#and that’s. freely. enthusiastically. easily and without abandon.

[contactlessdrivethru]

there is something unique and deeply special about monkey d luffy as a protagonist. he’s overwhelmingly ADORED by the fandom. he’s consistently the most or at least top 3 most popular characters in the whole series. peoples takes about him are gushingly positive. and that’s… really uncommon.

a LOT of fandoms i’ve witnessed or been in have a tendency to favor characters other than the main character. especially in anime. the main characters are often written as a blank slate for readers/watchers to project onto, but that makes them not as interesting and so they don’t get the fan attention.

but luffy is so far from that. and he’s ALWAYS been this way. we love him so much. he’s the heart of the story and the heart of the fandom in every single way. and i think that speaks to how well-written he is as a character. he’s fun and charming and complex and interesting and he makes us laugh and cry and cheer and hope and love. he’s able to inspire so much joy in people, both in his world but also in this one. and i think that’s really special. i feel so grateful to have found this story that means so much to me, and i’m so grateful that luffy exists.

[dreamerimpossible]

How protective would he be?

Warnings: +18 content, dark content, manipulation, obsession, possessiveness, unhealthy relationships, canon violence.

Characters: Jeff the Killer, Masky, Hoodie, Laughing Jack, Ticci Toby.

Jeff the Killer

6/10

He appreciates that you know how to protect yourself. If you can't, he'll protect you, but he'll make you feel terrible every time he saves you. He gets irritated easily and doesn't like to feel like you're a problem. He's a jerk who has a lot of enemies, so you'll probably have to defend yourself from several people who are going to want to hurt you. This is a constant argument with him, but this man breathes and lives off toxic bonds, so for him it's fine and perfectly normal. He normalizes his fights and arguments and doesn't feel like anything is really wrong. If someone insults you or belittles you, they're dead. He usually defends you from everyone, even if you're wrong.

Masky

8/10

Pretty good. He protects you silently and without making too much of a fuss. But he does it every time without getting tired. He never scolds you or makes you feel bad, because he doesn't want to accept himself that he cares enough about you to not let you die. He is in constant denial and tells himself that his body reacts on its own whenever you are in danger and that it is not really that he wants to protect you. He does not get the full score because he will not defend you against the operator. If he decides to hurt you, you are alone. Masky cannot do much in those conditions. However, he will feel a lot of rage and could become twice as possessive of you.

Hoodie

8/10

He is also pretty good. He will not let others hurt you. He will play with you in various ways, but he will not let others do it. The difference with Masky is that Hoodie will let you know every time he saves you in order to get you to let your guard down with him and give him all your trust. He might also kill people who did minimal harm to you, just to prove to you that he would do anything for you. After he has all your trust, you are deeply entangled in his web, and it is practically impossible to get out of there. The good side is that no one will ever hurt you; the bad side is that you are losing your sanity because Hoodie likes to keep you dependent. He wouldn't defend you from the operator either.

Laughing Jack

9/10

If you are with him and give him time, he is constantly enthusiastic about you. That means he'll overprotect you from everyone. He'll influence you in a bad way, putting things in your head against others so that you'll get away from them and be alone with him. His level of protection goes beyond the limits of insane, reaching possessiveness. You'll probably think that no one can do anything bad to you and start acting more freely, hurting everyone. He'll let you do whatever you want; no one can touch you. But don't you dare leave him alone. Never. Don't ever think of leaving him abandoned, because the people who were hurt because of you could conveniently come back to you at the most unexpected moment.

Ticci Toby

5/10

I'd like to give him a higher number. But I don't give it to him because you'd have to constantly protect yourself from Masky. It's not that Toby doesn't defend you, but let's just say that Masky is selfless enough to continue bothering you. Also, add that Toby is very dangerous when he is upset; you would have to protect yourself from him too and be careful not to ever bother him. The level of protection he gives you against strangers isn't enough for what you have to go through with people you're close to. It's not like they can actually hurt you, but the constant threats and scares eventually become too much to bear. And it's not like you can escape from Toby either. I don't think Slenderman will mess with you if Toby is obsessed with you, but everyone just sees you as their toy.

[weirdestbooks]

Secrecy and Deception Chapter 46

Independence  (Wattpad | Ao3)

Table of Contents | Prev | Next

Happy birthday to me, so y'all get this chapter early! Yay!

Event: Poland has its first democratic elections

Location: Warsaw, Polish People's Republic

Date: June 4, 1989

There was a strange lightness in Poland's mind, a lightness caused by the day's (mostly democratic) elections, a lightness caused by the Communist Party abandoning its monopoly of power and allowing representatives from other parties to be elected and have power.

