (a popular theory, explored in the book Heathcliff: the Lost Years by David Drum) are possible.

More evidence for the theory of Heathcliff having a previous history of child abuse and unknown early trauma, possibly relating to the slave trade (which doesn't necessarily discount the Earnshaw parentage theory either imo, and if anything may make it more likely if his reasoning for taking Heathcliff was that he wouldn't want his biological son enslaved) — is the portion where Nelly describes Heathcliff and how he initially took Hindley's abuse stoically:

". . . a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely . . ."

When Nelly adds that Earnshaw called Heathcliff "poor fatherless child," I see this as ironic whether Earnshaw is his biological father or not, since he is still the closest thing he has to any sort of "father figure" nominally, and symbolically in line with the view of Earnshaw as flawed micro-colonizer. In the act of standing up for Heathcliff over his own teenage son and future master of the house, he is basically acting as a pseudo-father preferring one son over another; for Hindley, the blow is deepened by Heathcliff not being Earnshaw's son in name.

For clarity's sake, whenever I refer to Mr. Earnshaw as Heathcliff's unofficially adoptive father or father figre, I do so sort of hesitatingly. Mr. Earnshaw/Heathcliff do not have a regular father/son dynamic; we're told that Heathcliff did not embrace but rather fought Mr. Earnshaw the entire 60 miles back to the Heights.

Surely the above may be hyperbole, but we must keep in mind that Mr. Earnshaw's gifts for Cathy/Hindley/Nelly were lost or destroyed in the process: most symbolically, Mr. Earnshaw's struggle to obtain Heathcliff led to Hindley's fiddle being broken, Cathy's whip being lost, and we're never told what happened to Nelly's gift of fruit, but we can assume it was lost or never got to be obtained as a result of his preoccupation.

Heathcliff's relationship with Mr. Earnshaw is complicated because of the racial power imbalance & as I said, Earnshaw having a white saviour complex & basically kidnapping Heathcliff despite (or so we're told) not fully knowing if Heathcliff had a family or not. Most important are Heathcliff's own feelings about the situation; Earnshaw's wild affection is clear.

We're told by Nelly's observations that Heathcliff clearly did not have a great love for Earnshaw: "I wondered often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy; who never, to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply insensible; though knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only to speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes."

When Mr. Earnshaw was dying, Heathcliff was sitting with Cathy who was singing to Earnshaw. When they realize Earnshaw has finally passed, Heathcliff seems to genuinely grieve as equally as Cathy (Hindley is at college at this time):

"The poor thing discovered her loss directly — she screamed out — 'Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's dead!' And they both set up a heart-breaking cry." Later when Nelly returns from getting help: "I ran to the children's room: their door was ajar, I saw they had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer, and did not need me to console them. The little souls were comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their innocent talk . . ."

Yet we also know by Heathcliff's odd dynamics with Nelly and Hareton, and even by some of his behavior around Catherine I (who is the only person that most of us can agree he really loves), we can see that, probably due to trauma, Heathcliff does not know how to show affection "normally."

By his earlier disconnected reactions to Hindley's abuse, we can see that early on he had trouble reacting to negative emotions as well, which probably led him to his later emotional dysregulation & bursts of rage/frustration, which make complete sense in his situation and are why we can still often sympathize with him in his path of vengeance, even despite his abusiveness.

So we do not know the full extent of Heathcliff's feelings toward Mr. Earnshaw, and whether he truly had deep affection for him or somewhat resented him, but whatever his feelings were, they were clearly complex. As we all know, Heathcliff is capable of feeling very strongly, and when he does, he is usually vocal about it (see: literally most of his dialogue). He can't go 30 seconds without roasting someone lol. But he is oddly ambivalent and quiet about Earnshaw.

You could also (& countless academics have) argue that Earnshaw/the Earnshaw family is essentially a microcosm of colonization, Heathcliff is symbolically captured/enslaved by Mr. Earnshaw (which highlights how white saviourism is oxymoronic), and then actually becomes almost literally enslaved by Hindley later on.

On Heathcliff and Hindley:

Both are extremely flawed. Both are wildly in love with women who die from labor, both become abusive single fathers, both are defined by their grief and feelings of revenge, both want to kill each other all throughout the story, both actually try to do so to varying extents. Heathcliff saves Hareton from Hindley's negligence by catching him, Hindley saves Isabella from Heathcliff's abuse by tackling the latter (in what I think is one of the novels best sequences, Isabella's narration of the period of Heathcliff and Hindley's fighting and her escape). Heathcliff's bond with Hareton, like Hindley's bond with Isabella, is both manipulative and touching in turns. Ditto for their bonds to Nelly.

Many people believe Heathcliff had a role to play, directly or indirectly, in Hindley's death. Evidence for this: 1) teen Heathcliff wishes Hindley could drink himself to death but acknowledges doctor Kenneth says he won't: "‘It’s a pity he cannot kill himself with drink,’ observed Heathcliff, muttering an echo of curses back when the door was shut. ‘He’s doing his very utmost; but his constitution defies him. Mr. Kenneth says he would wager his mare that he’ll outlive any man on this side Gimmerton, and go to the grave a hoary sinner; unless some happy chance out of the common course befall him.’" 2) later, Kenneth remarks to Nelly that "He's barely twenty-seven, it seems; that's your own age: who would have thought you were born in one year?'" 3) Joseph once accused Heathcliff of attempting to murder Hindley during their fight ("And so ye've been murthering on him?") - in which Isabella said Heathcliff had to barely restrain himself from not killing Hindley. Joseph later adds suspicion to Hindley's death when, after Heathcliff explains to Nelly how Hindley had been suffering from the effects of alcoholism but died suddenly in the morning, Joseph "confirmed this statement, but muttered: "I'd rayther he'd goan hisseln for t' doctor! I sud ha' taen tent o' t' maister better nor him—and he warn't deead when I left, naught o' t' soart!'" (trans. from WH Reader's Guide site: "'I'd rather he'd gone himself for the doctor! I would have taken care of the master better than him—and he wasn't dead when I left, nothing of the sort!'"). So Heathcliff told Joseph to fetch Kenneth which left Heathcliff alone with Hindley, who was then dead when Joseph/Kenneth arrived.

My own theory is that Hindley probably choked on his own vomit (a common form of death by addiction) because of Heathcliff's description of he and Joseph finding Hindley "snorting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle: flaying and scalping would not have wakened him." It is after this that Heathcliff is alone with Hindley and he dies. Heathcliff can be seen as guilty through inaction imo, though he would justify it by saying he was letting nature take its course.

Heathcliff and Hindley take turns enslaving each other throughout the story. Hindley's seniority, legitimacy, and race give him advantages, while Heathcliff's early favoritism by Mr. Earnshaw and his later accrual of wealth, wit, and strength give him some advantages. We're told by Nelly (and she's biased, but she's the main source we have) that Hindley bullied Heathcliff immediately, to which Heathcliff weaponized Mr. Earnshaw in his favor, as evidenced by the horse scene.

If, when Hindley returned to become master of Wuthering Heights after Mr. Earnshaw's death, his wife Frances had taken a liking to Heathcliff, or if Hindley had simply matured in his time away — in other words, if Hindley had decided to grow up and let bygones be bygones — I wonder if Heathcliff would have done the same, and decided to be peaceful & not to continue their childhood rivalry.

The bulk of Heathcliff's lust for revenge really stems from Hindley's treatment of him after Mr. Earnshaw's death, when Hindley, as the new Mr. Earnshaw, really does follow through on that childhood promise during the horse scene to use his wealth/power/independence to render Heathcliff miserable, and to turn him out or keep him enslaved. Possibly at the beckoning of Frances (which I mention later,) Hindley succeeds in fulfilling this childish power fantasy, and this is partly what inspires Heathcliff to obtain the means of flipping the script and later rendering Hindley a weakened dependent.

Although Hindley is racist/absorbed his parents racism, note that Catherine was not/did not, and so Hindley's true hatred of Heathcliff imo is more motivated by jealousy/envy for his father's affection than it is anything else, & his own feelings of inadequacy & self-hatred which likely would have existed anyway & were just fuelled by being "usurped" in his father's affection.

I really blame Mr. (& Mrs., though we sadly have so little insight into her character) Earnshaw for Hindley/Heathcliff's rivalry, because I feel like we can assume Mrs. Earnshaw must have favored Hindley more when Mr. Earnshaw started favoring Heathcliff, considering Hindley's hatred increased after the grief from his mother's death, — and this favoritism & parental split is bound to deepen the split between their favorites.

Hindley's hatred of Heathcliff really increased after his father & then his wife's deaths (meaning he had prolonged complex grief), which I'm assuming compounded & brought back his feelings of his original grief for his mother, resulting in further hatred of Heathcliff who had nothing to do with any of it but whose arrival Hindley just subconsciously associated with his mother's illness/death & his father's emotional abandonment (which we could consider a mental death which took place before his physical death; imo Hindley's whole character is defined by grief).

To enhance their pseudo-brotherly rivalry, which some may say is reminiscent of Abel/Cain (especially if you believe the theory/opinion that Heathcliff murdered Hindley or was otherwise in any part to blame for his death), we again have the fact that Heathcliff was named after Hindley's dead brother.

Heathcliff is actually Heathcliff 2.0, and maybe it was Mr. Earnshaw's grief that led him to use Heathcliff 2.0 as a replacement child the way Hindley uses Mrs. Earnshaw 2.0 as a replacement mother.

All throughout the story we have people being named after each other and taking on each other's roles, ie the whole 1st/2nd generation parallels (we could extend it to be 1st/2nd/3rd since I've highlighted the narrative importance of Mr./Mrs. Earnshaw), Linton Heathcliff, Cathy 1.0/2.0. — but we know nothing about Heathcliff 1.0 other than that he died in childhood.

Was he Catherine's age, younger, or older? Did Catherine see Heathcliff as a replacement brother? Did Heathcliff 1.0 die before Catherine was born? Was he Hindley's age? Did Hindley already have grief/trauma from Heathcliff 1.0's death and resent Heathcliff 2.0 for usurping not only him, but his dead brother's place?

We're told that "the family" gave Heathcliff 2.0 his name, but I assume Mrs. Earnshaw and Hindley may not have been involved due to us never seeing that they care for him — and Joseph may have had a role in it, but he's also rarely thoughtful, and Nelly was gone — so could Cathy have suggested the name Heathcliff? (which brings to my mind Edward Rochester telling Jane Eyre to "give him his name" when he proposes to her, asking her to call him "Edward" — this would be poetic of Catherine/Heathcliff's relationship).

The meaning of the names Heathcliff/Hindley are very similar; they also share the same initials, syllable count, and the "ee" sound. Heathcliff is a combination of "heath" (a synonym for "moor"; what he and Cathy love to roave on) and "cliff." In meaning, apparently (according to some sources on Ancestry.com) Hindley is a habitational name from hind 'hind, female deer' and lēah 'woodland clearing' — which is basically another way of saying heath/moor. So there is a lot of similarity in their names, and this tainted brotherly theme, both of which must have been intentional.

Regardless of whether Heathcliff & Hindley are foster brothers or half-brothers, this naming choice is still a sign that Heathcliff was predestined to be part of the family, and lends itself to the other themes of predeterminism in that Heathcliff ends up becoming the master of the Heights after Hindley the way he would have if he were his biological brother.

Mr. Earnshaw telling Hindley he'd bring him back any gift he chose, and then returning with that gift having been broken by Heathcliff, are ample reasons to explain the hatred that moody 14-year-old Hindley immediately feels for him, who was about half his age and therefore an impractical playmate. He is more like a new sibling, and like an older sibling, Hindley is horrified at being overshadowed by the family's new addition. Since we don't know whether Hindley knew or was close to Heathcliff 1.0, we can hesitantly assume he may have been upset by the naming.

On Heathcliff, Hindley, and Frances:

I would like to briefly touch more on Hindley's wife's death (so closely followed by his fathers death) bringing up feelings of his mothers death. Hindley's wife Frances Earnshaw is the second Mrs. Earnshaw and she only comes to the house right after Mr. Earnshaw dies. I believe Hindley parallels his father, Frances parallels his mother (so like many men, he metaphorically "married his mother"), and that Frances also has some similarities to Heathcliff.

Frances has an unknown origin story and Hindley keeps her background from his father on purpose, and this could have been intended to parallel the first Mr. Earnshaw from possibly keeping Heathcliff's origins vague: "What she was, and where she was born, he never informed us: probably, she had neither money nor name to recommend her, or he would scarcely have kept the union from his father."

Frances also immediately dislikes Heathcliff... just like Hindley's mother, the first Mrs. Earnshaw, did: "Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?"

We don't know why Frances dislikes Heathcliff, but it wouldn't be a stretch to assume it has to do with his race & status, because it is only after her disapproval that Hindley banishes Heathcliff to the role of a servant/slave, we can assume. We can also assume Frances disliked Heathcliff from the beginning, since we're never told that she took a liking to him like she initially does with Catherine; we are only ever told she dislikes him:

"She expressed pleasure, too, at finding a sister among her new acquaintance; and she prattled to Catherine, and kissed her, and ran about with her, and gave her quantities of presents, at the beginning. Her affection tired very soon, however, and when she grew peevish, Hindley became tyrannical. A few words from her, evincing a dislike to Heathcliff, were enough to rouse in him all his old hatred of the boy. He drove him from their company to the servants, deprived him of the instructions of the curate, and insisted that he should labour out of doors instead; compelling him to do so as hard as any other lad on the farm."

It is after the last quote that we learn Cathy and Heathcliff become increasingly "feral" outdoors, as Heathcliff is forced to toil in outdoor labor, and Cathy insists on keeping him company while he's at it. At this point they are both essentially orphaned, and then neglected and abandoned by Hindley and Frances, the new Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw, who take on the roles of the former Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw, who were similarly neglectful and emotionally abandoning to their children.

On Cathy and Heathcliff:

In the beginning, Lockwood reads this diary entry from Catherine I which proves the prior analysis in that she compares Mr. Earnshaw 1.0 to Mr. Earnshaw 2.0 (Hindley):

""An awful Sunday,' commenced the paragraph beneath. 'I wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute — his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious – H. and I are going to rebel — we took our initiatory step this evening."

Notice how in the death of Mr. Earnshaw and then under the tyranny of Hindley (Mr. Earnshaw 2.0), Cathy and Heathcliff are often sharing each other's emotions, and their bond is very twin-like. They both cry & grieve in their room in unison after Earnshaw dies, and although Heathcliff is the one primarily sentenced to torment by Hindley, Cathy doesn't abandon him to it and instead often keeps him company in his punishment, recalling when she was younger and her father would try to keep Heathcliff away from her to punish her.

Even when Cathy does sort of abandon Heathcliff to marry Edgar, in her speech after Heathcliff leaves, she says that her plan was to use her control over Edgar to benefit Heathcliff, so she really never intended to abandon him at all. Abandonment, attachment issues, separation, loss, grief, being torn away from someone/somewhere/something, are all major themes in this story, often expressed by familial and more often filial experiences.

Cathy and Heathcliff's relationship basically embodies all these themes the most poignantly, in that Heathcliff abandons her because he thinks she's abandoning him and he can't bear it and would rather leave than be left; then as soon as he returns, Cathy ends up actually physically abandoning him by dying! And later on, her ghost taunts him (I believe most of us can take the ghost plot as canon & not hallucinatory considering how many characters attest to it), and he once again returns to her like he did before.

Their whole relationship is about overcoming obstacles to separation, and being determined to retain their attachment as an act of defiance (even if it means defying life, death, physics, etc.) — this is why they're considered the most romantic couple in literature even despite their awful behavior most of the time, because in writing/literary pedagogy as a general rule it is almost always the goal of romantic leads to overcome obstacles which separate them from their lover, – and Heathcliff and Cathy take this goal to a new level by overcoming not only their childhood punishments of separation from one another, but overcoming the impossible obstacles of LIFE AND DEATH to reunite in the spirit realm where no one can separate them again — not even God.

Both Catherine and Heathcliff say that they know they won't go to heaven; God literally doesn't want them, and he has abandoned them, and this is the ultimate abandonment/seperation. Thus, all they have in the universe is each other — and if their relationship didn't work in life, they're determined to make it work in death!

Some final thoughts on Mr. Earnshaw and the making of Heathcliff:

Due to all of my previous explanations, I consider Mr. Earnshaw a possibly well-intentioned man but who ultimately failed all of his children (along with Mrs. Earnshaw) by 1) emotionally neglecting/abandoning Catherine because she was a "bad child" & acted more boyish than Hindley, 2) emotionally neglecting/abandoning Hindley in favor of Heathcliff (and maybe it was partly because Hindley was becoming a moody teenager and Heathcliff was comparatively younger/easier to handle bc of his trauma-induced subdued nature, but whatever his reasoning, it had disastrous consequences), 3) emotionally neglecting Heathcliff too by not being involved enough in his integration with the family & not checking in on him and Hindley, 4) straight up just not being that involved to begin with and not seeming to teach his children anything, hence why they're all bratty and grow up to be deeply maladjusted.

Notice how Nelly's motivational speeches to Heathcliff, and her taking care of him when he was sick, have an extraordinary affect on him, meaning Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw probably didn't show him even half as much attention or real affection. Like most English fathers at the time, Earnshaw thought his job as father/master was to merely provide provisions, leave the children with the women to be actually raised, and be done with it. The most unique thing he does in his life, and indeed his whole role in the story, is bringing home Heathcliff.

Maybe most importantly, I also just realized that Earnshaw kidnapping Heathcliff parallels Heathcliff kidnapping his own son after Isabella dies (and also him kidnapping his daughter-in-law Cathy II), and while this narrative parallel works if Earnshaw is merely Heathcliff's adoptive father, it also could be working to suggest that Earnshaw was his biological father, knew Heathcliff's mother had died, and so went back for him and took him by force. If Heathcliff's mother had recently died (or been separated from him), this would have compounded his trauma of being taken by Earnshaw, and this would have furthered his childhood memory loss, which could be another reason why I don't think Heathcliff remembers very much about his origins.

Heathcliff has much in common with Frankenstein's creaure. Yet, he is essentially a self-made man, his own creator and creature. We are even led to think of him as inhuman, as Isabella suggests with her referring to him as such and even calling him vampiric. And he does bear a lot of similarity to John Polidori's Lord Ruthven, from the first vampire novel The Vampyre (a Byronic tale, based on Byron's short story Augustus Darvell). Heathcliff's canonically mysterious origins and mysterious hiatus are necessary to his character; like Isabella and Nelly, we're supposed to question him and form our own opinions on the matter.

[koffing-time]

Yooo, i’ve secured the footage of the first actual round of the contest! (Again, huuuuge thanks @appeallove )

Also, i have NO IDEA what time it is right now, i sort of completely passed out right after it, it was so exhausting lol! I didn’t see my name yet in the next bracket and i didn’t check for anything else, so i don’t even know if i won! (If i did, i hope i didn’t miss my next performance, i’ll go run and check right after this post hehe)

BY THE WAY, also an incredible huge amazing THANK YOU to Daisy, who was an incredible opponent! Thanks for doing this with me! (idk if you have a rotumblr, actually, but you said i should just ping @battlelegendsredandblue so i’ll do that)

[Another recording from the livestream of the Sootopolis Circuit:

Tix enters the stage, their outfit changed just a bit from the qualifiers performance. They are wearing a black tanktop now, with a design that reminds of netting made of silver string. The “net” is shining and glittering. Behind them, a Koffing is floating. It has been decorated with similar silver fabric strings, which make it look like disco ball. In addition, strange devices are mounted on most of its craters. A large moustache is adorning its face, which makes the whole thing look rather goofy.

“HEEEEY SOOTOPOLIS!!! COLOURLESS TOXIN IS BACK!!! AND NOW WE GOTTA MAKE A DIFFERENT KIND OF MUSIC BECAUSE OTHERWISE IT GETS BORING RIGH?! SO NOW I HAVE BROUGHT A NEW MEMBER WITH ME! THIS HERE IS COFFEE, THE GUY WHO USUALLY DOES THE PYROTECHNICS BUT HE CAN ALSO PLAY THE SYNTH! BUT ONLY TWO GUYS ON STAGE IS BOOORING! SO WE BROUGHT SOME ASSISTANCE, AND I GOTTA ASK YA LADY! ARE YOU GONNA SING, OR ARE YOU GONNA DANCE?!?!”

The woman can’t help but give a chuckle as she steps onto the stage, Chansey nearby like it’ll step on her toes, but it never does. It makes an excited chirp, as if giving its own answer to the question.

Though Chansey isn’t wearing anything on the theme with the other performers, Daisy certainly is, a pink jacket with darker pink stripes, not to mention the ascot like scarf, matching the tendrils on Chansey’s own head. Pockets mimicking its pouch on her shorts.

“Why not both?” She answers, before commanding, “Seych, Sing!”

The move directly hits the floating Koffing, who sinks a bit towards the floor, though his eyes stay open.

“WHOA GIRL!” Tix has been stopped in their energetic track. “The peeps don’t even know what we’re playing yet! But I guess since Coffee needs a moment, I can tell you!”

They have now regained their excitement and turn towards the audience. “THIS IS OUR INTERPRETATION OF GYM LEADER ROXIES SONG “THE SKIES ARE READ BECAUSE THE CLOUDS ARE MADE OF NAPALM!!!”

They strum the guitar with a loud chord, but then play a much quieter, but fast and complicated melody. “IF YOU’RE GOOD; WE NEED SOME HEEEAT! FLAMETHROWER!!”

Coffee seems to have been energised by the music again, begins floating upwards again and inhales a deep breath. At the same time, tiny puffs of smoke leave some of his craters, which results in two large speakers releasing synthetic music. The camera zooms in, to make the delicate workings visible, apparently is this strange construction connected to a synthesizer. Coffee now releases a stream of hot flames towards Chansey

“Sorry! I’m just excited!” Daisy grins. The atmosphere seems way different than what she’s used to. She seems about as excited as the audience with each step she takes, making them quickly as she attempts to keep up with the melody. More used to softer music for sure, but she keeps herself on her toes.

As flames dance around Chansey, it holds onto its egg, twirling lightly to keep it safe. In turn, with the Soft-Boiled move, it looks like it’s ballerina-spun right out of the danger. It gives a soft sigh of relief before giving a cute look of Charm, making sure it looks straight at the audience. If the pout could talk it’d probably say “Look how close that was, won’t you?”

Daisy isn’t done yet though with her movements, making sure her footing is steady, but also her arms reaching high. It may be a slow dance by the music’s standards, but she does a little hop to keep on the beat as she approaches Tix and back again.

