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insertsickusername13 · 2 years

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Promises Made on October 30th

title is the concept and summary bc i thought of the title before the concept of the fic. whoops.

warnings: implied abuse, alcohol is referenced and consumed but not in like a bad way (most of the time), no smut but there's one scene where they kiss and i describe it in a gross way for some reason and sex is talked about once or twice

word count: 3.6k

Jake spent most nights alone. He had friends, sure, and plans most evenings. Dates with girls, parties to attend, and though he’d like to spend the rest of his life swimming in a fuzzy unconsciousness where he was only just aware of his existence, half passed out on someone else’s couch, dawn always sunk her rosy fingers into the horizon and one hostess or another was forced to give Jake a pitying look as they showed him to the door.

My parents will be home soon, some would say, and Jake would leave with a bitter laugh. If he was lucky, he’d get to stay and help clean up. On the best days, he could sometimes sneak in a quick fuck with whatever girl was still around.

Most nights, though, he left before anyone had the chance to kick him out. He spent hours sitting on the floor of his living room, staring at the front door and waiting for them to come home. If he pretended hard enough, the pictures on the walls weren’t the most terrifying thing he had ever faced. Photographs from family weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, and award ceremonies all taunted him. His parents’ faces stared at him, scrutinizing every move as he trembled, cried, and broke down. Every sob echoed back like a bullet ricocheted off metal. He was sitting expressionless in the middle of a war zone watching soldiers (read: dreams) and civilians (read: his future) bleed out and die on the floor around him.

Despite holding onto the childish hope that things would get better, that the future held something more than loneliness for Jake Dillinger, there was still the undeniable truth that it wouldn’t. Jake was doomed. Life wasn’t going to be anything special for him—he was going to suffer and he was going to have to get used to it young. He hated his parents, himself, his girlfriend, his life, and his house. He wasn’t going to kill himself, he wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t going to wake up every morning and fight to be okay. He was resigned to his sadness.

Until Rich Goranski knocked on his door at 10 pm on September 17th and showed Jake that silence wasn’t the only thing that could exist in his house.

He didn’t wait for an invitation inside. The second Jake had opened the door, Rich pushed past him and into the kitchen. He wasn’t quite fast enough for Jake to miss the bruises on his cheekbones or the way he favored his right leg over his left. Jake cataloged the injuries and promised himself he’d ask about them later.

“The hell are you doing here?” Jake called after him, his tone tipping over the border between annoyed and concerned.

Rich shrugged and settled on the kitchen counter. He seemed to only be slightly aware of Jake’s presence, more focused on the empty floor in front of him. His eyes were glassy in a way that suggested he’d already been crying and was done with it. Jake studied him, searching for his next move in Rich’s body language. If Rich looked like he was going to cry again, Jake could probably swoop in for a hug without being called gay. If he didn’t, Jake would probably offer a drink. Or a movie?

“Stop looking at me like that,” Rich snapped. He was looking up at Jake, his eyes narrowed and lips pressed together, almost like he was challenging him. Jake flinched back, unsure of what he’d done to deserve such treatment.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a fucking math problem or some shit. I’m not. Just fucking talk to me.”

Jake considered him. Though it was invisible to Rich, Jake could still see bullets and spears flying through the air as people screamed out war cries and fought with everything in them for land or oil or their families. Metaphorical war didn’t end just because a friend had shown up. Jake was always surrounded by imagined violence; always on the verge of fleeing.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Jake answered. His voice was barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of a bomb going off in the distance.

Rich forced out a bitter laugh and hid his face behind his hands.

“God, fuck, me either. I don’t know why I’m here. Just fucking distract me. Do whatever the hell you want.”

Jake found his parents’ record player in the living room and hit play. It was the only thing he could think to do—why, he wasn’t sure. But Rich had said anything, so Jake did anything. Some song by The Police (god, the irony) drifted through the room, a byproduct of his parents’ last anniversary together in the house. Jake had long since stopped caring—it didn’t even hurt to know they’d danced in this room, laughed in this room, raised him in this room.

He turned back to Rich and was met with a small, borderline amused, “What the hell, Jake?”

“You said I could do whatever I wanted.”

“This is what you want?”

“I dunno.”

Rich laughed as he hopped off the counter. The sound was so pure Jake watched the blood-soaked carpets go from crimson to pink as the rain washed away the worst of it. A white flag waved in the distance. Rich swayed to the music mindlessly, still favoring his right leg.

“Dancing?” Jake asked, the single word enough to get across his message. Rich nodded as he took Jake’s hand in his own and pulled him in close.

“Why not? We’ve got nothing better to do.”

So Jake learned about music and dancing and how small Rich could feel when Jake had his hands on his hips, fingers digging into his skin just to convince himself Rich was real instead of some fantasy made up as a coping mechanism for his parents’ leering memory. Silence wasn’t the worst thing to exist. Jake knew how to make it go away.

Still, that did nothing to dispel the obvious and ever-painful emptiness. Jake could play record after record as loud as he wanted until he had every song memorized and could sing it from any room in the house, but it was still empty.

He stumbled into the kitchen, drunk and disoriented, his feet dragging across the tile floor. Each step was like wading through the ocean, sea monsters grabbing at his ankles and trying to drag him under. He gripped counters and walls to keep himself afloat just long enough for Rich to knock on his door and saunter in, his presence a song in and of itself.

Jake followed his every movement with every sense: his ears, listening to the sound of Rich’s footsteps. Taste: kissing the corner of Rich’s mouth—never his lips, Jake wasn’t gay, but close enough that he could convince himself there was something like love brewing between them. Touch: holding onto Rich’s hand, his clothes, his hair, latching onto the warmth of him to convince himself the air conditioner wasn’t too cold or the empty spaces too vacant.

Sight: looking at Rich and only Rich. If he only looked at his hazel eyes and dyed-red hair and, on the days when Jake was weak and scared, his lips, then the shadows in the corners of the room lightened into something manageable and the photos on the walls that functioned as the closest thing Jake had to family faded into… well, photos. Just photos.

Rich helped, but he wasn’t enough to make the emptiness go away until October 15th.

He showed up in the same way he had before. Glassy-eyed, hurt, and willing to do whatever Jake wanted to make everything slightly okay for a little while.

Tonight, Jake chose balloons.

“You can’t be serious,” Rich groaned. He was on Jake’s couch, a glass of white wine in hand. Something imported from Italy, or maybe France? All Jake knew was that it cost four hundred dollars.

Jake shrugged. “Isn’t Brooke’s birthday coming up? It could be for her party.”

“This is literally just a fucked up coping mechanism, don’t pretend it’s anything else.”

Jake sighed disappointedly and leaned back against the couch. He was on the floor in front of it, a pack of two hundred balloons in his hand. They were all different colors—some neon, some pastel, some black, and others white. He’d bought them on a whim at a Walgreens for twenty bucks with no particular plan. Faced with his barren living room, the only signs of human existence the expensive vases on the end tables and the overstuffed throw pillows, he’d decided he’d blow them up and throw them around just to add a splash of color.

Jake looked up at Rich. He was half asleep but tense, his face scrunched up and hands clenched. It’d been bad this time around. It hadn’t just been Rich’s existence that pissed his dad off—he’d done something. Probably something minuscule, like broken a glass or clogged the toilet, but it was enough that what was usually a couple of light bruises and a limp had turned to black and blue blemishes over his right eye and up his chest. His lip was busted and every breath seemed labored and painful. Jake, unsure of what else to do, ran his thumb over Rich’s pulse and whispered, “Please?”

Rich opened one eye to look down at Jake. Amongst the annoyance and pain, Jake saw a flash of pity. Rich shifted uncomfortably.

“Fine, but I have at least two broken ribs so you’re going to have to accept the fact I’m only blowing up one or two of these.”

“Of course,” Jake rushed out, his hands already fumbling with the packaging of the balloons. “I wouldn’t—if it hurts, you don’t have to. Obviously. Just—”

Rich thoughtlessly threaded his fingers through Jake’s hair. Jake’s voice gave out.

“I don’t understand you,” Rich whispered, not even bothering to look at Jake. “You’re confident all day, and then the second it gets dark you freak out. I’m the same person I am all the time. I know you don’t want to hurt me. Calm down.”

It was, of course, a trend Jake had noticed as well. At school, he could control his tone and inflections to the point he sometimes wondered if he was accidentally manipulating the people around him into loving him. Then at night, when his defenses were already broken down by hours of facing the empty, stormy seas that were his house, he could barely find it in himself to get out a sentence without stuttering.

He blamed it on the one lie Rich had told in his claim: that he was the same person. He wasn’t. There was something different about nighttime Rich that had Jake’s face feeling too hot and the silence turning into the sound of his heart beating circles in his chest.

“Sorry,” Jake replied softly, “I dunno why it happens. You make me nervous.”

Rich raised an eyebrow. Jake shoved a purple balloon in his face and hoped that would be enough for the topic to be dropped. It was still too sensitive, still too in the early stages of development, for Jake to be prepared enough to vocalize the worst of it. Someday, maybe. Probably. Once he didn’t have Christine to distract him or Jeremy’s constant insults to scare him into suppressing every urge that didn’t perfectly line up with the picture everyone else had of him in their minds.

Rich took the balloon and started to blow it up. For Jake, the process was effortless. Rich struggled through it tediously, taking small breaths and wincing after almost every one. Jake hated to say that he’d originally interpreted Rich’s complaints as a joke, but his worry hadn’t really spiked until Rich choked out an awkward, muffled cough and pained groan.

“Do you need—”

“No,” Rich breathed, “No, I’m fine. Shut up, Jake.”

Jake turned back to his neon green balloon without a word. He’d blown up almost twenty by now, enough to coat half the living room in a thin layer of color. He thoughtlessly kicked one with his foot and smiled as he watched it hit a picture of his mother and uselessly bounce off. Smiling, he kicked another one. It hit a picture of himself as a child.

He turned to Rich to tell him—about what, he wasn’t sure. Kicking balloons? Hitting pictures of himself and his family? His coping mechanisms were getting more fucked up by the second—and was almost immediately paralyzed by… fuck, by Rich. Just Rich.

He was sitting crisscross on the couch, a balloon in his lap. He’d spent the last four and a half minutes blowing it up to just a little bigger than Jake’s head. It was still smaller than it was supposed to be but Jake wasn’t going to complain. It was physically impossible when he could barely get enough oxygen in his lungs to speak. It wasn’t that there was a crushing panic on his chest stopping him from breathing, it was something much brighter. There were so many butterflies in his stomach they were flying into his chest and choking off every inhale.

Rich’s lips were wet. That was really what doomed Jake. He’d previously been unaware that every time Rich removed the balloon from his mouth he felt the need to lick his lips, but now that Rich was focused purely on tying the balloon off and was giving Jake ample time to stare, Jake was forced to acknowledge the way his vision tunneled at the sight. The way his whole body seemed to go warm.

Jake turned fully to face Rich, the balloon in his hand completely abandoned in lieu of watching Rich stick his tongue out in frustration as he struggled to keep the balloon inflated while tying the knot. When he finally succeeded, he burst into a smile louder than any record Jake had played over the past month.

Rich looked up, eyes bright, and faltered when he found Jake already staring at him. He cleared his throat as his face flushed red.

“Uh, hi,” he squeaked out. Jake wanted to scream. This was one of the differences that left him speechless. Daytime Rich would smirk and call him gay. This Rich just looked flustered.

“Hi,” Jake whispered back.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Jake considered his response carefully. One song or another was playing softly in the background, the balloons were filling up the emptiness. Everything was kind of okay. Jake had nothing left to cope with. He just…

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he answered. Rich froze.

“What?”

Jake got up just enough so he was kneeling, purple and green and red balloons gathered around his knees and feet and the coffee table his back was pressed up against. He leaned up so he was close enough to run his pointer finger down Rich’s jawline and nudge his nose against Rich’s.

“You heard me. You can tell me to stop.”

Rich remained silent. Jake thought he felt ocean waters rising around his waist, drowning his balloons and pictures in stormy salt water. So he did the only thing he could think of.

He kissed Rich like his life depended on it, because it did, and felt his heart start beating again for the first time in months when Rich kissed him back just as desperate and soft and messily.

Hands tangled in Rich’s hair, mouth open and his tongue practically shoved in Rich’s mouth, licking at teeth like they were nectar or ambrosia, he scrambled onto the couch, limbs slow and unsteady as he climbed over Rich and forced him back against the couch. He tried to get himself closer to his paradise, his respite, his island in the middle of the ocean, but all he got was a wretched screeching sound and the feeling of air-filled plastic against his chest.

He pulled away just enough for Rich to let out a small whine as they lost contact with each other.

“Rich.”

“Yeah?” Rich asked breathlessly, already trying to lean up and kiss him again.

“Get rid of the fucking balloon.”

Rich’s eyes widened, almost comically so. Jake wanted to cry at the way that sent his heart into overdrive.

“Yeah, yeah, right, hold on—”

He threw it across the room. Jake found the balloons kind of useless now. He was so filled with giddiness and hope that he couldn’t even comprehend how anything could ever be empty.

Until October 30th.

Rich didn’t need to knock on Jake’s door or let himself in. Jake was at Rich’s house, banging on the door repeatedly, each knock echoing and panicked. He didn’t stop until Rich swung the door open, rumpled and half asleep.

“What the fuck?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Rich glanced back inside—presumably at his dad—before nodding.

“Yeah, okay, lemme get changed and put on my shoes, then we can go.”

Jake nodded rapidly. His mind was racing beyond what he could understand, landing on panicked responses before he even knew what had triggered his fight or flight. He didn’t stop moving even as Rich disappeared back into his house. His foot tapped against the concrete. His fingers picked at his nails and the fabric of his shirt and his hair. Curses ran through his mind like a broken record, repeated until the sound was imprinted on Jake’s brain.

Rich appeared and suddenly everything in Jake’s mind went silent.

“So… are we doing this here or…?”

“My house. Not uh—” Jake glanced back behind Rich. Not near your father was the implied statement. Rich sagged with relief.

“Okay, yeah. Let’s go.”

Jake could feel Rich’s concern in his gaze. He was watching Jake’s every move as if preparing for something, like Jake was going to swerve the car off the road and into a ditch or shoot himself. It made Jake want to laugh. Or scream. Or cry. He was going to die.

He didn’t even make it back to his own house. It was only a six-minute drive and he only made it four minutes in before he pulled over on the side of the road and stormed out of the car, his whole body trembling. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he needed an escape from the cramped driver’s seat of his car. He needed the autumn air to stop him from overheating and the wide expanse of stars to talk him down from an anxiety attack.

Rich fumbled after him, too confused to be panicked and too disoriented to be calm.

“What the hell?! Slow down—”

Jake halted and spun on his heel, eyes wide. They were by a pond with benches and a dock and a parking lot only twenty feet away. There were grills along the beach and a football in the grass. Jake almost screamed. Every sign of humanity felt like too much. If he was going to do this, he needed it to be in the middle of the desert or the empty expanse of space with no one but Rich around to hear his confession.

No. Fuck it. He needed to do this now.

“I’m gay.”

Rich seized up. He was only a foot away from Jake, close enough so when he finally regained control of his muscles, he was able to reach out and take Jake’s hands.

“Really?” he whispered, looking up at Jake with eyes that literally shone like gold or diamonds. Jake wanted to drown in it.

He swallowed his shame, not caring that it burned at his throat, and said, “Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Not all the way. I like girls. But I like kissing you and I like boys and I… I just like you. All of you. All the way. I like you. I’m really sorry.”

Rich broke out into a grin.

“Yeah?” he asked just for confirmation. Jake nodded again.

Rich jumped up into Jake’s arms, fully committed to getting as physically close as he could. He wrapped his legs around Jake’s waist and his arms around his neck and fingers in his hair and kissed him hard on the lips. Jake felt like he was at home for the first time in years.

“Me too,” Rich said between kisses, “Me too. So much. So fucking much.”

Jake smiled into every kiss, so ecstatic he could barely keep himself standing. He fell back into the grass whispering, “Run away with me. Forever. It’s terrible here. It’s so terrible.”

Rich nodded in agreement and pressed a gentle kiss on Jake’s neck.

“They hate us and we’re gonna find someplace better. I have enough money. Just run away with me, please. We can go anywhere you want.”

“Anywhere?” Rich asked. He sounded pained, like the word burned as it came out. Jake nodded and propped himself up on his elbows.

“Anywhere. Just promise me you won’t leave.”

Rich smiled and kissed him again.

“I promise,” he murmured, “I promise you’re beautiful, I promise I’ll run away with you, I promise I won’t leave, I—”

He paused. Dread burrowed itself like a bullet in Jake’s chest. He searched Rich’s expression for answers before Rich had the chance to start speaking again.

“Not… not tonight, though, okay? There’s something I gotta do first.”

“Is it—?”

“Don’t worry about it, Jake. It’s nothing. How about Sunday? Give me tomorrow to take care of things, then we’re gone.”

November first. The day after tomorrow.

Jake could handle it. He’d host his Halloween party, break up with Christine, and tie up any loose ends he had left. He’d be gone before he ever had to clean up the hell of a mess his friends were sure to leave behind in his parents' house.

“Promise?” he whispered.

Rich nodded.

“Promise. I just need tomorrow.”

#yes there is an extended metaphor but it's super super vague and barely there #if anyone can figure it out i'll... i don't know i'm not giving you money but i'll do something bc i'll be very impressed #richjake #rich goranski #jake dillinger #bmc #squipped rich #be more chill musical #sparkly star fanfic #FUN FACT I FUCKING HATE THIS #i actually wrote a whole other fic before this today (i did so much writing from 8-10 pm my fingers hurt)#and i hated it so much i deleted it and started over and wrote this #I WAS FOUR THOUSAND WORDS IN #i don't think people realize i'm not joking when i say i hate my writing idk #like i try to phrase it in an at least somewhat funny way but i hope you all realize i know its bad #like i am completely aware of how utterly shitty it is #the only reason i post it is bc. i don't know actually #it just happens #my brain goes quiet when i write and it goes even quieter when i share it with people #so. yeah. i. i am in a mood rn lmao #i tried to hide the ranting deep in the tags hopefully no one notices #if you're still here fuck off this is my therapy

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cobi-4056 · 18 days

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[E01] camera controls

Pictures

frozen motion;

blurred motion;

min. depth of field;

Writing

frozen motion;

During the last moments of her life, Lena walked around the room. She felt that time stopped around her. The air didn’t hit her the same way, she didn’t feel the effect of gravity on her body and the room didn’t have any sounds, save for her own breath. As she walked, she saw her mother crying by the bed, her hands covering her whole face and her body curling up to get as close as possible to Lena’s. She hadn’t felt the pressure of her mother’s torso on top of her own. She did her absolute best to reassure her mother, but no matter how hard she tried, her body had already stopped living. Now, this still moment was all she would ever see.

blurred motion;

It was way too late for him to be walking home. The night was only painted by a couple flickering light poles. There was no moon to guide his way. With every step he took, it felt like the lights behind him stayed as if to protect him from the darkness that insisted on enveloping him. He closed his eyes and tried to keep a steady breath but failed. The longer time dragged on, the more it seemed that some copies of his body dragged behind him. Some of them reached out to him to try and make him stay still, but he knew he had to get home as soon as possible, no matter how many figures around him tried to stop him.

depth of field;

Miriam forgot her glasses at home. She hadn’t noticed until she tried to read the sign at the entrance to her workplace, which meant she would have to act like a big girl and move on from it. She could always squint.

To make things worse, they had to decorate the office for some stupid, unimportant celebration that she didn’t quite get. To her, it was torture. Being as much of a perfectionist as she was, she couldn’t just blindly set up the balloons and streamers wherever she wanted, she had to make sure that they looked at least symmetrical from every angle. She spent at least two hours fixing streamers, walking away, then squinting enough for the edges of the decorations to become less muddy. Whenever she noticed something off, she went back and repeated the process. At the end of the day, all of this adjusting and re-adjusting her eyes to fit whatever she needed caused her to have the worst, most constant headache.

challenges; –What difficulties did you find when trying to apply the three photographic techniques to writing? Writing this assignment was hard because I felt like I kept being too literal. I noticed that I’m not great at drawing comparisons (or metaphors, or similes, or literary devices in general), which made it very difficult for me to not erase everything I was writing for this exercise. The one that was the hardest for me was blurred motion, I kept switching ideas because I wasn’t satisfied with the way I was describing scenes. One of these ideas was about a ballerina that moved really quickly, so no one in the audience could see what she was doing. I’m really sad that I couldn’t make it work, because it could’ve been something gorgeous.

–What limitations did you find when you tried to apply these techniques to your photographs?

I have very mixed feelings about frozen motion. I think it can look really cool, but since the shutter speed has to be really fast, it’s really tricky to capture the right moment. These pictures also come out looking too dark or too bright, which is frustrating to me.

For blurred motion, I had trouble deciding why I would do that instead of trying to get a clearer picture. I stopped thinking about it that way after remembering The Making of a Perfect Martini by Guy Buffet. Now I’m leaning more towards the idea that movement/motion is worth capturing, since we don’t ever see someone standing perfectly still. Blurred motion is more similar to my eyes than frozen motion is.

As for the depth of field, I feel like I didn’t have much trouble. I love playing around with the lens and figuring out what you can and can’t focus on. What frustrated me a little bit was that sometimes I would see the perfect image through the viewfinder but the picture itself would come out blurry and not very good.

#I simply love my dog and she's a great model

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edenwiththeemi · 6 months

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Pride in Humility

summary: For everyone who was raised to be a doormat and struggles to stand up for themselves.

word count: 262

a/n: I wrote this when I was having a very bad day :( Hopefully it resonates with the right person and makes them feel validated! Not proofread. Pointing errors out will be appreciated! :) Thanks!

Pattern blocks placed and photographed on November 9, 2020. Copyright Eden Flynn.

I was taught wrong.

I was taught that being prideful was a sin and being humble was a virtue, which is true. What was wrong is how pride and humility were taught to me. I was taught that having pride in yourself – having self-confidence, believing in yourself, self-love – made you conceited and self-absorbed. I was taught that humility meant letting yourself be walked all over. Never advocating for yourself, letting everybody else say and do whatever they wanted to you, and that standing up for yourself wasn’t allowed.

As an adult, this looks like me trying to be perfect – never stepping out of line, never making a mistake, and if I do, groveling and apologizing until my throat runs dry of the words, and if they tell me to grovel some more, I oblige. This looks like me apologizing for mistakes that aren’t even mine, and if somebody wants to get mad at me for something I didn’t even do, I just have to accept it. It looks like me trying to keep the peace in the middle of any metaphoric wars, me always showing respect even when it’s not shown to me, and crying for myself, because I’m told I’m not allowed to get upset about any of it, ever.

I have to be patient. I have to be understanding. I have to take the punches, but I can’t ever throw them myself. Do I want to? No. I’m just not that kind of person. But I would like it if they weren’t being thrown at me in the first place.