"It's amazing. Soon, you'll probably be free of USSR's grasp on your mind as well," Kazimiera said. Poland had never heard her sound this happy before.

"I hope so. I feel…it feels easier to think now, and I think, for the first time, I really understand my people and how much they dislike this government. I…I know it's not fully democratic, but…" Poland trailed off.

"You're the first country in the Eastern Bloc to begin to break free from the USSR's yoke. You used to be a puppet state under him. Poland, you're doing amazing. Your people are proud of you the same way we are proud of you," Wojciech said, his voice gentle but nonetheless enthusiastic.

"Thank you, Wojciech. I guess…I guess I'm just scared that to my people, I'll never stop being the government because that's the only thing I've been allowed to be," Poland said. Privately, in dark thoughts he tried to keep away from the others, Poland hoped that would never be an issue, that his father would come back and take his place as the countryhuman of Poland, who he was always meant to be until the USSR forced him to flee.

If there was going to be a non-communist Poland, Poland wanted the countryhuman of it to be his father.

If the Republic of Poland were restored, it probably would be.

Despite everything, Poland couldn't bring himself to be upset by that prospect. He had always felt like an imposter…like a countryhuman not meant to help his people but to harm them.

Maybe that was why he was so easily molded to the government's will.

"Poland, your mind doesn't need to wander there," Ryszard called, somehow always able to tell when Poland started thinking about his inevitable death.

"I'm just thinking about where the future is taking us. That's not bad," Poland responded. Ryszard sighed.

"You deserve to live, too. You deserve to love freely, without a government or countryhuman controlling you," Ryszard said. Poland sighed, looking away as if he were actually talking to someone in the room with him and trying to avoid their gaze.

"I don't know how. And my father was forced out against his will. The Baltics deserve to have the original one, and my people do as well, to prove that USSR's power was never anything more than a temporary situation, a pause from the real countryhumans," Poland pointed out, hands clenching.

"You'll kill all of us by thinking that way. What is it you really want? Us dead, you dead, or your precious father in power. I don't want to die, and if I have to k—" Artur began, voice sneering and cruel before Kazimiera cut him off.

"Enough, Artur!" Kazimiera said, her voice sharp, startling Poland, "You don't have control over that, and neither do we. We'll see how things go from here, but that's out of our hands."

Kazimiera was right. It was out of their hands.

Poland still knew what the result was going to be.

• ───────────────── •

Event: End of Communism

Location: Heroes Square, Budapest, Hungarian People's Republic

Date: June 16, 1989

Hungary often thought about his failed revolution. Even though USSR wanted Hungary to believe that it had hurt him, that Hungary's participation was through coercion and not Hungary's own free will, Hungary still thought about it often.

How could he not?

Hungary lost good people—he lost friends—in the failure of the revolution. There was only one part of it that Hungary tried to forget…and it was something he was never going to try to remember.

Regardless, no matter what excuse USSR came up with, he could never make Hungary think his revolution had been a mistake. Hungary had fought for himself and his people, been promised freedom from the USSR, and was betrayed.

Hungary was glad he had at least given Russian SFSR a permanent reminder of that betrayal.

Hungary, while he did reflect on that revolution a lot, tried not to make it a habit, knowing that traveling down that path made him reflect on…the aftermath. It was easier to think about the before when hope was in the air before his eyes had been damaged to the point of needing glasses, and when Hungary thought the parasite was going to be removed.

But…Hungary was starting to hope again. The parasite had been weakening, and Hungary felt a flutter of hope—the idea that he could stop being the USSR's satellite and become his own country again.

It started with Poland and his elections a few days prior, and now, with the reburial of prominent figures of his revolution in Heroes' Square.

No longer were they rebels, traitors, or any of the many terrible words Hungary had heard used to describe them, but heroes, as they always had been and as they always will be.

Hungary couldn't have been happier. This is what they deserved, what they should have had after a successful revolution before Hungary was tricked and captured and—

Hungary swallowed, forcing down the memories.

Hungary knew this was only a good omen for the future, a sign that the communists' grip on his mind and country was ending.

Hungary couldn't have been more excited.

Just like he had been promised so many years ago, Hungary was going to be free.

• ───────────────── •

Event: Baltic Way

Location: Riga, Latvian Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

Date: August 23, 1989

Fifty years ago, USSR decided he was going to kill Lithuania. Fifty years ago, USSR had invaded Lithuania and her fellow Baltic states, forcing them to become a part of his country and branding them with flags holding his symbols.