“WHOAHO!! You know how to move your feet! But I think we need a bit more atmosphere! Coffee, gimme a solo and set up something, you know what to do!”

With that, the Koffing lets his synthetic music fade into nothingness, when he suddenly drops to the ground and the crowd lets out a shocked gasp. Then, the poison type starts rolling around the stage, carefully watching Chanseys and Daisys dancemoves, not to hinder them. It seems that Coffee is actually trying to match their moves. At the same time, the few geysers that do not have metallic rings attached spew out a beautifully glittering mist, through which the other contestants dance.

Tix has also started making a few moves, mostly keeping it to the side of the stage though, as to not obstruct their opponents dance. They have now pressed a button on the guitar which added a strange crackling to the sound that reminds a little bit of burning wood. The guitarist now also started singing, or rather growling some almost unintelligible vocals, not unlike the guttural sounds their Toxicroak made during the qualifiers.

Daisy watches the little guy roll around a bit, clapping her hands for him. She spins a few times while doing so.

“We’ll have to give pointers afterwards!” The performance is seconds away from ending, either by the time or the energy, but it’s mainly the energy. If it wasn’t for the music, one could probably hear their own heart beating in their chest if they didn’t feel it.

Chansey picks up on the singing, despite the guttural sounds, it waddles up to them with a smile. Then it follows them in Singing, trying to hit lower notes to match, though only gets to a midrange. Regardless if it can hit the pitch or not, its tail wags lightly.

Tix now finishes their solo and singing, taking a deep breath and smiling at Chansey. The round Pokémon dances back towards it’s trainer, taking her hands and the lead, making them both spin in sync with the music that now picks up again and gets even a bit faster than before. Coffee has also begun floating again and is puffing more and more smoke, creating an incredible melody together with the guitar. It seems Daisy and Chansey cannot dance any faster at this point when Tix screams “NOW THE FINALE!” and Coffee starts glowing, his costume reflecting the light all over the stage.

For a single heartbeat, he looks like shining lightbulb. Daisy and Chansey have broken apart and are taking a final stance, when a deafening CRACK and an equally loud chord from Tix’ guitar fill the Arena and Coffee releases a giant fireball from the Explosion-move. All four contestants stand on stage, as if time is standing still, when suddenly, even before the Koffing falls to the ground after the ultimate exhausting move, Chansey cannot hold its pose and trips, falling on its belly. Half the crowd erupts into cheers, the other half lets out another shocked gasp. Both Daisy and Tix run over to help an embarrassed Chansey back on its feet before the footage cuts.]

ooc: I’ve listened mostly to The Enigma TNG  while writing this (and they make incredible music btw), but I think the song played goes more into the direction of thrash, maybe even hardbass or hardcore techno, since it’s only (modified) guitar and synth

[lemonmatronics]

Heeeey Gang, so remember like MONTHS ago when I said I wanted to write an essay on why I view Aau as autistic and nonverbal? And then I like,, never did?

Well I wanna do that now TEEHEE SO: Aau’s Nonverbal Behaviors and Why I Think Her Autism Gives Her Her Power

I’m going to preface this saying I know this is most likely not the intended message of the episode. If you’re here to be upset about me relating my autism and verbal shutdowns to a fictional character, this is not the post for you. Please scroll. I’m not here claiming this as fact, I’m simply giving my own interpretation of Aau’s Song.

Throughout the episode itself Aau’s father is fearful of the power her voice holds, specifically around kyber crystals. If you’ve watched the episode you know her planet has many of them, all corrupted by The Sith. Kyber crystals themselves hold much power, and are used in creating light sabers, to give background to anyone that needs it.

(I’m p sure like 99% of my followers don’t watch Star Wars so, sorry fans in the tags I am not babying you I pinky swear)

The beginning of the short shows that when Aau barely uses her voice near a kyber crystal, it starts to spark and burns her father’s glove.

Many would assume this power is why Aau speaks so little, but I feel like it’s the other way around. I believe Aau’s voice is so strong because she doesn’t talk much. Even when she’s nowhere near any crystals, we barely hear her make a peep.

One could assume this is her being afraid to speak up knowing her voice can hold power, but I would disagree on that. The opening shot of the episode establishes she mountain climbs by herself without much protection.

Which is something she does again later on in the episode

Aau is not a girl that’s held back by fear, including using her voice. Not only did she make noise at the beginning of the episode, but even when she’s in a cave while afraid she starts to sing.

Yes she feels fear, plenty of times throughout the episode, but fear does not hold her back. If it does not stop her while in a cave full of sith kyber crystals, why would it stop her when she knows it’s safe to speak?

It simply doesn’t. She just does not talk much, which is what makes her voice hold such power. So much power that when she finally had the chance to truly let her power show, she purified countless kyber crystals around them.

Finally the biggest point to me comes after Aau’s heroic moment. She knows her voice does good, that her power is good

And she still barely talks

Only saying two very brief sentences to her dad before leaving home

Something he doesn’t seem to mind, so I don’t think he expected any change.

The time skip between the offer to leave and actually going was two weeks, and still, Aau barely says a word. If she did let fear hold he back before, her certainly shouldn’t now right?

Because of all this I fully believe it’s Aau’s lack of using her voice that gives it so much strength, and that she’s not silent because of power. She has power because she’s silent. A silence she does not need to change because she holds so much strength the way she is, even without her power.

Aau is a big hearted, brave, clumsy, kind, adventurous soul who is never told she has to change. Only that she must be careful and chose her own path of how to be so.

Again, was any of this subtext done on purpose?

Probably not

But it sure makes my lil autistic heart happy, and that’s enough to me

[5-7-9]

Okay here’s another meta explanation for my reclamation AU, not as fun. Yeah, i actually included the pedophilic homophobia biphobia rumors in my narrative. Y’know why? Y’know what I think? I think Bruce’s entire in narrative life being monitored and reported on by newspapers and celebrity gossip, is a nightmare. There’s something to be said about how media (like books) can affect you, and I’m not letting it slide.

There’s a characterized version of Wertham that actually exists in my story, and instead of criticizing fictional stories about jewish coded heroes, he’s in-narrative criticizing the heroes directly (well still book form but y’know). Slight issue is only Batman and Bruce would have to have separate rumors, so the Bruce rumor comes slightly differently, but that’s okay because then i can just use the toxicity of the wealthiest class to explain it. Anyways, I’m referencing this real event for a story idea as a critique on media, same as this guy but i reversed it back at him. Counter argument i guess.

When Bruce becomes acquainted with the queer friend group (based after some tumblr peeps and culture), they hesitantly accept him. The media on the other hand? Well Bruce is covering up for the most part, but its not long before the reporters and gazette starts assuming he’s gay again, also wonder if he’s taking advantage of his lack of privacy to spread that rumor in the first place to hide something. Of course, when Bruce kisses Jack on camera, the media went wild. Even the citizens that don’t care for celebrities heard about it. So the homophobic biphobic stuff starts happening, but there was a surprisingly big positive reaction where many queers acknowledged the homophobic backlash and the lack of privacy Bruce has, so they said the media should shut the fuck up and leave him alone. So Gotham suddenly became very queer accepting, while also highlighting the homophobia, and Bruce’s reputation while still criticized and suspicious for being the richest guy in town, was pretty good. The Gazette got canceled so they tried saving face by not talking about it anymore. Lots of media outlets got canceled.

The good thing wasn’t Bruce being publicized, it actually sucks lots: Jack constantly get insulted for being “boring” and being questioned for being used as a media stunt to hide something (fun parts is Jack proving the media wrong and using the spotlight to openly criticize shit and to prop up his activist group).

For the toxic masculinity and internalized homophobia and being closeted interpretation, I actually disagree? Idk how wealth works but I think he’d get away with it as an open secret. I mean he’s rich, what could a homophobe do to the richest guy possibly ever??? So Bruce doesn’t technically get outed, don’t worry about that. He just preferred keeping his partners secret for privacy, becuz again, the media sucks. He allows Alfred to know, and anyone else in private like friends or family. I had Selina teach him the term bisexual but he already knew, just not the word or how it’s not as normal as he assumed.

[askadvancewars]

2014 - AW Zine

It could be I’m getting sick and I may regret this when I wake up but I can’t stop thinking about it

Though maybe people will be tired after the secret santa and valetine stuff 

(yeah it won’t be a fanbook just by me who’d want that

I’m hoping for a for-fans-by-fans submission pdf fanbook  kinda deal)

Nothing really came out of this, unsurprisingly.

I think I just really wanted to an Advance Wars fanbook but the best I could do was make one of myself.

Here’s a post I wrote back then which is the context of some pics I repost

While I still try to work out how to put together a pdf thing, just been thinking about guidelines

I really want this to come as accessible and not intimidating to submit because people submitting is great and people showing their love is super series through art

but I’d also like it to look nice, like quality-wise, as in you open it up and the quality of the art doesn’t like junk, as it happened when I tried

Also, I don’t want anybody to feel their art isn’t ‘good enough’ because the plan is to make expression of love for the series 

I’ve been tossing ideas, like should there be a theme or not? In general, I’d like to be the general theme of ‘What AW means/meant to you’/'What you love the most about the series’.

If there is a particular theme, I’d still want it to be open-ended enough for the artist’s interpretation

I would want to it be mostly new art made for the book but also open to old art they might want to showcase?

Right now the ideas I like best are 

COLORS

-depending how many people sign up, they get assigned a color and draw around that (maybe there would be four people and the colors split up, one might get black and yellow so they’d make a black page and a yellow page, the other might be get orange and blue)

DRAW ALL THE COS

-depending again how many people sign up, they get a random draw of COs to draw so everyone will draw everyone else, could be as simple as just drawing heads or stick figures or as elaborate as making a whole comic

Ah, but the Days of Ruin COs are always welcome which is why I always make it a point to include them in the guidelines.

Nobody seems to request, haha. (I probably will if this ever comes to pass, them and Super Famicom Wars peeps)

Other ideas are Seasons (particular Summer) and Food

But then I circle back to idea that these might be needlessly complicated and might work against me when crunch time comes around because the keywords are 'Advance Wars’ and 'for fun’

not that kind of fun

Even with willing participants, a thriving fandom, and no reward or gain other than a showing of love for a series, a fanbook would need a lot of work.

I did making my own fanbook so maybe “nothing” isn’t exactly the right word for it. But as someone who did not know what I was doing with anything…doing it all by myself? It obviously wasn’t very good.

I ended up putting everything on my askadvancewars a couple of years back.

The theme I went with was: draw every Advance Wars Classic COs once/sorted by faction+ Infantry guys

I called it Jake Wars because of course I did

I still really like that the divider I chose was having each nation’s soldier playing a game system where a Wars game appeared (Orange Star playing on a GBA SP, Blue Moon on the DS, etc) before introducing their group…except for Black Hole’s. Yeah, I ran pretty much of steam out that one.

I still really like this one of them playing on the GameCube. Ironically, the only Wars game on the platform wasn’t made by Intelligent Systems and the one I don’t know, haven’t played and don’t talk about ever.

[honeydewday]

Two Weeks: I

Summary: You’ve seen things that are bound to happen, and so they do. You’ve gotten your first glimpse of what could finally be the start of your’s and Peter’s relationship. On second thought, maybe you interpreted the situation differently? Since you got it wrong for the first time in your life.

pairing: peter parker x stark!reader

warnings: none but please correct me if I’m wrong :)

a/n: hi everyone! i know it’s been a long time and i’ll make this short but thank you for your patience and I am now ready to share my story with everyone :) hope you enjoy and feedback is always appreciated.

next part

- bold statements are reader’s thoughts

The chilling air sent a shiver down your spine, hugging yourself in an attempt to fight off the cold, you scolded yourself in a muffled mummer. Looking around, you were in the school's gymnasium, which was filled with your classmates dancing, talking, and seemingly having a good time. Soaking in the décor that accessorized the room around you. The bright lights that crisscrossed back and forth finally grabbed your attention thanks to the pounding in your head it caused. Of course, it's the DJ's setup.

There was one funny thing about that DJ though, he was supposed to be blaring music? You could feel the vibration from how loud the music was playing but you couldn't hear the music. As if it was muffled. You gave your realization some more thought and wondered, "what else can I not hear?".

Panic started to flood your sense. You knew you were in your school's gymnasium, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except you can't seem to remember how you even got here. You can't even put together what this event is.

You looked once more where the DJ was set up. A few kids had started to surround him and began dancing. Taking a step back, you gave one of your ears a little shake mentally hoping somehow some water pours out. But to no avail, you still couldn't hear a damn thing.

A hand on your shoulder brought you out of the confused state, switching weight between your feet, you turned to find Michelle mouthing a few words as she handed you a drink. Cautiously taking the drink, you took a sip

The feeling that nothing seemed out of the ordinary was comforting. The streamers, cake, balloons, tables, the DJ made for a night that you'd never forget. A seemingly fun night that you can't seem to remember ever happening...

You stared at Michelle long enough to grab her attention. Giving you a troubled look, she mouthed a few words to you again. Shrugging in response, you took another sip. You had spotted Ned and a few other friends babbling back and forth with excitement and laughter. Not hearing a peep. What the hell was going on?

Michelle placed her hand on your shoulder bringing probably noticing your distress. You watched her lips as she spoke, trying your best to lip-read. Nodding when she seemingly finished, her response was an irritated sigh as she shook her head and walked off. Guess it wasn't the answer she was looking for.

You swallowed as another thought rocked you, where was Peter?

The twinge you felt in your heart only made you more anxious., you honestly just needed a breather. Before you could even make your way out of the gym, you spotted Peter entering, worry plastered across his face. He was dressed in a stylish suit and looked just a little more dapper than usual. His eyes scanned back and forth until they landed on you.

You stopped dead in your tracks, watching as he walked up, stopping way too close to you. The two of you had only been this close a handful of times since becoming friends. Little moments like these that you thought would one day break the boundary of just being friends.

"Are you okay?" you asked hearing your own voice muffled as well.

He swallowed before opening his mouth, he began to speak yet you didn't hear a thing. Sighing in frustration, you knew that Peter would be talking a million miles per minute because well, that's just Peter. Deciding to ignore him, allowing him to continue his ramble, your mind started to wander off to figure out what was happening and how you got here.

We're at school, dressed pretty nice, and there's that DJ they hire for literally every event, so it has to be...Prom? No, my friends are a little too young for that.

Peter slowly came to a stop, seeing your annoyance, he grasped your hand taking you by surprise. He gave your hand a squeeze that made your breath hitch. Stepping closer, the smell of his cologne stung your nostrils. Studying his features, but this time it wasn't from afar. Scared that he'd pull away, you were prepared for it though. In the moments he thought he was too close, he knew he was trespassing the border that surpassed 'just friends'.

He brought his hand up to caress your cheek, mumbling incoherent words once again. He leaned in and-

"Y/N!" You shot up, looking over to the door that was being pounded. "Let's go! We only got an hour and a half to get to the airport!" Happy exclaimed, hearing his fussing on the other side of the door. Sucking in a deep breath and exhaling, you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes still questioning your reality.

That's right...

The avengers were in action just a day before and not only against some otherworldly force, they were battling their greatest enemy yet, Themselves. Pinching your arm to make sure you were awake, you needed to take note of the scenario that felt so concrete. Reaching over the bed to rummage in your suitcase, you pulled out a nifty journal that you'd tend to have on you since these types of dreams were quite rare. Most of the dreams you had weren't that really important, but the ones that were, you wrote it down as soon as you'd wake up. Never knowing how much you'd be able to write down before the reminisce of the dream became blurred.

When you finished writing, you read over the dream. You knew in your gut that this was going to be Homecoming, it was only a few weeks away, and well, your friend, teammate, your father's new apprentice, whatever his title was, didn't help settle the confidence that grew in your heart. He likes you.

The thought itself frightened you a bit. Of course, you liked him, you couldn't stop thinking about him. You had wondered when you'd receive a dream that was either him asking you out or a nightmare where he rejected your feelings. Yet, you pushed the doubt to the side and went with what you did know. You, Peter, Homecoming? It was a definite yes. Your dreams had never failed you, not even once. Everything played out exactly the way you saw it up until the last details. Wait, details? The image of Peter's face, his pleading eyes, and furrowed brows appeared in your head. You could even see that he sported a small frown. What had him so worried?

Sighing in frustration, you checked your phone, springing out of bed once you saw the time. Rushing through your routine, you finally gathered your bags and headed to the lobby. The nervousness had settled in once you reached the lobby already hearing Happy lecture Peter.

Peter looked over Happy's shoulder, "Hey! Good morning!" he smiled

"Hey" you breathed out, the two of you stared at each other for what seemed like forever until Happy spoke up. "Enough of the googly eyes, we gotta go." grabbing your bags and following Happy to the car.

As Happy began chunking the suitcases in the back. Peter opened the door for you, thanking him, you climbed in as he got in right behind you. You needed to break the ice a little bit, especially since you didn't want anything to seem off for him. The silence between the two of you hadn't been this awkward since you met.

"How are you feeling?" you spoke up finally getting settled in, "Do you...do you need me to heal anything?" holding your hands up and wiggling your fingers.

He breathed out a laugh shaking his head, "I-I'm fine. I think you got everything last night."

Feeling the familiar warmth flush over your cheeks, the one you felt last night when you opened the door that revealed him. Peter made sure you were alright and you did the same with him. He complained about his black eye and asking if you had a twin thanks to his concussion. To say you took away his pain and made it your own was an understatement.

Nodding quickly, you looked away. Taking in the view as you passed some sights, you started to wonder if your dad needed any mending, especially Rhodey. Still, knowing how Tony is, you doubt he'd let you help his best friend out. It defeats the purpose of his joke every time you heal someone. “Break my arm once that’s me, break it twice and I’m invincible cause I got you.”

These power you had, you honestly tried you best with them. Tony helped you tame these powers for the greater good. That all came crashing down though. It halted when Pepper decided she couldn't just sit around watching the love of her life perish right in front of her. After that, everything went into total chaos.

Tony wanted to be normal, not having to risk his own life to save others or focus on the people that would come after him. He longed to be a normal dad that showed up to watch them play soccer and argue with his wife about what they would be having for dinner. How could he have picture normality if he had never known it? Quite frankly, you didn't know it either and his desire caused a rift between the two of you.

It was only a few days that you and Tony had been alone as he started to become more of an overbearing father. He started to take notice of everything you did, where you went, and who you hung out with and he had concluded that you were in the making of becoming the version of himself that partied too much and had people leeching off of you. When he put his foot down, that was met with a vicious rebellious streak. The whole mess was settled after a few months in a damned hospital room. Pepper had come back, Tony was happier than ever, and you, well... as your punishment, your dad thought it'd be best to transfer you from a private school to a public school. It wasn't until you met Peter that you wanted to leave the fighting, moochers, and mindset behind.

You remember the day actually, but that's another story for another time. Turning back to Peter, he held his phone up to the window to record. He told you he was going to make a documentary about coming to Germany and so he was. Who would've thought that this scrawny boy had you swooning every time he smiled.

you were brought out of your trance when Happy started lecturing about putting his phone away, Peter did what he was told and shifted towards you.

"So, what was your infamous dream about last night?" he asked

Just like Peter. you had your own secret. Except, you didn't really know where you got them from. You just assumed since birth.

"It was pretty lame actually," you started "just a test in chemistry. You know if she gives it to one class-"

"She'll give it to all of her classes" he sighed finishing your sentence "Did you at least get the answers?"

"I-I don't remember" you lied shaking your head earning a 'damn' from Peter

"Sorry Pete, if it was a decathlon question, I swear I would've remembered." you joked

"I almost forgot!" he exclaimed, "You're gonna be so pissed but i'm quitting the team."

Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion, "Why?"

"Well, I don't have any time for those things anymore. Spider-man's just more important-like I literally fought Captain America, it can only get better from here on out" he explained

"Peter, you're just a kid. You never spend time with your friends anymore, you've quit like four other clubs within the span of a week." you huffed "you're literally throwing away your teenage years"

"Don't you think that's a little contradicting? Next year you're going to leave this all behind." he starts, "you're going to move a few hours away, join new clubs, go to parties, make new friends-you're going to leave your family and best friends behind." the irritation starting to become bolder. "You're going to leave-

Me.

I don't have to be telepathic to know that.

I'm going to leave you behind.

The silence spoke for the both of you. Shifting once more in his seat, Peter's darting eyes looked for a way to cover up his tracks, "You're gonna leave us. Michelle, Ned, and I."

You placed your hand on top of his to try and reassure him, “I plan on coming back every weekend. I still want to hang out and support you guys. I’ll even stay awake through your stupid movie marathons.”

He laughed softly, “I’d really want to see you awake past 12:30.” Smiling back, you felt a warm feeling in your chest.

“You kids are gonna make me throw up” Happy chimes in

You and Peter quietly laughed, you noticed your hand still comfortable on top of his. Sighing, you brought your hand back into your lap.

Oh boy, this dream had to be true. For your sake, and your exhausted little heart, you just had to get it off your chest.

______

After a long, talkative car ride, courtesy of Mr. Parker, the three of you arrived at the airport. You gathered your luggage and rushed towards the gate. A familiar figure standing, certainly awaiting your arrival, your dad.

“Let’s go! I’ve been waiting for the past hour for you guys to get here,” Tony says as he starts to rush you out onto the jet.

The plane ride was honestly a breeze. Seeing how excited Peter was made you even happier. However, you knew your time was running out. You knew that you didn’t have to ask him tonight, you just wanted to get it over and done with. You’ve been wanting to ask him out for a while but with everything that has come up, family drama, helping him be spidey, and the oh so slightest age gap that certainly did differentiate the two of you in certain times of your life, you were too afraid. Scared that it’d ruin your friendship. A friendship that you cherished dearly, you never thought you’d find a relationship like this.

Arriving back in New York, you all piled into a car. Happy, of course, the driver, Tony kicking it in shotgun, while you and Peter sat in the back. Now was your chance.

“Hey, Pete?” You breathed nervously, feeling your palms start to sweat

Looking up from his phone, he stared at you awaiting your response.

“Homecoming is a few weeks away and-and I was wondering if you want to go…” gulping in an attempt to soothe your dry mouth, “with me?”

“Of course, the whole group is going. You might have to convince Michelle a little more though, she says that dances aren’t her scene.” He explained

“I meant just us. Not as friends, more like a date.” Finally digging deep, finding the confidence you were looking for. Remembering what the future would look like giving you more confidence you had from this morning.

Peter didn’t say anything right away. You studied his face and to your conclusion, he either looked stunned or appalled. His lips parted, finally going to give you an answer.