#ewte writes #ewte prose #self-sacrifice #self-confidence

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steveskafte · 2 years

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FAIR SHARE OF WONDER By the front windows of this sleepy room, my mother has started her transplants under artificial light – headstart for the planting season. They'll get what they need to get going, a little more than the current length of days can offer. It started me thinking about the path I've taken on my way up from the bottom. Metaphorically, in a sense, but not entirely. In a break from normal practice, my father built his house with the bedrooms in the basement. So we all grew up sleeping better through hot summer nights, a little cooler for being half-buried. Waking up each morning with the earth all around, opening our curtains and peering out from windows resting at ground level; blinking back the early sun like mole people. Maybe that's why I've always felt comfortable in close quarters, looking for a way to give my life some welcoming restriction. My current life of everyday exploring sure didn't come natural, and you should never start believing I was born to adventure. Between the scattered hikes and days run through the forest, most of my childhood was inclined toward internal experiences. Reading books, watching movies, playing video games. Later, when I got interested in creating, I drew pictures, made 3D animations, and built a city out of Lego. When I started writing, it was exclusively poetry, something that only needed my mind to express. The wider world just wasn't out there calling me. The inner one had her fair share of wonder to offer. Something sort of broke when I really fell in love with movies during the fall of 2004. I'd always loved them, but now I was seventeen, and could stay up late watching whatever I wanted – whether it was approved by my parents or not. It was all those wild adventures, dramas, horror, sci-fi, and whatever else that woke up something dormant. I watched new ones every single night. But it was 2006 that finally changed me forever. I saw two incredible films by director Carroll Ballard that summer – The Black Stallion (1979) and Never Cry Wolf (1983) – and started asking why I didn't live those incredible places, wondering why I couldn't. When I bought my first camera, the purchase was motivated by a drive to tell similar stories to the ones that inspired me on screen. I was aiming to shape my world into those sorts of scenes, but the world I photographed slowly reshaped me instead. I often have to remind myself just how little time the average person spends outside. That doesn't make them different from me, just exactly like I once was. I can relate to the feeling of not knowing why to bother, how perpetual hibernation is really quite welcoming when you don't know what's out there. If all my photos have one great use and purpose, it's to remind their viewers that the world beyond a screen is as incredible as promised. For my part, at least, it's not invented, edited, altered, or re-contextualized. It's not built from scratch in my own image, but a true reflection of the life I'm living. Maybe it's the vitamin D talking, but if you're feeling low, dragging yourself into the light might be all that's begging. I never knew for sure until I left the basement. March 9, 2023 Beaconsfield, Nova Scotia Year 16, Day 5597 of my daily journal.

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twopoppies · 3 years

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Hi! I hope it’s not too annoying of a request but I was wondering if you or your followers can think of any fics that are kinda inspiring academically, especially regarding British literature, if that makes sense? I just finished rereading Come As You Are and every time I read it, it motivates me to read more and practice my writing because I want to be more like Harry from that fic hahaha and I’m looking for more fics which evoke this feeling since I’m starting my masters in October and I need all the help I can get. Thank you so much! (I absolutely love your master post and its my go to couple times a week!)

Hi sweetheart. Hmmm... I just reblogged my Dark Academia fic rec, but other than that I think it would be fics where one or the other are writers/poets etc. Not all of these are heavy on the writing/poetry, but they're all great fics.

Make Your Words A Weapon by @helloamhere (E, 36K) I recently read this a second time and it’s even better than I remembered. I love everything this author writes. This one just really hit me hard for whatever reason. Maybe it’s the way they explore Louis’ anxiety and coping mechanisms and pain and the way he pushes people away and protects himself, but also wants someone to push back just a bit and love him despite all of that. And the way Harry is the perfect foil for all of it, while also feeling like a fully developed character himself. Yeah, it’s probably all of that. Plus soul marks! (Musician Harry/Music Journalist Louis)

Our Lives, Non Fiction by @indiaalphawhiskey (E, 114K) this is, quite literally, the best fic I’ve read in years. It’s so well written, clever, funny, emotional, and sexy. Its draw you in immediately and you’ll end up falling in love with these characters before you know it. Don’t miss this one. Harry and Louis are both authors.

An Invincible Summer by Brooklyn_Babylon / @twopoppies (E, 45K) this one is mine, I hope you like it:

Never content to stay in one place for long, a few months down south researching for his novel seemed like an idyllic, slow-paced summer to Louis. He wasn’t ready for the blistering heat, the backbreaking work of watermelon picking, or how stifling the attitudes in rural Georgia would feel. And he definitely hadn’t anticipated falling in love with the farmer’s son.

The summer of 1946 would turn out to be everything worth writing about. Farmer Harry / author Louis

Mine Would Be You by @crinkle-eyed-boo (E, 115K) Beautifully written, flawed characters and an emotionally engaging and ANGSTY plot. Super hot smut that made me cry like a fool. Banter, OT5 friendship, and the gritty realness of New York as a backdrop. Loved this one. Artist Harry / Author Louis

where your lips land by BriaMaria / @briannamarguerite (E, 12K) Ok, I’ve recommended this one a few times and I really do love it. Anyway, I love fics where the two of them are both artists of some sort (Louis is a poet in this one, Harry is a photographer) because it allows for another layer of understanding and connection and support. I particularly love the way Louis’ tattoos are woven into this story with layered meaning. And, as always, just beautiful writing.

you’re writing lines about me by snazzyasalways (T, 4K) This is gorgeously written on that Dreamy, poetic style I happen to love. Louis is a blind poet, Harry is a baker, Harry falls in love with Louis’ words, then with him.

another hazy may by deLILah (M, 41K) Another author who writes great fic after great fic. This one has that dreamy quality I love and there’s also something about it that, at times, reminds me of a little bit of a Raymond Chandler novel. I know that’s weird...but, yeah, it does. Anyway, I love this one. Such a good read.

I would name the stars for you (I would take you there) by orphan_account (M, 91K) This is just beautifully written. Angst. Mutual pining. Dumb boys. Beautiful descriptions of art and creativity and fame and beautiful poetry.

Little Technicolor Things by scary_crow (M, 72K) This is truly one of the most beautiful pieces of writing I have ever read and it is an absolutely travesty that it’s not being talked about every day. This fic is gorgeous and poetic and romantic and heartbreaking and an explosion of metaphoric images and everything I never knew I needed but now that I have it I want to read it over and over and over.

But If This Ends by nonsensedarling / @absoloutenonsense (E, 107K) This author referred to this fic as their “depressed vampire” fic while they were writing, and it is that. But it’s also a unique story with beautifully fleshed out characters, plot twists, and super hot smut. Go check it out! Vampire Harry / Writer Louis

24K Magic by @justalittlelouislove (E, 33K) FINALLY a category in which I can rec this author! I love everything they write, but this was the first one I’d read and it’s just great. Smooth dialogue, sexy smut, great description of character growth…just a really fun fic.

the best part of me (was always you) by @moonshinelouis-archive (E, 6K) Gorgeous writing. The descriptions of heartbreak and missing someone and still loving them were really well done. And I cried. Of course.

'Sup by MediaWhore (GA, 7K) Divorced, awkward Harry pining for silver fox Louis is a trope I never knew I needed, but I love it so much.

I Will Never Rust by stylez (E, 38K) I must have read this at least 5 years ago and I honestly don’t remember details, but my notes say “gorgeous, sad, sexy” so... I’m crossing my fingers that old me knew what she was talking about. It’s frat boy Harry so that could go either way. LOL! Student/Poet Harry.

Loyal Knight and True by rainbowninja167 / (E, 52K) Really original story, mystery and magic, great characterizations. All around a very good read!

Turning Page by purpledaisy (M, 68K) This author does a wonderful job with their characterizations which makes their fics such a pleasure to read. This one really has you rooting for curmudgeonly Louis and skittish/secretive Harry to figure their shit out and fall in love. If you like this one, make time to read this author’s fic, Walk That Mile – it’s one of my all time favorites. Sports journalist Louis.

Black with Autumn Rain by Whimsicule (T, 93K) This author is a favorite. If you like intense, creative stories, with complex characters and tight dialogue, you should read all of their fics. This one has the flavor of a Daphne du Maurier novel – dark, creepy, and moodily romantic. Plus a supernatural edge. It’s so good. Journalist Harry.

That Sounds Fake But Okay by dancingontheceiling (E, 113K) This one has a little bit of everything: Enemies to lovers, fake relationship, famous/not famous... plus, really good writing and some sexy smut scenes. Actor Louis / journalist Harry.

Sing When You're Winning by hazmesentir (NR, 91K) another one I read ages ago, but I always like this author’s writing and the premise of newly out footballer Louis and journalist intern Harry who somehow snags the interview, is such a fun one. And I don’t know why it has an NR rating, there’s plenty of smut.

feel the chemicals burn in my bloodstream by togetherwecouldbealright (M, 123K) I read this one so, so long ago that all I remember is that I loved it, that there’s some really romantic and sweet moments, and that my notes from way back when only say, “OMG this one is so good! And I’ve barely gotten to the smut!” HAHAHAHA! Journalist Harry/prince Louis (this fic has been deleted, so the link is to a download).

#writers and poets #my fic rec #larry fic rec

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interact-if · 3 years

Note

Umm hi 👉👈 I realized that most of the asks you guys get are about games and rec lists. You guys deserve so much recognition for the work you put in this blog, so I wanted to ask if I can do a little get-to-know-the-mods thing? If that's okay!

1. Besides writing, what are your hobbies?

2. Do you have a niche interest right now?

3. Any fave songs/artists/bands?

4. Any fave movies/tv shows?

5. On a scale of 1-10, how likely would you survive in your wip's world?

You can totally ignore this if you guys want, no pressure. Anyway, much love to all the interact-if mods! You guys are incredible! ❤

We saw this ask and we went 👀 👀 👀 so we’re happy to answer! Thank you so much for the fun ask!

We also rated our survivability in all of our collective games, since Mars isn't an author! Fun stuff! Spoilers, though: it’s really not looking so great for me (Dani) but that’s fine!!! 😌

1. I’m a photographer as well as a graphic artist (but not like. A painter/drawer kind of artist!) and, on a general level, a maker and a tinkerer!

2. Fountain pens! I only write with ink, and only with fountain pens, and I use bottled inks/converters!

3. I’m pretty eclectic with music, but my top genres are alt rock, indie, indie pop, etc, as well as top 40s and some rap.

4. I feel like this is the hardest one for me to answer? Favorite movies/shows? Avatar: the Last Airbender has been a favorite show of mine since I was a little kid, but I have a harder time thinking of shows I would call a favorite in recent years. There are shows I’ve liked, and a lot of shows I’ve watched. But I’m picky! And demanding! It takes a lot to earn a place in Dani’s Trophy Case of Favorites. 😌 I would say I quite liked A Quite Place (movie), and I liked Us (movie). When it comes to TV shows, I have a hard time being pleased with them if they don’t end well. As a result, I have a penchant for a good limited series/miniseries (because they’re stories that have an end in mind and the plot reflects that, dagnabbit).

5. Heh. Okay.

In The Goodfellows? I think I stand I chance. I can exercise my sparkling wit and lovable personality to the best effect. I’m gonna give myself an 8/10 survivability rating. Even if I don’t have the right skills, I can go crying to the person who does and they’ll save me. Maybe.

In Creatures’ Cradle? I’m super $**!%d. 😌 1/10 survivability rating. And that 1 is me being nice to myself. The day the apocalypse breaks out I would probably be patient 0. I am self-aware. I would not do well in an apocalypse. Zombies care not for aforementioned sparkling wit and lovable personality, and I have all the muscle of a boiled spaghetti noodle. So it’s a no go.

Greater Than Gods (Cruz): Well. I’m going to be optimistic. And say that I have the wisdom not to do things I shouldn’t do and not to rock boats I shouldn’t rock. I’m going to give myself a 7/10 based on insider information, but also based on reckless optimism!

Vardir (Cruz): Cruz says this is a lighthearted game, so 10/10 LOL.

When it Hungers (Roast): I’m giving myself a nice, mediocre 5/10. I think I could put my mind to work here; I joke that I’m the village idiot, but I’m actually pretty smart! Unfortunately, I’m also curious, and maybe a little bad with authorities who won’t answer my questions. So I knocked off a lot of points due to the fact that I’d probably poke the metaphorical bear. So it’s a real coin flip as to whether I’d really make it or not.

Orthall Bay (Nines): Considering the genre is “horror” and the game intro includes the words “monster” and “maim,” I’m giving myself a whooping, enthusiastic 3/10. Yes, folks, I am that confident in myself! Once again, I can’t charm the socks off a monster (or can I?), so one of my greatest weapons is snatched from beneath my feet. Alas!

1. Beloved I’m a college student in the middle of a pandemic... i can hardly even write LOL i do draw at times which u can see in my personal blog (nothing too good really) and i used to do karate before things went to shit <3

2. Nothing niche I believe? All I do is leave Netflix as bg noise every day n play popular videgames (genshin)

3. Porter Robinson <3 I love Bea Miller a lot as well but lately I’ve been feeling Porter a lot

4. The Good Place <3

5. My WIPs:

Greater than Gods: Highly situational, the world GtG is set in is as broad as the real world LOL so I don’t have an universal answer. But keeping it vague, and knowing my own personality, I feel like 5/10. depends on my luck.

Vardir: 10/10 no one dies in Vikgade, unless you’re a hunter but I wouldn’t be a hunter <3

Others’ WIPs

I'm gonna give myself a solid 5/10 in all other WIPs because y'all aren't writing lighthearted stories either. I feel like as long as I avoid the role of the MC I will be mostly fine. I hope. But as Dani said I'm also prone to fight the wrong person and dig my own grave so 😌

1. Well, writing is a very, very, very, distant hobby since Words Hard, but I like to crochet and sculpt a little! Anything to do with fiddling with my hands and I’m good to go. And like, debatable but graphic design is my passion [insert clown emoji here since Tumblr said No]

2. Oh yeah a bunch! DnD yelling at people, thinking of arson, crocheting, rock climbing and simply vibing. I got into podcasts a few years ago and I’m always looking for more recs, so if you have some, hmu 😤

3. Pls,,,,my music taste is,,,so weird do not let me expose myself with lack of consistency but uhh. Current songs that are stuck in my head include; Cult of Dionysus , Achilles Come Down and The Last Shanty

4. If you’ve ever spoken to me before, I probably yelled about Pacific Rim to you or at you. Plus I love all The Mummy films and really enjoyed Castlevania (s3 excluded, we do not perceive that) as well!

5. Ah, mod survival simulator pt. 3

Alright, let’s go! I don’t have a WIP because again, words hard, but like, considering how feral I am when not tryna seem professional hm...

The Goodfellows: I wanna say a solid 7/10 because I’d hardcore vibe with the Traveler and probably instigate so much nonsense. I can also bribe with blueberry cake so maybe.

Creature’s Cradle: maybe a 4/10 and only because of pure spite keeping me alive long enough to smack someone. I’ve prepared for hypothetical zombie apolcapyses and I won’t hesitate to bap, but will be bapped back because I’m weak as hell.

Greater Than Gods: a toss up between 2/10 and 7/10! I can vibe and be chill but I also have terrible impulse control so...

Vardir: hm....I think pretty good survival rates all around? If you ask me to fight then like, okay sure, your knees are mine. So maybe a 8/10?

When it Hungers: .......8/10 just because I’d refuse to die if I can be a cool creature. Living for the aesthetic can and will drag me outta hell. But I’m also clumsy as hell so I’d probably crash as a porcelain or hold a rooster and perish (aka, real rating is a good 3/10)

Orthall Bay: 2/10, nope. Nope I’d be taken out in a heartbeat. Monsters can go pspsps and I’d head straight into the dark creepy forest like a fool if someone comes @ me. Half the time I’ll just assume it’s sfx makeup and vibe until it’s too late.

god, never put me in a universe where I cannot squawk like a bird and throw pebbles from a window. Oof

Anon, you're so sweet! I give you a forehead smoomch <333 As for your questions...

1. If I'm not writing, I'm usually watching video essays on Youtube. My go-to channels as of right now is Disrupt and Aperture! I just really like their videos. Aside from that, I recently got into podcasts. Currently going through Hello From The Hallowoods and Shelter and Warning, which are made by queer creators!

2. Oh oof, there's quite a bit so I'm just gonna put down one thing. For some reason, I really got into collecting tiny astronaut things? I recently bought this astronaut desk light, and I've got a package coming in for the miniatures I ordered. No purpose for them other than I think they're neat <3

3. I'm a bit private with my music taste (even tho I have Spotify connected on Discord lmao), but there's 5 songs that I'm currently obsessed with. I keep replaying them over and over again. Just squeezing all the serotonin I could get outta them.

4. I can't really say I have a fave TV show or movie because I can't really just pick one, but my current fave is 9-1-1 and Resident Alien. 9-1-1 because I just really love the found-family dynamics and how the show tackles sensitive topics, and Resident Alien because it's lighthearted comedy. My all-time fave movie is Flipped! I have the book too and I like rereading from time to time <3

5. You're in for a doozy, anon, because we're rating each other's games <333

The Goodfellows: 7/10

Listen. Shenanigans with the Traveler. I would get up to so many of them and that is what'll get me possibly bodied, not the actual environment itself <3

Greater than Gods: 7/10

I like to think I have enough common sense to uhhh not recklessly flip stones that should not be flipped <3 I'm a cautious and skeptic person irl so I think I'll hold up well? Then again, it's a vast environment change and while I can adapt pretty quick, I wouldn't like the lack of control in the unknown.

Vardir: 10/10

Going off what Cruz said, Vardir is lighthearted and focused on personal growth so I think I'll be okay! Self-growth here I come, babey!

Creatures' Cradle: 8/10

Maybe I'm overestimating myself, but I think I'll be able to survive in a supernatural post-apocalyptic world! Ah, but it depends on the motivation though. I like the idea of rebuilding communities and eventually societies, but the survival turmoil would be a constant battle I'd have to overcome. If we're talking survival itself though, I think I'll do well.

When it Hungers: 8/10

That's probably my wishful thinking but I think I'll be fine. Maybe. Possibly. Don't like the idea of being regulated by an organization so if I was a non-human creature that could pose a problem but I can roll with it <3

Orthall Bay: 6/10

Assuming I'm not playing as MC, my chances of survival uhhh changes quite drastically. Not enough to guarantee an untimely demise, but certainly enough that it would constantly keep me on my toes. I think that's the safest answer I can get without spoiling anything lmao

Thank you so much for asking! It's super sweet of you <3

1. Too many :'D I knit, I sew, I do carpentry (well, learning), I bake, I'm hammering away at HTML and CSS, my job kind of encourages learning new things and I take that to picking up new hobbies!

2. My time is kind of consumed with school work and work work and WIP work so not a lot of time to pursue niche interests right now. I've been watching a lot of horror game playthroughs, true crime youtubers, and an adorable show on Netflix called the Repair Shop <3

3. My taste in music is "what am I vibing with atm?" I've been listening to a lot of 80's music atm (don't @ me), but also Lo Fang and Kaleo, and whatever spotify recommends me on my discover weekly which is usually complete chaos.

4. I love the Mummy even though it hasn't aged 100% well (I'm a librarian, of course it's one of my gotos LOL), Legally Blonde, Leverage, Jumanji (the original), I'm....very bad at having recent tastes... and very bad at remembering my favorites when asked.

The Goodfellows: I'm a creature of comfort, 5/10 if I can just luxuriate in town and not actually interact with the story sfjkdbsdkf

Creature’s Cradle: I'd like to think I have a 50/50 shot XD 5/10, I want to think I'd be decent at a zombie apocalypse but ultimately would suffer an early fate.

Greater Than Gods: 10/10 if I'm just vibing, less so if I'm involved in the actual story XD

Vardir: I'd still suffer without technology but I can also knit for a living in this world so I'm down 8/10

When it Hungers: I feel like I could vibe here, there's tech if dated, hot showers, telephones are around by now... might still get bored. 7/10 though it'd be cool to be another creature....I should make a 'what creature of snv are you' quiz!

Orthall Bay: 7/10 idk I feel like after the first monster of the week I'd just skip town XDDDD I'm the worst protagonist, I see danger I just leave.

#mod talk #long post #interact if: asks

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cherrynojutsu · 3 years

Text

Title: Like Silver

Summary: A companion series for Like Gold.

Sakura misses him so much. She misses the faint smell of woodsmoke and sage, and mismatched eyes captivating in their intensity and unfathomable depths. The Rinnegan is beautiful, soft lavender ringed by hypnotizing layers of circle and tomoe, but flecks of silver dance in his right, tiny asterisms bewitching in nature, if one gets close enough; she’d first noticed it when they were children at the Academy. She knows they're Itachi's now, a slightly different scattering of luminaries aglow in the deep pitch of obsidian, but they're still as enthralling to her as they had been back then. She dreams of that silver sometimes, recalls it any time she sees something similar in color or reflet.

Blank period, canon-compliant, Sakura-centric, some expanded plot points from Like Gold, fluff and pining, eventually becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

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Chapter 1/?: An Introduction to Electrocardiography

Sakura gazes out the window of her office, a pile of paperwork set aside for a poetic sort of procrastination, trying to indulge for once in a Konoha spring, though she's finding it arduous.

As pretty as it is this time of year, all she can manage to feel is wistful.

Hanami has come and gone already for the most part, though there are a few stubborn cherry blossom trees lingering at the tail end of their blooming. She can see one here from her window, up on the hillside that slopes towards Hokage Rock, clinging to the uneven land. She’s sure its roots have to be all twisted, a labyrinth of gnarled wood clinging to any scrap of land it can wind itself around as its branches and petals try against all odds to reach upwards into the open sky that she can’t take her eyes off of.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but it’s one she doesn’t care to unpack.

This year was her twentieth viewing of her namesake, though Sakura obviously doesn't remember the first few. Her parents take great pride in the retelling of tales from those first few years of her life, the ones she was too little to remember. The highlights come up annually on her birthday without fail, how she grasped at the petals like they were something precious, clutched in her sticky little hands the entire day.

A framed photograph is perched on one of the built-in shelves of her parents' living room, of her and her father on her first birthday. He was holding her up on unsteady legs, ridiculously proud and pointing towards the camera where her mother had been trying to get her to look. Her short pink hair was flying absolutely everywhere, matching the fluttering petals and in-bloom cherry blossom tree in the background, chubby hands grasping upwards. Strawberry cake and frosting were smeared all over her cheeks. They’d had a picnic for her, at the park nearest to their house.

“We came home and cleaned you up, and then your father helped you water your tree for the first time, in the little pink watering pail you unwrapped earlier. You were so cute.” That’s what her mom says every year. Sakura has the sentence memorized at this point, could recite it on cue, if she needed to.

Her parents had planted a cherry blossom sapling in their backyard a few days after they brought her home from the hospital as a newborn, so the tree is around the same age she is. She used to spend time under it often, as a kid, and some of her earliest memories involve sprawling beneath it to study the heavens while her mother gardened. She would also sneak berries from the patch when her back was turned. Sometimes her dad would join in her pilferage, and they would sit beneath the tree like a couple of bandits with stained lips, though those first few years she can remember he barely fit underneath it, as tall as he is. Many a tickle fight had been had, shaded by those branches. She would read books there on nice afternoons, when she was a little older.