Lithuania has since removed the flag that USSR created for her, replacing it with her own flag—the flag of her country, not the SSR USSR pretended she was.

And now here she was, standing in Riga, Latvia. She, Estonia, and Latvia had decided that it would be best to have the three of them standing together to further emphasize the solidarity between the three of them, and they had chosen Riga because it was the middle of the chain.

They were going to be the middle of the chain.

Lithuania and Estonia had arrived two days prior, and Lithuania had helped the two of them hide the hammer and sickles on their faces. Despite Estonia's declaration and their anger and hatred for their situation, neither of them has restored their original flag yet.

Lithuania didn't blame them. It was a much more direct movement, something that signaled independence, especially since they were their true flags, the flags they had as countries before USSR ever had any power there.

Lithuania still remembered how shocked USSR had been when he saw her with her original flag again.

Although Estonia had been making progress on restoring his original flag, it just wasn't official yet.

But neither of them wanted to be associated with the USSR any longer. They both held smaller versions of their original flag, Lithuania could feel Latvia's in his hand.

"Do you think they're here?" Latvia asked, his voice quiet. Lithuania didn't need to ask about who he was talking about. They all knew.

"I hope so. They wanted to be. And I want…I want them to have the opportunity to visit home before it's too late," Lithuania said. Their children, diplomatic services and governments in exile, the countryhumans for their independence, had been living in the United States for almost their whole lives, having never finished the lands they were trying to free or the parents they had to leave behind.

Letters were their only form of communication, smuggled to them through diligent word, holding far too much business and not enough connection.

Lithuania hoped they would be able to be a part of this. It was a chance to remind the world that they were still here, the finale remains of the violence and occupation of the Second World War, a reminder that all the nations invaded during that war had their independence restored to them.

A silent scream to the world to look and listen.

Lithuania hoped it worked.

She wanted to be free again.

[mssirey]

ok but lena developing a cock for kara that can get hard 👀

Y’all, i’ve been waiting for a horny prompt, cause… well, i mean, i got thoughts that need writing down.

Lena knew what she was doing. She waited for an open weekend to gift Kara with her surprise, offering no explanation when she stopped the freshly-showered Kara from selecting her preferred cock for the day.

Kara’s head tipped to the side, but she allowed Lena to slip out of the bathroom without comment. Lena returned with the box she had tucked into an often overlooked drawer in her closet and presented it to Kara.

When the lid lifted, Kara’s eyes went wide. “Wow,” she breathed, “that’s… realistic.”

Lena preened at that. She had put a lot of care into its design, after all. “Its skin,” she indicated the translucent flap that was meant to adhere to Kara’s pelvis, “is heat activated and should cling better than with the adhesives on the market.” It would also blend near perfectly with Kara’s skin, which Lena’s gaze lingered on for a moment.

Kara lifted the package from the box. “It’s,” her hand fell and rose, “heavier than I expected, denser perhaps,” her fingers squeezed, and the soft shaft giving way to her, “but still so squishy,” she marveled.

“You don’t need to be gentle with it,” Lena purred as she placed the box aside, and Kara’s brow rose, her little bobbing nod expressing that she was impressed.

Without prompting, Kara righted it in her hand and fit it against her body, gasping lightly as she found the built in pocket, loose in that moment, but perfectly sized for when she got erect. “I’ll be able to feel you sucking on me,” she hummed, her approval rumbling in Lena’s skull, making her thoughts sloppy.

“Among other things,” Lena confirmed, earning a curious, narrowed stare.

Lena helped hold the flap to Kara’s pelvis until it appeared to bleed directly into her skin, held perfectly in place, undetectable without careful inspection. When Kara let her hand drop away from the shaft, it hung naturally.

“Rao, it feels really good,” she breathed, shifting her hips to get a feel for the way it moved with her. It was mesmerizing to watch, and Kara took note of how Lena’s attention was fixed on it. She jutted her hips out, her fingers skirting from hip to pelvis and back, circling slow to keep Lena captured.

“Give it a little jerk,” Lena encouraged, her teeth catching her lip as she watched.

Kara chuckled and it was a heavy sound, resounding through Lena, stirring up a warmth in her chest. She managed to lift her gaze in time to catch the crooked little smirk that promised more than just a show.