“Y/N, we’re here. Pep’s home but I’m gonna drop the kid off.” Tony said instead, turning back to see you

Nodding unconsciously, you looked back at Peter to see if he’d give you anything at this point. His eyes darted back and forth between you and Tony.

“I’d love to,” he simply said

There it was. You knew it. Your dreams could never show you wrong. You felt so happy that you could get out of the car and dance. Probably perform a whole musical number on the street about the boy you liked was taking you to homecoming.

“Except, I-I kinda wanted to ask Liz to homecoming.” He interrupted

Everything around you felt like it was shattering around you. You were wrong. The dream was all wrong, that was a first. What the hell was happening? Anything that you saw happened. Certainly, you had moments of doubt where you were so sure that it couldn’t be true but this situation….this was new.

Smiling sadly, you nodded and got out of the car, “she’s definitely gonna say yes, Parker. I’ll see you Monday.” You say shutting the door.

Happy finished unloading your bags and had placed them on the sidewalk for you. You heard the car door opening and see Tony walkout, he grabs one bag as you grab the other. The two of you walk up the steps of your little hometown he had rented, in that’s sense, he’s still trying to be normal.

“Kid is missing a few pages in the middle of his book if he rejected you. I’ll have a talk with him. Set him straight.” He said opening the door for you and setting your bag down.

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, Tony loves Peter. You didn’t want your dad to take care of it like he always did, plus, you didn’t want Peter to feel like he has to like you.

Tony gave you a small smile and pecked your check, “I’ll be back”.

After the door closed you let out a few tears that you were holding back. You could hear Pepper greeting you from a different room but you wanted to be alone. You climbed the stairs to your room and felt like drowning in your heartbreak. Alone.

You flung yourself on the bed, shredded more tears than you would’ve liked, and wondered,

What else could you be wrong about?

[idy-ll-ique]

Blurry Lines.

Pairing: CEO!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Warnings: MISCOMMUNICATION because oh my god just talk

Requested: nope

Summary: Y/N works for James Barnes, CEO of a very successful tech company. She also has a massive crush on him. One day, she walks in on him kissing his assistant, and a few months in, because of the incident, she turns in her resignation letter. But will Bucky let her go? There's a thin line between professionalism and non-professionalism, blurred in the case of Bucky and Y/N.

Author's Note: hiya peeps! could've just named it "a shakespeare play" because of all the miscommunication but i already have a fic with shakespeare in its title asfhdkfks,,, anyway enjoy!

masterlist

---

There he is.

The man who ruined my whole life.

Y/N stared as her boss, James Barnes, left the elevator, greeting everyone with a polite smile and a wave. Why did he have to be so perfect all the time? He wore a sky-blue-colored suit with a white shirt underneath, his long hair pulled back into a bun with loose strands framing his face, making him look like a Greek God.

She had fallen for him, which was a big, big, big mistake. 1, he was her boss; 2, he was way out of her league, and 3, he probably had a girlfriend because a man like that, single? Hah, no way. "Y/N? Y/N, hello?" She snapped out of her thoughts and looked up, giving the man a small, forced smile.

"Hi, Mr Barnes, good morning." Bucky's smile faltered a bit at her words because she never called him Mr Barnes, he had specifically requested her to call him Bucky. Was he in trouble? "Mr Barnes? Whoa, what did I do?" he joked, though Y/N realized he was being serious. "Sorry, must've slipped out."

"Okay. Good morning to you, too!" He smiled and went to his office. As soon he turned his back to her, Y/N dropped her smile and scowled, crossing her arms. "Stupid man with his stupid attitude and his stupid handsome smile and his idiotic, beautiful blue eyes," she grumbled under her breath as she continued working.

Y/N Y/L/N was an employee of the one and only James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, CEO of a big tech company called Epsilon. She loved working with him; he paid his employees well, was very kind-hearted, and showed no bias to anyone. When she had first started working with him, she wasn't interested in him at all, romantically speaking.

Then, a few months passed by and she started looking forward to his everyday arrival; seeing him get out of the elevator with his gorgeous eyes, his expensive suits and Cheshire grins became the favorite part of her day. Y/N was damn good at hiding her crush though; she was sure that it would go away with time.

But it didn't.

2 years had now passed since she started working for Bucky and the crush was still there, more amplified than before. But she knew it would never work out between them. So she started distancing herself from him. For some reason, he was very, very friendly with her; she knew he was a reserved man so it was peculiar…

He would be holed up in his office the whole day after greeting everyone. Hell, the only words he ever said to his employees were "good morning" and "goodnight, I'll see you all tomorrow" while the rest of his notices were passed on to them by his assistant.

Still, he always stayed at her desk the longest, making small talk. "The weather is nice today, any plans after work?" he'd ask one day while, "You look gorgeous today, is that a new dress?" the other. It was odd; why did he do it? He certainly couldn't be interested in her, could he?

Y/N sighed, sorting through the stack of papers on her desk when she suddenly noticed that one of them was missing Bucky's signature. She glanced at his assistant's desk; she was nowhere to be found so Y/N got up, walking to Bucky's office to get the signature herself.

She knocked on the door but accidentally pushed it open. The sight that greeted her probably scarred her for life; inside Bucky's office, he was kissing his assistant, pushed up against his desk. Y/N's eyes widened and she immediately turned around to leave, the clicking of her heels alerting Bucky.

"Get off of me," he grumbled, pushing his assistant away as he ran to the door, looking out to see Y/N walking away. "Y/N! Y/N!" She turned around at the sound of his voice and gave him an awkward smile. "I didn't mean to walk in without permission, I'm really sorry, I just needed a signature on a paper, really didn't mean to—"

He waved his arm in dismissal and took the paper from her hands, signing it and handing it back to her. "It's fine." He gave her a small smile as she turned to leave. Bucky then groaned quietly and went back to his office, glaring at his assistant. "What the fuck was that?" he hissed. "You like me!" she whined and he scrunched his nose in disgust.

"What— when did I ever tell you that?! I'm not interested in you," he spat. "So all those glances you gave me, all the times you flirted with me, that was fake?" she shrieked. "Stop yelling," he admonished, "And for the record, I have never once in my life ever flirted with you or glanced at you in any way except professionally. Please snap out of your daydream."

"So what about the kiss?"

"You didn't give me time to push away! And now poor Y/N probably thinks I'm some sort of a playboy who takes advantage of women that work for me— you know what? You're fired. Don't ever show up to his place again." His assistant wailed, her eyes filled with tears.

"I knew it. I knew you liked her!" she accused him and he scoffed. "I don't like her. Now get lost, I have a lot of work to do." She stormed out of his office. The angry clicking of her heels made Y/N and the rest of the employees look up as she staggered towards the elevator. Y/N frowned; what the hell was going on?

"What do you think is up with her?" her friend Rubie whispered. "I have no idea, I caught her making out with Bu— Mr Barnes. I guess they fought?" Rubie's eyes went wide. "You mean he isn't into her? Damn, the bosses always fall for their hot ass assistants, what happened here?" Y/N giggled at her words.

"Well, at least my theory is confirmed."

"What theory?" Y/N blinked. "That he likes you! Think about it; he always greets you with some extra phrases, he always praises your work, and now after you caught him kissing someone else he gets into a fight with them, possibly breaking up. Some of the other women are jealous of you, you know. They think you're super close with him."

"What?!" Y/N harshly whispered, "Utter bullshit. I'm not close with him in any way, he's just my boss and I'm sure they just got into one tiny fight. I swear shit's gonna be back to normal tomorrow." With that, the two got back to work.

---

Shit did not go back to normal tomorrow.

Or for months after that.

Bucky's assistant never really came back, leading many to believe that she had quit. Bucky had become more moody and temperamental, while Y/N's crush on him had escalated to new heights which was frankly taking a toll on her mental health. "I can't keep living like that. I'll just quit and get another job."

Those were the words she had whispered to herself one night as she lay in bed, unable to fall asleep. Bucky, on the other hand, had come to realize that his assistant was right; he did indeed have feelings for Y/N and all he wanted to do was confess them to her and get it over with.

Realizing he couldn't have her and that she only thought of him as her boss had made him moody and angry. While walking from the elevator to his office he no longer greeted her; he couldn't even bear to see her, knowing she was never gonna be his. Y/N, of course, interpreted it in a different way entirely.

She thought he had broken up with his assistant because she caught them making out, and now he hated her for getting in between his relationship. That created a whole new array of problems.

"Hey, whatcha doing?" Rubie peered over Y/N's shoulders as she quickly wrote down her resignation letter. "I'm quitting." Rubie gasped. "You can't do that! Why are you quitting?!" she whined. "Number 1: He fucking hates me; number 2: I still like him and that's a massive problem so yeah, leaving this place is the only good option."

She stood up. "Well, I can't talk you out of it, can I? I'm gonna miss you, Y/N," Rubie sighed and the two ladies gave each other a hug. Then Y/N went to the new assistant's desk, greeting him with a small smile. "Hi, will you please give this to Mr Barnes?" She handed him the letter.

"What's this?" he smiled. "My resignation letter." The smile disappeared from his face, a frown replacing it. "Why are you quitting? Is everything okay?" She pursed her lips. "I'd rather not talk about it, sorry. Just give him my letter, would ya? Thank you." The man nodded and she went back to her desk.

---

"Hey, Ryan— what's this?"

Ryan turned to see Bucky glaring at Y/N's resignation letter. "Oh, sir, that is Ms Y/L/N's resignation letter." Bucky nodded and Ryan left the office. Bucky read the letter, his glare deepening by the time he reached the end of it. She hadn't even specified why she was quitting; it came out of the blue. I can't let her do this.

He couldn't just let her quit like that, he loved her for God's sake! "I'm not letting her go," he snarled to himself, getting up and walking out of his office. When he walked out everyone turned to look at him. "Ms Y/L/N, can I see you for a moment? In my office?" Y/N frowned but got up, following him to his office.

"What's this?" Bucky asked her, holding up her letter. "My… resignation letter?" Y/N replied slowly, confused. "Yeah, I know, I can read. Why are you quitting all of a sudden?" he huffed. "I'd rather not say," she mumbled, suddenly feeling anxious. "What do you mean, you'd rather not say? Did you get into a fight?"

Yeah, with you, idiot.

"No, sir."

"Is it pay? I'll give you a raise right now—"

"It's not that, Bucky. I— I mean Mr—"

"Bucky is fine. So? Is someone troubling you? Someone I need to fire?"

"No. I just want to quit, why can't you accept that?!" Bucky stood up, slamming his hands on his desk. "You have to give me a legit reason! Vague answers will not be accepted!" Y/N glared back at him and the silence stretched on between them. "Wait a minute," Bucky exclaimed suddenly, "I know what's going on here—"

"What could you possibly know?" Y/N quipped sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "This is about that whole Marie thing, isn't it? Y/N, plea—" "No, Bucky! It's not! Why can't you just let me quit in peace?!" she yelled, interrupting him. Months of frustration had finally taken a toll on her.

"Give me an answer and I'll consider it!" he thundered and she took a step back, shocked. Maybe telling him the truth would speed up the process, she thought. "Fine, you wanna know why? Because I'm in love with you. Yes, Mr Barnes, I fucking love you and I can't keep working here knowing you're never gonna like me back!"

"Y/N…" Bucky whispered but she ignored him. "No, you listen to me. You wanted an answer? Well, here it is. I know you hate me for ruining things with Marie and this is the only best option for the both of us!" Bucky couldn't believe his ears. All this time, she'd liked him back. He walked around his desk without her noticing; she was still rambling to herself.

"And why would you even like me back? You don't even say hello anymore—"

Y/N froze when Bucky's lips crashed onto hers, his hands going to her waist to pull her closer to him. A few seconds later she reciprocated, her arms going around his neck. Without breaking the kiss Bucky turned them and picked her up, putting her down on his desk. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

"Feels like we're in a Shakespeare play with all this miscommunication," Bucky laughed when they finally pulled away to breathe. "You like me too? But what about Marie—" He scoffed. "Marie and I were never a thing, she came onto me and I fired her. Before going she said something about me liking you…"

"So?"

"Well at the time I denied it but then… she turned out to be right. And after that, talking to you became difficult because I knew I could never have you, you'd never see me in that way… boy if we'd just talked." Y/N giggled, simply happy to be in Bucky's arms. "What now? What are we?" Bucky traced a finger down her cheek.

"Don't leave me. Please, don't go," he pleaded. "Bucky, we work together, it'll be extremely unprofessional. I— I'm ready to be your girlfriend but I can't work here anymore." Bucky sighed and dropped his head to her shoulder. "Fine, but just because you said yes to being my girl. I'm so in love with you too, pretty face," he chuckled.

Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders, smiling. "I'm glad to hear it." He suddenly pulled away, giving her a devilish smirk. "Wanna get outta here?" Y/N's eyes widened. "Wh— now? Bucky, we—" He scoffed. "I'm still your boss, you know, you do as I say." Y/N rolled her eyes. "Do I have to deal with this while being in a rela—"

"Let's just go," Bucky groaned, pulling her to her feet and snaking an arm around her waist as they both left his office, heading to the elevators. Everyone working that day looked up, their jaws going slack as they saw the two with lovey-dovey smiles, fawning over each other. Rubie simply smirked at her friend.

"Oh please, she's quitting!" Bucky rolled his eyes when he noticed the stares. Everyone then only shook their heads and got back to work as Y/N lightly slapped Bucky on the chest, sighing.

---

A/N: Thanks for reading, leave a like if you enjoyed!

[buckyownsmylife]

The Other Woman - Steve Rogers smut

The one where Steve is tired of pretending he doesn’t want another woman.

Warnings: infidelity, smut, breeding kink, humiliation, friendship betrayal, angst

Word count: 1.5k<

A/N: I’m weirdly proud of this piece because it was written as a way of coping with my self-harm. Instead of hurting myself physically, I sat down and wrote what my worst nightmare would look like. I can’t say I’ll never write anything like this again, because this was extremely cathartic in a way I can’t comprehend, but anyway, here it is. It’s written entirely in Steve’s P.O.V. and it’s open to interpretation if reader’s the one being cheated on or the one with whom Steve cheats.

I could feel her eyes on me all the way across the room. If I was another man - the strong man everyone expected me to be all the time - I would have been able to ignore it. But I knew I wasn’t. I knew I was weak, still the skinny little boy from Brooklyn who couldn’t believe a woman would even look my way, much less want me this badly.

That was why I excused myself from the conversation I was pretending to have and made my way towards my wife. That was why I made some lame excuse about having a headache - something I wasn’t even able to feel - and told her I was leaving for the night. That was why I went back to my room, sat down on my bed and waited for her, knowing eventually, she’d come inside.

“Steve?” She still sounded hesitant when she pushed the door open, wide eyes looking for me and finding me on the edge of my bed, waiting for her. Immediately, instinctively, I reached out for her, needing to feel her skin, her warmth, to know she really was there.

“How much did you drink?” I asked, not wanting her to regret this any more than she already would tomorrow morning, eyebrows furrowed as I watched her climb my lap, her dress riding up her thighs until it pooled around her hips, exposing her underwear. “You wouldn’t do this shit sober.”

“C’mon, Steve…” She whined, clearly edging the line between tipsy and drunk, and I bit my lip in a last effort to suppress my desire. Not because I didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to violate my marital bed, but because I wanted to hear her argument, needed to see her beg for me. “Let me make you feel good.”

I swallowed her next words with my mouth, tongue exploring hers with a hunger that had only proliferated after I exchanged rings with someone who wasn’t her. When her hips pressed against mine, tentatively rolling, I knew there was no way I’d ever part with her - marriage be damned.

“I know she doesn’t let you touch her the way you want to,” she whispered after we parted, eyes caring and empathetic as she leaned her face on the hand with which I cradled her cheek. I didn’t need to ask, I knew how she knew it. They were best friends for a reason. I didn’t doubt that the same complaints I had trusted Bucky with a thousand times before had made their way on her ears, telling the other side of the story. “I know she can’t take it, but I want to.”

A shudder ran down my spine as her warm mouth enveloped my thumb, and when I opened my eyes again, I knew they were darker, barely recognizable. “I’ll let you use me,” she pressed on, unaware that she had already won the battle. I’d never tell her no. “Please, use me.”

The anxiety of knowing the door would open up at any second and reveal my wife’s sweet eyes as she took in this betrayal only added to my arousal. I was a terrible man, I knew - and I didn’t care. Her best friend’s underwear was gone in a second, a show of strength I didn’t need to use to impress her - her pussy was already wet, dripping for me.

“Oh, shit,” I moaned when I dipped my fingers inside of her, feeling the tightness I would soon ruin. My cock ached inside my pants, begging me to release it of its confines, shove it in a completely different one. “So wet.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, rutting against my digits, panting over my open lips. “I’ve been wanting you so bad.” A groan escaped the depths of my chest, my resolve slipping even further, almost completely out of reach. My hands abandoned her to reach for my pants, unbuttoning them and releasing my dick from it, rubbing the leaking head against her opening.

“Let me be the other woman, Steve…” She whispered against the crook of my neck, holding me tight against her while she rubbed herself against me. My heart broke a thousand times at hearing her request.

“I don’t want that,” I argued, pulling away to see her face, cradle it between my hands. “I want you to be the only woman.” She bit her lips then, taking a hold of my cock to place it where we both needed it to be, still only teasing us both.

“I want you to be mine.” And that’s when she finally sat down on me, letting me fill her, inch by glorious inch. My fingers tightened around her hips, undoubtedly leaving marks behind, but she didn’t even peep. It was almost like she liked it, knowing she brought me to the edge of my control, her head thrown back and her breasts bouncing before me as she started to ride me.

“Oh, fuck yes…” I groaned, helping her movements as I watched her, hypnotized. “This is where you belong now,” I warned her, pulling her even closer so I could kiss her again.

“Yeah?” She confirmed it, smirk on her face as she kept fucking herself on me. “This is mine now? This dick is mine now?” My body spasmed, hearing her say something like this while I was buried to the hilt inside of her was just too much to take.

“Yes, fuck yes.” I pulled her in for another kiss, letting her regain control of her movements as I had to lean back in an effort to keep myself together. The view was flawless though, and watching her breasts bounce up and down didn’t exactly help my efforts to hold on.

“Yeah? You’re not gonna fuck her anymore, Captain? Won’t let her touch you, will leave all your cum for me, forever?” Her words had me gasping, eyes widening as I suddenly realized I was fucking my wife’s best friend without any sort of protection.

It wasn’t a problem in my marriage, since my wife was on the pill and always reminded me she was never going off of it, terrified of ever getting pregnant, but I knew the same couldn’t be said about the woman on top of me.

She was fertile, I just knew it, and by the way she was frantically riding me, I knew she was just as eager to get my cum as I was to give it to her. “You want it?” I had to confirm, not believing someone - the someone I had tried not to want for so long - wanted to have my babies, give me everything I’d always dreamed of in life.

“You wanna have my babies?” In the distant part of my brain, I could still notice the door slowly opening, making me raise my gaze from her chest to see my wife’s shocked features, betraying her hurt as she took in the situation. “Say it, baby. Say you want my cum deep inside your cunt.”

Her moan resonated across the room, and I witnessed my wife flinch, profoundly hurt by the scene in our bedroom, but unable to look away. It made me even harder, somehow, and I knew right then that I was going straight to hell, but I didn’t care.

All I knew was that nothing would stop me from cumming inside the woman who was riding me, not my wife, not God himself. “I want it so badly, Stevie,” she begged, movements growing more frantic as she tried to reach her high. “Please, give it to me. Let me give you what she never could.”

The sob at the door caught her attention, and she looked over her shoulder to find her best friend staring back at her, witnessing the betrayal we were both conducting.

My fingers pressed tighter on her hips, scared she’d stop and scramble off, but she just returned her gaze to me, hips still moving. “Tell her, Stevie,” she incited, fingers tracing my jaw and dipping my head back so she could kiss down my throat. “Tell her the truth.”

A gasp escaped my lips as she bit down on the crook of my neck, my own hips jutting up to join her in bliss. “I’m in love with her,” I informed my wife, taking sick delight in the way tears started running down the cheeks I’d kissed so many times. “She’s gonna give me everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Both of us reached our highs then, me with a deep groan and her with a drawn-out moan, perfectly harmonized in the otherwise silent bedroom. By the time I managed to lay her down on the bed and ask her to show me her pussy, I’d almost forgotten about the other presence in the room, witnessing the cum dripping from the cunt of my beloved just as I was. Once she left, however, and the woman on the bed reached out for me, I could only think that this was it. This was the end of my marriage.

And I was okay with it.

[jingerhead]

You ready for this, my meme peep??? Go:

20. "When was the last time you smiled?" - as a sad Andrew snippet.

25. "This is a once in a lifetime thing and you want me to blow it off?" - but as a remix of Andrew's iconic "doesn't mean I wouldn't blow you" scene, interpret that as you will.

😘🧡

YOU WANT MORE SAD???? Y'all why do you want more sad. I will make it no don't you dare take that prompt away from me I WILL MAKE IT -

So yeah, I hope you like these tiny drabbles. Warnings for prompt 25 'cause it's that scene so I mention sex :)

20 - When was the last time you smiled?

Andrew had been sitting on the desk in the dorm room, smoking out the window in the middle of the night, when Robin had asked it.

"When was the last time you smiled?" she said in a small voice, like she was afraid to know the answer.

Andrew glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes. She'd been unable to sleep, her anxiety keeping her awake, and had followed him out here so as to not be alone. Andrew often smoked in the early hours of the morning, always waking up Neil and telling him to go back to sleep. Robin rarely made small talk, so there had to be a reason to her question.

"Why?" he mumbled around the cigarette.

"I've never seen you smile," she said, lifting her legs so that she could hug them to her chest. "I just wanted to know."

Andrew looked away from her face and decided to humor her. He thought back to when the Foxes played the Ravens his second year and all the months before that with a manic grin on his face. He thought about the smirk he gave Tilda before he jerked the wheel, about the fake smiles he gave to other boys in juvie.

He thought about the smiles he'd given Cass. He thought about the smiles he made when he was just a few years old, hoping that this time he'd get to stay in a house and go to school instead of having to move again.

He figured there must've been a point in his life that he'd genuinely done so. If he tried he could remember every time in his life he'd ever done so, every reason why he'd made his lips turn upwards and show off his teeth. But he was sure he'd never genuinely smiled around Neil, either.

It felt tempting to try it. To take the cigarette from between his lips and try to move his muscles in a way he hadn't in so long. Would they be able to do it? Would it hurt? Would it only bring him back to a time he couldn't stop himself from grinning all the time?