The tree is fully grown now, also on the final cusp of its blooming for the year, floriferous wood expanded outwards to drape her childhood stomping grounds in a sea of soft pink. They have a picnic under it every year, in her family’s backyard, when they celebrate her birthday together. Her actual birthday has come and gone, but her birthday dinner is two days from now. Her parents swung by her apartment on Sunday afternoon for a bit with outlandishly large cupcakes, but her mom had mentioned they’d do dinner and a gift on their usual night, Thursday, since it works so well with their schedules every other week.

“We have to have your picnic, under your tree, like always. It’s a tradition! My beautiful girl. I can’t believe you’re twenty. It seems like just yesterday you were only yay high,” her dad had told her, gesturing below his knees before hugging her too tightly, ruffling the hair she'd inherited from him before they left. The cupcakes were strawberry with cream cheese frosting, one of her favorite treats. They’d left her with four extra to enjoy between then and Thursday, one for each day if she wanted it, turning her birthday into more of a week-long affair than a one-day celebration.

She and Ino had demolished two of them while watching some of the terrible movies they love to hate together, later that evening. It had been a smorgasbord of strawberries, really, because they'd washed them down with strawberry daiquiris, sugary sweetness topped with ridiculous amounts of whipped cream. They'd sat on her balcony, after, sipping a little tipsily and just looking.

"You should try to enjoy your namesake more this year, Forehead. You're so busy that I'm not sure you've realized, but you've really grown into it," Ino had said, beckoning vaguely towards a Konoha beginning to bloom, renewed with a warm breeze, spring ushered in by a fluttering of pink petals. Ino likes to give compliments in roundabout ways, she’s learned over the course of their friendship; crass as the blonde can be, she does have her moments. Her words meant a lot to Sakura, so she’s trying to take them to heart, to stop and smell the cherry blossoms, so to speak. It won’t be long before Konoha crescendos into the sweltering heat of the summer.

She loves her parents and her friends. She really does.

But birthdays are weird, Sakura thinks.

Last year, Sasuke had sent her a letter on her birthday. She’s reread it so many times that she has it more than memorized; it’s stitched into the muscle tissue of her heart at this point, or maybe scarred into the lining of her aortic valve, sempiternal markings adorning the tunnels that sustain her, causing her breath to catch every time.

Sakura,

Hanami has come to the wilderness in the Land of Honey. Bees are awakening and foraging for the first pollen of the season, with which to begin again. Cherry blossom petals are everywhere, lining the pathways and floating on the water.

Happy birthday.

-Sasuke

It had been short, simple, and even a little poetic; she had cherished it, as she does all of his other letters. She’d cherished the pressed flower with it just as much; a cherry blossom, neatly flattened with a precision that screamed Sasuke, near exactly the same shade of pink as her hair.

Sakura had started crying when she unfolded the paper to reveal it sitting atop his words. His hawk had waited patiently at her office window for a response to be written and tied to its leg, perched atop the windowsill and watching the goings-on of the village below, absolutely no concept in its predator brain of how much she delights in seeing it fly, a graceful tether to the boy - now man - she has been in love with for ages.

Cherry blossom petals are everywhere. Is there a hidden meaning there, or is she making a mountain out of a molehill?

She’s tried not to read too much into the letters. She's not sure if he sends any to Naruto or not; she's too afraid to ask, because she'll either get a heart-pounding hope if he doesn't get them, or a soul-crushing disappointment if he does. She can't imagine him sending a yellow flower to Naruto, but he may very well have sent him a different gift for his birthday.

Maybe he just thought she would like a flower, which she did - it’s pressed for safekeeping, along with all of his other correspondence to her, sporadically and chronologically throughout a book she keeps on her nightstand, An Introduction to Electrocardiography. It is her take on an album of small things she holds close to her own heart, things she wishes she could read in his. Sakura didn’t want to buy an actual album for such a thing; that felt too formal, for something as ambiguous as her ties to Sasuke, overflowing on her end as they may be. So she’d settled on a book about deciphering the heart’s tells based on science only, electrical impulses and repolarization, the sizes and positions of the chambers, how to diagnose conditions utilizing one’s findings. It’s one she doesn’t need access to anymore, extremely familiar with EKGs after years of study. She’d wanted it to be something no-nonsense, all hard facts and data on how to read activity plotted over time.

Evidence-based. Are letters evidence, though? She’s not sure that would hold up as empirical proof in any of the scholarly journals she’s studied or submitted work to since beginning her research. She thinks wryly, though, based on what she has witnessed get published, that scientific verification doesn’t always matter if you know the right people.

She’s thought many times sifting through it that perhaps it is too optimistic, too hopeful of a book subject for such a thing. Sakura has agonized over it, frankly, wondering whether it was an inappropriate choice.

...But now that they’re in there, it might ache worse to move them somewhere else.

It’s the last day of March now, and she didn’t get a letter this month, which is unusual, because she’s gotten one near each month in the time that he’s been away. She’s paged through the book a few times over the past several days, rereading and admiring the preserved sakura blossom, frozen in suspended animation indefinitely on a page about precordial leads.

Sakura hadn’t really expected anything from him for her birthday, other than a monthly letter like he usually sends... but this year she didn’t even get that. She’s trying really hard to not be disappointed. She has so much to be thankful for, in the grand scheme of things...

...But the petals of the cherry blossom from last year have faded over time, she’d evaluated yesterday, sitting in her bedroom. It might be like her, always pressed in a book, fading whilst stuck indefinitely between the boundless teeth of academia. There is always more data to record, more evidence, with which one can prove or disprove their findings.

No letter this month, though. Nothing to record, no new evidence.

It might be time to move the letters somewhere else, she thinks pensively. Maybe a place where she’s not tempted to look at them all the time; their placement in the book, small scraps of paper that stick out in only a couple of places, makes it easy to go back and reread them. She’s pretty sure she has an empty shoebox in her closet that she could move them to, in a pile rather than catalogued between pages rife with information and a fragile sort of hope. Maybe she’ll do it tonight, put it up in the far right corner of the upper shelf, shoved towards the back so she can’t reach it without the stool, so she’s not tempted whenever the next bout of heartsickness slams into her like one of Tsunade-shishou’s fists used to. She needs to go by the library after work first, to return some things, but maybe when she gets home, she’ll do it. She could eat a cupcake, too; that might make it a little easier.

She dreams of that silver sometimes, recalls it any time she sees something similar in color or reflet. There’s an extremely unique necklace in an antique shop she visits with Ino and Sai from time to time, and occasionally on her own, over on the northeast side of town. It’s a salt-and-pepper diamond, dark grey with inclusions, dainty and set in what must be a hand-fabricated setting. It hangs from a silver chain, towards the back of a display case filled with other vintage and distinctive pieces, but it’s the only one she ever finds herself drawn to. It is so similar to his right eye, dark smoke near black, speckled with beguiling silver startling in its clarity. The bevel cut reveals new flecks dependent on the angle at which you view it.

Sakura studies it closely on each visit, because it is so hauntingly breathtaking and it reminds her of him.

Ino has said it’s not her color, and that she should stick to warm tones and gold, for which she is better suited; Sakura has not confessed to her why it catches her eye so much. Sai has agreed with his girlfriend on the coloring note, sensitive as he is to such things, but the way he studies her every time she tears herself away from it makes her suspect he knows exactly why it captivates her so. It’s been sitting there for years at this point; she has to mentally talk herself out of buying it on each visit. It’s beautiful, but she would spend far too much time gawking at it, and it might hurt more with extended study than the gentle tugging at her heart she experiences when she’s in that old building throughout tiny fragments of lackadaisical afternoons.

Sasuke has been gone for a long time. She hopes he's finding the peace he's been seeking, that he's seeing the world with new eyes just as he'd imagined. She thinks of him every day, sends out little orisons like petals in the breeze in the hopes that they’ll find him, wherever he is.

I wonder where he is now.

Try as she does to enjoy the breath of spring Konoha is right now, and her namesake as Ino said, all she can seem to do is shift her vision to the sky, hoping against hope for a glimpse of a familiar bird-of-prey that will stay an ample amount of time for her to craft a response, before it abvolates away for another month.

Sakura smiles, then, close to laughing at the absurdity of it all, because she is so predictable. She loves this village despite its many flaws and challenges, despite the things about it she and Naruto and Kakashi-sensei and Ino and even Tsunade-shishou, off in the Land of Wind, are trying to change, but even after so many years, she’s still pining for something beyond it, something in the wilds of the sky just beyond her reach.

There’s always next year, she supposes, pupils drawn again towards the outstretched branches of the cherry blossom tree on the hill, before trailing her eyes along further. She can grow a little more to try to reach him. When she was little, she had wanted to grow tall so she could try to touch a star, like the branches of the tree in her backyard did when she and her father laid beneath them on balmy summer nights. He would tell her ridiculous stories about all of the constellations, things she knew had to be untrue, even at the ripe age of five. Precocious, he’d always called her, but in the loving, joking manner he had.

Her gaze follows the horizon, leisurely taking in the rest of her home. It really is a lovely day, despite her yearning. Spring is here again, and today's is a gentle sunset, one last little bit of sunlight with which to conclude March. The temperature is already spiking, unusually warm for early spring, but summers in the Land of Fire are always hot. She really should finish her paperwork, but it’s hard to find the motivation just yet.

Something possesses her, then, to turn her neck more, take in more of the skyline's continuation. She wants to see all of it.

And then Sakura’s eyes fall on an achingly familiar figure cloaked all in black, perched only a roof away and observing her, and she thinks she must have nodded off, because she has to be dreaming.

She subtly pinches herself in the millisecond of time that follows, but she is very much awake.

The words are blooming out of her throat before she can even process what’s happening, exultation sinking into her every vein. “Sasuke-kun!” She moves to crank her window open the rest of the way, and he hops from the neighboring roof down into her office, all nimble legerity that she still thinks has to be a mere mirage conjured from her memories. When he straightens to his full height, she muses that he has to have grown taller. The mere sound of his footsteps on the tile flooring, as familiar a refrain to her as if he’d just walked out of the village yesterday, are a treasure beyond price.

“Sakura.” His voice is a rich timbre that she has desperately felt the absence of; hearing him say her name almost makes her want to cry. She smiles wider instead, to the extent that it almost hurts, and her gaze latches hungrily onto the very eye she was just daydreaming about. A storm of soot and silver, beveled into countless fragments like some kind of dark, rustic diamond, and so staggeringly beautiful that she’s pretty sure she’s blushing just from beholding it. Gods, it's not fair for someone to be so handsome.

“When did you get back?” She asks, utterly overcome with joy. This is better than a letter or any birthday gift she could have received, brighter than any star she’s beheld.

“Just now.” He’s smiling, a small and subtle upturn of lips that is so characteristic of him. Then his words hit her, and her face must be getting redder.

Just now? As in…

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” he adds before she can simmer on that for too long, and she has to blink in bewilderment, because that is the absolute last thing she expected him to say. Sakura wonders how much heat can creep into one’s face before they spontaneously combust.

Then she realizes she should probably respond, as humans tend to do in conversations. “Oh! Um… it’s okay.” She folds her hands in front of her shyly, grinning like an idiot. “Thank you for remembering.”

There is a lengthy moment in which she just soaks him in, hoping he can read in her eyes how much she’s missed him. He is still so beautiful, prized eyes and aristocratic angles that have solidified a bit more into the face of a man in the time that’s passed. His hair is different now, covering his Rinnegan eye. His cloak is a little more threadbare, too. He’s tall.

His expression, normally unreadable, is calm. Content, even.

There’s a question nagging at her that she knows she needs to ask. She tries not to bite her lip as she asks it, braces herself for the possibility of not liking the answer.

“Are you… just back for a little while?”

Did you find what you were searching for?

He gazes at her for so long that she thinks he may be glimpsing her soul, peeking into her ventricles to see his own words immortalized there, seared into her core to be felt each time her blood pumps.

“...For more than a while.” And she smiles the biggest she ever has. Oh, this is so much better than a letter or a gift.

“Well, welcome back, Sasuke-kun. It’s… very good to see you again.” It feels as if a piece of her heart has been returned to her, something of the divine stitched back into her chest and full to bursting in omneity.

There is a pause, and then he’s reaching his hand out towards hers, initiating physical contact with a touch that is feather light, so gentle she thinks she is going to start sobbing.

She can’t help it; she pulls him into a hug, tinged with elation. She hopes he doesn’t mind too much; he stiffens for a brief moment, but then settles, wrapping his arm around her and settling his head atop of hers, and she could die happy right there, embracing him with feelings momentarily set free from where they’ve been whelved into her chest.

He smells faintly like sage and smoked cedar, just as she remembered. She can hear his heart thumping, a strong cadence, and it grounds her. Oh, she’s missed him.

“...I’m home, Sakura.” Soft words float above her head, and she can feel the vibration of them through his chest, right by her ear.

Oh, she’s crying.

Sasuke lets her embrace him for a long time, for which she is so grateful. She knows he’s not one for physical contact; it’s a privilege to be allowed into his space even for a single second, let alone for an extended period.

She draws back eventually, glancing up at him again through the tears still collecting in her eyes. Her face blazes when he reaches to wipe them away tenderly with a calloused hand, careful and with a lenity that she’s always known was there, hidden under the surface.

She could just stare at him for hours, she thinks as he lowers his hand. He’s still looking down at her with one of the softest expressions she has ever seen him wear. She really hopes she’s not dreaming.

It’s tremendously hard to get it together, but she tries, because she doesn’t want to spend the entire time crying, not when he's finally back. There are so many questions she’d like to ask him that she’s finding it a challenge to pick one with which to lead.

He surprises her by speaking first, quietly. “I… had something made for you.”

It takes a moment for the words to compute.

Made for me?

Her processing speed must be exceptionally slow, stuck in the utter mush her insides have become, because he adds, “...For your birthday.”

Sakura blinks, and furrows her brows in confusion. “Made… for me?”

He nods. “...I’m sorry it’s late.” The way he speaks it is cryptic, like the apology weighs more than one needed for a tardy gift. Doesn’t he know she doesn’t care? He could have showed up in July with something for her, and it still would have made her knees weak and her heart thump furiously in her chest.

Made for me? She’s still stuck on that sentiment as he breaks eye contact and turns to rummage through his satchel, beneath his cloak.

Sasuke pulls out a medium-sized flat box, a simple white, and she doesn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t that. Something that comes in a box is a lot more formal than a pressed cherry blossom, something more… permanent.

She reaches out to take it on autopilot, and is stupidly distracted by the way his hand brushes against hers, a small spark that makes something in her quake. She wonders if he felt it, too.

Sakura clutches the box with both hands like her life depends on it, murmuring softly, “Thank you, Sasuke-kun.” She’ll wait until later to open it, after he’s left; whatever it is, she doesn’t want to embarrass him, and she also isn’t sure she can tear her eyes away from him just yet, anyways.

Is it just the lighting in her office, or are his ears a little flushed? She didn’t notice that before; maybe he’s had a drawn-out journey back. She wonders how much ground he covered today, if he’s still winded. He might need to rest.

But then he mumbles, voice husky with what she assumes is disuse, “...You should open it.”

His words echo in her head again. I… had something made for you.

“Okay,” she answers in a hushed voice, so she doesn’t scare him away, shifting slightly to set the box on her desk carefully. Suddenly she is very nervous, anticipation settling into her gut.

When she lifts the lid, she swears her heart ceases beating.

The most exquisitely intricate uchiwa fan she has ever laid eyes upon is placed in the box before her.

It’s carved into a likeness of a cherry blossom tree, branches twisting lissomely into bamboo framework, impossibly fine. A different set of words is reverberating in her head now.

You should try to enjoy your namesake more this year, Forehead. You're so busy that I'm not sure you've realized, but you've really grown into it.

Made for me?

“O-oh.” Sakura is not sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this. She fights back the tears, biting her lip and wide eyes soaking it all in, enjoying her namesake in a way that is entirely unprecedented in its sheer severity. The amount of time it would have taken for someone to sculpt and bind and sew is unimaginable; every detail is finely wrought, flawless down to the silk and stitching, lacquered and carved pale wood shifting effortlessly into eighty slivers of bamboo, intricately webbing silk together with the lithe grace of gossamer. It’s a cherry blossom tree, petals and all, pearlescent thread shifting slightly, gorgeously in the light, unimaginable detail. She has stitched people back together countless times over the course of years, but even her expert dexterity would look like a child’s first embroidery stitching in comparison. The stamen within the petals are nearly more detailed and finely milled than an actual, real life cherry blossom, plexure sutured in a fashion so baronial that it’s impossible to believe human hands were even responsible for it.

The silk. Oh, the silk. The color shift bears a striking resemblance to the Uchiha insignia. This is not a gift one gives to a teammate.

Oh, she's crying.

This has to be a dream, some kind of paracosm her heart thought up to give her brain the high of a lifetime. Hope burgeons and unfolds in her chest cavity, bleeding into her extremities like the pale pink shifting into red before her eyes. She’s never, ever going to forget this, not even if she lives to be one hundred years old.

Made for me?

She picks it up with disbelieving hands, grasping it more carefully than she’s ever held anything in her entire life, as if she’s going to wake up at any moment and it will dissolve into synapse, lost in the hazy juncture of morning the way one tends to lose awareness of the contents of a dream upon coming to lucidity. To her absolute bewilderment, it stays solid in her hands, a finery made even more unbelievable by touch. The grooves of the carving are as gentle as his hand had been on hers earlier. She thinks it would have had to be commissioned at least a few months in advance, outlandishly expensive. She’s never seen silk like this. She doesn't know; she's smart, but she's no artisan. Maybe she should ask Sai. She's crying.

She adores it.

Tears won’t stop welling in her eyes; she thinks they may be escaping from a tender spot inside her chest that’s been reserved for him since she was a child, a leak in a metaphorical dam. She takes a steadying breath, blinks, almost has them conquered. Get a grip, Sakura.

Then Sasuke’s hand is on hers, gently turning the handle over.

Her name is carved into the pale wood, on the back in formal calligraphy, Sakura daintier and more perfect than she could ever write it, as if it had just been uncovered in one of the inner layers rather than whittled there manually. Sasuke presses her fingers to it before loosening his grip, and in that second it feels as though his lost hand is in the wood, caressing her from split atoms in the grooves from the other side.

The tears spill over her cheeks - she admits defeat - intricacy of the entire thing blurring out of focus but still somehow burned into her retinas for all eternity.

Made for me, made for me, made for me-

Her voice finds her after a few more tears fall. “It’s beautiful.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, overwhelmed with complete and utter awe, trying desperately to choke down a sob. “Thank you, Sasuke-kun. I… I’ll treasure it. Always.” She cradles the fan closer to her chest, her heart - maybe An Introduction to Electrocardiography wasn’t a poorly-chosen book, after all; there is much to be read from something this precious - and regards him with watery eyes. She wishes she wasn’t crying; the distortion of the tears is making it hard to see the silver she’s loved and missed so much.

His hand lifts to her face after a moment, and to her surprise, he wipes away her tears again. She barely catches the something-more in his eyes, then, through the waterworks, precious metal flashing and pouring into the words scarred into her ventricles to live there forever, fortified in silver, but he is looking at her so -

“...Always,” he agrees, voice a little breathless, sparking scintilla near hypnotizing her in their luster, and he seems so happy -

Then he leans down to press his lips gently to hers, and this is better than her heart stopping, like when she opened the box. This time, her heart soars, and she touches a star she’s been dreaming of for eons.

#naruto #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #cherry writes #like silver #fanfiction #i'm really out here with just hundreds of pages of fanfiction in my google doc drafts huh

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corpsentry · 4 years

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ao3 mirror

fandom: botw rating: t  pairing: zelda/link  notes: post-canon, getting together, mild descriptions of injury. cooking. dancing. crying. and so on. “Let’s say you’ve been asleep for a hundred years and when you wake up you’ve lost all your memories, but you defeat the big bad monster like you’ve been told to, because a girl told you to, and because you were in love with her. And after defeating the big bad monster she comes back, only she’s not the person she was a hundred years ago. And you’re not the person you were a hundred years ago. And yet every time you look at her, your chest hurts so bad you think you might be dying.” He looks up from his breadstick. “Am I dying?” “No,” Beedle says. “I think you’re stupid.”

All roads lead to hateno.

“I ate the frog.” Is the first thing he says to her in a hundred years, because he can’t stop staring at her hands, and his head isn’t working properly because he can’t stop staring at her hands, and he doesn’t remember what he had been planning on saying before he walked into the castle and killed two versions of evil incarnate in a room with a domed ceiling and a field with a domed sky, but he’s pretty sure. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t this. “I’m sorry,” Zelda says. “You what?” “I, uh.” He takes a step back, and then a step forward. Hyrule castle looms like a corpse behind her, hulking and majestic and dead. It distracts him, though not as much as Zelda herself, pale as winter and glowing behind a halo of sun. “There was a frog you wanted me to eat.” A hundred years ago. “You said it would be for an experiment.” A hundred years ago you told me to eat a frog and that’s all that I remember. That’s what’s kept me going all this time. When things got hard, when the weight of the curse you had given me grew too great, I cooked a frog in a pot over a fire. She stares at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re more talkative than I remember.” He panics. “Should I stop talking?” “Oh no! No, just— how do I put it—” This probably isn’t what she had in mind for their reunion. He feels the sudden need to apologize. He should have tried harder to hold onto himself while he was sleeping off the blood on his back and the world retreated into a corner to lick at its wounds, but it was hard. He didn’t know what he was doing. He doesn’t remember, actually. He doesn’t remember going to sleep, and he doesn’t remember what he dreamed of. That’s two question marks in one head, and only one answer to go around. There were two shadows on the wall, though they belonged to the same boy. Zelda twists her hands together, almost as if in prayer. Her white dress billows heavily in the wind, covered in wounds from another century. “I’m sorry,” she says to his feet. “Please keep talking.” He nods, though she isn’t looking. After a moment, they make their way across the trampled, dead-looking field to his horse, who’s had half of her mane seared off and looks like she desperately wants a carrot. He hauls himself onto the saddle, then holds out a hand to Zelda, who stares at it like he’s just offered her the rest of his lifespan. Then she takes it, letting him pull her up behind him, and her hand is so warm, and the sky is so blue, and everything is so strange, he almost lets go. Of the girl. Of the reins. Of his grip on reality, this new, unexplored reality, the carcass of the castle slowly growing smaller in the distance. When he walked into the sanctum with a plan to kill Ganon he had been thinking about how the stalhorses on Tabantha Snowfield run faster than the horses near Kakariko, how a bokoblin will choose a freshly roasted chicken over the skin of your teeth, how stables are a metaphor for family. Now all he can think of is angels. She asks him where they’re going a little while later, and it’s only then that he realizes he doesn’t know. It’s a cool, starless night. No moon, no blood. His horse snickers at a boar by the side of the road, and Zelda tightens her grip on his waist. God, what have they been doing for the last hundred years? “Home,” he answers. “We’re going home.”