Lena couldn’t have said if it was the warm fog that rolled through her head, but Kara moved with such fluid grace, stepping smoothly into Lena’s space, thumbs finding the small divots of her hips before warm palms molded against her. Lena arched closer without thought and her pelvis brushed the still-cool head of Kara’s cock, a shiver wracking her frame.

Lena’s thoughts were already flickering, but then Kara’s head tilted and dipped closer, damp breath washing over her throat, and her mind went momentarily dark. Her head tipped reflexively, offering more of her neck, but Kara just hummed her approval. “I like it when you touch me,” she rumbled, the notes sinking into Lena’s muscles, her legs feeling weak beneath her.

Lena barely had the mind to press a hand flat against Kara’s stomach, her fingers splaying, unconsciously tracing the pronounced ridges of Kara’s shifting abs. “I know,” she breathed, “but trust me.”

When Kara pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, Lena exhaled a shuddering breath at the storm of fire that greeted her—the blue in Kara’s eyes swallowed in darkness—and the little quirk of a snarl that twisted her smirk enough to show teeth.

“Give me a reason to touch myself,” Kara suggested, but as heat licked through Lena’s head, scorching the insides of her skull, it felt imperative.

She nodded. “Bed.”

Kara grinned broadly and her grip tightened, urging Lena towards her, and with an easy lift, Lena’s legs wrapped unconsciously around her waist. Lena’s hands had a mind of their own, trailing over powerful shoulders, one following Kara’s spine up to bury fingers in short cropped hair, the other holding her close.

But when Kara leaned over to dump her on the bed, Lena’s only thought was to entice. She walked back on her elbows until her heels found purchase, encouraged by Kara’s heavy stare, and then let her knees fall wide. “That’s good,” Kara fed the eagerness in her.

Lena’s thighs shivered as she held herself open for appraisal, her shoulders squirming to find a comfortable position, the itch of impatience growing harder to ignore. She purred enthusiastically as Kara took her cock into her fist, stroking with languid effort.

Kara’s composure faltered and she glanced down, her brow lifted in wonder. “The skin moves so freely,” she whispered, the awe making Lena’s heart flutter. “Wow, it feels so real, I—“ and then what Lena had waiting for, “is it getting hard?!”

Lena cocked a brow at her. “Are you?”

The soft shaft had filled Kara’s hand nicely, but as she jerked it with purpose, it swelled, standing out from her fist. “Oh fuck,” Kara groaned, her hips rocking into her hand, her eyes fluttering as heat washed through her cheeks.

Lena didn’t mind that Kara was focused entirely on her cock. She had observed time and again the way Kara deflated when the mood to be hard struck and she had to change cocks, and while she laughed to cover the awkwardness and the discomfort, she couldn’t hide it from Lena. That was what had inspired Lena’s little—or considering the heft of the cock Kara sported, big—personal project.

Kara let herself go, watched her shaft bob and then still, standing proud with a nice upward curve. Lena eyed the tensing of her core, convinced she could see the heaviness of Kara’s pulse, the little jumps of her cock echoing it. It was tantalizing, and intoxicating, but nothing rivaled the thrill of Kara’s attention shifting back to her.

Lena was startled enough by the haughty smirk that played across Kara’s lips that she couldn’t stifle the little noise—something between a whimper and a moan—that bubbled up from her chest. The self-assured air around Kara had her ass scooting closer, her hips rolling upward to better present herself as warmth pooled beneath her belly.

Lena twisted fruitlessly as her arousal trailed down the curve of her ass, tickling her and sending her thoughts scattering wildly. “I love when you get all sloppy for me,” Kara husked and Lena could only whimper as she waited for Kara to bury herself in Lena’s cunt.

The air stirred but Lena never saw Kara move, only heard the sharp pop of the bottle of lube being uncapped and then Kara was tipping it into her hand, and stroking herself until her cock had a slick sheen. “On your stomach.”

Lena moved without question, turned into her front and lifted so her knees were beneath her, earning a rumble of approval. She quaked with anticipation, gasping as the bed dipped beneath Kara’s knee and heavy hands settled on her ass.

Kara tugged her cheeks a little wider and Lena pushed back into her hands, arching low, panting even before she was properly touched. “Please,” she breathed into the comforter, her lips almost as wet as her cunt.

One hand smoothed along the curve of her back, pressing her deeper into the mattress, and she was happy to be molded if it meant she could have Kara inside her. “Don’t worry, love,” Kara dipped, laid over her, her cock pressed between them, “now that I’m hard,” her lips trailed heavy along Lena’s spine, “I’m going to spend the day inside you.”