"I don't remember," Andrew went with. He blew smoke out the window and glanced at Robin once more, but she didn't ask anymore questions.

25 - This is a once in a lifetime thing and you want me to blow it off?

"Why does Roland think you're tying me down?"

Andrew paused with his mouth open, his drink nearly to his mouth. Neil slowly sat down in an open seat and did his best to ignore Kevin, who was clutching a bottle of Vodka like it was his lifeline, in favor of waiting for Andrew's answer. It took him a few seconds to finally get one as Andrew lowered his glass to the table, fingertips dancing on the rim of the cup.

"Presumably he thinks you're as bad as following instructions as he is," Andrew finally said.

He seemed to leave it there. Neil didn't know how to ask what he was thinking. "What instructions do you give him?"

"Roland knows I don't like to be touched."

Neil frowned. "But he does it, anyway?"

"He needs more management," Andrew reiterated.

"So you tie him down." This whole conversation was weird. "You tie people down?"

Andrew snapped his fingers. "Listen when people are talking to you, Neil."

They were quiet for a moment. Andrew started lifting his glass again. "Do you use rope?" Neil blurted.

The glass was lowered back to the table with a loud clink.

"Forget it," Neil decided, turning in his seat so he wouldn't have to look at Andrew.

"This is a once in a lifetime thing and you want me to blow it off?"

"Making fun of me isn't a once in a lifetime thing for you," Neil said, lifting a fist to his mouth and digging his teeth into his knuckles. "You do it every day."

"Neil."

Neil looked back after a second, doing his best to glare at Andrew as menacingly as possible. It didn't seem to have any affect. "What."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "I'm offering you sex."

"Huh?"

All Neil got back was an intense look from Andrew. It gave him shivers, so he tried his best to think. He'd just been offered...well, sex, and he didn't know what to think. Which was strange, because any other time Neil had been offered sex in his life, he'd turned away without hesitation. But now that he thought more about it...

"You like me," Neil concluded.

"I hate you," Andrew said back immediately.

[clearlynotjanus]

Loceit Appreciation Week: Day One, Hobbies

READ ON AO3

Chapter Summary: Through three accidental bonding moments over their usually solo hobbies, Logan & Janus realize they have a bit in common & enjoy what the other has to offer.

CW: Food mention, NSFW insinuated very briefly, Greek mythology Word Count: 6497 Genre: Gen Rating: Gen Ships: Slowburn Loceit, slowburn Intruloceit, pre-established Intrulogical, pre-established Dukeceit

taglist: @sanderssidesangsttrash​ @catalinaacosta​ @whatishappeningrightnow​ @anxiousbean4404​ @vexelore​ @the-dead-and-the-decaying​ @serpentinesomebody​ @poptartsaysurloved​ @robertdownerjr​ @dangitsbrightinhere​ @iamuncomffy​ @sanderdarksides​ @evertriedsoywithyourpopcorn​ @dragonfander @virgilstarantula​ @a-rudethude @indubitably-emo @gay-artist-626​ @cosplayhanna​ @edupunkn00b​ @wouldntyou-liketoknow​ @awesomerandomgirl1​ @loceitweek2021​​

To support my writing, consider subscribing to my Patreon or checking out my Ko-fi. 

Without any effort made to conceal himself, Janus observed Logan and Remus from the kitchen pass through. Cynically his eyes measured the almost formal distance between the lovers on the couch. There was no need to guesstimate their familiarity; Remus gushed every chance he got about their private life but Janus was still nosey as ever. He leaned forward there with an elbow bent across the counter, the other propped up with an apple brought to his mouth every so often with a satisfying crunch. His gaze switched between keen on their movements and hazy as trains of thought whisked him away. 

Janus was aware his staring made Logan uncomfortable in these moments. He shifted, glanced in Janus’ direction, cleared his throat, pushed his glasses back unnecessarily, all as though being perceived so closely was an entirely new concept; but that was just another reason to continue. This was, after all, the Dark Side; his side, and far be it from Janus to let Logan forget that detail. Besides, it wasn’t like he was a peeping Tom, leering as their casual afternoon became intimate. No, whenever that occurred, Janus was out of the room faster than Remus could get it up.

Today was tedious in its domesticity. Remus scribbled like a madman with furious scritchscritchscritches in a notebook that seemed to change positions whenever Janus looked at him, specifically. Logan rested his head gently against a loosely balled fist. With a quiet schwiff every couple of minutes, he turned a page of the book in his lap. The room was silent otherwise.

Crunch. Schwiff. Scritchscritchscritch. Crunch. Schwiff. Scritchscritchscritch. Crunch -- The apple was finished and the sticky core was disposed of.

“Logan,” Janus called suddenly in a sweet tone as the trash’s lid closed. 

The Side in question stayed silent; either to finish the line his eyes were currently on or to give Janus a taste of his own uncomfortable medicine. Either way, Janus rounded the kitchen corner and balanced a hip against the arm rest next to Remus. A gloved hand idly found its way into his partner’s curls; thoughtlessly, Remus leaned into the feeling, but remained otherwise unresponsive, clearly content with his scribbling. Logan finally blinked up. His expression seemed indecisive between exasperated and dubious, with a predictable amount of disinterest.

“What is it you’re reading?” Janus asked, brows and chin raised with an amount of intrigue that Logan didn’t immediately trust. Not to say Logan didn’t trust Janus individually, but even if he was the Side who understood Deceit the best, there was still quite a bit of water under this particular bridge -- or, uh, whatever idiom would fit here.

Instead of responding verbally, Logan held up the blue and black cover for Janus to read himself; which he then did. With a slightly cocked head, the words were enunciated slowly.

“Born Under Saturn. The Character and Conduct of Artists; A Documented History From Antiquity to The French Revolution,” Janus blinked back up at Logan’s face, digesting the rather wordy sentence. “An analysis of historical artists?” He attempted to boil the topic down to something more … succinct as Logan lowered the book again.

“Basically,” He allowed, eyes poised to resume his reading.

Janus hummed with peaked interest and continued to watch as Logan’s demeanor receded from vaguely conversational to studiously mute once more. In truth, it sounded like a rather compelling read. Being Thomas’ Sides, of course, they were all inclined to art in some way; for the more left-brained Sides such as Janus and Logan however, the critique and reasoning behind the art and associated artists compelled them more frequently than the act of creating art, itself. 

“What’s the part about Saturn?” Janus asked with knitted brows, the hand in Remus’ hair going still as he interrupted again after a moment. This question seemed to get Logan going as he shifted in his seat.

“Well, I had assumed from the title that the study would be centered around evidence pertaining to when and where artists were born, alluding to the hypothesis that Saturnian positions and dispositions resulted in a certain type of artistic character,” Logan explained, annoyance bleeding into his tone as he placed the back of his hand on the page he was currently on in a humorless gesture.

“And I take it from your very contented mood that that’s exactly what the book is about,” Janus teased reflexively, taken aback by Logan’s sudden enthusiasm. Perhaps, Janus thought, he hadn’t been so bothered by being stared at and was simply wrestling with his expectations of the text.

“Ha ha,” He laughed dryly; the sound made Janus smirk. “Saturn is, unfortunately,” Logan waved his hand at the book, “Just a metaphor here.”

“A metaphor for what?” Janus pressed gently, giving a final tug of affection to Remus’ hair before retracting his hand; sensing the appendage being stolen, the distracted Creativity leaned to follow the stimulus until it was far out of reach. Janus turned away and sat delicately on the shallow coffee table in front of Logan, who then paused.

He didn’t wonder why Janus was interested in this topic; after all, he thought, philosophy and theoretical debate were right up Janus’ alley. Additionally, they were speaking about metaphors, he rationalized. Logan didn’t need to understand nor regularly use the literary device to know its practical application, particularly to Deceit who always spoke in those encumbering and roundabout ways. What Logan really paused for was a moment of recognition that after years of distant silence, they were embarking on a rather cordial discussion.

“The melancholic,” Logan explained.

“So not the Roman god?”

“Well, yes and no, but for the comparison to make sense, no is easier,” Janus nodded and crossed his legs, listening with intent held in his brows. “It is a tad convoluted but the theory relates to the history of the four humors,” Janus gave a soft, one-noted hum and Logan nodded. “After all, the Greek etymology for the word melancholy is melas, meaning black and kholé meaning bile; black bile, of course--”

“Being one of the four … fluids,” Janus scrunched his nose distastefully, “Associated with the four humors,” He finished his interruption, gesturing with a loose wrist. 

“Exactly,” Logan breathed with a surprised half smile.

“So what does Saturn have to do with black bile?” Janus asked reasonably.

“Well that part goes back to the interpretive study of Astrology,” Janus tilted his head with surprised interest. “Which, despite its dubious plausibility today, played a frequently understated role in the founding of modern science, especially modern psychology.” Logan paused, watching Janus’ face shift subtly in thought. 

“Forgive my relatively ignorant knowledge of Astrology,” Logan nodded permissibly as Janus began to piece the theory together with slow words, “But I guess what you’re saying, or rather, what you expected the book to say, is that artists all suffer from a melancholic disposition?” Logan hummed and shook his head, causing Janus to purse his lips. 

“Again, yes and no. The book is saying that, to some extent.”

“You had just been expecting the evidence to be reliant on literal Saturn rather than...whatever they’re actually using,” Janus tried again and was rewarded with another half smile.

“Are you nerds done yet?” Remus piped up suddenly as Logan opened his mouth to continue. Janus’ head turned and the awareness in his partner’s eyes made his own narrow; how long had he been attentive to their conversation? “I wanna show Lolo what I made.”

“Quite, then,” Janus smiled curtly at Remus who beamed with knowing sarcasm in a way that only Janus would be able to detect. Rat bastard. “Another time,” He promised almost provocatively as a parting to Logan, who looked rather miffed and torn between continuing this unexpectedly stimulating conversation and tending to his boyfriend’s desires.

Janus stood before brushing invisible dirt off himself. “Have a wonderful afternoon, lovebirds,” Janus lilted, fingers wiggling in a goodbye wave as his back disappeared down the hall.

Logan blinked several times before inhaling and turning to Remus, who seemed a few moments more patient and perhaps a little more amused than usual.

- - - - -

Remus’ door having gone unanswered, when music began to softly crackle from the direction of the kitchen, Logan followed it with a vague intrigue. He paused in the entry, blinking at the four black-sleeved and yellow-gloved hands that flitted about the counter spaces. They rifled through the fridge and plucked from the cabinets with a sense of mindlessness from their owner, who stood at the sink. Using his natural two arms, Janus filled various bowls with water as he hummed along to the quiet, bouncy swing song that played from an antique looking gramophone Logan could’ve sworn wasn’t there yesterday. The scene was fascinating, from a scientific point of view; he had never considered how Janus’ many arms worked and seeing them here, stretching out and acting as though they had their own sentience piqued his interest immensely. 

For long moments, Logan watched silently before the arms retracted, bringing various items back to the workspace closest to Janus. Packets of gelatin, food coloring -- Logan squinted from his position; corn syrup? The answer to a question he hadn’t asked made itself apparent as he recalled a few various tidbits Remus had given him about his partner. Logan cleared his throat to get Janus’ attention, satisfied with his distant examinations.

“Oh,” The baker turned around, excess arms disappearing inside him with a flourish as they completed their purpose of fetching. “Logan, good morning,” Janus greeted in a sunny tone, though confusion hinted in his eyes.

“Good morning,” He returned, taking conservative steps into the kitchen. He nodded at the gelatin packets. “So this is the gelatin art Remus talks about,” Logan observed without question.

“Remus talks about it?” Janus asked, reserved happiness in his distracted tone as he stepped from the sink to the counter and began measuring out tablespoons of corn syrup.

“Frequently,” Logan confirmed, crossing his arms casually. The conversation came to a peaceful lull as Janus began to stir the syrup and water. Concluding that, he turned and took steps that placed him closer than usual to the other.

“What does he say?” Janus asked like a teen greedy for rumors, giving a sly glance from under his lashes as he paused. The moment lingered as he reached around Logan for the gelatin packets he stood in front of, meeting his eyes all the while. Suddenly, Logan couldn’t remember a single thing Remus had ever said. The tips of his ears reddened with a blush that creeped up the back of his neck. He swallowed against the dryness of his throat.

“Just that you enjoy making gelatin,” Logan responded after Janus had made his way back to the counter, his posture feeling as stiff and unnatural as his answer. He could see the disappointment in the way Janus’ lips pursed as he began dumping the neutral colored gelatin into the solution.

“Is that so.”

“Yes,” Logan cleared his throat and again felt that his response was lame. It made the air between them go stale. How did Remus manage to speak with Janus so casually and with so much enthusiasm? Of course, he wouldn't be Remus without an absence of shame, but still; Logan found himself envying the fact. 

He was appreciative of the cheerful music that eased the awkwardness. Also that Janus didn’t seem to mind how apparently awful he was at idle conversations despite his desire to engage in them. After a few moments, Janus went back to humming as he repeated the task of pouring gelatin into the bowls and discarding the packets. As the heat in his face receded, Logan recalled more of Remus’ words over the time they had been dating. 

He always spoke very highly of his partner, which was to be expected. Janus was graceful, patient, and, quote, ridiculously smart. Despite taking everything Remus had to say with mounded tablespoons of realism flavored salt, examining Janus now and through the lens of their recent interactions, Logan would have to agree. 

“He has an awful habit,” Janus revived the conversation as one song faded into the next. He turned and leaned back against the counter; as he spoke, he slowly began turning the knob of a manual can opener against a can of condensed milk. “Of eating various inedible things,” Janus scrunched his nose and Logan exhaled. “You won’t believe the things he’s consumed over the years.”

“That’s why you make the gelatin, correct?” Logan asked, hoping this time his phrasing opened up the possibility for more elaboration.

“Mhm,” Janus hummed with a shallow nod and twisted the lid off before throwing it in the trash as well. He turned and stirred the thickened milk into the largest bowl of water and corn syrup. Discomfort washed over Logan once more as he began to realize the conversation had died again. His head fell but soon snapped up as Janus thankfully continued after a moment.

“Of course it doesn’t negate the problem entirely,” His tone was less annoyed than Logan would’ve thought. Though there was plenty of quiet frustration, mostly he sounded concerned and tired. “But I like to imagine it helps some at least.” 

“I think it helps more than you realize,” Logan offered slowly in a tone that was sure of itself despite the confusion in his brow. Did Janus not realize his instrumental intervention?

Remus never really shut up about how much he appreciated Janus. The various ways Janus managed him and his mental health over their lifetime together, how effortless Janus made it all look; Logan had to admit, hearing about it constantly was rather intimidating, especially at the beginning of their relationship. He had high expectations to meet if everything Remus said was true, and like he thought before, it was beginning to look that way as Logan got to know Janus for himself. Remus talked a fair amount about how much he appreciated Logan as well though, so he never did have much of a chance to get demoralized about it. Even so, gauging the dynamic between Janus and Remus without his interference was a bit startling as everything came into focus.

They flowed together easily; in the interactions Logan had witnessed, their affection always had a sense of routine and familiarity, but not in the stale way that felt boring after years of repetition. Perhaps, Logan began to think, it had clouded his view a bit and prevented him from questioning if Remus ever expressed his gratitude to Janus, directly. The likelihood that he didn’t seemed infinitesimal, and yet the doubt was still clear in Janus’ words. Was it that he didn’t believe Remus then?

Janus cautioned a look at Logan from over his shoulder, surprise and then confusion flashed across his features; exactly how much did Remus talk about him? He didn’t mind being complimented of course, he adored praise, but something about the idea of Remus jumping into a new relationship only to gush about him constantly didn’t sit right with him. Especially if that person was Logan. Who knew how Logan felt after all this time? Janus scrunched his nose and tossed the now empty can with a sense of distaste.

“I suppose he talks about me too much if you think that,” His tone was apologetic as he gave the mixture a final stir before turning to meet Logan’s eyes with a flashy smile. “Enough about all that though; would you like to help?”

Logan blinked, his mind catching up to the topic dismissal. “Help?” He repeated automatically before realizing what Janus meant. “Oh. No,” He unfolded his arms to wave a hand, shaking his head. “I’m not one for baking, I’ll just get in the way.”

“Nonsense,” Janus insisted, reaching forward to gently steal Logan by his sleeve. “If you need more motivation than just my requesting, think about how thrilled Remus will surely be knowing you had a hand in this batch.”

Logan let himself be pulled towards the workstation, not having it in him to refuse Janus’ smile and persistence more than once.

“I suppose you have a point,” He conceded with a sigh and Janus clapped his hands together quietly.

“Splendid,” he plucked the box of food coloring from the counter and pushed the dark blue dropper into Logan’s hands. “This is the easy part anyway. I trust you completely.”

Somehow, the implication of Janus trusting him made him pause, feeling his chest going warm. Logan stared down at the small bottle in his hands, feeling even more clueless now being involved than he had simply watching Janus; but Janus still trusted him. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell that Janus was trusting him on reputation alone, something the others consistently seem to find inconceivable. Not often was Logan trusted so explicitly, which was concerning to say the least, but function aside, the sentiment filled him with unexpected happiness. 

“Just get this,” Janus tapped one of bowls filled with water, corn syrup, and gelatin, “As close to this shade,” He then pointed to the blue swirl part of the Tide Pod resting between the various ingredients, “As you can get,” Janus finished with another disarming smile. Forcing himself to look away, Logan thought that at the rate Janus used that sort of charm on him like that, he’d never remember anything ever again.

“Okay,” He asserted slowly with a nod and unscrewed the small bottle. As he set to dropping small amounts of the dye before stirring and comparing the colors, Janus seemed to be doing the same with a shade of bright orange. “I suppose that’s good,” Logan ascertained after a few silent moments, holding the clear bowl up to his face for closer inspection.

“Flawless, I would say,” Janus complimented, completing his own color a second later. “Next,” He said slowly and reached to gather several of one kind of item that Logan didn’t immediately recognize, “We set the molds,” Janus explained as he neatly lined about a dozen purple, palm sized squares between them. Logan uttered a small, ah, in understanding.

He scanned the counter for a tool that would be useful here; the idea of pouring the liquid straight into the molds seemed rather silly and messy. If this were Patton, Logan wouldn’t put it past him, but Janus was far more structured, far more sensible.

“Should we use those?” Logan asked, reaching for the rather thick gauge baking syringes set to the side as Janus opened the molds to reveal a swirl shape identical to the signature Tide Pod.

“A step ahead of me,” Janus lilted with a nod, raising his eyes just enough to spot the syringes he planned on retrieving next. “Go on then,” He pointed his chin at the gelatin, reaching over Logan for a needle of his own. “I trust it’s fairly self explanatory for you.”

And it was; the entire procedure wasn’t particularly challenging, as long as Janus wasn’t smiling at him or charming him out of his brain cells. Logan drew up about half the syringe’s barrel and then held one half of the mold in his palm. Comparing it to the Tide Pod, he began to gently squeeze the blue solution along half of the swirl pattern, dragging it across the material for an even consistency. Janus smiled to himself, watching from the corner of his eye and began to do the same with his own orange gelatin, working from the opposite end of the line. 

“When it comes to the ones already filled,” Janus began as they approached meeting in the middle, though before he could finish, Logan interrupted knowingly.

“I suppose I should avoid picking the mold up so as to not disrupt the other side,” He guessed and positioned his syringe at a different angle, experimenting with how he should go about it now before settling on a method.

“Precisely,” Janus delighted quietly, moving behind Logan and out of his way to fill in the orange sides of the already completed blue ones. “Typically,” He continued as they settled back into a rhythm, “I just do both colors at once, holding it as you had started,” Janus glanced out of the corner of his eye; Logan looked so concentrated, it was impossible not to find the focus in his eyes adorable. For a brief moment, before Janus continued, Logan began to worry that he was getting in the way as he feared. If Janus had a certain way of doing this and he was doing it wrong, comparatively, then it was just as he thought; that he shouldn’t have gotten involved. 

“But I don’t quite mind this either,” Janus finished softly and Logan exhaled the breath he didn’t realize was being held. As the silence began to press on, he started to wish he could figure out something to say to Janus’ kindness. Then he wondered if this was how Remus often felt.

As Janus took Logan’s empty syringe and quickly rinsed both of theirs in the sink, he explained their next and final step before they would be placed in the fridge until completion. Sealing the molds with their domed, other half, they would repeat the filling action with the condensed milk and gelatin mixture.

“Simple enough,” Logan said as he accepted the syringe that Janus handed him with a smile. This time, Logan offered his own small expression before the two set to work. After a few silent moments, he continued with a rather impulsive question. “Does Remus ever help you with this?” Surely he did; in the same way Logan found it impossible that Remus never expressed his gratitude to Janus, he couldn’t fathom that the two didn’t enjoy this together.

“Oh, no, never,” Janus answered immediately with an appalled tone. Logan blinked, his hand going still as he again reevaluated how he perceived their relationship. “The first and only time I tried to get him to help,” He continued, his own hands pausing to stare wide eyed and offended at Logan, “He ate three of my molds!”

Logan couldn’t help the small smile that curved his lips, though he tried to dismiss it quickly by pursing them and looking away. The distress Janus clearly felt for something so simple was … a bit bewildering, but also very him, Logan decided. He got the sense that Remus would love to help, if he could, but that he had the habit of ruining Janus’ things in the process. With a heavy sigh, Janus went back to filling the molds and when Logan could keep the smile out of his voice, he continued.

“The other day he brought a few rocks from the Imagination to my room and asked what they were. He does that,” Logan glanced at Janus, “Stops by and asks questions like that, but when I located my geology kit, the first thing he did,” Logan smiled again, fondness creeping into his tone despite himself, “Was tear the handbook pages in excitement,” Janus clicked his tongue and shook his head, empathizing with the tragedy, but Logan continued, gesturing in small ways now. “It was completely illegible,” Logan paused, recalling the fear in Remus’ expression as he apologized profusely, handing the torn book back by the tips of his fingers. 

“Was?” Janus prompted quietly, watching Logan’s faintly passionate storytelling from the corner of his eye.

“At least for its intended use as a portable guide. If you pushed the papers together, you could piece the sentences but,” Logan paused again and shook his head, “He insisted on writing it, all of it. He took one of my notebooks right there and stared down at the little book and wrote everything he could make out,” Logan laughed dryly and resumed filling the mold he had stopped on. “I bet he has the entire handbook memorized now.”