 The house in Hateno is a small and modest affair. This is probably the only reason Bolson and his construction company were willing to sell it to him at an equally modest price, with modest display stands for his modest weapons, and a modest bed beside which he hung a framed photograph of him and his dead friends. He’s fine with it, though. The only thing that really matters to him is the photograph, though there are now two living people in it instead of one and a half, and if Bolson had not graciously included a bedframe and mattress in his modest homemaker’s package, then Link would have slept on the floor. He says as much to Zelda, who blinks at him sleepily and throws a pillow at his face. “Please don’t do that,” he says. “Sleep in your own bed,” she replies. He peels the pillow off the floor and pats the dust away before replacing it carefully on the bed. “I promised your father I would take care of you.” And Daruk. And Mipha. And Urbosa, who would kill me if she found out I let the princess sleep on the carpet. Like a dog, she would probably say, her voice low, her eyes slanted. How could you treat her like a stray dog? This is the princess we’re talking about. She deserves better. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Zelda gets there first. “My father is dead,” she says, her voice unexpectedly raw. She seems surprised at herself despite her best efforts, and clears her throat in an attempt to hide it. He finds himself overwhelmed with the sudden urge to hug her or blast a hole through the roof with his sword, but can’t decide on one, and ends up wringing his hands together behind his back while Zelda sits on the side of the modest bed in the modest house in Hateno, and presses the folds of her dress into a clump. There should be more he can do for her. What is it? If only Urbosa were here to tell him what it means when Zelda takes your hand like a promise, when Zelda pinches the side of your waist, when Zelda announces that her father is dead, has been dead for a hundred years, died a long time ago. But Urbosa is dead too. The old world is gone, though its survivors have finally emerged from the twilit field. What now? Zelda rubs her eyes. He picks at a cuticle and holds his breath. Despite her best protests, she agrees to the bed-floor arrangement. Zelda will sleep on the bed, because he didn’t think that far when he walked into the castle and defeated evil incarnate, and she doesn’t seem to care. Meanwhile, he will sleep on the floor. Which floor? The first floor, he decides, but when he tries to go downstairs he almost throws up. His heart’s uneasy, of course, but he had underestimated the side-effects of meeting an angel. Over the past few months, he had gotten used to getting mauled by things to the point where it had become part of his daily routine: get up, have a minor crisis about the fact that everyone you know is dead, have a minor crisis about the beautiful voice in your head, get mauled by a bear. Get mauled by a bokoblin who stole your spear. Get mauled by Mount Lanayru, which has a thing for spitting giant snowballs at him when he’s trying to talk to the Koroks in the region, pleading with them through chattering teeth to stop giving him more tiny golden shits and start letting him talk about his feelings. Zelda is not daily routine. Zelda was the girl in the dream, then a face in a photograph, and now Zelda is sleeping in the house in Hateno with her hands pressed up to her cheek, breathing softly. He’s overcome with emotion, though if you asked him to tell it to you, he wouldn’t know how. And as for the matter of her hands, were they always this lovely? Impa didn’t tell him what to do after he saved the girl, though he knows she’ll want to hear about it from him and not the Sheikah warriors she has spread out throughout the kingdom, keeping an eye on their dying gods. Impa wanted him to look forward, which meant knives and teeth and forests full of bodies. She didn’t tell him what he could or couldn’t do in the presence of the sun, and he, having spent his whole life sitting in a dark room, didn’t think to ask. In retrospect, he should have. In retrospect, he should have asked Bolson to build two beds. But the thought didn’t occur to him, just as it didn’t occur to him that his heart might not be the dead thing the world told him it was, and so he never did.

 “I had a dream.” He flips the eggs. “About what?” “About a world where I made it in time.” Zelda peers over his shoulder. “Are they done yet?” “Almost, if you could please—” “—Ah, excuse me—” She dances out of the way of the big cast-iron pan, which he holds in one hand while he reaches for the plates with the other. In her haste to create space she walks into the counter and winces, bending over to touch the side of her foot. “Oh. I stubbed my toe.” She sighs. After breakfast he goes to look for Uma. He finds her sitting under the same old tree beside the bridge, cradling a cup of tea and humming along with the cicadas. Uma is the only person in Hateno who remembers the Calamity as a name with a face, and not a dream. She also had a daughter once, whom she lost in the years after the Calamity, when the rice fields had not yet begun to flourish, and the winters were long and cruel. He asks her quietly about the weather, which she tells him is her favorite kind. Spring’s never felt quite so lovely, she informs him, as she pries open an old dresser and leans forward to peer inside. He holds her cup of tea with both hands, the mellow sweetness of chrysanthemum tickling his nose and making him sneeze. After a moment, she returns with a set of clothes in the signature Hateno blend of oranges, blues, and warm, earthy browns. She places them carefully on his head and then retrieves her tea before he has the chance to drop the cup. “I hope your friend is taking well to Hateno,” she says warmly. I hope I have a friend, he thinks with his heart stuck halfway up his throat. He’s barely keeping himself together, in pretty much every sense of the word, but he thanks her all the same, and means it.

 He did, in fact, eat a frog. Several times. Once on the Great Plateau, after the spirit of the old king had left him to fend for himself with a pickaxe and half an apple, and again while he was in the Hebra mountain range, because it was too cold out to hunt and one had hopped into his pack while he wasn’t looking and died there. Then there was another time, at one of the stables up north, where he met a traveling salesman who offered him a stamina-boosting trick for ten rupees. The first time he obediently closed his eyes, and could only describe the texture in his mouth as ‘soft, with hints of viscosity’. He returned several weeks later, ran away on his horse immediately after making payment, and was mildly alarmed to discover that he had not in fact been presented with a breadstick, but rather a leg. A very long leg. With joints. And skin. And a big, webbed foot. Once, while sitting on a raft headed out to sea, he considered hurling himself into the water. It had been raining for several days by this point, which itself wasn’t a problem as he had come to quite like the sound of rain bashing on the outside of his tent with bloody fists, but this rain was relentless. Like a ghost which tries to kill you and fails, and, in a fit of bitter resentment, resolves to throw rocks at your window each night for the rest of your life, the water got into his boots and it got into his eyes and then it got into his pack, which spoiled all of his carefully-preserved meat and caused the stopper in his bottle of milk to rot. Under the present circumstances, all the game had either gone off to find shelter or been washed away by the floodwaters. There was nothing for him to hunt, and nothing for him to eat. His stomach growled faithlessly. While stumbling along some beach or another, he bumped into Kass, who told him about some treasure further out at sea. He looked blandly in the direction that the parrot pointed out for him, and found his eyes drawn to the island that lay beyond it. “I’m going to go there,” he said. “I hope you find good treasure,” said Kass. “Yeah,” he said. So he hauled himself onto a raft (he was too shy to ask the people in Lurelin for help, and too proud to talk about his circumstances) at the crack of dawn and began to blast a Korok leaf at the sail. And then he got tired. He sat down. He leaned over the edge of the raft. His reflection in the water was gray, because the sky was gray, and the sky was gray because it was raining. He had begun to shiver again, but he had spent most of the week shivering anyway and so didn’t pay it any attention. His hair was matted to his forehead, and there were bags under his eyes. One of his piercings was smarting; it must have gotten infected. “What if I just stopped trying,” he suggested to the sea, which ignored him. What was the point of it all, anyway? All of his friends were dead and the girl in the photograph was stuck in a castle in the sky. He didn’t remember a single thing about the first seventeen years of his life. Only the things that happened in the last three months, only the things that were deemed important, and even those he remembered in fragments. Like what if he had a sister. What if his father had been kind to him, or doting, or an alcoholic. What if he had been in love with someone, and what if he had had a heart, and what if he had cared. It was hard to discern the world’s sympathies for him when he spent most of his time alone. Sometimes, at night, he drew a face on the rock-wall and gave it a name. “I’m tired,” he said. “I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I feel more dead than alive, even though I’m the only one still breathing.” But the sea continued to ignore him. The wind continued to ignore him. The rain continued to ignore him, pelting at his wet shoulders with wet hands and wet teeth, clawing at the skin on the back of his neck, telling him to go to sleep and stay there. Eventually the raft drifted of its own accord to the shore of the island he had spied in the distance, and then some thousand-year-old mummy stripped him of all his belongings anyway, so it no longer mattered that he had nothing in his pack or his head or his heart, as long as he was able to replace it with something new.

 A few weeks later she’s standing in the kitchen and staring at the vegetables in the pot, humming to herself, while Link rearranges the condiments on the table. She’s swaying from side to side, holding up the ladle like a sword. She seems happy. He leans back in his chair until he can just about see the top of her head. “What song is that?” he asks, casual as a house on fire. A pause. Something clatters to the floor. Picture two figures in a forest full of thorns and teeth. Picture the knight carving a path through the trees, the princess stumbling behind him, his clammy hand tight around her wrist, their feet bruised and dirty. It’s raining, of course, because it’s always raining in the dream. They’re being chased by mechanical monsters with knives for eyes. And they’re tired, both of them, so tired they could hurl themselves into a pond and drown there, but instead she walks into a tree. The bark scrapes the length of her forearm like a kiss, tearing at her skin and pouring blood down the back of her hand. Something clatters to the floor. Something breaks. Picture the old dream, the one he knows like a memory, the reason he’s less afraid of bears than people. He whirls the chair around to the sight of Zelda’s hand in the fire, her posture rigid, her face hidden by a curtain of hair. “I’m sorry,” she says, crestfallen. “It’s just—” He’s on his feet and halfway across the room before she can finish her sentence, pulling her away from the counter, reaching for the faucet with his other hand. “—It’s the first time you’ve asked me a question since you found me,” she says quietly. The skin on the back of her hand is bright red. If Urbosa were here, she would tie his arms and legs to four horses and then ask them to run in four different directions, and he would die in such a memorable way, it would eclipse even the deaths of all his old dead friends, who were trapped in machines with voices for a hundred years while their bodies turned into dust. If Urbosa were here then he likely wouldn’t be, would be in the next room, his ear pressed to the door, his heart pressed to the roof of his mouth. It’s a good thing, then, that she isn’t.

 It’s spring, so the water from the faucet is cold enough to cut yourself on. The water from the faucet is cold, so it should sting on skin as red as this, but Zelda doesn’t say anything as he holds her hand under the stream of water, his thumbs resting on the curve of her wrist, his eyes searching her blank expression for. A sign? A reason? Why the ladle on the floor; why the hand in the fire? “It’s fine,” she finally says, brushing her hair behind her ear with her unhurt hand. “No,” he says before he can stop himself, bristling a little, feeling slightly outrageous. “It’s not.” Zelda looks somber for a moment. Then she hiccups a laugh. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?” Yeah, I remember when you [the path that leads to Hateno is wet and winding] and I [your hand on the back of my head was cold and dying], he wants to say. But he would be lying if he did, because he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember anything except the sixteen stories she left him, sixteen shards of a seventeen-year-old life. If she’s referring to something funny, then he’s missed an opportunity to make her laugh. If she’s referring to something important, then it’s no wonder he can’t seem to bridge the gap between the frog and the girl, no wonder his head hurts like someone stabbed it with a pitchfork and forgot to take it out, no wonder Hyrule still feels so far away, even as he milks the chickens and he chases the cows and he collects the eggs from the bears. He turns this thought over in his head as he goes for the medicine cabinet, which he had not asked for and Bolson had installed as a courtesy. Despite his best efforts, the blood on his back never quite washed away. She’s gone by the time he closes the cabinet, and he begins to feel that telltale sickness in his stomach, the sudden urge to throw up. He walks briskly out of the house in Hateno, salve and bandages tied to his wrist, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. The moon is a crescent tonight. Hateno rises and falls with each breath, pressing flowers into the palm of his hand. He folds each one unevenly in half. Zelda’s halfway up the ladder when he finds her. He waits for her to get onto the roof before he starts heading up, and is surprised all the same when he reaches the top of the ladder, and finds her face inches away from his. “I didn’t know you had a ladder,” she says pleasantly. “Why did you follow me up here?” She smells like Goron spice and sun. He is three seconds away from plummeting to his death. This is nothing he is used to, and a part of him thinks that if he knows what’s good for him then he will never get used to any of it. Not the silent, dead castle, not the long black shadow of the future, not the girl. She leans back after a moment. He breathes out. Half an inch of space will not keep either of them safe. Zelda watches him retie his ponytail expectantly. “So?” The ladder is from the Great Plateau. He found it at the back of the Temple of Time days after the old king asked him to climb to the top of the ruined structure and revealed to him that he was, yeah, the old king, and that all of his friends were dead, and that he would have to get the girl out of the castle before she could even think to save him, and by association, the rest of the world. At that point he was still naive enough to think defeating Ganon would take a stick and an apple and a really fast horse. He had also not yet learned of the myriad ways in which he had failed everyone he had ever cared for, and so spent his days wandering from place to place, pointing at bugs in the leaves and laughing. The ladder pissed him off. Who put it there? Why didn’t the old king tell him about its existence? What was the point of leaving a ladder behind the statue of Hylia when you could’ve put it in front, so stupid soulless people like him could use it to reach the end of the story faster? He returned to it much later, after he had purchased the house in Hateno, and yanked the whole thing down. Hacking it into four sections with a pickaxe he stole from a bokoblin (it had probably belonged to him first anyway), he piled all of them on his horse and then walked through Hyrule field, past Fort Hateno, all the way back to Bolson, who stared at him like he’d just asked him to kill a man. What do you mean you want me to fix this ladder, he asked. I mean I want you to fix this ladder, he replied. So Bolson did. Zelda laughs so hard she almost falls off the roof. She gets right up to the edge of it, leaning over the side with her face in her hands while he scrambles to keep her from toppling over. She only let him wrap up her arm because he was talking, because according to Zelda he never did much talking, but maybe he’s said too much. He’s embarrassed. Defeated, he lies down. There’s a star, just above the crown of trees at the other end of the village. He reaches out idly, trying to pinch it between his thumb and forefinger, but his fingers brush against skin instead of sky. Zelda, half-goddess, half-miracle, turns her face into the palm of his hand for the briefest of moments, like a butterfly alighting on the surface of a pond. The cicadas sing ballads. His breath stops in his lungs and dies there. “I like the ladder.” “Oh.” “Please keep it.” “Oh.” “You know,” she says, still leaning over him, close enough that if he gave her hand a tug, she might fall right out of heaven. Her head is tilted, her hair falling into her eyes, splaying across the tiles on the roof like a satiny strip of sun. “What?” he asks hoarsely. She smiles at him like a secret. “I—”

 He used to be in love with her. As each piece of his sixteen-part past was returned to him and the last day of his life emerged slowly into the light, it dawned on him like a horse falling out of the sky that he had been very lucky to be her knight, that he would have willingly given his life for her, and that he did. Only his final, heroic act of sacrifice failed to accomplish anything meaningful in spite of his best efforts. He had died with her hand cradling the back of his head, his tunic wet with blood and tears, believing that the ending could be salvaged still. Maybe this is what it takes to reach happiness, he thought dizzily. Maybe you have to be pushed to the end of the line, before you can start walking back towards the center. But when he opened his eyes, it was to a world which had not moved an inch from the precipice. His back was covered in scars, water streaming down his skin like blood, and his head was so light, he worried for a moment that if he stood up too fast it would float right off of his shoulders. The only thing that remained was old skin, the thin aftertaste of fear, and a bone-deep anxiety that wouldn’t come off no matter how many times he threw himself into the river. The only thing that remained was a voice in his head, calling his name through the dream, reminding him that there was still something that could be salvaged from the fire. He used to be in love with her, though it took him a while to admit it, because being in love with her meant admitting that he had failed not only on a prophetic level, but on a personal level that cut to the wound at the center of his chest. It was a matter of survival in those first few months. Him, or a kingdom. His selfish and worthless pride, or the world. Naturally, he chose the world.

 “Let’s say you’ve been asleep for a hundred years and when you wake up you’ve lost all your memories, but you chase after fairies and you dig up shrines and you defeat the big bad monster like you’ve been told to, because a girl told you to, and because you were in love with her. And after defeating the big bad monster she comes back, and you take her back to your house, and you fry eggs for her. But she’s not the person she was a hundred years ago, because she spent a hundred years in a dream. And you’re not the person you were a hundred years ago, because you forgot everything you could possibly forget, and then you got mauled by a bear. And yet when you look at her, every time you look at her, your chest hurts so bad you think you might be dying.” He looks up from his breadstick. “Am I dying?” “No,” Beedle says very seriously. “I think you’re stupid.” Beedle retrieves a string of petrified armored beetles from one of the pockets on his back, and holds it abruptly in his face. “You can fall in love with someone twice, you know.” Link wrinkles his nose. “How do you know?” Beedle sticks the lower half of a beetle in his mouth. “I’m five hundred years old.” He bites down. “I know things.” Chews thoughtfully. “I’ve eaten things, too. Things you’ve never even dreamed of. “Point is, Link, you’re being stupid. Get it together. The world’s not ending anymore.” “Oh,” says Link. He watches Beedle eat the rest of the beetles. There are five in total. He doesn’t have to chew very hard, which is weird. He turns Beedle’s words over in his head. Beedle has a point. The world isn’t ending anymore. The world isn’t hanging on by a thread, waiting for the boy in the story to haul it back up the side of the cliff. They hauled it back up, him and Zelda and their old dead friends. They hauled it out of the well. And now look at the flowers.

 Once, while sitting on a raft headed out to sea, he considered hurling himself into the water, but here’s the other half of the story. He had recently been into the castle again, up to the princess’ room, where he found, among other things, a moblin, a bow, and a single Silent Princess, growing at the end of the hallway. He also found a diary, which he really shouldn’t have read. He shouldn’t have read the diary. It’s common courtesy. It’s the mark of human decency, respect of personal privacy, respect for the dead, et cetera. But he did. So he hauled himself up to that tower in the sky, and he mistimed several guardian laser parries before finally getting one right and yelling in triumph and getting a beam to his ass for his efforts, and then he cried, standing over that tattered old book while a cold wind blew in through the man-sized hole in the wall. He had spent so long working towards the abstract idea of salvation, he had forgotten that salvation was also, inextricably, a person. A girl with the hands of Hylia, praying in a castle in the sky, stuck in a hundred year cycle from hell. She had thrown away everything so he would float back out of the water with his face to the sky, and he couldn’t even remember how to shoot a bear without getting his face clawed off. What had he ever done to deserve this? What had he done for her? The answer was he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything. The conversation they had about skin-deep secrets, the day it was raining and she told him about the hypothetical nature of failure, the morning of her seventeenth birthday, as she slid the gold cuffs onto her wrists and strode grimly out of the castle, her shadow clinging to the wall like it could keep her from leaving if it did. Did he even say happy birthday? Did anyone bring her candles? Did she make a wish, and if so, for what? He felt suddenly angry, and disappointed, and lonely. The fireplace was full of rubble and the table was covered in dust. The bed frame had collapsed, probably at the very beginning of this whole mess, and the mattress was sunken in like a face with no flesh, the sheets torn, the gold trim reduced to tatters. This place used to be a sanctuary. Now it wanted him dead. He wiped his eyes furiously, though there was no one there to point at him and laugh. He wiped his eyes with the back of his clumsy, scarred hand, pulled the diary shut, and walked back out, into heaven’s line of fire.

 He takes her to the Kochi dye shop on her request, but Sayge gives them a name and an address and herds them out of his store, and so they find themselves in Tarrey Town again, exchanging nods with the people he tricked into leaving their old lives behind while Zelda describes her old outfit to Rhondson, who takes notes on her husband’s arm in erasable ink. Several days later, a new set of clothes arrives in Hateno by donkey. He helps her do her hair, by which he means he holds a mirror behind her back and she does her hair, occasionally instructing him to tilt it several degrees in one direction or another, but it’s the most useful he’s felt in weeks, and when she’s pulled on her gloves and done up the buckles on her boots, she stands up and does a little twirl. It’s a perfect replica. She’s glowing. Rhondson is god. “I feel like I could defeat Ganon,” Zelda tells him. I already did that, he thinks. He nods. “You probably could.”

 “So, are you going to do something?” Beedle retrieves a string of soft-shell crabs from his pack. “Do I have to?” Beedle waggles his finger at him disapprovingly. “The question is, do you want to?”

 He has a dream where she falls from Shatterback Point. He runs as fast as he can down the side of the mountain, cutting his palms on coral and bruising his knees on the wet rocky path, but when he gets to the bottom, no one’s there. You were too late, Muzu tells him, stroking his beard somberly. You tried to reach her, but you let go, and then you were too late. The water in the lake is bright as blood. The sky crackles silently above Muzu’s vacant eyes. A voice emerges from the lake. You let me die, the voice says. I saved the world for you, and you let me die. He wakes up sweating. He curls up on his side, bracing for the cold, hard floor against his cheek, but Zelda’s slipped one of her pillows under his head while he was sleeping. She’s murmuring in her sleep, something about fruit halves and grams of sugar, her hand dangling over the side of the bed clenching and unclenching itself earnestly, kneading imaginary dough, cutting imaginary apples. “Zelda?” Too soft. He won’t call again. He refuses to. In a moment of weakness, he reaches for the side of the bed, but stops just shy of her hand. Beedle’s bright, angular nose appears before him, carrying with it the wisdom of his ancestors. What do you want to do, Link, Beedle’s Nose asks him. What do you want? I want to pull her out of the burning house, he thinks. Is that too much to ask for? Moonlight trickles down her throat and vanishes under the collar of her tunic. His chest implodes and his heart bursts into a thousand tiny pieces, as he wonders how it is that planets were made before people. Beedle’s Nose is indifferent. What burning house, it asks. Where’s the smoke coming from? Look around you, Link. There’s smoke, and fire, and windows with broken glass. But who’s still inside?