Lena melted beneath Kara, sinking into the mattress, her thoughts spilling from her lips as nothing more than heated moans.

“That’s it,” Kara hummed as she rocked forward, her weight settling fully over Lena, her teeth catching against Lena’s shoulder. “I need you nice and loose for me.” Lena’s thighs trembled and her knees slipped wider, and Kara just purred. “Good girl.”

Lena’s hands fumbled for purchase in the sheets as her mind threatened to abandon her, but it wasn’t enough when Kara’s hips lifted away. She whined before she recognized Kara’s fist directing the blunt head of her cock lower, swiping down until it bumped Lena’s clit and she jerked back. Kara’s head easily spread her puffy labia until it caught against her entrance, sending a wave of heat crashing along her spine.

“You need my cock that bad, huh?” Kara didn’t wait for an answer—didn’t need to—they both knew Lena wanted nothing else. She pressed forward and Lena opened up around her, muscles already warm, welcoming her with feverish twitches. Lena fluttered around each inch that sank into her, her whole body shivering with delight at the pleasant stretch.

“Fuck,” Kara groaned against the back of her neck, and Lena’s head fogged, barely hearing the wonder Kara expressed at being able to feel Lena squeeze. “Just a little bit more,” Kara was gruff, straining to go easy for Lena, but she didn’t even have to mind to beg for Kara to fuck her—all she knew was Kara was already so heavy in her gut, and still slipping deeper, settling low in her.

By the time Kara’s pelvis met her ass and she ground just that little bit closer, Lena was drooling blissfully, uncaring if a puddle formed. She couldn’t find the words for her gratitude and instead reached a clumsy hand behind herself, blindly found Kara’s hip and tried to urge her closer still, fingers slipping as Kara withdrew an inch and bucked forward.

Lena gasped, her hand falling, her thoughts tumbling from her head. “That’s a good girl, let me take care of you,” Kara grunted, repeating the motion, driving Lena further into the mattress with each trust.

A small part of Lena tried to protest that the gift was meant to be for Kara—that she wasn’t supposed to be the center of the day—but it was lost in the growing fervor of Kara’s efforts. Lena let herself fall into the rhythm Kara dictated, met each thrust with a soft squeeze until the heat had her unraveling, molding easily around Kara until she held her shape.

Kara set a deliciously brutal pace, stirring Lena up, keeping her from ever settling, only ever rising with the building inferno within her. Everything was sloppy—the obscene squelch of each impact, the wet moans the spilled from her lips, the messy slosh of thoughts in her head—Lena was drowning and soaring at the same time, scrambling to find her grip on the world and at the same time happily letting it go.

“I want to feel you come on my cock,” Kara growled, the baritone resonating through her, bringing her to a boil. She clenched out of time, and it sent her spiralling, squirming and arching beneath Kara. The angle shifted, Kara’s shaft dragging relentlessly against her front wall, until she was crying out with broken sobs, her body tightening sharply.

The tension bent her, had her quaking with the effort to maintain her posture, needing that exact pressure. Kara’s hand smoothed along her belly, deftly finding her clit, rubbing without precision. Lena didn’t need anything more, and it had her hurtling into oblivion, white overtaking her vision, her cunt frantically wringing around Kara’s cock.

Kara grunted and seated herself deep in Lena, grinding through the tight pulses, doing her best to keep Lena riding through her orgasm. “Fuck, oh Rao,” she panted, the only warning Lena got before she jerked roughly. Lena gasped at the blinding pleasure that rocked through her skull. Her knees slipped and Kara followed her down, grinding against her ass as she laid there and took it, moaning her gratitude.

It took Lena until Kara was screaming, muffled in Lena’s hair, to realized that she was coming. Kara twitched within her, her body rolling in jerking waves, quaking even as she finally stilled, deep in Lena. “Fuck,” she mumbled, nuzzling into the crook of Lena’s neck.

“Good?”

Lena’s voice slurred, but Kara only hummed her affirmation, and Lena recognized the sleepy elongation of the note. As she drifted, Kara’s weight settled more heavily over Lena, keeping her pinned, and even as she wriggled, Kara stayed above her.

Lena’s cunt fluttered and Kara groaned, rocking lightly, shifting maddeningly inside Lena. Her mind fizzled and she sank into the pleasant warmth of Kara blanketing her, welcoming a blissful slumber, knowing that when they woke, Kara would fuck her again, and again.