“He adores you very much then,” Janus said without reservation, without even looking away from the molds. The conclusion caught Logan off guard and silence persisted as he waited for Janus to elaborate; but no such continuation came. Again Logan found himself holding his breath, but it wasn’t like he didn’t know that Remus loved him. He said it at least ten times a day. It just felt very different coming from someone who’s known Remus for so long, Logan guessed. It’s different when someone else can see love that easily.

“I know,” Logan whispered sentimentally after a while, and wondered in the enduring silence of their work if he should’ve said that Remus loved Janus very much, too.

- - - - -

Janus paused on the bottom step of the Dark Side stairs as he spotted Logan, bent slightly at the waist and jotting something down on a rather large stack of white paper. The astringent smell of Sharpies was unavoidable. While it certainly wasn’t new at this point for Logan to be found here on a casual basis, it was a bit strange that Remus wasn’t in the immediate area.

“Hello, Logan,” Janus greeted in a smiling tone as he continued into the room and approached the workspace that was their dining table. 

“Hello,” He returned the friendly gesture without tearing his eyes away or stopping his hand from drawing a simplistic symbol in one of the dated squares.

“What brings you here without your typical consort?” Now peering over Logan’s shoulder, Janus realized it wasn’t just any stack of paper he was writing on, but a wall calendar.

“Remus just went to the bathroom. He’ll probably be back in a few moments.”

Janus made a soft sound of understanding and continued to watch. Capping the silvery marker he had been using, Logan switched it out for a dark blue one. Intrigue growing, Janus observed as he neatly drew an open circle, then some complex looking arrow shape beside it. Next Logan drew an odd arch shape on the other side of the square beside another open circle, this one with a dot in the center. Then two smaller circles diagonal from each other connected with a single line. Finally, next to that symbol, he drew a half crescent moon. Janus’ brows furrowed delicately. 

“Logan, dear?” 

“Hm?”

“What on Earth are you doing?”

Logan blinked and paused before slowly standing from his leaning position. He … didn’t really know where to begin. Talking about his hobby with Remus was one thing; while his boyfriend readily listened to his enthusing and had even offered his artistic expertise in ‘livening up’ the calendar today, the idea of explaining it to Janus felt like a different beast altogether. Why was that? Logan observed his feelings on the matter, staring down at the calendar. The writing there was neither impressive nor sloppy, but a typical middle ground of insignificantly informative, in his opinion. Mindlessly, he brought the marker up to his chest and capped it with a decisive click. His stomach became uneasy imagining himself divulging eagerly, about anything, to Janus. Why was that?

“I’m,” Indulging in a pseudoscience? Partaking in something that is unreliable and interpretive at best? Having an indemonstrable belief system? Being less than serious? Logan turned to face Janus, his arms falling to his sides. “Calculating planetary positions and hypothesizing on their potential,” Spiritual? Emotional? “Financial, political, and interpersonal ramifications,” Logan’s heart raced. He counted the beats. One, two, three, fourfivesixseveneight--

“I see,” Janus said reflexively but then paused to digest the sentence. It sounded interesting enough to him; foresight was high on his list of well regarded practices. Whatever helped in that pursuit, Janus found at least a little compelling. Though he cocked his head slightly and gave Logan a once over. Was he acting rather … defensive? There was no lie in his words, Janus would’ve immediately known after all, but he got the sense that he wasn’t being painted the full picture here. 

A bead of sweat dripped down the back of Logan’s collar. Janus wasn’t looking at him in any specific way, there wasn’t anything interrogative about the silence, in fact Janus’ expression was rather polite. Logan had noticed at some point that Janus looked at him more like an equal than any of the other accepted Sides. In return, he had come to trust the intrigue frequently found in his expressions. And yet he was anxious. Why? Historically, talking to Janus had never made him nervous before, sharing in pastimes together hadn’t either, so … why did he feel like sinking through the soles of his shoes and never speaking about this, ever again?

“Well,” Janus broke the silence with his entertained tone. “You were always into space and such, I shouldn’t be surprised.” 

Logan inhaled through his nose, more suddenly than he meant to, and realized only now there was a tension in his hands as they twitched to relax. Janus didn’t see anything wrong with his description of the hobby, but the fact was that he didn’t know the whole story. Logan’s explanation was, of course, accurate; accurate enough to not count as a lie, but Janus’ suspicion was warranted. A suspicion that was much closer to curiosity than Logan realized in his paranoid attempt to seem and sound more serious than necessary.

“Yes,” He mumbled and turned back around to the calendar. Janus watched with narrowed eyes as Logan placed the marker back with the rest, seeming to have a particular order that they belonged in. After a pause, he diverted his attention to the open, beige colored notebook on the other side of the table. Logan began to lightly drag a finger along the bottom of a written line of symbols there. Janus could only assume he was committing their exact meaning to memory in a way only someone like Logan could.

“So tell me,” Janus interrupted again as he elegantly sat himself down at the table opposite Logan, whose train of thought halted abruptly. “What do those symbols mean?” Janus asked, cradling his cheek in his palm as he reached the other hand to point at the five dark blue markings Logan had made. Logan swallowed and blinked slowly, bracing himself. There was no way he made it out of this conversation with Janus’ opinion of him remaining positive.

Keeping his tone as neutral as possible, Logan then dragged his finger along each symbol as it was defined, meeting Janus’ inquisitive eyes with his own hesitant gaze.

“Full moon,” Open circle, “Sagittarius,” arrow. Logan directed his finger to the other side of the square, dictating that those two symbols didn’t correlate in a direct sense to the next three. “Gemini,” He continued, pointing to the odd arch shape, “Sun,” dotted open circle, “Opposition,” the two smaller circles connected by the thin line, “Moon,” Logan finished at the half crescent moon shape.

A puzzled look flashed across Janus’ face before the words connected like a puzzle, forming a sentence he understood theoretically but in no literal way; full moon in Sagittarius, Gemini sun, opposition moon … which was in Sagittarius then? Janus could only guess. These were phrases he’s heard before, of course, but Logan said them in a way that felt far more significant than any well-rated horoscope app had.

Logan let Janus ruminate on his explanation, hoping no more questions came at the detriment of his reputation. Again he started to consult his notebook, but it was only a few moments before Janus spoke again.

“So … what’s the significance of … all that?” He asked and Logan’s mind raced in the same way Remus, Roman, and Virgil could speak at a mile a minute.

“The significance,” Logan began after what felt like much longer than a moment of struggling to quiet his mind, “Is as I said; potential financial, political, and interpersonal ramifications,” He completed in a mumble before clearing his throat, unable to meet Janus’ eyes anymore, causing the latter to frown.

The fact that Logan was growing increasingly uncomfortable wasn’t lost on Janus, of course. He watched the gears churning in Logan’s mind as mental gymnastics were performed. It wasn’t a secret to Denial why he felt discontented currently; being taken seriously was paramount to this Side and everyone had a long history of finding Logic to be a joke. After years of being dismissed without advocacy, Janus could only hope to display a patience and interest deep enough for Logan to find himself comfortable in his presence again.

“As you said,” Janus agreed, dismissing that superficial statement. “But what about that one, specifically? It’s in blue so I assume it has some significance.”

Logan’s lips tightened; where did he even begin? Explaining the correspondence between phenomena and full moons? Diving into Jupiter’s mythology and Sagittarius’ significance to Thomas, personally, as his moon ruler? The unease in his stomach shifted up his throat.

“Oh hey, Dee!” Remus suddenly interrupted as he returned from down the hall. If Logan were a man of lesser self control, he may have jumped right out of his skin.

They both turned to blink at the entrance, Logan a second too late as Remus dotted an affectionate kiss to his cheek. Rigidly, he gave a half-lipped smile to the gesture.

“Lolo telling you about his nerdy Astrology stuff?” Remus plopped himself into a chair between them at the table.

“Just a little,” Janus said as he sat back and crossed his legs.  

“Booooo,” Remus cheered, giving Logan a thumbs down before grinning. He leaned over to peer at the dark blue symbols that were drawn while he was away. “Full moon in Sagittarius,” Remus read like he was fluent in this second language Janus had only just learned the existence of. “And uh,” He paused, cocked his head in order to read the markings easier, “Gemini sun, uh, what’s that one again, Lolo?” Remus pointed at the connected, diagonal circles. 

Janus narrowed his eyes. He got the sense that Remus could easily say what that sign meant, but had asked Logan in order to hear him talk about it. How sweet.

“Opposition,” Logan repeated like a sigh as he reached to scratch the back of his neck. “Since the sun is in Gemini for most of this month, it will be opposing the moon’s position in Sagittarius that day.”

“Does that spell trouble for Tommyboy?” Remus asked mischievously, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the unused seat behind Logan.

“On the contrary,” Logan responded, opening his mouth to continue but then quickly closing it as the corner of his vision registered Janus again. 

The frown on Janus’ lips grew deeper as he silently observed the two. It seemed to come down to him and his effects on Logan’s nerves; the assumption that he would dismiss him like Patton, Roman, and Thomas, or say that he was wrong like Virgil.

“Please,” Janus urged in his most genuine tone as he held up his hands like a white flag. “Pretend I’m not here, do carry on.”

Logan inhaled slowly and seemed to take his time believing that sentiment. Another mental stalemate began; Logan wrestled with the expectations he held himself to, the assumed expectations Janus had of him, and the misconception that his hobby would be seen as silly or less than in any way. The silence dragged on until Remus broke the tension once more.

“Yeah, c’mon Lolo. Dee listens to me rant about stupid shit all the time. He’s got the patience of a Saint, I swear,” Remus smirked at Janus, who then reached out to pull affectionately on his partner’s ear.

“Like I have a choice with you,” Janus mumbled fondly, lacing his voice with thick sarcasm. 

Quickly, Remus turned his head like a baited shark and bit after Janus’ hand as it was retracted, narrowly missing the appendages with his teeth. Janus rolled his eyes and Remus beamed before shifting in his seat and staring up at Logan expectantly.

Logan’s chest burned with some unfamiliar feeling as he watched the clearly loving display. Naming emotions certainly wasn’t his strong suit, but whatever it was tightened his throat and made swallowing difficult. As usual for him, the feeling was quickly pushed away.

Which caused it to land directly into Denial’s jurisdiction. Janus had long perfected the art of remaining stoic in the face of blindsiding emotions that weren’t his own; which of course included now, as the denial of jealousy swiftly punched him in the stomach. Janus’ breathing stopped as he waited for the familiar pang of envy to subside, knowing by instinct that the originator stood before him.

“I suppose,” Logan continued after a moment before clearing his throat. “It is on the contrary that Thomas will be experiencing anything negative on this day or the two previous days leading up to this full moon,” He reached to flip a page in his notebook, revealing a neatly drawn chart of dates and signs. His finger rested decisively next to three in particular. “The moon will be in Sagittarius, opposing the current sun sign; Gemini. This is particularly good for Thomas since he has a natal Sagittarius moon.”

“Laaaaaame,” Remus exaggerated belligerently. Having been through this before, Logan gave a renewed half smile, knowing Remus only found Thomas’ lack of misfortune ‘lame’ and not the inherency of his explanation.

Janus exhaled finally as the emotional turmoil in his stomach subsided with Logan’s contentment. His chin raised curiously, eyeing the revealed page. This all sounded fascinating. He got the feeling that there was so much more to this topic, and that he would be very willing and rather eager to listen to it all as long as it was coming from Logan.

“Tell me, Lolo,” Remus said in a dark voice, frantically leaning forward, splaying his palms on the table and disregarding the way his quick movement made Logan’s markers roll away. “Do your charts and shit say when he’ll die?”

“No,” Logan sighed and rolled his eyes. The air turned sweet and Janus’ brows raised despite himself. “Even if they did, I wouldn’t tell you. It’d be incredibly subjective anyway,” Logan gestured dismissively and turned away, catching sight of Janus’ intrigued smirk. The expression made him gulp. “It’s all incredibly subjective,” He continued, now in a mumble as he went to close his notebook. 

Hastily, Logan began to gather the haphazard markers like he planned on packing his project away for the day. Lie and jealousy aside, Janus found himself invested.

“Well,” He began as Logan took a step back from the table to stare at the floor, seeming to have lost a marker in Remus’ chaos. “I thought it was all rather … enchanting,” Janus flirted unashamedly, producing the green hued utensil between his fingers with a curled smile. Logan blinked, the tips of his ears going red. “You’ll tell me more sometime?” Janus insisted, turning the thing in his grip and offering it more pointedly.

Logan swallowed and reached to quickly pluck the object from Janus’ fingers. 

“Sure,” He sighed, suddenly feeling like he had agreed to something rather damning.

“Delightful.”

Chapter One || Chapter Two

[t4t-lumpygrab]

Woo

Happy friday! Everyone! Hope ur all doing well. here is ur weekly dose of Charlie This is an excerpt from a fanfic I wrote when I was 16, it’s heavily inspired by @secreterces5 Can everyone give him a bit of space fanfic (fan fact Secret/Charlie is the whole reason I started writing fanfic! He beta-read my first fanfic and xe continues to be an inspiration to me to this day :) love them very much!) I am trying to finally dust this off and finish it but no promises- till then here’s a scene from the middle I rlly like. 

cws for hospital setting, brief mention of an IV drip, body horror (the stitches together-ness though it’s not graphic as he’s healed up and all) and disjointed thoughts on Lemongrab’s side. As well as Pb not really understanding his issues. 

Lemongrab opened his eyes. He'd had the dream again. 

He still found it hard to move as his body hadn't reknit, and also he hadn't got used to it. His legs felt unfamiliar after floating, his thinness was disconcerting, and he often held a hand over his left eye to wallow in the familiar darkness. He swung his legs down to the hospital floor and his left leg thwacked down painfully as it was much heavier than he expected, due to the chunky foot that had been salvaged from what remained of Lemonblack.

"Mother... Mother?" He called. Silence. He wondered if she was ignoring him for calling her Mother instead of Princess. "Princess?"

Still there was no answer, and the castle seemed deserted as it was still nighttime. Part of him hoped he hadn't caused a disturbance while another thought this treatment was unacceptable. He was a royal earl- where were his servants! What if he required food! Or water! Or... Or... Or something else!

"Mmmmhgh unacceptable." He muttered as he tried to stand and accidentally stubbed his toe most unacceptably. 

He contained himself and hobbled to the window of his room. 

With only the empty black sky behind it, his window looked like the scene from his dream. With nothing but his yellow self staring back at him.

Mother princess hadn't shown him his reflection yet- she said it would be detrimental to his recovery. 

“So no peeping yet, lil dude." she’d chastised him, fiddling with the IV drip connected to his mangled arm. This has been in the very early stages of his recovery. 

"We're not little."

"You see," she'd sighed, "there's no we, Lemongrab, there's just one of you now. While I understand that it will be hard for your brain to adjust from being many people to just one, you can at least try to say me instead of we, according to the Sapir whorf hypothesis the way you use language determines your interpretation of the world, so if you use singular pronouns your recovery should occur quicker than otherwise. And anyway, You didn't have a problem with it yesterday. Right Lemongrab?"

"Not me..."

"What?"

"it would be... I'm not little... The grammar would be.... unacceptable otherwise..."

She beamed down at him and patted his hand. Tsk, candy styles. Normally he would have slapped it away but for obvious stitched together out of a blown up dictator and his subject plus brother, he couldn't. "You're doing really great lemongrab."

But they were not doing great. And they had already taken 'peeps' at themselves in the window. And they had been doing other things that they were sure they weren't meant to.

[ssson-of-sparda]

WHAT FORTUNE GAVE - Prologue (Vergil x Nero's Mother)

Summary: Turmoil has engulfed the small Island of Fortuna, shaken now more than ever by a never-ending civil war opposing the religious Order of the Sword to a group of rebels named the Guard of Sparda. As he tries to unveil his father's secret past and achieve some hidden dark purpose, Vergil crosses path with Elissa, a young lady whose thirst for vengeance and blood is as red as the dress she's wearing. He doesn't want to care and he especially doesn't want to get involved but you don't choose your fate in Fortuna. That's the story Nero is about to discover.

Tags: Romance / Angst / Fluff / Explicit Sexual Content / Explicit Language / Canon-Typical Violence / Blood and Gore / Religion / The Order of The Sword / Civil War / Rebellion / Demons / Action and Adventure / Sparda's past

Author’s note: This is one hell of an ambitious project I put myself into, but I hope you will follow me in this journey which is basically another fan fiction about Vergil and Nero's mother. Probably not the best (I've read some prreeety good ones) but one that should be (hopefully) different from what was previously posted.I worked a lot on this story, made a lot of research and used many artistic references that I catalogued at the end of each chapter for the curious ones among you. Since English is not my mother tongue, feel free to let me know if there's any grammar mistake or if some sentences don't make any sense. Anyway, enjoy your reading.

In twenty-five years, Aifric’s Alehouse hadn’t changed even just a tiny bit. Same hefty old furniture. Same mucky walls and filthy floor covered in layers of dry alcohol that stick your shoes to the wooden slats each time you take a step. Same lamentable drunkards in search of more alcohol to drown their sorrows in, their arms around women that would pretend to adore them for a night in exchange for a bit of money. And, now that Vergil dared breathe a little, same foul stench of humidity, staleness and sweat, typical of this kind of underground bars from the no-go areas of the Castle Town of Fortuna. And the music … Don’t let him think about the music.          Never thought he would come back here one day.                   His firm gloved hand grabbed the backrest of a wobbly stool that scratched the old wooden floor with an unpleasant creak as he pulled it to sit on it, revealing his presence to the brown-skinned man sipping his beer in silence next to him, his defeated pockmarked face hidden under a thick dirty white cloak that hadn’t been washed in probably years and that had lost almost all its glorious golden embroideries.     Vergil eyed at him for a second, the same way the Moor had eyed at him when, more than two decades ago, he had sit on this very same stool, his then young frame hidden under a cloak similar to his and yet less odorous, a young wanderer looking for stories and answers. Strange how things seems to move in circle.          “You’re too late. You know that?” The man’s voice was thickly and hoarse, due to the long years of alcohol abuse and contempt towards the world, towards that silver-haired ghost back from a distant past but especially towards himself. “Twenty-five fucking years too late to be more precise.” He got no answer to that reproach, not a word, just a nod and a pregnant silence that made him scoff. But his laugh, once so hearty and alive, held today nothing but melancholy and despise. “But at least she was right. You did come back.”           Vergil peeped at the man again from the corner of his icy blue eyes, longer this time, but still with that eternal impassibility he was known for, hiding his slight surprise and his judgemental thoughts he knew deep down he shouldn’t have. But the barfly next to him was nothing like the man he had met years ago. This man was just the broken shadow of the one everyone in Fortuna once called Adel the Honourable¹ , Captain of the Guard of Sparda.           “What the fuck are you doing here … Vergil?” He spat on his name, literally, not caring about what the solemn Son of Sparda would think of him, would do to him. He spat to show him his disgust, his hatred, even though he knew that a bit of saliva wasn’t enough to show the extent of his feelings. “Where is she?” Vergil asked with a calm voice that made Adel grimace (that voice was as nasally and annoying as he remembered) and finally glare at him, allowing Vergil to see how the years and the pain had marked and scared his once-handsome face. “You got some nerve to ask that now.”           “ I need to see her.”Adel firmly hit the counter with his empty glass before turning around to stare at Vergil, giving him a long disdainful look he thought he could only give himself. “Sure, I’ll bring you to her. But you might want to give me that damn sword of yours so that I shove it deep in your stone-cold heart first.” Vergil smirked. This was way too reminiscent of old foolish squabbles he once found very amusing … though quite pathetic and most of the time one-sided.       “Why don’t you use that crossbow² of yours instead?” The taunt wasn’t meant to defy him if one could read through Vergil’s phlegmatic voice. But the Moor³ interpreted it that way and yet refused to react to it, knowing how vain it would be.   “I don’t have it anymore.” Adel opened his cloak to reveal a leather sling with no weapon attached to it. “I don’t have anything anymore. And we know full well that it wouldn’t have done shit to you.”        “Trust me, Adel. I know what it’s like to lose everything.” Was it an attempt at sounding

sympathetic? Probably. After all, Vergil still felt somewhat confused by the occasional waves of humanity surging up from inside of him.        “Do you?” He laughed with bitterness, not believing him for one second. “Bullshit! And you know why? Cause you never had anything!”  If Vergil took this as a personal attack he didn’t let his body show it, but he nevertheless let out one simple sentence, a boast he knew would displease the brown-skinned man, a display of his pride and superiority he always thought he had over that mere human. “I had her.”        Quite expectedly, Adel jumped from his stool and before falling back against the bar, tried to grab Vergil by his blue collar. But it looked too pathetic and clumsy to be considered menacing or dangerous. “Fucking stop talking about her!” He pointed his finger at him in defiance while tears formed in his dull black eyes that had long lost their charming spark. “She fucking loved you! She loved you so damn much and you never cared, not a damn second. So don’t come to me with all your ceremony and shit, pretending you care now?” He sobbed loudly and wiped his eyes with his fists, a gesture that only made Vergil frown. How low had that man sunk! And how wrong he was.       “Nero needs to know.” The silver-haired man finally said, not very willing to continue this conversation due to a growing lack of patience. “He needs to know about his mother.”There was a new brief silence that could only be filled with glasses clinking, noisy hubbub and prostitutes giggles. Both men gauged each other, wondering who should talk first and what to say after the name of the boy the woman they both loved had given birth to was brought into the discussion. “So you finally know.” The Moor finally said as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “How does it feel?” Vergil didn’t want to talk about his feelings, especially not with a man he hadn’t seen in years and that would be too eager to judge him. His feelings were his to ponder and only his.             “My feelings are none of your concern.” The brevity of Vergil’s sentences was annoying to Adel who had almost forgotten how it was to have a conversation with the stoic Son of Sparda. And when some people would call it introversion he would call it self-importance, despicable self-importance. “Do you ever think of her?”           New intended silence. But yes, there were times when Vergil did think of her because that’s what happens when someone as special as her shares even just a tiny bit of his life. He thought of her when he was at his best and when he was at his lowest. And he had been thinking of her even more lately, each time he would look at Nero or think of him, each time he would remember his journey in Fortuna. She was a part of his past he would never be able to cast away. But again, none of Adel’s business. “Look, you don’t need to talk to me about her. Just tell Nero. I bet you know how to find him.”Glad to finally leave, Vergil stood up and dusted his long dark coat he felt had been soiled by such a dirty place. But right after he turned around to walk away, his old acquaintance spoke again with disarming heartfelt honesty. “It feels like hell to me.” Vergil stopped and slightly looked back at him from the corner of his eyes, at his defeated look staring deep in his empty glass again. “Like fucking hell actually. Seeing that kid of yours growing up to be just like her but at the same time just like you right under my nose. That smug smirk he got from you on the lips he inherited from her. Everything about that child makes me want to vomit or plug my eyes out because that makes me realise all I lost, all I could have had if you had never stepped a foot in Fortuna. You took her away from me, away from everyone, and when you finally got out from my life, you dared leave behind you a living reminder of your victory over me to torture me for the rest of my miserable days.” Vergil stood still, withstanding the man’s rancour without batting an eyelash.    “The fact you considered her love a victory maybe is the reason why you

never had her.” Vergil replied and before pushing the double-leaf door of the bar, waited for an instant as if he was expecting something to come in, but Adel was stubborn and not keen on accepting defeat. “You took her away from your son!” He shouted and smiled when Vergil froze again on his way out.       “ If that’s true, go tell him that then.”