 Uma’s hundred-and-ninth birthday arrives on the coattails of fall. On her insistence, they keep the decorations sparse and the cake disarmingly large. Streamers are put up and butterflies corralled into glass menageries. A traveling band with a bit of a reputation further west is invited. There are three musicians with ocarinas and one with a cowbell, and all of them are wearing pink overalls and big yellow sun hats which hurt to look at for too long, unless you work for a construction company, in which case you want to look at them forever. After Bolson has finished taking down all of their contact information on his forearm (they prefer to be called for via messenger pigeon, but if you don’t have one then a snail is fine as well), Zelda drifts across the grass to stand in his place. She’s wearing a white dress, borrowed from Uma, who said it would complement her eyes. Uma was right. The dress is made from a thin, glittery fabric that billows around her ankles and makes her look like she’s floating. Like a fairy in a forest clearing. Like a cat perched at the top of a clocktower. Their conversation lasts for several minutes. She says something, and the others laugh. The guy with the cowbell pretends to look embarrassed. Everyone else at the party is dancing, including Uma, who is holding hands with a small child in a green frog-suit and swaying like a palm tree in the wind. While Zelda keeps the ocarina ensemble preoccupied, one of the adults in the village has gone and retrieved a guitar. He begins to play a warm, meandering tune that reminds Link, distantly, of grassy fields and white skies. “Are you not going to dance?” He looks down. Nebb tugs at the edge of his tunic with one hand, pulling him in the direction of the crowd. He squats down. “I don’t have anyone to dance with.” “You can dance with me. Duh.” “I don’t know how to dance.” Nebb looks at him like he’s stupid. “Then learn.” “What if I don’t want to?” “What if you meet someone who does, and you like them too much to say no?” He squints suspiciously at Nebb. Nebb’s atrocious bowl cut hasn’t grown any less atrocious with time, though it does have the effect of making him look far less menacing than he would be if he were bald or sporting a mohawk. The boy knows too much for someone so small. This cannot do. If this goes on, he will reveal a secret to the gods, and then they will kill him for his hubris. “Shhh,” Link says to him, holding a finger up to his lips. He digs around in his pockets until he finds a piece of honey candy, wrapped in a palm leaf and tied together with twine. “Take this, and go dance with someone else.” Nebb gives him the Stare of Judgment, but takes the candy. “You’re terrible, Link.” He sticks out his tongue. “Bye.” Then it’s back to demolishing the cake, which he’s still not convinced Uma didn’t order expressly so that he would have something to do with himself during the course of the evening, as the dancing progresses from cheerful to insane and a small group of guests begins to construct a spaceship out of empty wine glasses. No one else has gone for thirds, though a handful have gone for seconds. There’s a big fondant chicken perched on the highest layer. He sucks on his fork thoughtfully. He wants it. Last week they went up north, in search of forgiveness. Despite their best efforts and the gift of crabs and crocuses they brought along, their reception in Zora’s domain was cold and gray. It reminded him of the way they had received him when he first stepped out of the rain and into the blue glow of the domain’s hallways, armed with only the knowledge that he had been sent to prevent a tragedy that had already happened. He didn’t yet know that Mipha was dead. He thought he could still save her. They called him failure and fool and living reminder of Hyrule’s downfall, laughing at him in a language called mourning. He had thought they had forgiven the Hylians and their king for letting their Champion die, especially after he walked out of Vah Ruta with a black eye and a bloody nose to show for it, especially now that the evil had been defeated. Apparently the knight by himself was tolerable. The knight and the princess, together, made things too raw. Too immediate. “Mipha’s dead,” they said. It was a Tuesday. “I’m sorry,” Zelda replied. Tomorrow they’re headed for Goron City. He closes his eyes and wills away the taste of sweet cream and berries, tries to picture the winding path up Death Mountain, the grooves hammered into the ground, the rubies in their metal caskets. Flame-resistant armor is a given, so it’s a good thing he bought two sets on accident last winter. He wants to trap a few fire lizards in a bottle and bring them back for a friend. As for what he will say to Zelda before he hands her off to the city’s protectors, their hands half an inch apart but not touching, never touching, there isn’t much. Goron City will be better, he thinks. He licks the cream off his fork. It’s sweet. “What are you thinking?” He opens his eyes. Zelda looks at his plate, then the cake, then his plate again. She points at the chicken. He shrugs. “I was thinking that I hope Uma lives forever.” Someone has invited the dog onto the dance floor. He isn’t trying very hard to keep to the beat of the guitarist, who has been joined by two of the ocarina players with brown hair and blue eyes, but he doesn’t have to. Spinning very fast in a circle is actually the smartest dance move of them all. There’s no beginning, so there’s no end. Zelda plucks a berry from his plate. “It’s not very fun, to be honest,” she says, chewing thoughtfully. “Living for that long.” He watches the dog chase its own tail and she watches him watch the dog, though neither is aware this is happening. “Sorry, I didn’t know. I was asleep.” The dog is easily the best dancer in the crowd. He experiences neither shame nor hubris, and is thus freed from the stresses and seasonal anxieties of being known by others who might fear him or like him. He also runs very fast. Zelda punches his shoulder weakly, her hand lingering, her eyes soft. “That’s a terrible joke, Link.” He pinches the inside of his wrist. “I’m trying my best.” “So am I.” After a beat, the dog who has been invited to the party to spin in tight circles on the dance floor and be a nuisance to the other guests goes careening into the rotisserie chicken. In a wondrous, gravity-defying moment, the chicken sails not away from the dog, but towards him, flying in a swooping arc over his head at a height of several hundred feet above the ground. The plate clatters to the floor before the chicken can find its bearings and, awoken by its war cry, people scramble into action, evacuating themselves to the other side of the buffet table or under the veranda with their legs between their tails, until Uma is standing alone on the grass, still swaying to a song only she can hear, still smiling. The chicken reaches the highest point in the sky, pauses for a heartbeat, then pitches downwards. She catches it. The crowd goes wild. And then Zelda is tugging on his sleeve, like Negg, but not like Negg, because Zelda walked out of the mouth of the monster, because Zelda left her hand in the fire, because Zelda looked at the miserable, vulnerable world that he had yelled at until his voice was hoarse and dying and even the pigeons were something fiercer than him, that he had tended to with clumsy, scarred hands in spite of all the dead things on the ground, and decided to stay. “God,” she says, her eyes bright. “Link, look. In the sky.”

 Picture two figures in a forest full of night. Picture the princess carving a path through the trees, the knight stumbling after her, her hand tight around his wrist, their feet fast and flying. The sky is clear, of course, because someone pulled the mourning veil off its head and threw it in the river. They’re chasing after a column of light, poured by the hand of Hylia from the heavens. And they’re tired, both of them, so tired they could hurl themselves into bed and lie there, half an inch apart, watching each other in the dark with waiting on their tongues, but instead he trips on a branch and goes down, face-first, into the dirt. She doesn’t realize he’s let go until he lets go, but when she turns around he’s already pushed himself off the ground. Hands and knees and boots digging into the grass. The woods outside of Hateno are still teething. The princess gives him her hand, and he stares at it for a moment like she’s just offered him the rest of her lifespan, and then takes it. He’s fine; of course he is. It would take much more than this to kill him. It would take another hundred year cycle of pain. She points at the column of light. It’s still there. Still glowing. So they keep going, picking their way through the undergrowth, climbing over branches and pushing boulders out of harm’s way, doing what ghost children like them do best, which is pointing at something in the distance, and then chasing it. Chasing hope. Following it back to the center. And when they reach the place where the sky has spat out the blood in its mouth, the knight gets punched in the face with nostalgia. He caught a falling star once, when he was all alone and the world was grim and unknowable. Then he gave it to a fairy, in exchange for less blood on his tunic, in exchange for stronger teeth. He approached heaven from afar once, a solitary figure burning darkly against the pale yellow water, but there was no way for him to go home when all was said and done, so he pinched the inside of his wrist and kept walking.

 The thing is you can’t go from swinging a sword around and dreaming about dead people to waking up and frying eggs and searching for ways to heal the cracked earth beneath your feet. Not that fast. Not that goddamn fast. You can’t just flip a switch and not be scared anymore, not wake up sweating anymore, not wake up wanting to hold her hand. Fear is a country and you’ve lived in it all your life. There’s a reason kingdoms keep such a close eye on their borders. You’re either in, or you’re out. Make up your mind. Pick up your sword. Save yourself.

 The star fragment is stuck in a tree. Zelda wants to climb it and he wants her to stop; naturally, she wins. She hauls herself up the trunk while he circles the bottom like a hawk with an anxiety problem, waiting to catch the star, or the girl, or both. But neither comes pitching out of the sky. The dream stays just out of sight. “So that’s what star fragments look like,” she says later, her voice muffled by the sound of crickets. She turns it over in her hands, running her fingers along each point and indent. “They’re warm.” Smells it curiously, then wrinkles her nose. “No smell.” Tries to break off one especially thin-looking point with little success. “Sturdy.” She spends ten minutes staring at the star. He spends ten minutes staring at her. She gets bored, puts the fragment on the ground, and looks up. He looks away. “The party’s probably over now, huh.” He nods to his left. A sigh, very small, very lovely. Like a firefly under a bridge. “I didn’t get the chance to dance with anyone.” Beedle’s Nose is staring at him from a gap in the trees like the red eye of the devil. It’s singing a nursery rhyme he doesn’t remember learning. What do you want/what do you want/what do you want. Link! Link! Open your eyes! He has to break every bone in his body just to turn his head three inches to the right, but for the first time in this life, this new life, this second chance at everything, he gets it right. Zelda’s knees are drawn to her chest, her head pillowed on her arms, her gaze heavy on his face. He sucks in a breath. “Do you still want to?”

 Dancing without music sounds reasonable in theory, but generally requires one party to be exceptionally good at keeping count while the other has to be in possession of at least a rudimentary grasp of the steps. This is, of course, assuming that there are redeemable qualities to both parties. For example, if one is the knight from the fairy tale who has spent his whole life swinging sharp objects at people, and the other is the princess from the fairytale who has spent her whole life praying sharp objects find their way to the right people, then there may not in fact be anything redeemable between them. Her counting is off, his hands are clammy. Her voice is wavering, his feet are too slow. It’s disaster after disaster after disaster, first the champions in their divine beasts, then the castle, then the king on the Great Plateau, a knife through the heart, et cetera. Dancing without music sounds reasonable in theory unless you’ve spent the last three months of your life chasing angry moose down mountains, so it’s a good thing no one’s here to laugh at them. It’s a good thing they’re alone, surrounded by starlight, half an hour by foot from Hateno, village of lights and wonder. Spring has come and gone without them. The night is young and the air is cool and the forest is sweetly indifferent to his tendency to crash into inanimate objects. This would be embarrassing if he left himself think about it, but more importantly it’s unfair, how neither of them knows what they’re doing but Zelda can smile her way out of a clumsy turn, how he has to keep his hand on her waist but hers is doing an elaborate dance on his shoulder, how every time she leans in and her hair parts down her back, a sliver of neck peeks out and steals the lungs right out of his chest. He is going to die trying to keep his hands to himself or they are going to fall off the edge of the forest and into a ravine with no bottom. There is no option to walk away. “You’re a terrible dancer,” she says, smiling up at him from under her lashes. He chews on his lip. “I’m sorry.” “That’s fine.” He twirls her and her dress floats up past her ankles like a cloud of tiny stars. “I like you anyway.” He walks into a tree. Decides that’s not enough. Slaps himself generously across the face, hard enough to leave a mark. Decides that’s not enough. Kneels on the grass, letting go of her hand, to look for a stick that might help him end things faster. “Link?” It is too much and too little all at once, and therefore unbearable. He is going to fall off the edge of the forest right now. He tries to stand up just as she begins to bend down, reaching for his shoulder. They fall off the edge of the forest together. Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh no. They’ve fallen off the edge of the universe together. Her face is in the crook of his neck and her hair is stuck to his clothes. His skin is on fire and his butt is sore and he’s dying. Hylia, can you hear him? There’s a name for the place children go after they leave this world. He’d like to know what it’s called now. “Hey,” comes the small, muffled voice. Her arms are on either side of his waist, and they’re trembling. “Can you say something?” He looks up. Always up, always forward, towards knives and teeth and forests full of bodies. Always past the blurry face in the dream, to the nightmare that follows after. Someone will tell you when to breathe. Someone will tell you when to swing your sword. Someone will tell you when it’s all right to stop being scared of everything, and start looking for angels. Like right now. Like right-right-now. Your heartbeat fluttering in your throat. Your throat an ocean of knives. Eight weeks and three days after he walks into the castle and defeats two incarnations of evil, first in a room with a domed ceiling, then in a field with a domed sky, he steps out of the burning house, and finds himself face to face with the sun. He presses his cheek against her hair. “Do you want me to?” “Yes,” she sighs. “Yes, I do.”

 He tells her about the way the world looks from atop the back of a bear and the gray of the ocean from a raft and the conversation he had with her dead father about how cooked apples taste sweeter. He tells her about the first time he shot an arrow at a bomb barrel and the second time he shield-surfed down a hill and how Urbosa made him promise to take care of her, even in death, even after it. He tells her about being so lonely it hurt to breathe and being so bad at breathing he passed out in a river, and being so hurt he had to be saved by a stranger on the road, tied to the back of their donkey like a piece of merchandise and carried to the nearest stable to be burnt back to life. He tells her how no one believed he was the boy in the story, even when he pulled out the sword, even when he showed them the blood on his back. He tells her about how the stalhorses on Tabantha Snowfield run faster than the horses near Kakariko, how a bokoblin will choose a freshly roasted chicken over the skin of your teeth, how a sword is a metaphor for forgiveness. He tells her how a hundred years ago she told him to eat a frog, and he never forgot about it. Not once, not ever. Walking through the Breach of Demise, looking for Koroks in Fort Hateno, praying for her heart at the Spring of Wisdom, he never stopped thinking about the damn frog, and by extension, the girl. The first thing she says is why didn’t you tell me all of this earlier? The second thing she says is why the hell didn’t I ask? She presses a hand to his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his eyes and glaring at him. The third thing she says is that she really wants to see a stalhorse, and the fourth thing he says is he’ll take her there one day, and the fifth thing she does is cry. Big, heaving sobs. Arms tight around his shoulders, tears smearing the front of his shirt, while he pretends he isn’t half as insane, gives up, and resolves to hide his face in her hair forever. And it’s dramatic as hell, it’s an ancient tapestry on a wall in Kakariko, but hasn’t it always been that way? Haven’t they been through enough shit to justify the heartfelt reunion, the face full of tears? If the conversation they had in the field outside the castle was a blueprint for what it looks like to meet someone you wanted a hundred years ago, then this is the aftermath of that war. Do you remember me? Of course I do. Do you love me? Of course I do. Ask me a question, any question. Crack my chest open. “To make things very, very clear,” Zelda says, wiping her eyes furiously. She’s pushed him flat onto his back and the light’s not hitting her face so he can’t make out her expression, but he can imagine the pinched brow, the bitten lip. “I didn’t fall in love with you because you were conveniently there, like, I don’t know, an armchair when you’re tired, or a glass of water when you’re thirsty.” Her hands on his chest are very beautiful, even in the moon-lit dark. “I didn’t take one look at the prophecy and think to myself, well, if I’m going to tie my happiness to someone then it might as well be him.” Now he’s the one who’s embarrassed. He brings a hand up to cover his face but she tugs it away. Takes a deep breath. Counts to ten, probably, maybe fifteen, maybe a hundred. “I fell in love with you,” she says, softly, each word falling from her lips like a star, each star plucked from the highest point in the heavens. “I don’t even know why I fell in love with you.” She fists her hands loosely in his shirt. “It just happens, you know? One day you look at the boy with the stupid pretty hair, and you think to yourself, oh no.” His head is spinning so fast he feels like the dog at the party. Maybe he is the dog. Maybe he finished eating the cake and shoved the fondant chicken in his mouth and then he passed out, and had to be carried back to his house, and had to be laid gently on the unmade covers. He gathers his thoughts. “I’m not a very good person,” he says quietly. “But if you would have me, I would gladly give you my life.” “You’ve already done that once, Link,” Zelda says, laughing with the sun in her mouth. “Do something else.” What do you want, Link? Open your eyes. Save yourself. “Okay, then. Can I kiss you?”

 His name is Link, and he died once when he was seventeen. It was pretty traumatizing. He got slashed several times across the back with some very sharp weapons, and then he got mauled by a forest full of screaming metal, and then he collapsed, right in front of the person he was supposed to protect, who ended up protecting his dead body by the skin of her teeth. Because he died. Somewhere between the laser on his chest and her hand pressed against the seal of the sky, his body made one last stand against the stark inequalities of the world, and he died. The only reason he knew his name was Link when he woke up was because it was the first word she said to him. “Link,” she said. “Wake up.” He concluded through logical reasoning that “he” must be “Link” and that “Link” had to “wake up”. So he did. He went traipsing around Hyrule with a ladle and a pot lid, seeking out places from a photograph and trying to find ways to bring every four-legged animal in the land to a stable, but he never really felt like “Link”. He felt like a corpse that had received a very shiny, very thick coat of paint. Half-here, half-there. Half-me, half-something-else. What else? A bird, maybe. A horse. One day Link got bored and decided that he was going to defeat all the forces of evil. He fought his way into the castle, where the guardians shot lasers at his earrings, and he fought his way past the lynels, who hissed fire and called him rude words, and he fought his way into the sanctum, where he met the asshole who had put him through all this shit in the first place. And he kicked his ass. And he kicked his other ass. And the asshole died. His name was Ganon. Ganon dying brought Zelda back to life, because the law of equivalent exchange governs half of the children in this world, while the devil gets the rest. The devil got to him: his life will always carry the weight of hundreds of thousands, he will always feel like lead for the first three seconds after he wakes up. But it didn’t get to Zelda. Zelda got the other bargain, the one where your dead father dies but you get your knight back. One or the other, left or right. In the end, you always have to choose. And he’s still pretty traumatized. And dying at the age of seventeen with a sword still stuck in your hand is pretty traumatizing. And the Zora are still mourning and the Gorons are still eating rocks and the Gerudo still think he’s just a really short girl, which he can live with, which he doesn’t particularly mind, but the trauma has a place on the shelf now. And the shelf is in his house. And the house is a modest one, with modest display stands for his modest weapons, and a modest bed beside which he’s hung a framed photograph of his friends. But some things are different, even if the foundations stay the same. No more rafts on gray seas. No more sleeping on the floor. No more standing in the burning building, and wondering why the shadows aren’t moving. No more shrines full of dead monks. No more monsters full of dead bodies. No more waiting for someone to tell you when to breathe, when to stop, when to get mauled by a bear. Pick up your sword, boy. Now put it down. Now pick it up. Now put it down. You’re going to be doing this until the day that you die. Are you all right with that? Are you all right with your god? [Thank you for helping my sister.][They say the leviathans died thousands of years ago.][Get me a horse. A big, strong horse. Any horse.][BROTHER. THE ROCKS ARE READY.][Find me someone whose name ends with ‘-son’.][I’ll sell you rushrooms for diamonds. Fifty-five for one.][Have you heard of the story of the bird on the mountain?][Do you already have someone special in your heart?][They say if two people visit this pond, they’ll be together forever.][Do you believe in miracles?][Do you believe in magic?][Do you believe in me?] [I believed I would see you again.]

It’s a cruel, unforgiving world. People die and don’t come back. But you did. Now get up. Someone’s waiting for you.

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myelocin · 4 years

Text

blue curtains and red roses | sakusa kiyoomi

synopsis: it’s supposed to be simple. the author made the curtains blue because he liked the color blue, so sakusa’s more confused than anything when you come into his life and challenge that thought.

characters: sakusa kiyoomi, you

genre/warnings: tw: character death, hurt/slight comfort, angst lol, head empty just a bunch of talking n metaphors i think

wc: 1.7k+

a/n: xave this is all ur fault; i’m supposed to be in my pajamas now watching henry cavil interviews yet here we are with an angst,,,i kid, ily too much ;w;

“Why does the author color the curtains blue?”

The answer can be as simple as it could be complex. But really, it’s all subjective.

In one perspective, blue could depict the author’s use of imagery to further emphasize and convey the atmosphere of sadness—if the story was, well, sad. A somber shade of blue—like the color the world associated with sadness, or even a deep midnight blue, like the void the author must have felt when he spiraled down after the story’s climax.

Then again, in another point of view—blue could mean that it was simply just the color of the curtain. Blue could have meant the subtle blend from the window to the skies outside and maybe even flesh out a metaphor from that. Something along the lines of how easily the things crafted by man could still find a way to blend back into the roots of nature.

Bits of poetry always settled between the lines, Sakusa likes to think.

Rather, he prefers to settle on the thought that the author colored the curtains blue because he just liked the color blue. Nothing more, nothing less.

He just liked blue, that’s all; there wasn’t a metaphor hidden in that, either.

You came into his life, constantly revising the answer to that same question and unnervingly boggling his mind every time.

“You’re exaggerating,” he recalls telling you, but would sigh then relent when you pinched him on the arm to get him to focus again.

“It’s just a curtain,” he explains, before you sighed and would restart your explanation from the beginning. Sakusa would never admit it—but he liked to listen to you talk, that’s why his interruptions and counter arguments were a frequent presence in between your explanations.

“It is,” you huffed (a memory Sakusa always smiles at), as you crossed your hands over your chest. “—but it tells as much as we allow it to.”

“When we read, we always have the ability and choice to set the scene the way we want to look at it. I mean, the story’s there and the dialogue sets the pace, but I could always decide whether I wanted to be the protagonist or antagonist in the story that day,” you said.

“Whatever day it is, the lines I love you stays constant on the page, but some days it could mean a happily ever after, while others, it could mean a love lost to a rival. When I’ll read that the curtain’s blue, I could think that it’s empathizing with my sadness one day and how it’s there to sway with the dip of my thoughts, or I could think that it’s blue to remind me how the blue skies outside speak of opportunities and tomorrows.”

“But what if the author just liked the color blue?” Sakusa challenges, and you’d perk up at his sudden interest in the conversation and would be quick to retort.

“Then blue becomes that constant in the background that reminds you that whether the world is ending or beginning—there will always be those things that remain despite the turmoil in your head. The blue curtain becomes that. Just a spectator in the rollercoaster. It’s hard to find simplicity because everything just feels that connected, Omi.”

You finish your spill, smiling. Radiant, he thinks; intoxication from passion had always been the look that suit you the most.

“You’re not changing your mind are you?” Sakusa laughs out, and you shake your head no, laughing along with him.

It’s fine, Sakusa thinks, he prefers you that way.

He remembers you that way; inquisitive and abstract in a world that was anything but.

He remembers you in the metaphors you’ve entangled your words in—that he listened to over and over again and would nod his head, expression pondering, like it was the first time he’d heard of such thoughts.

In the photographs he’s kept in even stacks inside a box he hasn’t touched in a little over a year now. Collecting dust, probably. Something Sakusa itches to dust off—but backs out the second he sees the familiar scrawl of your handwriting sitting on the flap that’s folded close.

He looks to the right, to the window of an emptied bedroom, the curtains a dull gray instead of blue—and he thinks it’s rather fitting. At the moment Sakusa supposes he does feel a little gray.

“There’s poetry in every moment,” he hears the voice in his head say—your voice.

So like the pull of the sun as the earth falls in orbit, Sakusa gravitates towards pandora’s box where he knows with one push of a flap it’d be enough to tangle him in thoughts of you.

He laughs, a little dryly; not a day goes by where he doesn’t connect metaphors to the world for the sake of adding a couple sentences to the memoir he writes for you.

He holds his breath as he opens the box and smiles as the first color he sees just so happens to be red. He drags the box to the other side of the room—the side facing right across the window and takes a seat as he dives.

The first thing he sees is a photo of you. The photo that followed him for a little over a year now. He remembered he took that photo maybe two or three years ago, in the garden by the park a few blocks away from home. Your dress was white—fitting, he thinks. A literal angel, really. He knows you’d snort at the joke, so he lets out a small chuckle instead; Sakusa knows you appreciate crumbs of happiness sprinkled over clouds of grief, so he hopes that wherever you are, you’re listening and happy.

It’s the photo he stared at when he read your eulogy in a room where the silence thundered over cries, and where the midnight blue curtains in the lobby empathized with the void he felt suffocated in.