***

Nico was pissed. Nero could tell it by the way she was furiously trying to fix the neon blue sign of their van. But what could he do about it? It wasn’t his fault if a starving empusa had decided to snack on the E while Nico was parked waiting for her friend to come back from his demon ass kicking routine. “D vil May Cry” Nero read out loud with a pout. “I don’t know, Nico. Works for me.” And yet, he had a feeling being angry because of a damn light was just a pretext to let out some pent up frustration due to god knew what. “Really? Is that how you gonna treat your family heritage now?” The black-haired woman harrumphed, threatening to hit her friend with a monkey wrench. “Is that how you gonna treat my precious Minotaurus after all he did for ya? After he followed you right into that hellish ficus?”          “Qliphoth.” He corrected with a smile.          “Yeah whatever.” Nero had a brief laugh but eventually shrugged, not seeing the problem as he read the neon sign on the van again. “The E doesn’t light up anymore. So what? We still know it’s Devil May Cry.”           “When your deadbeat dad tore your arm out from its socket, didn’t I give ya a new one?”   Nero grumbled, not finding the comparison funny or admissible. “That’s not the same! You can’t compare my arm to a damn neon letter. I needed my arm!”            “And Devil May Cry needs its E! So stop complainin’ and pass me the stillson.” She ordered as she kept on adjusting the colourful wires hidden in the dented bodywork of the van. Nero sighed but handed her the tool anyway. “I thought you were tired of being my pet mechanic.”          “ I am but like I said, I can’t let you treat my baby like that.”     And then, he dared say it. “Seriously. I thought you would be busy reading those new files you found in your father’s old stuff? You didn’t say anything about what they were.” And, as Nico dropped the wrench on the hood, he immediately knew he maybe shouldn’t have asked that.           “Cause they were not interesting. Just pieces of diaries he wrote when he was young, explainin’ how he started working for the Order and why he didn’t want me or my mother in his life anymore.” Nero frowned, not believing Nico for an instant. Her sentence didn’t make any sense to him cause he was sure any child who had grown up without a parent would be even just a tiny bit interested in knowing who they were or what they did. He knew he was.             God! What he would give to know even a just of small piece of information about his mother, about who she was, how she looked like. But unfortunately for him, the only person who had all the answers to his questions was never prompt to give them, acting more like a vault than a chatterbox. “And that doesn’t interest you? Raaah come on, Nico!” He clicked his tongue.            “I’m interested in his work. Nothing else. I couldn’t care less about his adventure with that other chick which is FYI apparently one of the reason why that asshole left my mother and me.”            “ You father left your mother for someone else?” Nico glared at Nero, catching a judgment in his voice that never was there.      “ Well I least I know why my father left my mother… No, actually, I know my mum, period.” Nero hadn’t heard that kind of words in years but the burn was as painful as he remembered. How many times he had heard the kids in Fortuna disrespecting him, disrespecting his mother, claiming she was a prostitute⁴ from the ill repute places of Fortuna. How many horrors he had to listen to. And how many punches he had received, and given, because of them. “Damn! I’m sorry, Nero. I didn’t mean.” Nico declared, horrified by her unusual behaviour and by the sudden sadness Nero tried to conceal in his blue eyes.  “Forget it. I’m used to it.” He gestured her to let go and went rummaging in the toolbox for no particular reason but to occupy his mind with something else. But Nico wasn’t willing to end their conversation like that, the feeling of guilt eating at her. “I’m sure your mother was someone fantastic, Nero.” She had a soft comforting smile.

“I mean, she had to be, you know … to stand your father.”            Nero chuckled but there was still that hint of misery, that very particular misery he only felt when thinking of his mother. A mix of bitterness, void and love. “Maybe she never really had to stand him. Maybe she was … a prostitute like everybody said.” Nico frowned; refusing to believe Nero would go for such bullshit. Didn’t he know how close-minded and rumour-hungry the people in Fortuna were?    “Nah, I don’t think so.” She declared as she funnily wrinkled her nose. “No money in the world would be enough to accept to spend a night with your dad. Your mother had to veeeery nice and patient and ooooh so in love with him.” Nero spared a glance at Nico, deeply moved by her attempt at comforting him and hoping she was right. “Damn, I beg that poor woman was a saint, ‘cause Vergil might look yummy to most people’s standards but he ain’t fun.” Her lips pinched together, she had a sort of deep serious frown that wrinkled her entire forehead, a somewhat amusing grimace Nero was sure was meant to emulate his father characteristic impenetrability. She kinda nailed it but …         “ Did you just say my father looks yummy?” Nero asked, quite disgusted. A crush on Lady, that he could get, but on his father … It made him shiver and want to throw up. “Huh, to most people standards!” She repeating, clapping her hands between each syllables. “I’m not most people.” Nero’s eyes widened when he heard familiar slow and steady footsteps coming from behind the door of the garage. “I mean, do you really think I could feel even just a tiny bit attracted to ‘Power! I need more power!’?” She imitated with a cavernous voice and Nero tried not to laugh. But it wasn’t Nico’s new impersonation of Vergil that was making him want to do so. It was actually his father standing on top of the stairs, stoic and still like a marble statue staring impassibly at Nico making a fool of him. Maybe he should warn her of his presence. Yes, maybe he should.            He timidly pointed at his father standing right behind her; still unsure he wanted this scene to stop. But he couldn’t wait to see Nico’s face when she would notice Vergil. And oh god, how priceless it was.    Nico was an intrepid, loud and lovely person but when her dark eyes took a small glance of Vergil, she froze and cleared her throat, definitely uncomfortable and … yeah a tiny bit scared. “But it has its charm. You’ve got some charm. That’s undeniable.” She rectified, looking at Vergil who eventually nodded, a faint smile on his face that meant more ‘yeah right’ than ‘how funny’ in Vergil language. He didn’t find this funny at all.            “Good evening to you too, Nicoletta. Nero.” He nodded once again, casting his aura of solemnity all over the garage. “Nico. Just Nico … nevermind.” Nico mumbled in a whisper that Vergil heard but chose to ignore. Nicknames were not his thing… They had never been his thing.He went down the stairs, his hand resting on the hilt of his precious Yamato as always and looked at the van with a new frown. “You two are busy working on some repairs, perhaps.” He asked in an effort to be as familial as possible, something that wasn’t his forte at all. It made the two friends exchange a curious glance. “ Yes … I mean, no, we were done.” Nero replied, wondering what his father was doing here. After all, unexpected visits were not in Vergil’s habits.         “ No, we were not. Gotta fix that E, remember?” Nico tapped at the letter with insistence.             “ That again?” The young man sighed. “Is Dante here?” That could explain Vergil’s presence in Fortuna. But as 90% of the time – or more – the Son of Sparda evicted an answer, changing the subject – or ignoring it – with a destabilizing yet infuriating indifference.           “ Miss Goldstein is right, a E is important.” He spoke, his icy blue eyes looking towards a distant past, towards memories he held in his heart he was rediscovering more and more with each day spent with his family, with his son.         “ Thank you! See, I told you!” Nico

shouted, proud to be right.  “ What are you doing here?” Nero finally questioned, impatient to finally know the truth behind his father’s presence. “I was in Fortuna visiting an old acquaintance.” Vergil weighed his words with smoothness as he paced in the garage looking at his surroundings without no real interest in them.         “ You … got acquaintances?” The slight frown of disbelief on Nero’s face made him suddenly look so much like his father but Vergil didn’t notice, too busy staring at the extinguished E that looked so dull surrounded by such neon blue lights when it should have shone as brightly as them if not more. “Hopefully, he should visit you soon.”         “ Wait! What? Why?” Nero always saw his father as an impenetrable mystery, even when he was just V, but right now he couldn’t tolerate him being so evasive.      “To give you the answers you want.” And he couldn’t not tolerate him being a stolid piece of shit either. “About my mother?” Or a mute one. But with Vergil, silence often meant a lot. “Hey! You can’t just leave me like that!” Nero caught his father’s right arm with a violent strength, a vision that stirred a new one, an old one, one Vergil regretted. “Plus, why would you send a stranger in my house to talk to me about my mother? Why don’t you do it yourself?” God! If she knew what he had done to their son. What would she say? What would she do? “Silence. I thought so. You don’t even have the courage to tell me her name so why should I expect more from you.”    In his lifetime, only a few persons had been able to defeat Vergil, one of them being his son. So, after looking down at his boots for a second, he walked away, not keen on riling up Nero even more, not today.“Elissa.⁵” The name, left unpronounced for so many years, burnt Vergil's tongue when each blazing letter, probably angry to have been reduced to dormant embers for so long, managed to escape the barrier of his tight lips. But Vergil welcomed this fiery pain without blinking and even dared say it again, embracing the ignition once more with a soft melancholic smile. He was part demon. Fire couldn't hurt him. So why being afraid of it? “Your mother’s name was Elissa.” Plus there was no danger in saying her name, just liberation. It was a beautiful name, after all. And for a second, he felt like his young self again. “Now fix it, would you?” That E meant a lot to Vergil.

REFERENCES: ¹ Adel The Honourable: Adel is a Persian name derived from the Arabic عَدَلَ meaning "to act justly". I added the title "the Honourable" to reinforce the idea his character was made to be fair, honest and just. Adel also belongs to the House of Montefeltro, a name you will discover later. ² crossbow: I intended to give Adel a simple bow as it is the weapon of righteousness (ndlr: Robin Hood) but then I chose to give him a crossbow because I thought the addition of the word "cross" was giving a religious connotation that suited his character. The fact that he lost the weapon is of course meaningful. ³ The Moor: reference to Shakespeare's Othello. ⁴ claiming she was a prostitute: This idea of Nero's mother being a prostitute was directly taken from Devil May Cry: Deadly Fortune. In the novel, we learn that Nero was often bullied by the other kids claiming his mother was a whore. ⁵ Elissa: Elissa is the other name that was given to Dido, first queen of Carthage and lover of the demi-god Aeneas, in Virgil's Aeneid. Her name is composed of the Punic reflex of "El-" meaning "god", and "‐issa" that means "fire", hence why her name burns Vergil's lips when he says it. Her name carrying the word "fire" also echoes the red colour of her dress and her hair as well as her affiliation to the House of Minos you will read about later. In a nutshell, this girl is on fire! ;-)

[nanasparadise]

Yandere + Darling playlist

Hiya everyone! I’ve seen some people here on Tumblr do playlists for certain characters and I thought to myself ‘wow, what a fun idea’! So I decided to do something similar. I looked for songs I like and checked, if their songs could potentially be seen through a Yandere or Darling lense (or both). I hope you enjoy this! 

Disclaimer: Some of the songs have no specific interpretation and some do. For those who have one, I’m not trying to undermine the original intention/meaning, I merely wanna show you a different perspective. 

TW: mentions of murder, mentions of cheating, mentions of abuse, mentions of Stockholm Syndrome, mentions of the police, mentions of an epileptic fit, mentions of emotional manipulation, toxic relationship, MINORS DNI

Yandere:

“Breezeblocks” by Alt-J

The lyrics and the music video are pretty self-explanatory.

“Figure It Out” by Royal Blood

The music video implies yandere-ness, the lyrics less so (but honestly, the guitar riff alone is worth listening to the song).

“Midnight Show” by The Killers 

This one is one of my faves because I’ve never really payed attention to the lyrics until this year and then it hit me like a truck. It’s about the narrator (do you say that as well for songs?) killing a woman, probably their girlfriend or the woman they pined for, out of jealousy (cheating is implied) 

“Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine” by The Killers 

This song is actually a continuation of “Midnight Show”. Here, the narrator has been caught by the police as they try to make them confess for their crime. 

“Always Forever” by Cults

You could just see this song as a sweet romance between two lovers or you could take the yandere route.

“Kiri” by Monoral 

First of all, ever since I saw Ergo Proxy, I fell in love with this song! Secondly, I can’t say what makes this tune yandere to me, it’s just vibes honestly, so check it out and see it for yourself!

“Sparta” by Monoral

Again, I love this song and again, it’s just vibes.

“Blind” by Placebo

Ah, Placebo, my beloved <3 The lyrics of this one are quite sad and they remind me of a desperate and clingy kinda yandere.

“Stockholm Syndrome” by Muse

I mean, the title already says it xD. But funny enough, the lyrics never indicate that ‘Darling’ succombs to Stockholm Syndrome. 

“I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE” by Måneskin

Just like many other bisexual Europeans, I’ve fallen for the Måneskin craze lmao. But for real now, the lyrics aren’t particularly yandere, but you could see them as a yandere being desperate to both please and dominate their darling. 

“Creep” by Radiohead

This song is the ultimate yandere tune. You can’t change my mind. 

Darling:

“Me And My Husband” by Mitski

This song just breaks my heart, honestly. It’s about an unhappy marriage (maybe even potentially abusive) and ‘Darling’ in this case has to pretend that everything is fine, even though they feel hollow and broken inside.

“Fahrradsattel” by Pisse (you can find it on Soundcloud)

Okay, this one is a wild take. I personally think this song is a metaphor for marriage. Marriage is portrayed as restraining and negative though and ‘Darling’ would prefer to be in a more open relationship. But again, this is my interpretation, because virtually, the lyrics don’t make much sense. My fellow German-speaking peeps or anyone who wants to philosophise with me (there are English translations of the song), be free to tell me your opinion!

“E.V.O.L” by Marina and the Diamonds (you can find it on Soundcloud under her former artist name, that’s why I used it here)

This is about a toxic relationship, pretty self-explanatory.

“Kiss With A Fist” by Florence + The Machine

This song is perfect for a darling, who doesn’t accept the yandere’s abuse and fights them back. 

“Can’t Pin Me Down” by Marina

Again, also matching for a darling who doesn’t take the yandere’s bullshit.

“She’s Lost Control” by Joy Division

My favourite Joy Division song <3 it’s actually about a woman having an epileptic fit, but I think you could also interpret the lyrics to represent a state of mind rather than a physical state. In that case, it would definitely match with a desperate Darling’s well-being (or rather lack of it). 

“Blue Monday” by New Order

The lyrics are pretty open, so I thought they could also apply to a darling, who’s getting emotionally manipulated by the yandere and they wish to be gone from them. 

Both: 

“The Bitter End” by Placebo

I reckoned the lyrics could both apply to a darling, who gave up fighting, or a yandere, who’s very desperate to keep darling by their side, even though they see their darling slipping away from them. 

“I’m Not Calling You A Liar” by Florence + The Machine 

Again, this song could be interpreted through the lense of the darling and the yandere: ‘Darling’ is broken by the yandere’s abuse and lets them do whatever they want as long as they get their affection or the yandere is so desperate for their darling, they’d try anything and let them do anything to them. 

[writefightandflightclub]

“One word from you and I will jump off of this ledge I’m on, baby.” - First Love / Late Spring (Mitski)

Pairing + genre: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x reader. Hurt / comfort + angst.

Summary: Santi is the sorta man who keeps his promises, and he promised to be there for you always and forever. All you have to do is say the word.

Author’s note: this one hurt me. Word count: 6k (SORRY!)

Warnings: panic attack  / aftermath = a major / central theme. Allusions to prior trauma (non-specific). One mention of blood. ANGST.

“This is a man who keeps his oaths, his promises. To his country, to his friends. One word is all it takes, and Pope will be there for you in a heartbeat. He isn’t the kind of man to let a team member down, and, believe me, once you’re on his squad? You’re on it for life. Forever and always.” - Frankie Morales

Years of cruel awakenings in the military had made Pope an especially light sleeper. Luckily, out here in the suburbs, he was significantly less likely to be awoken with a grenade through the window. So, when his cell phone rings, wresting him rudely from slumber, he almost allows himself to be blasé about it. To just hit the red button and turn over.

But it’s still pitch dark. Too late -or too early- for this wake-up call to be something routine. So, Pope’s arm pokes out from beneath the covers as he fumbles blindly for his phone. He brings it to his ear wordlessly, voice still grogged by sleep. If he expects anything at all, it’s for the caller to be Catfish - drunk and checking-in on his sorry ass again.

“Santi?”

Instead, it is your panicked voice -swaddled in tell-tale signs of danger- which slices through the dark like the blade of an enemy combatant, yanking Pope harshly from his haze. Flinging off the coiled ropes of sleep, he is instantly firing on all cylinders, his body responding in much the same way as he might to enemy fire; preparing to counter a threat. To eliminate whatever is hurting you, with as much speed and precision as possible.

“Shit. I’ll be right there.”

Pope throws the covers off and he’s already awake and moving, even before he can comprehend exactly what’s wrong. He knows enough. He knows that something is wrong. And he knows he’s going to be there for you, like he promised he always would be.

He tugs on his nearest sweats and tumbles through his house in the dark, adrenaline pumping through him as he barrels his way across the landing, stubbing his toe more than once on the strewn piles of unpacked boxes. Pope’s breath seethes through his teeth and he curses, momentarily wondering if he’s grown soft since he was discharged; he could swear bullet wounds never used to slow him down as much as a big toe clipped on the corner of a box.

Continuing to shake the remaining webs of sleep from his head -and actually remembering the layout of his new house- Pope presses on. He throws himself down his staircase, missing the last five stairs. He is straining to decipher your words on the other end of the line all the while, to little avail.

He speedily wrestles on a jacket and scoops his car keys out of the bowl by his front door, quickly toeing on odd shoes before he scrambles from his house and slots himself behind the wheel of his truck. Pope’s heart is hammering blood around his body as he slots his cell into the car phone holder and powers the car down his driveway, all less than a minute from waking.

He’s a mess of worry as he hears you cry blearily through the speaker, and he bridges his fingers against his forehead in frustration when he can barely interpret a single word of it.

“Cariño, listen. I’ll be right there. You at home?”

All he can make out is a “no” and “driving” and not much else, and he panics.

“Fuck.”, he curses, under his breath, as he realises he’s not going to get anything useful out of you in your current state.

Pope sucks air in through his teeth with frustration. He can’t eliminate the threat if he doesn’t know what it is, and there’s nothing Santi finds more terrifying than not knowing what he’s up against. Nothing more terrifying than being unable to execute a plan. To fix a problem with lethal precision.

“Just sit tight, okay? Just stay there. I’m coming to you, cariño.”

He pulls up a tracker app to establish where you are, and he puts pedal to the metal, driving far faster than he should. There’s no way he’s going to let a speed limit or some pesky stop lights stand between him and getting to you as quickly as possible.

Following directions to your location, Santi eventually finds your truck strewn in the middle of an intersection, door flung open. It looks reminiscent of something from out in the field, as if you’ve been strewn from your vehicle by a blast.

As Pope pulls around, his eagle eyes immediately locate your shadowed form crouching on the lip of the sidewalk, face buried to your knees. He parks abysmally, his heart throbbing, and legs it over to you, his movements tactical and efficient.

When he reaches you, Pope crouches down in front of you without a care for those bad knees of his. When he reaches you, everything ceases to be tactical or lethal. Everything about him is suddenly soft and haphazard, and he’s pawing gently at you and looking over you for any harm, examining your eyes for clues as you regard him like a sheepish animal.

You don’t appear to be physically hurt, but your skin is sheening, your face tear-stained, hands trembling and eyes glassy. 

“Sweetie. Hermosa, look at me. What happened?” Pope asks, his voice both soothing and insistent as he gingerly tips your head upward with his strong hand to search your vacant eyes.

You don’t answer though, and so, recognising the aftermath of a likely panic attack -knowing how they manifest for you- Pope comes to sit behind you on the sidewalk edge, slotting his legs either side of the trunk of your body and wrapping you firmly in the circumference of him. He pulls you tightly to his chest, bundling your clammy arms and hands into his embrace.

Pope shushes and soothes and rocks you. He brushes your hair back from your sweaty face. He lets your tears fall wet on to his hands as he clasps them in front of you. And through it, Pope does his best to present a picture of calm, despite his terror at seeing you so distressed. He forces his breathing to remain slow and deep and steady, until your own stunted breaths are somewhat in sync with the rise and fall of his chest against your back.

“I got you. You’re safe,” he mumbles into your hair, into the crook of your neck, hooking his head over your shoulder, all stubble and grizzled curls nuzzling up against you. “You’re safe. You know that, cariño?” He soothes, encourages. “Tell me yes, baby. Come on.”

“Yeah,” you finally push out, voice scrubbed clean. 

The inflection of your voice hurts Santi. Boy, does he know that feeling. Your voice sounds strung out; tense, and spread thin. Somehow you sound on high alert, burning and raw... but at the same time, empty and numb. Like a shocked, ravaged fruit, scooped-out.

It manifests differently for Pope -nightmares mainly- but he knows. He understands. You’d both done more than your share of dark things that insisted on following you out from the military. The resulting pain had always been a bedfellow lying under the covers between you, pushing you further and further apart as it nuzzled its way into your chests, causing hearts to crash and ribs to bruise like roll cages.

“You’re ok, sweetie. You’re doing good.”, he reminds you. “That’s it.”

You’re still tense against him, all of your muscles stacked and coiled like an angry snake, your legs bouncing agitatedly; yet at the same time there is no intention in your body. You are aimless. Firing on all cylinders but with no target - nothing in your sight. No tangible threat to eliminate.

Pope knows all too well that the most elusive enemy of all is the kind in your head. Still, your breaths become slower, more level. And now that your physical symptoms appear to be calming, body levelling, Santi tries his best to bring your mind back too. Tries to ground you in everything real and tangible. 

“Focus up for me, ok? You know the drill. What can you smell?”

You are silent, and he gives you a gentle jostle in his arms. He wishes he could see your face properly, but you are still staring dead ahead. 

“Come on, hermosa. Try for me.”, he pleads, and something must finally reach you.

When your voice finally comes, to Pope it’s like the first bloom of spring after a long winter.

“I can smell peach trees. Balmy air. Gasoline.”

He finally unclenches a little himself, as you begin talking. “Good. What can you see?”

Your hair brushes against his neck as you subtly swivel your head around the scene. “Grey. Asphalt. A badly parked car. But also... spring. Buds and blades of grass peeking through the cracks.”

Santi similarly scans his eyes around the intersection and empty lot in your view. “Shit. You’re fuckin’ poetic, baby.” He would have just said trucks. Maybe would’ve recited a few number plates he’d accidentally memorised already - old habits die hard.

Pope smiles softly to himself as he is reminded of the way you see things. Differently. More softly. You always saw him more softly. You didn’t see him as a killer. You saw the buds peeping through the cracks. You loved him like spring.

“You’re doing good, cariño. Keep it up. What can you hear?”

“Your voice. The hum of the pylons against the hot, damp air.”

Santi is calm, practically mesmerised by you as you speak. He swallows thickly, as he holds you against him. “What can you feel?”

You take a deep breath then, before speaking, your chest straining against his circling arms as your rib cage expands. Your voice is fuller when it flows from your lips, and it is only then - finally, that you sink into him, allowing relief to take you. “I can feel you.”

“You back with me, huh? Come on, keep going. Let’s finish this.”, he encourages, his breath billowing over the back of your neck.

“I can feel... my heart in my chest, the air on my face. Wet tears there. Your warm skin on mine, and your body sturdy against me. Your breath warm, your stubble rough on my neck. The hairs on your arms tickling against me. I can feel the metal bobbles of your chain digging into the flesh of my shoulder.”

Your hands start to slip over Pope’s arms and hands as you become more and more grounded, seeking out more textures. Touch always grounds you like nothing else.

The more grounded you become - the more your touch skims over him- the more Pope rises, swept away like spring blossoms on balmy air, sweet and helpless. Then, your fingers skim over his watch, running over its glassy face. Over the ridges of his knuckles. You stop abruptly when you reach the cool, smooth wedding band on his ring finger.

Pope tries not to let his heart break into pieces as you pause, rotating the ring ever so slightly between your fingertips. 

Grounded, back to yourself, you swivel your head towards Pope, turning to where his face nestles at the junction of your shoulder. “I feel... safe,” you say, bringing your palm up to the side of his face, your stare no longer vacant like a house with empty windows, but lit with the soft glow of home.

You’ve come back to him, and you’re inviting him in. 

“You are safe. I’ve got your six, ok?”

“I know you do. And I’ve got your zero through twelve.”

Pope smiles sentimentally, as you recite your old phrase, the feeling bittersweet like unripe peaches.

How he wishes you would really come back to him. Invite him in.

Pope narrows his eyes fondly at you. You have mascara streaking down your cheeks. Tear-plumped eyes. And you’re beautiful. He could kiss you. Wants to. But this moment is not about his comfort, so, instead, he presses his palm over yours and asks you gently:

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He feels you stiffen slightly against him.

“Take your time.”, he soothes, running his fingers up and down your arms, absent-mindedly dipping his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling your perfume. Light notes of first loves and late spring. 

“It’s dumb,” you say, leaning your head back on to his chest. “I was driving home from...”, you appear to cut yourself off, snapping your lips shut, and it is only then that Santi properly clocks your attire.

Oh. Okay. Well, shit.

That’s a “date” dress if ever he saw one.

He wants to either fight or to retreat. To take some action, deploy some strategy. He wants to beg you to be with him instead. He wants to. But he tries to swallow his heartache down. This isn’t a time for his pain. So, he simply buries it right down with all the rest; shutting himself off. Eyes becoming vacant windows. 

“And then what?” he prompts softly, neutrally, giving you an easy way to bridge the glaring gap in your story.

“Nothing. It was nothing.” You shake your head disbelievingly as you recall it. “A car backfired behind me. It became bullets,” you continue, voice monotone, brow troubled, eyes searching like the sweep of headlights. “Tires screeching became screams. The stop light glaring down on my hands, became red like blood.” You shrug, tugging in a long breath only to huff it out in frustration, voice hollowed-out again. “Then, I was back there, Santi. I was right back there. I’m such a fucking cliché.”

Pope smooths his hands over your shoulders as he feels your muscles recoil against him. This is one of the times he doesn’t envy your poetry, at all. When your trauma is a scribe which can translate everyday things into a metaphor for your pain. All Pope can offer is to look at you with comprehension. Understanding. It’s no use telling you it wasn’t real. He knows how real it can feel, in the moment. All he can do is gently kiss your hair. Hold you a little tighter. Be here for you, like he promised.

Pope wishes he could take all this pain from you. If there was a way, he gladly would. In a heartbeat. But a fine job he did of that; when he was with you, he had only seemed to hurt you more.

He shakes the clingy webs of pain from his own mind. The nightmares clawing at him sometimes even while waking. “Then what?” Santi probes gently.

“I guess I got out of the truck. Parked like a shithead. And that’s when I called you.”

You twist your head back towards him, nipping your lip guiltily between your teeth in realisation. “I’m so sorry. It’s so late.”

Pope’s face becomes pinched and he looks down at the asphalt. “Don’t apologise,” he says sincerely. “I promised you always and forever. I still mean that.”

Gratefully, seemingly overcome with broiling emotion, you press a chaste, sentimental kiss to Pope’s lips, even as other more broken promises linger and mingle in the air between you.

With the shock of your lips on his, Pope finally stands, helping you delicately to your feet with him. “You wanna walk it off or shall we drive straight home?” Well, shit. It’s not his home anymore. “I mean, I’ll drive you... you know what I mean,” he trails off, sheepishly. 

You fold your arms over yourself, separating from him. But still you say warmly: “Can we go home, Santi?”

He looks at you, forcing his eyes to remain warm and soft. Guarding the perimeter of his heart. Refusing to let the pain creep in. Still, he knows a late frost can kill off those shoots which dare to venture out into the fickle sunlight. He won’t let happiness bloom either.

Instead, he wraps one sturdy arm around you -giving your shoulders a squeeze- and nods, insisting he’ll be right back with you as soon as he’s parked your truck up “less like a shithead”. He promises to swing by and collect if for you later but for now, you bundle into his truck and he leans across you to clip you securely into the passenger seat.

Then, Pope drives. Much more calmly than he had en route to you, keeping the movements of the car as soporific as possible as he winds through the quiet, dimly lit suburbs.

Every now and again, his eyes flick over to check on you. Your head is turned away from him, as you watch the dark scenes slip by the black hole of the window pane.

“You don’t have to watch me, Santi,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”

He swears you must have eyes in the back of your head. Or maybe you know him too well.

“Mm-hmm,” he says, dubiously.

You turn towards him then and stupidly he looks away, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road rather than looking at you directly. As if he might turn to stone if he your eyes meet his. 

God, he wants to look at you. He’s missed your face far too much to waste so much time not looking.

“I’m okay.”, you insist again.

“I know,” he says softly. Not with any pity, mind; only empathy. Pope’s good with other people’s pain. It’s his own he can’t get a handle on. Too much baggage to carry.

“I really thought I had it under control.”, you say, your prior conviction wavering.

His eyes flick to you then, your gazes finally meeting and sparking like the switch to a warm, porch light. Familiar. Instantly warm.

“You did, until you didn’t,” he says plainly. “And you will again.”

You throw your hand on to Pope’s thigh to deliver a grateful squeeze, but then you’re looking out of the window again. As if you can’t have too much of him at once; can’t give too much of yourself at once. Can’t open up all your rooms lest you might invite him in to stay. Keep him distant like a guest in the parlour. Keep your head turned as if you’re walking away from him and you can’t look back, only ahead. Don’t invite him into your bed.

With a sigh, and a bridged hand rasping over the stubble at his clenched jaw, Pope pulls the truck into your driveway, engine gently humming until he slips the key out of the ignition.

He pats your thigh this time, to break your stare out of the black hole of the window. You look back at him wistfully. “Come on then, drama queen.”, he teases, boldly, his heart thrilling when the faintest ghost of a smile glints in your eyes.

Pope opens up the front door and leads you upstairs, following the familiar route to the master bedroom. He guides you to the edge of the bed, with a broad hand on the small of your back, and settles you down before flicking on the bedside lamp, a soft glow pooling in the room. Then, he gets down on his bad knees again to ease off your shoes.

His eyes flick around. Pope is always observing. Now he’s observing your life without him. He glances over to your tented paperback on the bedside table. He guesses you’ve started sleeping on his side of the bed since he’s been gone, then? He decides to push that hurt down with all the rest as he wonders vaguely if that was to feel closer to him. His face becomes taut.

“Santi?” you breathe, sucking his attention back as he kneels in front of you, and he deliberately softens his face. Your hands are pressed firmly down on your thighs, as if you need to weigh them down. As if your hands could so easily rise up to wind in his curls, like a spring breeze through a mess and flurry of cherry blossoms. You always saw something fresh in him. Saw poetry. Always saw what was possible, rather than the winters he had weathered.

You were always looking ahead. Oh, how he’d tried to look with you. To believe that he could still bloom. But that summer never came. He was simply glimpses of buds through cracks, never flowering.

“You wanna take a bath?”, Pope asks, throwing up the words like a shield, standing up stiffly. 

You nod slowly. “Yeah. That sounds nice. My muscles hurt.”

“Ok.”, he says, as brightly as possible. “I’ll draw you a bath, Princesa. And I’ll make you some warm lemonade while the water’s running. We got lemonade?”

Shit. He said it again. “We.”

Old habits die hard.

He supposes he can forgive himself the mistake, as he’s here with his home, in his house.

Shit. Your house. It’s your house now.

So, Pope potters busily around your house and sees to what you need, seeing ghosts of his own happiness and pain as he ambles from room to room. Trauma penning dark poetry across everyday scenes.

An apparition of you dancing to Metallica in the kitchen while you cook up pancakes. An image of you splayed out across the couch as you snuggle down, smile broad, ready for a day of watching Disney movies with him, arms outstretched to tug him in to your embrace. 

The kitchen floor where you’d had The Talk. Where you’d cried together for hours, backs up against the cabinets and knees drawn in to your chests until you’d finally decided. Decided that it hurt so much to be with him, that the inconceivable hurt of being apart would somehow feel like relief. Pope could never forgive himself for that. For hurting you that much. All he’d ever tried to do was keep his pain away from you, but it had still found you. It had snook around his perimeter and taken you down.

Always a killer. Always lethal.  Would he ever be anything else?

Pope’s pain flares again now but he pushes it down. Pushes it down again. Pushes it down. And he pads almost serenely up the stairs, coming to your aid. Coming to your aid, like always.

He lets you have a few sips of the warm, sugary lemonade. An old custom to steady the nerves after such a draining event - without resorting to hard liquor, at least. Once you’ve had plenty, Pope bends and lifts you from your perch on the bed, unceremoniously carrying you, bridal style, to the en suite. He sets you gently down by the edge of the tub.

Still not seeming entirely like yourself -still shaken and likely completely sapped from the earlier onslaught- Pope takes matters into his own hands.

“Okay, first things first, Winter Soldier,” he grins gently, taking in your mascara-smudged eyes. “Where’s that bottle of oily shit you rub on your face?”

You smile tentatively, grasping a bottle from the bathroom counter. “I can do it,” you state.

“I know, but you don’t have to, Princesa. Just let me take care of you.” Gently, but insistently, Pope takes the bottle from your hands and grabs a handful of those cotton rounds he’s watched you use before. He asks you to sit on the edge of the tub and tip your face-up to him, and he wipes the mess away from you as best he can.  

Once he’s disposed of the cotton rounds and rinsed his hands, he turns back to you, asking reverently, “Can I help you get your dress off?”

He sees mild apprehension flash across your face at the thought of him undressing you. He’d hate more than anything to make you uncomfortable. After all, just because he’s seen you naked before doesn’t mean he’s entitled to now. So, he waves his finger in the air mysteriously before receding into the bedroom.

Pope returns momentarily, with a big, loose nightshirt from your sleepwear drawer, gathering the material in his fingers until it forms a loop he can ease on over your head.

“You with me, cariño?” he asks. “Do that magic fuckin’ thing. Whip your bra out of your sleeve.”

Catching his gist, you let the shirt fall over you, shimmying yourself out of your dress and underwear whilst preserving your modesty. Pope offers an arm to hold you steady as you step one leg and then the next out of your clothing, respectfully averting his gaze all the while. Then, his arm steadies you as you step over the edge of the tub and into the warm, welcoming water.

For a moment, you don’t lie down. You just stand there. You look so vulnerable in that moment that Pope can’t help but reach out for your hand to grip in his. He watches in earnest as a question rises on your lips.

“Will you stay with me?” you ask him in the smallest of voices, clutching his hand tightly.

“What do you think I’m doing, hermosa?” he whispers, his eyes kind and smiling.

With that, your eyes brim with grateful tears. But you evidently feel free to crouch and then stretch yourself out in the tub. You submerge yourself fully for a moment in the warm bubbly depths, the stirring water wafting aromatic scents of spring around the room.

Pope watches as you dip yourself and arise from out of the water like a mermaid, your hair slicked back from your face and your soaked t-shirt clinging to your skin. 

“Mi sirenita,” Pope breathes affectionately, suddenly unable to push it all down.

He loves you, and old habits die hard.

“Santi?” you suspire, water droplets beading on your eyelashes like diamonds.

“Yeah?” Pope asks with apprehension, feeling like he’s about to stray out of secure territory.

“Get in with me?”

Santi hesitates, rasping his hand over his stubble again. Wishing he had his baseball cap to pull down over his eyes to obscure his emotions. For real? You want him to climb into the tub with you?

Pope examines your eyes for any sign of danger. Of hunger. But you simply look like you’re hurting. Like you need him. And Pope will always be there when you need him. He doesn’t know another way.

“Sure,” he gives in with a nod of his head, voice soft. “Make some room behind you.”

You oblige, folding your knees so he has room to slip in. Pope kicks off his shoes and -still in his t-shirt and sweatpants- plunges into the water. His clothes quickly become clingy and heavy with wetness, but he slots himself in behind you, wrapping his arms like he had on that sidewalk, and you languish your head back on his firm yet comfortable chest.

You both recline there wordlessly, until you seem entirely calm. Until all the bubbles have burst, and the water starts to feel cold. You both lie there as long as you possibly can.

Eventually, you wrap your arms around yourself too, your hands coming to rest on top of Pope’s. Your touch traverses absent-mindedly over his fingers, his knuckles, and again, inevitably over his wedding band.

Pope can feel the questions almost writhing their way out of your body, like coiled snakes. More than likely, you’re about to ask him why he still wears it. Why his sorry ass can’t seem to think about ever taking it off. Still, as you tug in a breath to launch your words, it suspires out of you as wordlessly as it arrived. Perhaps you’d felt him tense against you and decided to spare him the humiliation. Perhaps you didn’t want to hear his answer.

A few minutes later, when you eventually find the inclination to speak again, the words launched on your breath aren’t questions at all. Your hands skim over his arms, your fingertips pruning and wet, your bathtub touch slick and kissing whelks on to his skin.

“I... I wanted to take care of you too. But you wouldn’t let me.” You pause momentarily, breath caught in your chest as if you’re awaiting retaliation. When all you get back is silence, you take that as license to continue, your voice achingly small and trembling. “I worry that you stopped fighting for us because you didn’t believe you were worth fighting for. And, Santi, mi alma, I just need you to know that you were always good enough. You were never too broken for me. I wanted to take care of you, and I just...” You pause to huff air out between your lips, like you’re about to deliver a punch, or maybe like you’re preparing to be struck by one. “...Even if it doesn’t end up being me. Please, let someone take care of you next time, okay?”

Pope stills against you as your fingers worry over his. He feels like his heart has risen into his throat and that he’s choking on it. He feels like everything he has pushed down for so long is fighting to burst out. He lifts his hands away from yours to palm the tears from his face, very suddenly realising how cold the water has gone.

But he still can’t find the words to name his pain. Now is when he envies your poetry. Pope only knows how to use his words a shield, or to attack. He doesn’t know how to make flowers out of them.

“Ok, come on, sugar. Time to get out, ok?”

You shift forward, folding in on your knees, and Pope is staring at the back of your head again, as if his love for you only exists now in a house of mirrors. You’re looking ahead, to the next time, the next love, and yet he is still lost. Still stuck. He can’t find a route out of his pain.

He couldn’t be who you needed. Even when all you’d needed this whole time was him. He couldn’t even be that. He’d shut himself down. Shut himself off from you because he thought his pain would wreck you. And that was the thing that had wrecked you, in the end; that he was gone. Trapped in a house of mirrors. Vacant behind his eyes, which has used to glow like warm, familiar porch lights. He wouldn’t let you in. He wanted to. But he couldn’t find the door.

You heave yourself out of the tub and finally spin towards him. He sees the tears on your own cheeks too. “Yeah. Time to get out,” you intone glumly.

Pope knows you’re not only talking about the tub. It’s time. To finally look ahead.

You offer him your hand and he emerges from the water, his clothes sodden.

“¿Si soy una sirena? Tu eres Flounder.” The atmosphere is too heavy to laugh, but you tentatively chew on a fond smile. “What are you gonna wear now, idiota?” you ask.

“Shit, I didn’t think this through,” Pope admits, then looks at you quizzically when he registers your playful words. “Pero yo soy Sebastian, por supuesto. ¡No soy ese pececito feo!”

Your smile expands, just a little. “I still have some of your old stuff. Don’t be mad - I kept that Metallica t-shirt, for one.” 

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Pope chides, eyes shining softly.

You squeeze his hand and disappear momentarily to find him some clothes, turning away as you both towel off and dress side-by-side.

“Ok, well I better leave you to it.” Pope suggests abruptly, if only to shield himself. You seem better. Happier. He should leave before his own pain drags you down again. Or before he lets himself feel happy. 

“Stay, Santi. Let’s just be broken together, for a minute.”

He looks at you, pained, as if you’re being cruel to him, his heart fluttering like a bird in his rib cage.

“Please?” you beg in a broken, resigned voice. Scooped-out, wringing your hands together. “It feels like the end...” your face scrunches up as you bite back tears “...so please just stay one more time. Just lay on your side of the bed, and fall asleep next to me? Please.”

Pope tries to remember all the bullet wounds he’s suffered, because he could swear this hurts more. He could swear he’s bleeding out as you plead with him. As you talk about this ending. Pope always called you “mi Vida”, so it’s no wonder that your words feel like death; like the cruellest kind of poetry.

As he faces you, Pope’s blood is pounding in his body like he’s getting ready to run. When did you start to feel like a threat? Weren’t you on the same team?

“Santi.”

Still, one word from you, and Pope can’t refuse.

“Okay,” he agrees. Anything for you, even if it hurts him. “Go ahead and get under the covers.”

You oblige and he flicks out the light before coming to lie next to you on top of the duvet. On “his side” of the bed.

“I’m right here,” he breathes, his words like flowers as he throws an arm over the shadowed form of you. 

One word from you and Pope is there. No matter what you need.

But when it comes to his own pain? The pain that was always a shadowed bedfellow between you? Pope can’t find the words. He doesn’t have your poetry. He can’t imagine the possibility of healing. Of blooming.

Being stalked by a threat he can’t name? Can’t give form to? Nothing scares Pope more than a target he can’t fight, because if he can’t fight it, how in the hell can he protect you from it? How could he protect you from his pain? From all of his bullshit?

One word from you and Pope would jump.

He would jump off of that ledge he’s on and fall right into your love again. He would love you like he did in late spring. When the air had smelled like peaches.

Pope would do it differently this time. He would let things bloom. Or, he would at least try. He would try to find the words, like you always do.

He wishes. He wishes you would invite him back in. Wishes you would say the word. But nothing ever comes.

You’re already falling asleep by his side, maybe for the last time.

So, instead, Pope’s gone by the time morning comes. You find his ring laid out on your dresser, along with a note.

“Mi vida. I’m here for you any time of the day or night. Always and forever. Siempre te querré, mi alma. I know I fucked some things up, but I sure as hell don’t need a ring to keep that promise. Santi xxx xxx P.s. Me llevé mi camisa Metallica - I’ll have Frankie drop it back to you, cariño. Looks better on you anyway. xxx xxx.”

Maybe one day Pope would learn to accept that some things are messy. That not everything can be solved with precision. That sometimes, instead of trying to fix everything, it’s okay to be broken; together.

Pope had broken many promises to you along the way, when he became the soldier who had stopped fighting. But there was at least one he could keep.

If you need him, he’ll be there for you.

Always and forever.

************************

“This is a man who keeps his oaths, his promises. To his country, to his friends. One word is all it takes, and Pope will be there for you in a heartbeat. He isn’t the kind of man to let a team member down, and, believe me, once you’re on his squad? You’re on it for life. Forever and always.

How am I doing so far, boys? Doing okay? Yikes. I’m nervous. Okay.

That’s how I know -yeah, I’ve got this- that you two are going to make it work. Because Pope doesn’t know how to let people down, not once they’re on his team. He keeps fighting, no matter what.

He’s the kinda guy you want watching your six. Once he is, you’ll never look back, and you shouldn’t. Because you two are a team now, and everything is ahead of you. You’re a team for life.

Husband and wife.

And you know what my absolute favourite thing about all of this is? Mi hermano. You have found a woman who has your back too.

Todos, you know what she replies when Pope says “I’ve got your six”? She says “I’ve got your zero through twelve”. Isn’t that a-fucking adorable? Even if it is tactically questionable. Jejejejejeje. (I know, I know, laughing at my own jokes.) So, man. Pope. Santiago. I know you can be a stubborn ass, but let her take care of you too, okay?

You deserve it, hermano. I love you.

So, cheers, to the bride and groom. By the way... I don’t know how Pope bagged this one ‘cause she’s way out of his league... For real. But... Oh shit, where was I? Oh yeah, that’s it.... thank you, Tom. You finally came in useful. Jejejejejeje.

Yeah. Cheers, to the bride and groom.

You’re not soldiers anymore, and you don’t need to follow orders. Only your hearts. (Damn right you’re crying. I pulled out all the stops for this, you sap.) But, my dear, dear friends. You don’t technically need to fight anymore, but may you always keep fighting.

Stay with me...

Keep fighting for each other. If you do that, I know you two are destined for a lifetime of happiness. I know we tease you for being a sap and being whipped but honestly, my man, your love? The two of you, together as a team? It’s beautiful, bro.

That’s squad goals right there.

And, Princesa? Pope’s knees might give out imminently. (We have a sweepstake that they’ll give out during the first dance. Jejejejejejeje.)