Next he sees a sketchbook with red. The same kind of roses you painted over and over again, the stems and petals in vines and overlapping one another, looking like a crown. The stems were smooth, he noticed, void of thorns and cracked petals. He thinks it makes the pages look alive—you’ve always seen the world a little differently, a little more beautifully.

Sakusa smiles when he realizes that it was because of you that he gave the world another shot at beauty too.

“Why do you paint the roses red?” he wants to ask you, so he poses the question into a silent room again. A listening world, you’d chide, so he smiles.

“Because you liked red roses the best,” he says because that would be the most obvious answer. And in a way it’s true—he knows that red roses to you meant the memory of home and love.

But after a moment passes, Sakusa sighs because when he thinks of the roses you drew again—he sees the thorns sprout this time.

His chest tightens when petals of red—bloody red, line his vision and fill his lungs when the veins, thorns and all dig into the skin of his shoulders and render him trapped.

He inhales—and Sakusa feels like he can’t let it out.

“Why must the roses always be red?” he asks again, and this time, he answers that it is because red is the color of blood.

The color that stained the sheets of white when you left, a goodbye the last thing on your mind as the world decided to return you back to the earth.

Red, the color of your lipstick that you kissed and imprinted on his cheeks as a joke an hour before the world took you. The roses are red, because red is the color that symbolized his grief and anger when he stared at the mirror not wanting to wash his face and erase the last of your traces.

It’s red, Sakusa cries, because it’s the color of the blood that’s pumping in his veins.

Like the one that trickled from yours. Where just like that, it danced between the space of life and death.

Pumping.

Seeping.

Pooling.

Staining.

The color of the roses you painted were always in some shade of red, because red was the color you painted the beginning and end of your life with.

Sakusa stands in the middle of the room, the opened box collecting dust a mere foot away from him and he continues to stare at the blue sky past the gray of the curtains. It’s a cloudless day; so he smiles.

Because you love blue skies like that—Sakusa inhales—shaky—then exhales. Then he allows himself to cry: soft and silent, like it’s a secret he’s murmuring into the listening ears of a kind world.

“It sort of is,” he can practically hear you say, and Sakusa wishes you were actually present so that he could hear more explanations of the metaphors you must have unearthed by now.

“(Y/n),” he calls out, his voice broken. This must be heartbreak, he thinks. It’s slow and a little suffocating, but he can exhale now, so Sakusa supposes it’s a necessary step to take.

“The sky’s blue for you today,” he whispers again, like talking to you is still some sort of secret, though he knows he’ll only receive silence as a reply.

“A blue sky means there’s tomorrow right?”

The grey curtain rustles with the breeze and Sakusa closes his eyes, thinking of your words from before. How you can decide to set the scene in any way you’d like, so he sets it as this:

Even though the curtain’s colored grey, and the thorns on the roses you painted served as the constant in the story, he’d look at the blue sky instead—and think that it’s your way of telling him to seek for tomorrow.

Then for the first time, Sakusa Kiyoomi supposes you’re right.

211 notes · View notes

alj4890 · 3 years

Text

Six Sentence Sunday

I'm behind on so much due to life in general, LOL. But to show that I am working on things here is a sneak peek into the next parts of Delicate (which this should be the last chapter of this short series), And Then I Left You, and a few drabbles I have in my WIP folder.

tagging a few that might be interested @jooous @krsnlove @nomadics-stuff @twinkleallnight @motorcitymademadame @gkittylove99 @darley1101 @kingliam2019 @texaskitten30 @yourmajesty09 @mom2000aggie @ofpixelsandscribbles t @lodberg @my-heart-beats-for-ya @aworldoffandoms @flyawayboo @trappedinfanfiction @everythingmarvelsherlockspn @sophxwithers @esmckenzie

Delicate

This might be the first ball in the history of Drake's years in Cordonia to actually cause a certain excitement. He usually put up with the pomp and traditions to simply be with those he cared about. For years it was to support Liam, then going meant he could hang out with Riley, Hana, and Maxwell.

And then there were his activities in secret for a year with Olivia.

He knew she would be arriving soon. Her absence from Cordonia had been one he felt more acutely than any other. His failure in telling her how he felt about her, his inability to have a civil conversation, even his voicemail had kept him fixated on this date.

He intended for this new year to involve a new relationship with Olivia. He simply needed to find a moment alone with her.

Which as he entered the drawing room Riley and Liam used frequently for their closest friends, he realized that was going to be more difficult than he originally thought. All their friends had come home for the ball.

"I can't believe they gave us that ridiculous moniker." Thomas shook his head.

"The press isn't always known for their intelligence." Liam said, fighting a smile.

"Thomanda." Amanda laughed just saying it. "It sounds like some weird foot fungus cream."

"The press have had five years to come up with anything better than that." Thomas wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders. "They should have combined our last names. Brunt is more tolerable than Thomanda."

Maxwell rolled off the couch laughing. "We now have to come up with crazy couple names for all of us!"

"We were given Riam." Riley replied. "Personally I prefer Liley, but Riam stuck."

"Naxwell or Madia." Amanda said between giggles while pointing at Maxwell and Nadia. "That's your possible couple's name."

"Naxwell sounds like a snack cake or cookie." Riley added with a chuckle.

"We are sweet." Maxwell responded, cuddling Nadia close.

Hana sighed at seeing them all so happy together. "What would mine and Rashad's be?"

"Rashana?" Riley offered.

"Oh I like that so much better than what I thought." Amanda laughed. "I at first thought Hahad."

The group burst into laughter while more couple names were bandied about.

"So what do we dub Olivia and Ethan?" Liam asked.

"Ethalivia?" Hana offered.

"Olithan?" Maxwell added.

"Oooh! Olithan!" Riley exclaimed. "Sounds like a sea monster. Olivia will love it!"

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

And Then I Left You

Thomas had worried that first day how they would handle the hotel situations he believed they were bound to encounter. He had gotten used to Olivia's secret passageways allowing him to see Amanda whenever he wanted.

He should have known that the intelligent lady he adored had already solved that problem.

Pulling onto a gravel road, she drove him toward a cottage that sat alone in a rolling meadow dotted here and there with trees. The two-story, thatched roof building sat amidst large Cordonian oak trees. Roses twined around a drain pipe while wisteria grew in wild abandon adding even more beauty to the rough stone walls.

"I know we could stay somewhere different with each place we visit," Amanda explained. "But then I thought we could stay our entire time somewhere in the middle of it all. It will mean more driving each day, but we will have nothing but privacy here."

Thomas stepped out and followed her inside. The cottage was just as charming on the inside as it was on the outside. Much of the furniture was designed strictly for comfort and a few for whimsy. The wooden floors creaked with each step as he explored the different rooms.

Upstairs, there were two bedrooms directly across from one another with a bathroom dividing them.

His lips curved at knowing he wouldn't have to find a way to sneak around and see her whenever they weren't out in public.

"What do you think?" She asked, a bit nervous from his silence.

"It's charming." He set his arms around her waist. "And perfect for our needs."

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

This next sneak peek is a second part to the Liam angst I posted earlier 😬 So sorry how dark that went. Since many wanted to see how Liam is after losing Riley, Drake and Maxwell, here is some of how it is going for him. Let’s just say it isn’t easy and will take some special persuasion from those left behind to help him.

Liam ignored all of it. He went to his chambers and remained secluded from the world for days. He refused entry to anyone who knocked. He simply sat there staring at the few mementos he had of those he had lost.

He flipped through the photographs Maxwell had insisted on taking of the three of them through the years. He paused at the few his mother was in, wishing she was here now to tell him how to move on from something like this. She had encouraged his friendships with Maxwell and Drake, knowing he would need them to face life in the public eye.

And now he would never have them again.

Setting the old album aside, he reached for the key chain Riley had given him the night of the Coronation. Thinking of that night and their confessions of love only to be cruelly parted...his head dropped as he carefully set it back on the table. Next he picked up the pearl he had given her. The plans and hopes they had while meeting in secret. It had helped him through every moment he was kept from her side.

He then lifted the photograph Anna had taken of them for their engagement. Liam's fingers trembled as they brushed against the image of Riley. Her smile so warm. Her eyes so filled with joy.

Reaching for a decanter, he attempted to metaphorically drown his sorrows. In one night he had lost everything he had held dear. How was he to go on from this? There was no enemy to slay, no way to find those he loved and rescue them. Nothing. Nothing except funerals to attend. Nothing but giving them to the cold, unforgiving dirt.

All he had ahead of him was visits to graveyards. He knew his father didn't have much longer to live. It would be just one more loss in his already devastated heart.

Death was what his life had become. He had feared that when his mother was poisoned. Many a night he would wake up crying at the thought of being completely and utterly alone. This long forgotten fear rose up within him, showing that it hadn't been a mere nightmare. It had been a premonition.

Dropping his head in his hands, he sobbed into the void that had become his only companion.

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

This next peek is a miniseries idea that will be called, Mixed Signals, that hit after that last Open Heart Chapter. It will focus on my MC Chris getting closer to Tobias (and gah, I am wishing now she could dump all the LI's and be with him. His humor and confidence have won me completely over). It will take place in both books 2 and 3 and focus on her frustration with Ethan and Bryce never committing or saying how they truly feel about her. Since, especially in the chapters before the Hawaii trip, they both would randomly act romantic towards her then friend zone her in the next scene, I'm letting this series show her choosing to step back and see what she wants and needs from a significant other. This begins after the attack and Chris has yet to return to work. She goes to Mass Kenmore to thank Tobias for coming to help find a cure for her and ends up opening up to him a bit.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Tobias asked softly, gently squeezing her close.

"Not really." Chris admitted. "Everyone keeps telling me to give myself time and all." She eased back. "I wish they would leave me alone."

He kept his hands on her waist while studying her. "Then tell them."

"Ha. You've met them." She snorted. "They don't take orders like that well."

"True." He replied. "You want me to do it?" His smirk brought a grin to her face. "Ethan already considers me a pain in his ass. What's one more mark against me?"

She laughed, while dabbing at her eyes and nose. "After what you did for me? No way am I letting you continue to be the bad guy."

"Aww shucks, Valentine." Tobias teased. "You're going to give me a big head."

"As if it wasn't already big enough." She teased back. Tilting her head, she pretended to study him. "How do you lift it?"

"I work out." He winked then stood up. "I'm glad you came by."

"Me too." She held her hand out.

He shook his head. "You already hugged me. I figure that could be our thing."

"Our thing?"

Tobias pulled her back into his embrace.

"Yeah." He hugged her close. "Now that you won't let me be the big bad guy, I think this means you want us to be friends."

"Whoa. I'm merely a girl coming to thank a guy for saving her life." She teased. "Don't be thinking this means more than that."

"Sorry. Thought is already there." He countered, letting her go. "You're stuck with me now Chris whether you like it or not."

"Ugh, fine." She playfully grumbled. "I already deal with so many ego maniacs. What's one more?"

He opened his office door for her. "I knew you would agree."

"Just because you won this round doesn't mean you'll win them all, Dr. Carrick." Chris warned.

"Allow me to let you in on a little secret, Dr. Valentine," he leaned down close to whisper. "I win all the rounds that are important to me." Swiping up the folder he had previously been studying, he saluted her. "See you soon."

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

And finally another miniseries "What if" for Thomas Hunt and my OC. I've been inspired by rewriting And Then I Met You and decided to do the same with their story in Second Chances. Here's a peek of Amanda actually telling Thomas she is pregnant instead of storming out of his office. I've yet to come up with a title I like for it, LOL, so we'll just wait on that.

Amanda ignored the words Thomas was saying. She didn't want to hear that he had fallen for an actress. All she could focus on was her pain turning into fury. How could he have moved on so quickly?

She wanted to hit him. Never in her life had she ever wanted to hurt someone so much as she did Thomas.

She felt sick to her stomach thinking about him and Kara. The nausea reminded her that she couldn't give in to her desire. She had someone else to think of. Someone who deserved every sacrifice she knew she would have to make to keep Thomas in their child's life.

"...and that's why I am sending Kara flowers." Thomas stepped closer to her when he noticed how pale she was. "Amanda?"

Her eyes lifted to his. Taking a deep breath, she blurted out the reason she came to his office.

"I'm pregnant."

She watched as her words slowly registered. The shock of her announcement caused him to collapse in the chair she had been sitting in.

"Pregnant." He breathed. "Are you certain?"

"Yes." Amanda clasped her hands in front of her. "I wouldn't have come here if I had not had it confirmed by a doctor."

Thomas knew she wouldn't have darkened his door for anything. If there was one characteristic they shared, it was pride. Neither ever wanted to appear foolish.

He got up and took a step toward her, uncertain how he was supposed to react. "What do you intend to do?"

Tears sparked her eyes. "Well, I am going to keep the baby and I hoped..." She bit her lip while lowering her eyes. Seems he had no intention to get back together with her. "I hope you will want to be a part of our child's life."

Thomas reached for her hand. Just because he wasn't sure whether or not to try a romantic relationship with her again, it didn't mean that he didn't want to be there for her.

"I will." He promised.

Her head jerked up and she noticed that there was no condemnation towards her reflected in his expression. Though the surprise announcement had knocked him for a loop, he was at least trying to do the right thing.

Though she had hoped to hear that he wanted to try again, she was vastly relieved to hear his promise.

"Are you planning on staying in L.A. for a while?" He asked.

"I could stay a few days." She wiped her tears with her fingers. A nervous laugh escaped her. "I wasn't sure if you would want me to after I told you about the baby."

"I would like to discuss how we will work this out." He squeezed her hand before urging her to sit down. "I have some meetings that I don't think I'll be able to get out of, but how about dinner tonight at my home?"

"I don't want to interrupt your date." She struggled with the word. "I can--"

"I'm not dating anyone." Thomas explained. "That's why I told you the flowers were more of a professional courtesy than romantic in nature."

"So you and Kara Bennett?" Amanda felt a brief spark of hope. "You're not--"

"No. She's one of the actresses on an upcoming film I'm directing." He replied.

"I see." She mumbled.

"Does 7:30 sound good?" He asked.

"Yes, of course."

"Should I pick you up?" He remembered she was staying at a hotel.

"No, I'll call for a car." She got to her feet again and held her hand out. "I know you have work and a lot to think over." Her lips curved into a sad smile. "But thank you for meeting with me and hearing me out."

He came around his desk and pulled her into a hug. Realizing how hard it was for her to come here, touched something within his heart. She seemed so fragile that he felt the need to comfort her.

Hugging her was the safest way in his opinion.

She trembled in his arms before returning his hug. Struggling with her tears, she laughed.

"Forgive me. I haven't had control of my emotions these last few months. These pregnancy hormones have a mind of their own."

Thomas handed her some tissues. "No need to apologize."

She thanked him as she dabbed under her eyes. "If I'm not crying then I am losing my temper. Poor Maxwell. I practically jumped down his throat for drinking the last Sprite on the way here."

His eyebrows lifted. "Maxwell came with you?"

"Everyone came with me." She shook her head in exasperation. "They were worried that you--" she winced. "They came to support me."

"I see." He replied. Reaching out, he gently grasped her arm. "I hate to rush you, but--"

"Of course." She gathered her things. "I'll see you this evening."

He smiled at her. "I look forward to it."

#six sentence sunday #delicate #and then i left you #olivia nevarkis #dr. ethan ramsey #tobias carrick #thomas hunt #king liam #choices open heart #choices the royal romance #choices red carpet diaries #choices crackship #a second chance #what if #long post

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allie1804-fan · 3 years

Text

Kerensa

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 , Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8

Chapter 9

The Griefcast Record

Keanu got out of the taxi at Whistledown Studios and headed in. Cariad and the recoding team greeted him and they got set up with teas, biscuits and a box of tissues on the table

“God, it’s just like a therapist’s room!” he joked

“Best to be prepared! They might be for me anyhow” she laughed.

Before we start though, can I just spend a moment being a fangirl and just say how amazing it is for me to meet you. There are so many films of yours I love – and my kids adore Duke Caboom!”

“ahh yes, Canada’s Greatest Stuntman” he boomed - “that was a fun role”

“and so perfectly cast right?”

“Yeah yeah I guess. I’m glad they picked me from the roster of Canadians they had lined up!”

“Ok, so thanks for letting me just gush for a moment! Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be!”

“First tell me the story of how we managed to get you as a guest.”

“Ok so right, so errm my friend Kerry is the link. I was filming in Cornwall this past year and uh, after we wrapped I was so charmed by the place that I decided to stay and rent a place for a couple of months down there. Kerry was my landlady and one day I came across her walking along the beach, tears streaming down her face and she was listening to your show which she highly recommended to me. I admit it took a bit of persuading to listen, given the crying thing!, but she told me it was more reassuring and uplifting than upsetting. Anyway, so sorry, this is turning into a shaggy dog tale!, so I did give it a go, really loved it

“Oh thank you”

“So then one day we were discussing an episode about baby loss, something we had in common and had talked about before and she said I should do the show. Now THAT took a lot more thought and persuasion, but she said it would do me good and there would be the angle of the man’s perspective and being someone with a public profile going through loss and you know yada, yada yada so here I am, finally!

“That’s amazing and thank you so much to Kerry for listening to the show and for your persuasive talents in getting this lovely man here today. So Keanu, as you know we always start with this question. Who are we remembering today?”

“Today we’re remembering my daughter Ava who was stillborn 23 years ago this year.”

“Ok so would you mind telling me a little bit about what happened.”

“So, ahh, it was in the spring of 1999. The Matrix had just come out and my life was pretty full on. My girlfriend Jennifer became pregnant around that time. It was unplanned and I’ll be honest, I wasn’t super happy about it at first, but she wanted to keep the baby and I said I’d support her, you know, and as time went on I was more excited than worried about becoming a dad.”

“And how was the pregnancy? How far along was Jennifer when Ava died?”

“Everything seemed fine, she, Ava was growing and developing normally. Jen was healthy. Then I was away filming, a god awful project as well! And, Um, ahh, give me a minute” Keanu cleared his throat and took a drink of water.

“I swore I wouldn’t do this” he said gesturing at himself tearing up, his voice cracking slightly “but sometimes, the memories can be, uhhh, very powerful, very vivid”

“Yes you can be taken right back like it just happened can’t you, however long ago - you know I’m 20 plus years out now and still very occasionally I can be catapulted back there. So, everything looked good but you were away, filming - and I’m sure it can’t have been an awful film”

Keanu snorted

“I assure you it was!, yes anyway, Jen went for a last check up at a little over 8 months and uh, there was no heartbeat. Ava had died and so I flew home and she had to, you know, give birth in a maternity unit, hearing all the other babies being born - I mean they have to do it there because you still might need, you know, that expertise and they tried to keep us private but those places they get busy and she had to go through all that with those sounds sometimes breaking through”

“Yes I hear that that is a common experience here in the UK too and one that SANDS, the still birth charity is trying to address. It’s interesting your choice of words: “she went through that”, presumably you were there so didn’t you go through it too?”

“Yeah, yeah - I guess, I just meant that it was worse, more traumatic mentally for her and obviously physically too”

“Sure sure, but awful for both of you nonetheless”

“Indeed, it was” Keanu paused a moment as though something important had just occurred to him “and she was beautiful too you know”

“awwwww” Cariad moaned sympathetically

“she was beautiful, perfect and warm, just silent, still”

Keanu looked up at Cariad, his eyes filled with tears once more and they both just sat for a moment, taking in the pain of his loss. Eventually, Cariad started the conversation again.

“And did you both hold her? Did the hospital staff help you, you know, to say goodbye to her?”

Yeah yeah, we did hold her. They left us be for a good amount of time, they took prints of her hands and feet and a photograph. You know they were supportive in that way, especially as we knew already, you know, that she had died, they were prepared. I don’t think we were, I mean I don’t think you can prepare for that, right? Your brain won’t let you, not really.”

“Yeah yeah, we talk about that a lot on the show, there are people who say it’s better when someone dies of an illness so you know it’s coming whereas with a sudden death you suffer more shock but I still think there’s a degree of shock you experience even when you have some warning.

“Yeah yeah and it’s so stupid, we’re all just so dumb because death is coming man, to us all but we just don’t want to think about it!” He chuckled

“So are you someone who thinks about death a lot?”

“Yeah yeah it’s always there in the back of my mind, spurring me on to do things, make that film, write that script, build that bike!”

“And do you think that’s because of losing Ava?”

“I don’t know, no not really, well maybe a little but that’s come more with getting older I think - I didn’t really have that reaction at the time”

“So what was your reaction, how did you grieve for Ava?”

Another chuckle came from Keanu.

“A more appropriate question might be how didn’t I grieve for her, at the time I mean!”

“Oh?”

“Hee hee you’re like a therapist, leaving the gaps for me to fill!”

“Some of my critics say I interrupt too much and start talking about me so…..”

“We’ll that’s not very nice is it? And also not true!”

“Thanks - Comes with the territory I guess, so please, go on, fill the gap”

“What was the question again?”

“It was about how you did or didn’t grieve for Ava after her birth?”

“Mmmm well we buried her, in the new year, she was born on Christmas Eve, which is uhhh, another tricky thing about it”

“Oh that’s awful, death on high days and holidays just adds another layer right?”

“Yeah yeah. They do - so um after that I went to Georgia to shoot a movie!”

“So you threw yourself into work then?”

“Yup, my trusty friend in times of crisis. In fact I did, let me see, 1, 2, 3, yes 3 movies in the next year and then started training for the Matrix 2 and 3 so I guess the answer is I put my feelings in a tightly locked metaphorical box and didn’t open it for quite some time!”

“And was there intrusion from the press , I guess this is pre the days of the internet being so developed and social media but how was that side of it?”

“Yeah there was some, you know photographers with long lenses at the cemetery”

“God! I can’t imagine”

“Yeah pretty low, right but in a way because of the taboo of stillbirth, people, you know interviewers and stuff, didn’t ask me about it. I mean I would sometimes say “no personal questions” but at other times that hasn’t stopped people.”

“Oh like what?”

“I’m thinking of when River, River Phoenix died, even if I said I wouldn’t answer anything personal they would still ask how I felt, did I miss him. I mean, fuck! Oh sorry I can swear right?”

“Swear away, sure, and god, fuck yeah, that deserved it. I mean obviously that’s a bit of a contradiction coming from me given we’re here and I’m making you talk about private things but”

“But I agreed, that’s the deal here, it’s not the deal to segue from “how was it jumping onto a moving bus to “how do you feel about your best friend dying!”

“Absolutely. So you said you dealt with it, but much later? What about Jennifer, how did she cope?”

“Umm, I don’t know - I mean what’s normal in that situation? She cried, she wailed like a wounded animal. Her mum moved in. I was away and not there to support her like I should have been. We weren’t really a couple either by then. We were going to co-parent but not as a romantic couple you know so it was complicated. To be honest I think a little bit of her died right then - and then she died herself the following April so you know, what you see before you is the last man standing of that family unit that might have been.”

“Woo that’s tough. You’ve really been through the mill as it were.”

“Yeah, yeah but you know I AM still standing. I’m lucky.”