But his love for you? Chiquita, that ain’t ever gonna quit.

(You ready for this?)

Just like that man’s ass!

Woo! Yes- fuckin’ killin’ this speech, right? Not a dry eye in the house. Pope’s bawling like a mother fuckin’ baby. (Sorry for the language, abuela.)

Right, what was I saying? Thanks, Tom. Getting some mileage out of you today. Makes a fuckin’ change. Jejejejejejejeje.

I was saying, chiquita, that... wow. This man’s love for you? That’s always and forever. And I know, I know he’ll keep that promise. Because Pope is the kinda man who keeps his promises.”

~ Excerpt from Frankie “Catfish” Morales’ triumphant best man speech, on the happiest day of your life. The day you married Santiago Garcia. 

***********************

You awake, and you roll Pope’s ring in between your fingers.

“¿Santi, mi corazón? Ven a casa. Come home.”

You wish he would come home.

Most of all, you wish you could find the courage to say the word.

THE END

Want more? Here’s my first Santi one-shot, which has angst and smut: Ride or Die.

I write for Poe (my main man), Santi, Nathan, Evgeni, Finn. Masterlist here. 

Feedback in an ask or comment will make my day.

Thank you for reading!

Tagging (let me know if you wanna be added / removed from Santi tag-list!)

@darksideofclarke @yougottakeeponkeepinon @damerondjarin @mandoplease @tintinwrites @mylifeliterally @shakespeareanwannabe  @woakiees​ @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol​ @damndamer0n​ @itsamedeemoney​ ​ @spider-starry​ @starryeyedstories​

[sunseteyes]

by your side

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ STARRING: hajime iwaizumi; gn!reader

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ THEMES: mutual pining? kinda sad

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ WORD COUNT: 4.6k words

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ SYNOPSIS: this is the story of you and hajime, and how your friendship crumbled when he found out something that was meant to be a secret moments after it was said. 

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ INTERMISSION: this is a part of @samusangel​ ‘s songfics! the song for this fic is ex by kiana ledé. do listen to that song because it’s bop! also, i have finally interpreted my real life story of my 7-year unrequited crush:) yes, most of this fic is based on what happened to me, not all though. i’m kinda hoping to do the ending too lmao. please don’t get too attached to hajime:) enjoy! oh btw i had to add arms on iwa’s pic so if you noticed it, i’ll give yo 10m points (also for the reference for that line haha)

when you first met hajime iwaizumi, it felt as if you had someone who will always have your back, someone you’d always trust, someone who’d continually care about you, through and through. 

that’s how being friends are, right? 

yet why is it that his name alone could hurt you better than anyone’s? why can you still remember the stolen glances and lingering touches that were barely there? 

why is it that even after eight years, you’re still regretting why you said hello that day? 

why? 

from oikawa: hey! from oikawa: i heard that you’re in the photography club from oikawa: please please speak to my friend iwa-chan he can be kinda shy  to oikawa: uhm who is this? do i know you? from oikawa: oh my y/n from oikawa: did you really not have the one and only oikawa tooru’s number?! me?? to oikawa: ...oikawa how did you get my number? to oikawa: and who’s iwa-chan??

“hey iwaizumi-san! come sit here!” you exclaimed, a huge grin on your face as both you patted the seat beside you, eyes looked over at the boy that had just entered the room, a sense of relief passing by his expression the moment he found your gaze. 

“we’re in the same class, right? and i think makki mentioned you before. what’s your name again?” he says the moment he sat on the same chair you urged him to sit on.

“(y/n),” you held out your hand. “-it’s nice to meet you.” 

hajime takes it willingly, a friendly look on his face when he does so all the while responding with, “it’s nice to meet you too. and since i can call you with your first name, then you can call me hajime, if you’d like.” 

“well, hajime it is then.” 

the smiles that you shared were harmless, not even an ounce of hesitating thought crossed your mind when you had your very first conversation with him, as well as the next ones. 

“hey hajime, what’s your number?” 

“hm? have i not given it to you yet? here, let me type it for you.” 

from iwaizumi: hey :) to iwaizumi: yeah yeah i received it hajime from iwaizumi: oh come on from iwaizumi: is saying a hello that hard?? to iwaizumi: hello to iwaizumi: you happy? from iwaizumi: yeah :)

“(y/n), want to join us for lunch? we have a free seat right here.” 

“hajime! i saw a good movie! let’s watch it later? snacks are on me as long as it’s your turn next time.” 

smiles, giggles, laughs, whispers or notes whenever the class is ongoing, always beside each other during club meetings, you and hajime even share each other’s secrets and random text conversations during midnights. in just a short time, you were able to trust him, and he did the same for you. for you, that is indeed an unusual feat--you never trusted people that easily to be honest. 

“have you heard of the name wakatoshi ushijima? i once liked him, y’know.” you say in a low volume, making sure none else hears not just because your words were meant to be a secret that was  never to be talked out loud, but it’s since you and hajime are currently in a club meeting, and you would hate your name to be added in the noisy list. 

“you meant that big guy in section five? are you serious?” hajme scoffs, as if you just said a very insulting thing to him. “you could do better, you know that.”

you scoff, chuckling. “are you blind? he’s as handsome as you could be.” 

“is that your way of saying i am handsome?” he smirks, “i knew i’m your type all along.” 

you playfully smacked him on the leg, making him recoil a bit from your form. 

“you wish,” you muttered, brushing off his claims, not really expecting much by that time. 

still, fate decides to surprise you with a gift you can never take back. 

“hey, what do you think of iwaizumi? you two are quite close, aren’t you?” 

“well,” you say, humming as you try to think of a reply whilst writing down the remaining notes that you should write before the teacher decides to erase the contents of the blackboard. the subject itself made it difficult because it was math--and you always fail on math thus this matter is more important than the topic that your friend was chatting about. 

so you gave a mindless answer. “he’s a dork, but he can be cute sometimes.” you say, a memory of when you had to endure an entire hour of hajime talking about dinosaurs flashing in your mind a ghost of a smile crossing your lips as you continued writing on your math notebook. 

then a tragedy came in almost an instant, not even a single warning to try and prevent that from happening. 

and it changed your whole life. 

it was childish, you could say, and it was the start of a neverending downfall for not only you, but for your friendship with hajime. 

“he’s cute?! hey, hajime, (y/n) thinks you’re cute!” 

when the roars of your classmates reached your ears, you were already sitting upright, eyes wide open, forehead knitted, and mouth slightly ajar. 

what?

the moment your gaze met his, you knew that he believed it; the childish statement that was meant to be platonically true. 

you were misunderstood.

bye everyone, including hajime. 

and by the next day, when the club where you and he first met came, he didn’t want to sit next to you. what’s more, is that he purposely asked his other seatmate to change seats with him. 

he ignored you, the whole time. 

to iwaizumi: hey  to iwaizumi: you don't believe that right from iwaizumi: what? to iwaizumi: what happened earlier to iwaizumi: it’s not true yknow that from iwaizumi: uh from iwaizumi: yeah sure

“you like him, don’t you?’ 

you glared at hanamaki, one that could even send daggers his way if it could. “no, i don’t”

“then why are you so worried? i mean, he still responds to your chats, right?” he mutters, munching on his sandwich all the while watching a volleyball match of your seniors, eyes trained at the ball. 

you frowned, biting your lower lip in contemplation as you recalled when you talked to hajime last night about school work, which was a thing for the two of you before too. 

“yeah,” you say, glancing at the other side of the gym, where hajime sat next to toru, his childhood best friend who was from another class. by then, a rush of sadness and loneliness flushes away your appetite, the sandwich on your hand almost forgotten. “-but he’s completely ignoring me in real life.”

it didn’t bother you much by that time. 

“you’re staring, y/n.”

“yeah, like they do always.” 

you could only roll your eyes at hanamaki and matsukawa, who were your best friends at that time due to the fact that you three had been at the same class during elementary and had continued being close since then. when you became friends with hajime, you merely did so just to have someone to talk within that one club that you shared with him and not with the rest of your classmates. aside from that, you felt comfortable talking to the guy. he really did look friendly and welcoming that it was quite easy to hit him up with a conversation. 

but it didn’t mean that you like hajime. 

right?

you scoff, muttering for the two to shut up before proceeding to enter your classroom, the two leaving you alone since they were not a part of your class. now, you could only bow your head down as you make your way to your seat, trying not to make much of a peep in hopes that no one will have to talk to you and most likely bring up the topic of you “crushing” on hajime when it’s not true at all. 

but guess what? it’s not going to happen when the fact that your seatmate is toru oikawa himself. 

“hey (y/n)! have you had a great lunch?”

the smile that creeped to your face was forced, honestly speaking. although if oikawa had noticed it, he didn’t ask for it further. “yes i did, how about you?”

“well, it was nice, but don’t you think it will be nicer if you join me and iwa-chan instead?” 

the thing with oikawa is that he’s not just chatty with you, but he also tends to tease you with hajime, before that unfortunate day even came. the story behind that is that oikawa merely saw you talking with hajime one time after the club that you two shared and then he confided to you the next day, saying “you and iwa-chan look cute together, (y/n), i swear one day one of you will fall in love with the other,  i’m sure of it.” 

okay, you confirm to yourself that you didn’t like hajime that way is not because you wanted to prove oikawa wrong, but it does seem like toru oikawa was challenging you ever since he said those words to you. 

and of course, you’ll win it, no matter if it was a real challenge or not. 

“how about you, do you have any ideas?” 

eyes followed as soon as the conversation turned to you, including hajime’s--to which you have met as soon as your mind returned to the reality that you temporarily exchanged for the train of thoughts that continued to operate inside of your mind. 

“huh?”

“if you’ve got any ideas for the project,” says oikawa, being the automatic leader of the group due to his ability to instantly get along with everyone and having the real capability of leading them. apparently, the teacher decided to group you with the two, along with two other classmates that you never really bothered to get along well with. “if none, we can just go with what we gathered so far.” 

you broke your contact with hajime after he did, turning your gaze to oikawa with a shake of your head. “no, i don’t have any.” 

the worst part of the situation between you and hajime was that everything seems like a lie. the friendship--it seemed like a lie that you never bothered to correct or initiate to stop. why? 

yeah, you kept wondering why. 

maybe it’s because you always treasure your friends, or that you wanted to prove that what they are claiming is a fake, a lie--that you didn’t have a crush on hajime, and you will never ever will. 

but what if you really did? 

what if all these denials are making you believe that it is true as well? you had been thinking about that for quite some time now and the thought of it alone scares you. sure, you’ve had crushes or you’ve had people whom you liked or had feelings before, but not one that was your friend. it makes you wonder if these so-called “feelings” could have been due to wanting to always be with him and talk to him, but not in a romantic way. in fact, those are what you were feeling towards hajime. 

there’s really nothing you should overthink about. 

you like hajime as a friend, but not as someone you could see being with doing all the romantic stuff that other people do with their significant others. 

for all you know, that thought was sooner diminished. 

“did you cut your hair?” 

“hm? yeah i did-” looking up, a sight that you never bothered to ever think about before was suddenly in front of you--hajime, with all the beauty of his wide shoulders and the muscles of his arm peaking through under his sleeve, extending down to his exposed skin to hi beautiful, veiny hand. 

the only reason you were able to be brought back to school and to where you are exactly was when you felt a fleeting touch by your forehead, brushing away a couple of strands of hair that  was on your forehead, the action waking you up in almost an instant to find hajime iwaizumi stepping back to give you back your personal space, an embarrassed look on his face that he sooner had to look away sideways to “hide” it from you. 

and then he walked away. just like that. 

you didn’t know how many seconds or even minutes you were sat frozen on that bench, the sight of the people practicing dancing in front of you to prepare for the upcoming intramurals that has a cheerleading competition in its event. your mind was floating; maybe up in the sky, plunging through the clouds, thinking about only one thing--or person. 

why he did that, you had no idea. you could only think about all the questions that suddenly popped in your head, the scene continuing on playing like a broken television, replaying and replaying and replaying. 

from iwaizumi: hey that hairstyle looks good on you from iwaizumi: you should keep it to iwaizumi: i ain’t keeping a hairstyle just coz you like it :p to iwaizumi: but… does it really suit me? from iwaizumi: yes :)

“do you like iwa-chan, y/n?”

you were sure you didn’t before but now is a different matter. not after that very small moment that you’ve had in real life after hajime ignored you continually on the outside. 

leaving oikawa’s question unanswered was not a good idea, and he kept pestering you, asking you the very same thing, even as you were with others, merely whispering the words by your ear whenever he has a chance. you knew it was merely oikawa’s way of trying to set his two friends up--that’s if you treat him as a friend anyway.

you ignored oikawa, only until he whispered a different statement one day. 

“i heard one of our classmates likes him.”

now that had caught your attention, unconsciously making you lock eyes with oikawa, who visibly looked pleased with the reaction that he was able to pull out from you. 

“who?”

“the same one who asked you if you like iwa-chan.” 

maybe it was out of curiosity or maybe something else, but either way, that specific reason made you glance towards where oikawa was pointing at, the very same person he was referring to in his words was sitting next to hajime, such an unfamiliar sight for basically anyone since hajime was indeed seated far away from them before, and for you to see them beside each other, it was, what was that word?--unsettling. 

“they obviously like him, don’t you think?” oikawa mutters next to you, his lips pursed together, his eyes narrowed at the same way you were looking as well, the very subjects of your gazes minding their own business, as if they were the only ones left in the world. 

you looked away before you could think about them further, however the scene is still in your mind, evading it and also blocking the previous memory that was stuck in your mind for days--when hajime finally made a “conversation,” with you. well, he didn’t really talk much that time but it was still better than nothing.

 and now, just when he was not ignoring you, this person shows up and flirts with him-

wait, stop thinking about it y/n!

you blamed it on oikawa, like you had always done, ignoring the fact that those blames should be pointed to you instead--you who had an indecisive mind and the one that thought of all of this as a challenge of a game--a game where you should beat all the teasings by ignoring all of them. rather than doing that, you overthought all of them--it was all your fault. 

it was your fault that you’re now having feelings for hajime. 

unbeknownst to you, they slowly built up inside of your heart, his grasps creeping and creeping the more you longed for him in real life and not just behind the gadget that you two had; behind the chats that were merely there, inside an application where you can never know what his real reactions were due to the fact that you couldn’t see him as you two converse. 

it was you. 

it was you whose heart started fluttering as time went by. 

“come on, hug them! it’s a punishment.” everyone cheers, and yet beyond the noise is the panic that rushes through your entire system, your eyes glazed over at hajime, who was looking embarrassed the more seconds passed by. 

you stood there, fidgeting and unable to stop yourself from moving your feet, walking towards mattsun to makki to oikawa, begging them to stop this with merely your eyes, your lips refusing itself to open and say something that you’ll regret. after fully accepting the fact that you were slowly having these pesky feelings towards hajime, you still kept denying it to others. you were still afraid of what hajime would think. yes, sure, he was still talking to you through chats and text messages, even calling you a few times, and you knew that he wouldn’t be that pleased to have others teasing the two of you like this. he gets particularly annoyed whenever he’s “embarrassed” for stupid stuff like this. he deems it “pointless” in his own words. 

it hurts, and that’s why you were also willing to indulge with oikawa and the others during moments like these, the hidden desires of your heart coming true to life even for just this single moment. 

when you finally felt hajime’s arms around you, you felt as if you were protected, nurtured, and secured--and it felt very different. whenever you hug someone, you’ll feel comfortable, yes, but never this kind. in hajime’s arms, you felt a shield that physically safeguarded you from your surroundings, even from the noises that were supposed to erupt by your ears. instead, you heard of nothing but your heartbeat, pounding like a madman inside of your chest, continually for only one person. 

by then have you realized how much you have craved for him. 

you have hugged hajime a couple of times before, but it  was the very first time that you have felt that kind of sensation pass through every cell in your body, releasing a rush of contentment only a millisecond after you’ve felt it. the embrace didn’t last for long, but for you, it was enough. for now. 

that night, he didn’t reply to your text messages. 

to iwaizumi: hey to iwaizumi: are you asleep already?  to iwaizumi: it’s still early though... to iwaizumi: just uhm message me when you read this okay?

when you felt like everything was going back into order before the hug, fate does something again. 

actually, it was you who did it and fate merely attracted you to doing it. 

people are afraid of confessions, most of the time. and apparently, you’re one of those people. no matter if it’s a confession for a petty thing such as telling your friend that they smell a bit or a stranger when you see them having some dirt on their face or stain on their clothes. yet, despite being nervous about it, you still do it. 

for some reason, it applies to your feelings about a confession towards hajime as well. 

the moment you had fully accepted to yourself that you liked him more than a friend would, you knew it was the end for your friendship with him- that you can never bring back whatever that was lost or what was supposed to had been before any of these shenanigans ever happened. 

weeks and months went by, until it had been a year and more since you first claimed that you liked him. by now, you weren’t at the same class as him anymore and guess what? you two were not talking or texting anymore either. 

it seemed as if the friendship just… faded. and even if you had feelings for him, you let it slip from your hands, and yet it was the very thing that you were convinced that you wanted to have all this time--to not let this friendship die. since there was no possible way hajime would ever like you, at least you’ll have the friendship, you’ll still have him with you, by your side, even not as someone you secretly desired him to be. 

“how is he?” you let out, barely able to look at oikawa as you gazed at your feet and the ground, something that is  not even that interesting--to which the other knew and noticed. yet instead of speaking of it, oikawa answered your question. 

“you meant iwa-chan, or me? if me, i’m alright, just a little hungry, do you want to go eat?” 

still, oikawa is oikawa and he did everything to make you look up to him, even if it were of a soft glare, like you’d always do--and you did, earning yourself a satisfied smirk from oikawa, slightly snickering at your reaction. 

“just kidding. iwa-chan is doing fine, just his usual self; iwa-chan being iwa-chan. no one is with him still, if you want to know--which i know you were.” he says, even so far as learning by your side, as if attempting to mutter the last statement by your ear.

even if your and hajime’s friendship were slowly fading away, you and oikawa still kept in touch. you had no idea why but, he eventually became your friend while in the process of this hajime ordeal, plus he was also your seatmate the whole year when you were at the same class. 

oh, and he’s also the only one connected to hajime, so of course, being friends with him was also an advantage for you. at least, there was a mutual friend whom you could talk and confide to about his own friend, hajime. 

“what happened to your confession anyway? i was quite positive you had a chance with iwa-chan this whole time.” you couldn’t see what he was looking at as he was saying those words but you were sure you heard him huff, which meant that he was making this funny expression in his face, one that made you chuckle a bit at the mental scene. 

yet that chuckle turned into a smile--a smile that oikawa could admit that he had never seen in your face before. 

“i confessed i like him, but, well, it’s pretty obvious that he didn’t like me. if he does, we’d probably be dating right now.” 

usually, oikawa would be amused at your sarcastic remarks, but this one, he did not lie it one bit, just like the sad expression that you were making. he felt as if he was in your place, and his heart broke for you, the friend whom his bestfriend had rejected. 

unbeknownst to you, oikawa tried to help you, even so far by “matchmaking” or “promoting” you to hajime. however, it seems the things only worsen the more oikawa does it. 

“why? don’t you like them?” 

“it’s not that.” the very same knitted brows appear on hajime’s expression and oikawa immediately recognized it since it was the same face that he’ll always give when they talk about a conflict--one that hajime doesn’t like talking about. 

oikawa thinks it's childish-- the way hajime ignores all of this and the way you still stay hopelessly devoted to this man. it’s like you’re both prolonging the discomfort and pain that you two were feeling. he wanted you two to just talk it all out so that he wouldn’t be caught in between the two of you, and also because he didn’t like having you and hajime to be in this situation. he loathed having to see you both suffer from your own decisions and actions. 

hajime is a broken man--that much you knew. oikawa once mentioned to you that hajime had his heart broken by someone he liked for several years, and now, he was rather reluctant in liking someone. when you came in the picture, he was already a broken man. that’s why you were fine with having to love him without him loving you back. 

you didn’t mention that it was not painful otherwise. 

“hajime,” 

the recognition that plays by his face amuses you, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him too; his face is not really much different than before, but it was obvious that he had matured a lot and puberty really gifted him with such a handsome, chiselled face. not only that, but his build changed too, even if he did have strong, muscley arms before. now, he looks like a very mature young man. 

which he is anyway, why are you even paying attention to those things?

“long time no see” you say, halting in front of you and for him to fully turn to face you. 

“y/n?” hearing your name being called by him gives you a feeling you once had before. however, you merely brushed that thought away, just in time for him to finally break off of his surprise.

“yeah, it had been.” he says, then pulling out the chair beside him, patting it. “here, let me treat you to a drink.” 

you hesitated, and it seems as if hajime noticed it. “it’s alright if you’re in a hurry, we can just catch up some other day.”

“yeah, i think we should.” you nervously chuckled, and just when you were about to panic at how awkward the sudden encounter was, you were reminded by something. “we can have coffee some other day, but i have something for you.” 

hajime watches as you rummage your bag, your attention focused on whatever you were finding as he takes this opportunity to actually look at you. 

you look beautiful and mature, not so different from before, but you surely bloomed and become a really attractive person. if hajime were to be asked, he would have asked you on a date in almost an instant. yet, it will be proving to be difficult due to the history that you and him had. 

the thought alone makes him want to regret his decisions from before, but he was not willing to say or express it out loud. 

if you would give him a chance though, he’s pretty sure he would take it. he’s very different from who he was before, much mature and capable of being in a relationship. 

he’s ready. 

“here,” you suddenly were extending your hand to him, holding out a piece of envelope that looked very much like a letter. and before he could question it, you spoke. 

“i’m inviting you to our wedding. toshi and i are trying to find people from our previous schools so…. here.” 

the smile that was on your face was bright, and hajime was having a hard time processing everything that was happening in his mind and before he knew it, you were saying goodbye, leaving the invitation on his hand before leaving the cafe, saying that you had some errands to attend to. 

when he was left alone, it took hajime a full minute to open the invitation, seeing the names written on it and reading everything else. he was surprised, but what shocked him the most is that he actually felt different. 

he wasn’t heartbroken, no. it was as if someone had poured ice-cold water on him, the same memory of when you and him talked about the very same man you were marrying playing in his mind over and over. 

it was amazing how fate brought you two in this situation, but it sure didn’t occur in hajime’s mind. when he first met you, he felt like he’d just met someone who will always be by his side, and he knew you deserve the best, that’s why he thought that he did not deserve you. 

now he can only question himself as he looks at the invitation to your marriage with another man, drinking coffee alone and without anyone by his side anymore.