“And how did Jennifer die?”

“Car wreck”

“I’m so sorry”

“Thanks, me too”

“So how is that, being the only one left? Some people talk about losing key people as losing their witness.”

“Yes! That’s it, exactly. Now it’s just me here to remember Ava, to remember her coming in and out of this world”

Yeah yeah that’s hard. So you said you dealt with it later? How did that come about?”

“Midlife crisis I guess - when I turned 40, I had a bit of a meltdown, you know, wondering about my goals, what I had or hadn’t achieved. I basically “ran away” alone to Paris on my 40th birthday, to escape any awful surprise party! And you know, I quietly fell apart in a vat of wine! When I went home my friend Janey was just like “Keanu, it’s time, time for therapy!”

“Ahhh it’s great isn’t it, big fans of that on the show!”

“Yeah I guess, I mean, ahhh I wasn’t that comfortable taking the lid off but yeah it did me a favour and helped sort my shit out. And a lot of the guilt and pain of losing Ava was gone through belatedly during that process”

“And why did you feel guilty?”

“Mmmm well I think I started to think I was a curse - my sister had been sick with leukemia, Ava had died, Jen had died, River, others as well and I felt guilty for that stupid film I was working on when it happened! So yeah, there were lots of rocks to lift up, inspect what lay beneath and deal with my emotions.”

“Well you seem like you have your shit sorted now”

“I’m a work in progress!”

“So now you’re, 23 years on, how do you remember Ava and Jen now.”

“Well it’s hard to forget the day for Ava what with it being Christmas Eve. I sometimes visit their graves - after dark if I can to avoid being hounded”

“What has the world come to when a person can’t be left in peace to visit a loved one’s resting place”

“Yeah it’s fucked up right?”

“Precisely.”

“And what else? , well I do have one little thing that my friend Alex who’s an artist, made for me. It was because of something she said she did to remember her lost loved ones. She would get a Christmas ornament that in some way represented the person and hang it on her tree at Christmas. So she made this beautiful little stained glass bird to hang up on my tree or in the house if I don’t have a tree which sometimes happens. So, uh, Ava’s name in Latin would mean bird or bird like so that’s why she did that, yes so I always think of her then and you know I would think about where she would be at a given point like when my friends kids have started school again after summer break I would think “oh Ava would be starting you know kindergarten or elementary school etc.”

“And do your family share in that?”

“Yeah, yeah - especially my mom. She has no grandchildren so yeah she remembers and we’ll have a moment sometimes yeah but it can be lonely, not having the other parent there who shares the same loss.”

“Yes I’m sure it is. Grief can be very lonely sometimes. Well, Keanu I really can’t thank you enough for coming on my little podcast and sharing your experience of baby loss and loss in the public spotlight with us today. Thank you so much for telling us about your beautiful baby girl Ava and her mum Jen.”

“Thanks for having me - I know this might sound weird, but it’s been a pleasure talking with you and remembering them today so, thank you and thanks to Kerry who suggested it. She said it would be good for my soul and she, as always, was right!”

@fortheloveoffanfic @omg-imagine @iworshipkeanureeves @toomanystoriessolittletime @ladyreapermc @paperplanesandwallflowers @patric9

#keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves fanfiction #keanu #keanu reeves #keanu reeves ofc

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taylizmasterpost · 4 years

Text

Liz After the Agency (September 2012 - September 2014)

So, Liz is spiraling. Her mental health isn’t doing great. And she was just asked to leave The Agency (presumably to take care of herself, although the public reason given was for her to start a solo career). Things are bad.

However, in the darkness, there’s always a light. And the light for Liz, in this case is her neighbor, Bryan Brown.

24 September 2012 - Liz and Bryan tweet at each other for the first time:

17 October 2012 - Taylor writes This Love:

Now, this COULD be about Liz, considering the back and forth. However, I’m more inclined to believe Taylor wrote this about Swiftgron’s first break up, right after they got back together, which you can read more about here.

The same day, Liz makes a vague tweet about jealousy:

It’s crazy weird to me that the same day Taylor is celebrating getting back together with Dianna and writing This Love, Liz is pissed off and jealous about something. Coincidence? Maybe. But I don’t think so.

22 October 2012 - Red is released. According to a later interview with the photographer who did the Red booklet (who happens to be Liz’s current roommate), Taylor based the concept of the photoshoot on some headshots they’d taken for Liz:

“Taylor is a mutual friend of ours. Stephen and his brother were friends with her years before, and I became friends with her separately. What ended up happening was one of her background singers needed headshots. When Taylor saw them a few months later, she came to me and was like, “Liz showed me the shots you took of her, and I need my album to look exactly like that.” Clearly, this was a no-brainer. I said, “OK!” Before then, I’d been kind of burned out on music photography. A lot of the shoots were super controlling. I needed a new perspective on the field itself and wanted future shoots to be very free-flowing — just the artist and a minimum crew. Luckily for Stephen and me, that’s exactly how Taylor presented the Red album shoot. So it was just the three of us shooting everything together. She wanted everybody else to remain off set, allowing for a more personal and intimate experience.”

So, I don’t know why Taylor did this. Maybe she wanted to look like a hipster for the Red album and Liz was the best she knew. Or, maybe, she wanted to scream to those who knew her well that this album was about LIZ HUETT.

In this series of Liz headshots, there’s also one specific photo of Liz wearing the Stevie Nicks moon necklace that Taylor possibly gave to her:

Is this possibly one of the reasons why Taylor wanted to mimic them for the Red album?

Later that day, Taylor goes on Good Morning America and says she wrote a new song “like two days ago” (probably talking about This Love?)

And after that, Taylor tells the LA Times that Begin Again and State of Grace are about the same person:

“There were a few track list choices I knew I was going to make way in advance,” she said. “I knew I wanted to bookend the album with ‘State of Grace’ and ‘Begin Again’ because they’re inspired by the same person who inspired a few songs on the record. I wanted to start and end the album with the first and last song I ever wrote about that relationship.”

“Then in between those songs, I wanted to paint a picture of the ups and downs I’ve experienced in life and love, not necessarily in the order it happened chronologically,” Swift continued. “I like to spread the emotions out in a way that never makes you feel like there’s a sad lull, then a burst of four songs in a row about joy. At the end of the day, I make a track list based on what my gut feeling tells me.” ‘Begin Again’ is my song version of a cliffhanger ending. Throughout the whole album, there have been songs about the trials and tribulations of love and loss, and there at the end of the record it starts all over. As soon as I wrote that song, I knew exactly where I wanted to put it.”

Now, I don’t think this means Begin Again is about Liz. I think it means that Liz is the past relationship in the song, and Dianna is the present. And Liz actually has a song called “Good About Her” that kind of mirrors Begin Again and I find that HILARIOUS and also kind of a smoking gun.

26 October 2012 -Taylor goes on Katie Couric. Katie asks if Taylor’s ex in WANEGBT got the message and Taylor says she “hasn’t heard from him since” and also mentions “some of my exes like to write really long emails.” Now, if the song is about Liz, this is a lie, because she definitely did get lunch with Liz after WANEGBT came out. However, I think it’s fair that what she’s hinting here is that things did not end well in that messy relationship.

25 October 2012 - Liz quote tweets Caitlin about crying on the treadmill to All Too Well :

8 November 2012 - Liz releases Never Know on YouTube:

youtube

The lyrics that make me think this is about Taylor are the “now and then I catch myself singing your old song.” ESPECIALLY in the context of that treadmill tweet and Liz probably having written this during her Nashville sessions over the summer. However, it could also be about Jason, who, as we know, was a struggling musician before he became a photographer.

18 November 2012 - Taylor shoots the MV for IKYWT, wears the same black and white shirt she wore around when Liz first joined the band. Liz calls the news of her leaving the Agency “bittersweet.”

And “bittersweet” is the exact same phrasing that around a week later Taylor would say the ex who most of Red is about used to describe listening to the album:

19 November 2012 - Ali Puliti tweets about listening to two Liz demos -- Blessed Are the Brokenhearted and Dammit, meaning this song, which wouldn’t be released until 2018, was likely written during those summer 2012 songwriting sessions:

When the song was eventually released by Jana Kramer in 2018, Liz posted this on Facebook:

The song also notably contains the lyric “cause I could hear you in the kitchen, playing your guitar” which REALLY REALLY makes me think of Taylor. Although it could maybe be for Jason, who was also a musician.

Here’s the story Liz told about the song:

“‘Dammit’, actually, was a story that I lived out. Like, I was with somebody I was, you know, getting very serious. We were talking about starting a life together and we even had this house, like, picked out in the city where we lived and we would drive by it and be like ‘one day when we buy that house’. And, so, when we broke up, the pain of, like, saying goodbye was really, you know, really intense, but it was also mourning the loss of the hypothetical future. So, it was like saying goodbye to the past memories and stuff, sort of what we almost had and that’s where that song came from. So, honestly, I didn’t write it for anyone else, but myself, truly. But, um, it’s beautiful that music has such a way of resonating with someone who might not even know and they connect with it so much that another artist would want to sing it. It’s such a high compliment.”

And here’s a quick clip of Liz singing it. So, seems like a Jason song, if not for the fact that she wrote it almost a year after they broke up and kept it hidden for years before eventually giving it to another artist.

13 December 2012 - Taylor’s birthday. Liz does not wish her happy birthday. This, to me, is the biggest evidence that there’s some amount of bad blood between them at this point.

14 December 2012 - The Music Video for IKYWT comes out. Taylor wears a shirt she wore a LOT when TayLiz was first a thing in 2009. She also wears a key necklace, which will be important later.

17 December 2012 - Liz posts a picture from Claire’s birthday party using a picture without Taylor in it (even though it seems fair to assume Taylor would’ve been invited).

20 December 2012 - Liz tells a fan her favorite song from Red is All Too Well:

21 December 2012 - Liz wishes Claire happy birthday. Further signaling bad blood with her and Taylor since she didn’t bother to do it for Taylor.

9 January 2013 - Liz releases Blessed Are the Brokenhearted:

youtube

Here she describes love as “burning up out of control” which is the same phrase Taylor used on Red -- “burning red” -- and Begin Again -- “I’ve been spending the last eight months thinking all love ever does is break and burn and end.” Also, the idea of love as an out of control flame really does describe their relationship.

20 January 2013 - Liz releases One Hand on the Wheel:

youtube

Here, much like in Red, Liz describes a relationship using the metaphor of a car. The relationship is messy, maybe even toxic. There’s even a lyric that sounds like it could be out of treacherous: “Being wrong shouldn’t feel so right like it does / But it does.”

22 January 2013 - Liz releases Wreck of Who I Am.

youtube

This is the song that is the strongest evidence for me that Liz WAS going through some mental health stuff over the summer when she was doing all this songwriting, and that that Reddit post about running into a drunk Liz who said she was fired for being “out of control” seems somewhat accurate. Here Liz sings about her battles, the way she’s losing them, and asks her younger self what she would think if she saw her now.

I’m not going to go into too much detail on Liz and Bryan (since unlike her and Jason there’s no need to use them to say much about TayLiz) but, despite his flaws, he was the person to pick Liz up off the ground when she was feeling this way, so he should get some credit for that.

Sometime around this - Liz releases Stones. Similar upbeat nature to Blessed Are the Brokenhearted with mentions to some of the struggles of Wreck of Who I Am.

Choice Lyrics:

When you’re knocked off your throne And lying on your back Things will never be so clear Cause when you see it all like that Sooner or later it comes around Yeah we all taste that bitter truth But all the stones you’re throwing now Will be the ones they throw at you

Also with these batch of songs, we get Sun Out of the Rain:

So baby, hold on, the storm will roll away It may be pouring down, but it’s only for today A million pieces might be falling into place And when there are no words to say We’ll make the sun out of the rain

29 January 2013 - Chantelle Paige posts a picture of Liz and Taylor and talks about a “sad night turned awesome.” Once again, I think this is a throwback from that night in 2012.

2 April 2013 - Liz goes to therapy. Her and Bryan are dating at this point.

2 September 2013 - Liz tells a fan on twitter that she hasn’t been to any of the Red shows, which to me definitely backs up that fan account of Liz being bitter about being fired.

23 December 2013 - Liz wishes Taylor Happy Birthday. This seems like a peace offering to me, considering they haven’t spoken in like a year and she refused to do this the earlier year. Also worth noting that Swiftgron is on its last legs at this point.

1 March 2014 - Sara Evans releases Put My Heart Down, which was co-written by Liz and is about walking away from a toxic relationship:

youtube

Now, from what I know of Liz and Jason, this doesn’t seem like their dynamic at all. It’s too soon for it to be about her and Bryan However, it does remind me a LOT of what Taylor was writing about on Red. Her are some choice lyrics:

I never pictured us fighting this much Thought we were figured out, but it’s so messy now Your words cut so deep and I think you should leave

Put my heart down and walk away This kind of love is dangerous So pack up all your things, just leave some air to breathe A million toxic tears fallin’ like rain over here This is the final hour The end of our story tonight And I don’t wanna fight

Now, please go listen to Treacherous, Battle/Let’s Go and Story of Us and tell me this is not the same relationship.

Bonus though, this song is copyrighted for 2014, making it make even LESS SENSE for it to be written about Bryan.

17 July 2014 - Timothy James Brown releases a song called Change My Mind that was co-written by Liz. I’m out of video links, so here are some choice lyrics:

All the horses became soldiers Dark as night to drag me away A complicated kind of heartbreak When you promise somebody you’ll stay

I know you’ve been hurting I know more than most I don’t have the courage Where you’re going, I can’t follow

To me, this reads as Liz making peace with leaving the Agency. She recognizes her demons, and how they ruined her relationship with Taylor, and says “where you’re going, I can’t follow” because she’s not in a good enough place to keep touring with Taylor.

So things are looking bleak in TayLiz land. However, Liz seems to be recovering! She’s writing songs acknowledging some problems in the relationship and her own battles, and she’s also in therapy and dating Bryan. It’s time for some reconciliation. But first, let’s see what’s up in Taylor-land:

Liz References on the Red Tour

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tarithenurse · 4 years

Text

Nightingale - 19

Fandom: Naruto Pairing: Hatake Kakashi &/x Fem!OC Contents: Yeah...this gets darker with some violence, a torture-ish situation, angst, sadness. A/N: Gotten to 347 of Shippuuden, btw. What a ride! As usual, ASK or REBLOG for tag!

Ch. 19

Her restraints haven't been altered, so Uguisu sits straight in the chair – the only display of freedom being a leg daintily slung over the other, allowing a foot to tap along in the air to an unheard melody as if she's bored. There is no fear in her face, just mild curiosity as she regards the towering man who has turned to her now. Gloved fingers move nimbly to release the gag.

"How are you feeling, Minami-kun?"

If she's surprised at the question and the (relatively) kind voice, she doesn't show it. "Much better, thank you. I don't believe I've slept this well since I was a teen."

"I suppose not..." Ibiki concedes, "but how come you managed to tonight? I would expect someone with your claimed experiences would have nightmares."

"Normally, yes. I guess I was too exhausted even to dream." The interrogator has begun circling the chair where she sits so her gaze lands on Kakashi instead.

"It can be a relief to finally tell the truth."

She nods. "Might also have helped that establishing the seal burned through all my chakra."

"The seal...yes." Pausing, he lets a hand brush against her shoulder, and while Kakashi holds his breath in anticipation, the woman merely tenses. "Do you feel...different with the seal?"

Uguisu purses her lips slightly as if in deep thought. "Well, apart from the physical effect...I'm not sure. It might be psychological that I feel free...like a looming shadow has been chased away...it probably is...but it's the best metaphor."

"You mentioned a physical effect?"

"It throbs, hurts. Not the worst I've ever felt but enough to be annoying." It’s impossible to tell she’s experiencing any discomfort when looking at her.

"Last night, you told us how the Curse Mark would be triggered if you used too much of your chakra or kekkei genkai." She nods at his words. "Is that the same now?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Why not?"

The little bit Kakashi knows about the woman, he can easily imagine that she's biting a sarcastic comment back rather than the calm reply she gives: "It seemed unwise to do anything without proper approval first...and I'm afraid to try."

"Explain."

"...which part?"

"The latter," Ibiki prompts less patiently but adds, "if you'd be so kind."

"When the mark activates, it's as if Orochimaru takes over mind and body and I...don't...want that."

Kakashi fears for one short moment that the woman will be asked to continue explaining, to retell in gruelling details what exactly she has suffered through at the hands of Konoha's enemy, and maybe that was Ibiki's plan as he bends over her to scrutinize her eyes and face because to the careful observer there's a subtle change in his stance.

He signals Inoichi who brings out a backpack together with a bundle containing the gear she’d carried last night.

“Is this yours?” The man with the long ponytail lifts the backpack.

“It is.”

“What is in it?” He places it on the end of the table that’s free.

A shrug. “I suppose that depends if anything has been added or removed since last I packed it.” Undoubtedly, Uguisu doesn’t trust the men very much. “There should be some tools, weapons, and clothing of mine. You’d also find a book from the Academy’s Library, a necklace, an alarm clock, someone’s favourite cup...washed, I might add...ehm, an also-washed sock, a photograph, and a pretty stone.”

Every item mentioned is procured from the depths of the luggage and lined up on the table.

Morino takes over again: “You have stolen these things, true?”

“Is it still considered stealing if the intention from the beginning is to return them?”

“Then why take them at all?”

A grim smile dances across the woman’s face. “The note explained why I borrowed the book. The rest? Proof that I could’ve killed but chose not to. I’m not the enemy.”

A smile is tugging at Kakashi’s lips behind the black fabric of the collar as he sees the interrogator momentarily at a loss for words – the skills he has honed over the years are telling him the explanation is true or at least not detectable as a lie.

"Then tell me," he recovers, "what you can do with your skill. Why was it so important to Orochimaru?"

"Because it can force people to go against their very nature." Only silence answers her. "One order from me, worded carefully, and the person will have no choice but to follow it to their best of their abilities. They will want to. Like an obsession or addiction nagging their mind until they give in to it because it's the only thing that matters to them. Orochimaru sought to use it to gain access to restricted places or during interrogations if a prisoner refused to tell him what he wanted. At the time, it wasn't necessary for the sake of carrying out murders but I'm certain he considered that as an option too," she sighs, "and probably more."

"Show us."

The onlookers were already silent but the hush that falls in the room makes it feel as though all air has been sucked away – a feeling that's intensified when Uguisu stares at the man with open mouth.

"Show? Are you...you don't mean that," she gasps, "or are...you volunteering?"

"Hm," Kakashi knows something's brewing when the interrogator begins to smile, "not me, no. However I'd recommend you demonstrate your skill on someone who has stated their devotion to you." Yeah, that makes sense. "Kakashi."

Even before Ibiki has finished saying his name, the jōnin in question has pushed to his feet. If Asuma had been there, he’d probably look at the white-haired friend in a way which would mean something along the lines of "told you so". The only Sarutobi, the old Hokage, shifts in his seat but doesn't object, allowing the addition to the people in the arena.

"Order him to follow the first order I give him."

Just do it. Kakashi nods to the woman, hoping to banish the fear from the doe-like eyes as she shifts her attention between the two men. I got nothing to hide.

“I must be able to sign,” she protests.

Without hesitation, the tall man in charge cuts her bonds and even allows her time to rub some life into hands and fingers before he motions towards the test-bunny. Is she hesitating? Just as Kakashi begins to wonder, Uguisu’s hands flies through a series of signs.

"Kakashi..."

Everything changes. The surroundings seem to fade away along with the people in it – even the shadow that once was Ibiki is unable to take form or speak audibly as it leans closer to Uguisu. Uguisu. She's washed out too, but her voice rings clear, somehow guiding him as she speaks again and he just knows that anything she says is important. Follow the order Ibiki gives me. It's a strange thing to say, but if that's what she wants then he'll happily do it and as he nods, the man in question begins to stand out clearer in the blurred world.

"Strangle her until she passes out."

A part of Kakashi tries to object, but his body moves on its own accord until he's leaning over her because this is what she wanted. She told him to follow the order. So he does.

The skin is soft and smooth under his fingers, the little hairs in the neck obediently bend under the pressure and it tickles a memory of having touched the blue strands before but in a different way. Above his hands the usually pretty face is distorted: mouth open, eyes watering and huge. She's afraid? But she wanted me to do this. It doesn't make sense, really, but he clings on to the one thing he knows for sure. Do as told. Her eyes roll backwards and the whites contrast the flushed skin. Almost there. Almost done as you wanted. Something wet lands on her face. Drops of something unimportant. She's resisting a bit now, but it's easy to avoid the instinctual flailing. Almost. And then she stops. The haze of the world lifts as Kakashi's hands fall to his sides and he realizes what he has done.

It takes four seconds to lower her onto the floor.

It takes five before he can hear the heartbeat, sluggish and faint.

It feels like an infinity before she gasps and coughs, each intake of breath shuddering through her body. It nearly breaks his heart to feel Uguisu stiffen as he pulls her into his lap.

"Truth..." Ibiki’s standing with his arms crossed, glaring down at the woman and smiling lazily as he takes in how she reacts even in her ally's arms. "Gotta admit I'm impressed it actually worked...maybe you're not completely useless after all."

"You wanna...see...usefulness?" she wheezes, pushing off of Kakashi and onto her feet. She's shaking, whether from the underlying trauma or the near death experience itself is unclear.

The man who ordered the attack strolls around the arena. "You didn't even try to fight him."

"Why should I...an order cannot be annulled..." Slender fingers tentatively stroke the angry marks left behind on her throat, making Kakashi’s gut tighten.

"Aï...The only thing I've seen so far is a scared woman crying and snivelling."

Something ignites within Kakashi almost as if he had been the target of the insult. But if I butt in...no...He knows the senior well enough to understand that this is part of the tactic, one move of many in an elaborate game of chess between him and the blue-haired girl.

Maybe she knows it too, at least she doesn't hide a tiny smile. "Fight back." Now her smile has grown into a full grin. "Perhaps a duel? Unless it's beneath you to fight a snivelling, scared girl like me? Hmm?"

"No involvement of others."

"Hm," she agrees.

Getting the hint, her white-haired friend retreats to his seat from before, only now realizing that his mask is wet.

Below, Uguisu is equipping the gear she normally wears and meticulously checks the contents of each pouch and sheath. Her hands are shaking. The sound of her breathing still has a slight creaking to it. Maybe for that reason, the scarred man is allowing her to take her time. He wants to see how capable she is.

Ibiki squares off at one side of the sandy floor. "The opponent must yield."

Again, she hums in agreement, taking her own place opposite of him. "Before we start...you might want to have a look in the book," she sweetly offers, "first page."

"Hah! Such a low trick won't work."

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thechangeling · 4 years

Note

I need to hear more about Mark Blackthorn having ADHD please indulge me this concept sounds so interesting

Ok I have photographic proof from Lady Midnight because I didn't have the time or the patience to look through all of them and it's only the first few chapters, but I managed to get a whole bunch from just that. However if I posted the pictures then I would need to transcribe everything on the pages. So I'm taking the quotes directly from the books and you're just gonna have to take my word for it. Ok?

Some of the traits of ADHD just to name a few are Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, impulsivity/impatience, irritability/being prone to aggression, risk taking behavior, stubbornness and also others but they aren't relevant right now.

RSD is defined as being very sensitive to what people think, say and feel about you, always assuming the worst. Those of us who suffer from RSD constantly think that everyone we love is going to leave us or that they secretly hate us. It creates insecurity and low self esteem and feeling like a failure when you don't live up to other people's expectations. Also very explosive anger when you think you're being rejected.

Evidence of RSD:

- "You don't hate me?" Mark said, lying in Kieran's arms somewhere in a high Alpine meadow. His unkempt blond hair brushed against Kieran's shoulder as he turned his head. "For being nephilim?"

- "I don't know where I belong, he said. "But if you let me, I will try to belong here."

- Mark glanced at his brother, and then the others clearly worried. "Was that helpful?" he said. Was it a thing I should not have said?"

RSD and irritability/being prone to aggression:

- "Speech and petitions," Mark spat. "Might as well do nothing. I knew- I knew they had not chosen to come for me. I knew they had abandoned me to the wild hunt." He swallowed painfully. "I thought it was because they feared Gwyn and the vengeance if the hunt. Not because they hated and despised me."

- "You won't fight for me either," Mark said. "That much is clear." He glanced around the room. "I have come back to a world where I am not wanted it seems."

Evidence of Impulsivity/impatience and irritability/being prone to anger and stubbornness:

- "No," Mark interrupted, his voice rising with fear. "You will tell me now. Where is my full blood sister, the daughter of Lady Nerissa? Where is Helen?"

- Something flashed in Mark's eyes. "If you won't go without him, we will not go at all." He said. "You cannot force me to give up the information."

Evidence of impulsivity, risk taking behavior and impatience:

- "I'll show you. Come with me to look for the place. Why wait? The investigation is urgent isn't it? We must find the killer."

- He stepped off the roof. "Climb down with me," he said and now there was an edge if mockery in his voice. This entire page is just peak ADHD. Like climbing down the side of a building? Peak ADHD!!!!

- "Not yet," Emma said as Mark ducked into the cave. "Mark!" She called. "Mark, don't-Mark!"

- Mark moved towards the circle. "Don't-" Emma lowered her phone. "Go in there," she sighed.

This is also evidence of an inability to listen to instructions which is also an ADHD thing.

And this final scene between Ty and Mark screams ADHD/autism solidarity. It's also evidence of irritability and stubbornness.

- "My turn," said Mark. Diana turned towards him in surprise. He was already stalking towards the training dummy. He strode directly up to it, his boots scuffing the ash and salt on the ground. "Mark," Diana said. "You're not supposed to-." He caught hold of the dummy and yanked it toward himself, ripping the stuffed head from it's body.

- She remembered what Ty had said about his brother in the library. It's not his fault if he doesn't understand everything, or if things are too much for him. It's not his fault. "Now we both have hurt hands," Mark said.

I cried so much reading that scene for the first time. I cry everytime I read it. I'm crying while typing this up. Because it's relatable. It's me and my stepsister who has ADHD. Me and my dad who is also autistic. Me and Alex. Me and Lauryn. Me and all of my friends and mutuals who have ADHD or autism.

Now we both have hurt hands is like a metaphor for our solidarity. It's a way to say, "I've got you. Even if no one else does."

Talking about Stars to Burn in perticular:

Ok so kissing Kieran and running away immediately afterwards is like PEAK RSD!! It's the Kit Herondale speed run! 😂😂

But seriously. It's also very impulsive too.

He's also hella insecure and self deprecating. People with ADHD (in my experience) tend to have a low opinion of themselves. I think this ties into emotional dysregulation. Also depression seems to often be comorbid with ADHD. He refuses to believe that Kieran loves him back because it just seems impossible to him. He does this with Cristina in TDA too.

Not only does Mark run away but he ends up running over a bunch of cliffs that are very slippery from the rain. He only realizes that this is dangerous and not a good idea after some time passes. This is classic little sense of the danger that you are in and impulsive decision making.

So yeah that's my arguement. Very lack luster Ik. But still somewhat convincing no?

#asks #mark blackthorn #adhd stuff

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forever-rogue · 4 years

Text

Honey & Velvet - Part 4

Summary: Ruthless CEO Max Lord is about to meet his biggest match yet in another CEO such as cunning and biting as he can be.

A/N: Thank you guys for all of your support on this story. Your love for it is beautiful and I appreciate. I hate and love Max so much! If you’d like to be tagged, please let me know, and as always, feedback and comments are always welcome! xx

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: masturbation (18+ only!!); sex; language

MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

Max sighed to himself as he grabbed his letter opener to unseal the surprise special delivery. He wasn’t used to having do such a menial task for himself; no that’s why he paid others to do it all for him. Tossing the weighted object down, he reached in and felt around, trying to figure out what was inside. It didn’t feel like a letter or any sort of documents, but pictures rather. Polaroids to be exact.

His breath hitched in his throat as he slowly pulled the small stack of photos, trying to prevent himself from taking them in too quickly. He wanted to savor this moment, to remember his exact reaction when he saw the photos. Since it was you and he already had a taste of your fiery personality, he knew it could have been pictures of anything; perhaps you had decided to play a trick on? Hell, it could have been pictures of your feet...although he might have found a way to think that was sexy too. He was a man of...interesting taste.

He set the small, square photos in a neat stack in from of him, arranged just perfectly for him to easily filter through. As soon as his eyes landed on the first image, he picked it up and held it in front of his eyes to examine it closely. There you were, frozen in time and space, immortalized in the photo. You were staring back at him, posed in a scandalous position as you stared directly at the camera, lips pouted perfectly. He licked his own lips as he looked through the photos trying not to get too lost in them. He was, after all, still in the middle of his work day, and not exactly in the positions to just get out his frustrations.

Letting a heavy breath out through his nose, Maxwell already felt his cock twitch in his trousers, that familiar sensation beginning to take hold. He flicked through the rest of the photos, each of them getting progressively more scandalous, until the last photo. He audibly groaned at it as he tried to study it as closely as possibly. Of course you would manage to send him a photograph of yourself completely nude, but with just enough shadowing so he couldn’t see everything. But it left very little to the imagination, and was enough to send him over the edge.

Fuck it.

Tossing the picture back onto the edge, he quickly unzipped his trousers, which happened to be brand new and in season; he’d made quick work of refreshing his wardrobe after your little comment when you’d first had cornered him in his office. He pulled out his cock, already fully hard and leaking, and leaned back in his chair. The door to his office wasn’t locked, but he was so caught up in the moment it didn’t matter to him, besides that he knew most people knew better than ever dare to walk in without knocking.

A low sound, a mixture between a moan and growl escaped his lips as he started to stroke himself, eyes scanning over your myriad of photos. He could only imagine how good it was going to feel when he finally was able to be inside of you, to feel your walls around him. He’d get his sweet, sweet revenge on you for making him lust this hard after you. He could see it now: taking his time with you, leaving you on edge until you were crying and begging for him to finally fuck you.

With the image of you firmly planted in his mind, it didn’t take long before stifled moans managed to slip past his lips. Finding one of the favorite photos of the bunch he held it near his cock as he came, letting your name spill off of his lips like a quiet prayer; repeated, gentle, hopeful. He spilled all over his hand, dragging his high out, managed to get a few drops of his thick cum on the edge of your photo. Max you couldn’t wait to see how good you would look with it all over you.

He smiled at his handiwork before dropping the Polaroid back onto his desk and reaching for one of his trusty handkerchiefs. He felt bad, almost, about the stack of used squares that the cleaner had to deal with every week. Sometimes it was none, sometimes, especially of late, they were many. Anyone with half a brain could figure out what they used for, but he couldn’t bothered in caring. If anything, Max could easily convince them that it was really anything.

But for now, coming down from his climax, he was...satisfied and would be content for a small while. Glancing around to make sure no one had intruded for whatever reason, he gathered the photos and tucked them into the top drawer of his desk, the one that was always locked. They would live there for now, until they were of further use, which probably would be sometime in the near future.

»»————-　♡　————-««

For several hours you were sitting in your office, twiddling your thumbs, both metaphorically and literally, as you waited, and waited, and waited, for a call that never came. It was frustrating, infuriating even, to sit around and be so distracted that it prevented you from even working. How could you let this one man, this one infuriating man, get under your skin so much?

After a while of sitting around and getting nothing done, you let out a long sigh, dropping your head to the desk as you tried to clear your mind. You thought you were being quiet, at least somewhat subtle, but Adina was quick to knock on your door, poking her head inside to find you in distress.

“Y/N?” she asked as you sat up bolt right, trying to collect yourself and not make it seem like you were nearing the middle experiencing mental anguish. Over a fucking man.

“What can I do for you?” you asked with a stunted smile. She raised an eyebrow, giving you a quizzical expression. Of all the times to be a bad liar, this was not the time.

“Is everything alright?” she asked and you nodded even before the question was fully out, which most definitely didn’t help your case, “really? Don’t mind me, but you’re acting...off.”

“Off?” your voice pitched about an octave as you realized you were still digging your own grave. She’d known you for so long, she knew you about as well as you knew yourself, “w-what do you mean?”

“I mean...” she trailed off and waved her arm around as if trying to make a general statement of off, “you’re acting kind of weird, different lipstick, which I’ve never seen you do before, I don’t think you’ve done a single thing today, which I am totally not judging by the way...ever since you’ve gotten those deliveries. What even was in them?”

“Adina,” you popped up and walked over to her, putting an around her shoulder, doing your best to give her a small hug, “my sweet, sweet Adina. There’s nothing wrong, I promise. I’m just...tired. Had a late night. It’s totally just me, you have nothing to worry about. I might take off a little early today though...try and get some rest.”

In Benjamin’s bed. Again.

“Y/N,” she back down in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited you closely, “I’ve known you since we were in college. I know when you’re acting different.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” you insisted, leaning against the doorway, trying to present yourself as being cool and collect, “I promise. I could never lie to you. Everything is fine.”

Except right now. I’m a dirty, dirty liar.

“If you’re sure,” she was hesitant, but willing to accept your answer. You’d never given her a reason not to believe you before, why would you start now?

“I am,” you tried to let out a natural sounding laugh, but even to it sounded stunted...awkward, “you needn’t worry about me. Your energy is much better spent on almost anything else.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you shot her a quick wink. You were about to go back into your office to attempt to do a little work before making a departure for the day, but Adina cleared her throat right before you walked away, “yes, ma’am?”

“Your blouse,” she pointed to the mismatched buttons, “it’s all wonky. Fix your buttons, boss.”

“Oh,” your cheeks felt like they were on fire as you looked down and spotted your mistake. Oops, you wanted to kick yourself. In your haste to slip back into your work clothes, you must not have been paying that much attention. You hoped that Adina hadn’t noticed that your shirt was perfectly crisp and buttoned when you came in that morning, “silly me...must...be getting lazy in the morning.”

“Hmm,” was the only sound out of her mouth as she slowly swiveled in her chair, back to the work sprawled out on her desk. Your door was almost closed when she remarked, “Benjamin called for a little while ago. Said you spoke this morning and asked if you could give him a call back at your convenience.”

“Ben,” you sighed loudly, thinking about whacking your head against the door. Of course he called; that would only raise Adina’s suspicions - the two of you hadn’t parted on good terms and that was knowledge to most people, “oh funny. I’ll give him a call back.”

“It’s been a while since you’ve spoken to him, hasn’t it?” there was a curious lilt to her voice as she seemed to play Sherlock, digging and digging until she finally discovered the truth. You turned and gave her a small smile, “I didn’t know you were still on speaking terms with him.”

“We...are,” if that’s what you called spending time in bed and fucking nowadays, “I had to speak to him for something business related. It’s just a transaction we’re hammering out.”

A wonderful choice of words.

“Sure,” there was a tone to suggest she absolutely did not believe you, but without any real evidence, she couldn’t just accuse you of anything. On top of that, you’d never given her a reason not to trust you; you were the boss after all, “if I can do anything, please let me know.”

“The...envelope from earlier,” your voice cracked a little and you found it hard to meet her eyes, “it got delivered, yes?”

“Yes,” she promised, “I gave it directly to Mr. Lord’s assistant and I saw her bring it into his office.”

“Wonderful-”

“What was it regarding, again? Anything I need to be aware of?” you swallowed the lump in your throat at her words. You hated having to lie to her as much as you hated the feeling you were experiencing for the petulant bastard himself.

“No. If anything comes up, you’ll be the first to know,” you promised and turned back to your office and closed the door slowly as you heard her mumble something in response. Making sure the door was locked, you let out a low, “fuck.”

You hated lying and trying to sneak around. You shouldn’t have even needed to be sneaking; you were a grown woman that could do whatever you pleased. If you wanted to fuck Maxwell Lord then you could.

Shit.

You finally admitted it to yourself. You wanted to fuck him. What had happened to you? It had to be...something. Maybe your hormones were off or...literally anything else. There’s no other reason you could possibly want him, right? He was just a silly man child in an overpriced suit with a bad dye job and too much time on his hands. What was so appealing about that? Nothing. But the growing neediness between your legs suggested otherwise.

Whatever it was you knew you couldn’t let it get any further. No, you had to clear your mind and get back to work. This was all business and it couldn’t be anything more. You would never mix business and pleasure and you certainly weren’t about to start for him.

Jumping onto your desk, you reached for your phone, fingers hesitating slightly as you contemplating dialing Max and telling him you were done. But no. That would be giving into him, egging him on and giving him just more reason to contact you again.

Dialing Benjamin wasn’t a much better option, but right now it was the lesser of two evils. With a shaking finger, you dialed his direct office line, still finding that you had it memorized. A part of you was hoping that he wouldn’t pick up; if he didn’t you would have the excuse that you tried but couldn’t get through to him. Yes, you thought to yourself, perfect.

But just before it rang out, that smooth, slightly accented voice picked up on the other, “Y/N. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ben,” you said firmly, not surprised that he immediately knew it was you, “you can’t just call my office whenever you please! Adina is going to get suspicious - everyone knows we don’t talk.”

“Relax,” he chuckled on the other end, “I was perfectly pleasant and didn’t offer her even a drop of what happened last night.”

“Ben-”

“What?” he asked and you sighed in response, “you’re the one calling me back. Surely you could have just ignored me if you weren’t interested in...speaking.”

“Fine,” you gave in, rolling your eyes and wishing he could see, “when are you free?”

“I can be free whenever you need me to be,” gods was he always this cocky? He was almost as bad as Max. Maybe it was time to reevaluate your taste in men.

“Meet me at mine in an hour,” you hated yourself even as the words came out, “but this is the last time. I swear it, Benjamin.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” you loathed the nickname but he always made it a point to call you that, “I’ll see you at yours. Champagne?”

“Whatever I need to drown out that fact that I’ve resorted to fucking you again,” you twisted the cord in your hands as he could just laughed, “perhaps something stronger.”

“I’ll see you soon,” with that he hung up and you found yourself listening to the dial tone again. Slowly, you put the phone down, it suddenly feeling heavy in your hand, along with the weight of everything else in your heart. You shouldn’t be acting like this; like some sort of fool just running around like sort of animal in heat.

But this was the last time; you kept repeating that to yourself. You were just going to fuck Ben one last time, or times that afternoon, and then get back to your normal self. Maybe if you kept repeating that yourself it would eventually come true.

Maybe.

»»————-　♡　————-««

“Oh fuck,” you were on top of Ben, hands on his chest as you rode him, feeling yourself getting closer and closer to that sweet edge you so desperately craved. His large hands were on your hips, in a grip like a vice as he steadied you.

“God, you feel so good,” he managed to moan in between his thrust as he felt your walls start to clench around him, “missed having you so much.”

You didn’t return the sentiment, not exactly proud that you were in this position, but when you were so lost in the moment, you didn’t care. Closing your eyes as you started to see stars, you threw your head back in ecstasy as the familiar crescendo of your orgasm started in the bottom of your belly. You felt his cock twitch within you as he thrust with more vigor.

“Fuck,” Ben groaned, “‘m gonna cum.”

“Me too,” his hands from your hips to your breasts, massaging them in just the right way to pull a few mewls from your lips. Gods, it had been ages since you’d been with someone that knew how to touch you, to make you feel good. If the two of you weren’t so similar and didn’t butt heads all the time, you relationship could have blossomed into something beautiful. But you were okay with this - a satisfying orgasm; it was better than nothing.

It was only a few more bounces before you climaxed, a small cry erupting from your lips as you waves of pleasure rippled throughout your whole body. Ben came along with you, coating your insides with hot, thick ropes of cum as your name came off his lips repeatedly, like a quiet prayer.

Running your hands over his chest, you were so lost in the moment that you didn’t even realize what you were saying. But when a soft little Max fell off your lips, that wasn’t lost on Benjamin, your current partner who was certainly not Maxwell Lord.

“What?” he asked as his eyes snapped open and the moment was all but killed. He stopped moving and his roughly came back to your hips as he pushed you off of him. You let out a sound of surprise at the sound movement, and the loss of feeling so full, as you fell against your pillows.

“What the hell?” you asked as you suddenly felt more naked and exposed than ever, pulling the silk sheet up to cover yourself, “what’s your problem, Ben?”

“Who the fuck is Max?” he asked with wild eyes as he practically jumped out of your bed, grabbing his discarded clothes on the floor. Your own eyes widened in shock as you realized what must have happened, “who is he?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“I’m not a fucking idiot,” his voice was low, dangerous, almost predatory as he pulled his clothes back on, “is that why you’ve been wanting to see me?”

“Ben, you don’t understand,” you closed your eyes and groaned as you leaned back against the headboard. A few tears of frustration welled up in your eyes as you tried to get him to see reason. You weren’t the only bad guy in this scenario; he too basically had admitted this was just for sex, “it’s not like that. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” he repeated with a snarl as he shook his head at you, “it’s not that complicated, Y/N, it never is. If you’re so caught up in thinking about whoever the fuck Max is, go and fuck him.”

“Ben-”

“And leave me out of it,” he walked out of your bedroom, but you weren’t satisfied with leaving it be. Instead, you dashed out of bed, still as naked as the day you were born, and walked after him.

“Don’t act like I’m the bad guy,” you tried your best to contain your temper, “we agreed that this was just sex. We both got what we wanted. Hell, I wouldn’t have cared if you pretended I was fucking Cleopatra. It’s not personal and it’s not that deep. Get over yourself and be glad you got someone to fuck you with that piss pour excuse of an attitude.”

“You’re a lot of things, Y/N,” he sighed as he shook his head at you, “I didn’t think you were this. I’m out of here. I get that this was just sex, and I can get down with that. But if you just wanted someone else the whole time, you could have done me the courtesy of letting me know. As least have been honest.”

“You’re one to talk.”

��When’s the last time you were honest with yourself?” he asked and you hung your head. He had a point with that, at the very least, “maybe if you figure out what you really want you can let me know. But this? Where I’m just a substitute for what you really want? I’m not okay with it.”

“Just leave,” you pointed at the door and he left without another word. You sighed as you relocked the door after him, cursing yourself more than anything. He had made some decent points and you were willing to admit that, but you hated yourself more than anything. How could you have left him get into your mind like this. He was slowly consuming every part of your thoughts. Even when you thought you were able to keep him out, he managed to invade your mind.

Walking to the fridge, you pulled out the bottle of champagne that Ben had brought with him, quickly cracking it open and filling up a class for yourself. You took it and sat out on the balcony, in the dying light of day, far beyond caring about who, if anyone, would see you in your naked glory. At this point you felt lost. You didn’t know what to do anymore, and you weren’t sure if you were to give in quite yet. Could you ever live with yourself if you gave in to the biggest prick you’d ever met?

»»————-　♡　————-««

The next couple of days passed in sheer, agonizing slowness. You weren’t sure how time could manage to pass so slowly, but sure enough it did. You swore that for every hour that crept by it had felt like ten. Your mind was all over the place and it was hard to focus on any one thing. But you made yourself stick it out and managed to get the bare minimum done. It was better than nothing.

And if anyone nothing anything off, they didn’t mention it. Maybe you were that good of an actress. Adina had only given a concerned glance here and there but never pried more than necessary. She probably knew better than to upset you and unleash your wrath. There had been a few times when you had gotten angry, truly angry, and she had witnessed all of them. It was scary, and truth be told she hadn’t realized you were possible of such ire.

But as the weekend slowly approached, you were glad you’d have an excuse to isolate and remain at home, feeling sorry for yourself. But you found yourself drifting further and fruther into a daydream, lost as you started outside your window, you found yourself picking up the phone. His number was halfway dialed by the time you really realized what you were doing. Biting the inside of your cheek, you willed yourself to stop and put the phone down. You were long beyond that point though; you knew that deep down in your bones.

“Maxwell Lord’s office,” was her voice always so sickeningly sweet? You could still hang up, if you really wanted to.

“Y/N L/N for Mr. Lord, if he’s available,” there was a pause on her end as she registered who you were. It was almost as if she was judging you; you didn’t blame her. You were judging you too. All you heard was a few clicks of the phone system and then a bit of tense silence before the other end was picked up.

“Y/N,” for the first time, his voice didn’t have that automatically arrogant tone. It sounded almost...normal, kind even. When you didn’t say anything he let out a small laugh, “I was wondering if I’d ever heard from you. I received your package by the way, it was...exquisite.”

“Why?” you suddenly blurted out, unable to control yourself, “why me?”

“Why you what?” he smiled to himself as he leaned back in his chair, feet on his pristine desk as normal, “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Why are you coming after me?” you asked, hiding your face behind your hand, feeling a flush come over you, “I’m just...”

“You,” he finished for you. If you didn’t know him, you’d almost think he was normal...just like any other man, “what more do you need?”

“I...” you trailed off, unable to believe the words that were teetering on your lips, “when can I see you?”

He let out a warm laugh, and when he wasn’t be a complete jerk, it was a pleasant sound; a warm, rich, velvety timbre. You wondered if you had made a mistake...if it was too late to take it back, “I happen to be free all weekend. If I didn’t know any better, Ms. L/N, I think you were volunteering to spend time with me. Did Mr. Vasquez did not do it for you anymore?”

“How do you know about Ben-”

“It doesn’t matter,” there was that a bit of that arrogant tone in his voice. Of course. The real Maxwell Lord was bound to come out at one point or another, “I’ll have a car to pick up tomorrow evening at six.”

“Fine,” will you had the option of refusing his offer, you both knew you weren’t going to. But you still liked the illusion of choice.

“And Y/N?” you waited for him to go, “wear it. All of it.”

Without feeling the need to expand, he hung up and you did the same, biting your lip in almost nervous anticipation. You’d finally given in and broken down. He had you right where he wanted you. You could still change your mind, refuse to go through with it, and keep whatever was left of your dignity...

But your fate had been sealed some time ago. The day you first inked a deal to work with him. The first time you called him out for shamelessly staring at your tits.

You sighed lightly.

What a world.

»»————-　♡　————-««

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