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Falling Together Part II

Author’s Note: So glad I’ve dove head first into this fandom, you guys are so welcoming and enthusiastic! There will be 2 more parts before this comes to its natural end. Also if you want to be tagged, or I missed you, please let me know.

Part 1

Pairing: Ivar x Reader Word count: 3213

Warnings: None "Are you still feeling sorry for yourself?" Hvitserk prodded, breaking the silence in the warm afternoon. 

Ivar had agreed to go fishing with his brother to clear his head, but between the lack of bites and Hvitserk's questions, there was little peace to be had. He had tossed away his line, and had sprawled out on the dock, falling back into his dark thoughts. Since your argument, you had made your presence scarce. You always managed to be gone before he woke at dawn, and you no longer took meals in the Great Hall. If he managed to catch a glimpse of you in a day it was something worth bragging about. 

Hvitserk let out a huff as he threw his line down. "I'm sure you're not the first man to accuse his wife of being a whore."

Ivar glared at his brother, tempted to push him into the water. "I was only going by what you told me."

"Hey, I told you to fuck her, not to accuse her of laying with any man who gives her trinkets," Hvitserk said between chuckles. "Speaking of which, I saw the boy Einarr the other day. You'd better watch yourself, or you could have a real rival eight years from now."

Hvitserk knew just what to say to make him feel like the foolish boy who crawled around Kattegat again. The boy, who just wanted to keep up with his brothers. He was a King now, but sometimes he still felt like he was chasing after their greatness. Letting out a grunt of frustration, he threw his dagger at Hvitserk's foot, just shy of sticking through the toe of his boot.

Hvitserk leapt back, and shot him an incredulous look. "I hope you don't show that same temper to your wife. She's a delicate Christian flower, not a fishmonger's daughter."

Ivar froze as he felt his back stiffen, and Hvitserk appeared to realize his mistake. "I would never harm her."

"I know that, Ivar," Hvitserk murmured, brushing his hand through his hair. "I...shit. I'm sorry for that."

The sincerity was there, and Ivar believed him, but his mind had traveled far back into a different life. He could still feel the strength of his grip, hear her struggling gasps, and see the love go out of her eyes when he took the breath out from her body. Love was a misery, and it only seemed to bring him grief. His mother and father, Freydis and Baldr, even Sigurd. Perhaps he had done you a kindness by mistake.

He had been the one that had refused all attempts at bonding between you, so it seemed ridiculous that he had chosen this instance to resent the distance. It was your talk of a marriage not needing love that had gotten to him. After Freydis, he was certain he wouldn't fall in love again, but that didn't mean his heart didn't crave it. Marriage should not be a loveless thing, not after he'd seen what it did to his mother. He wasn't in love with you, but he did not want your hatred either.

"What should I do?" Ivar asked aloud, desperate enough that he looked to Hvitserk for the answer. 

"Get her a gift, and apologize."

Ivar frowned. "What kind of gift?"

"Ask her yourself," said Hvitserk, looking over his shoulder. "She's coming this way."

You were indeed coming down the path to the wharf, a guard on either side. Ivar thought you would be wearing a scowl, but you were as poised as Frigg, with no trace of animosity to be found. You indicated for your guards to remain back as you approached the brothers. Hvitserk chose that moment to reach down and pull the stuck knife from the wood. You had caught the act, even growing a smile at it.

"What did you do to warrant a dagger to the foot, Hvitserk?" You teased.

"I'm not the best advisor," He reasoned. "That's probably why it's not my job."

You chuckled freely, all while Ivar kept his gaze away to the water. "Indeed. May I borrow my husband for a moment?"

Ivar gazed up at his brother for help, who shrugged as a reply. "Of course. Guess I'll go find myself some trouble."

"Take them with you. They look far too bored without my company," You said of your guards before taking a seat on the dock beside Ivar. Once Hvitserk was far enough away, you spoke again. "When I was a young girl, I used to run down to the water instead of practicing my needlework. A languid sunrise was all the beauty I needed, and I would watch the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of a ship coming into the havens."

Ivar listened to your leisured words, recalling a time when he would also go down to the shores of Kattegat. Sometimes he imagined it would be his father returning from exile on one of the ships that made port, but as he grew older, it crossed his mind less until he abandoned the wish entirely. His father had good reason to stay away, and Ivar sometimes wondered if it would have been better had he never returned.

"What do you want, wife?" He was tired and the reminiscing about things better left forgotten put him into a sour state.  

"I've come to the conclusion that we cannot remain parted like this forever, and as I told you before, the people talk," You said, smiling at him. Ivar had forgotten what it felt like to have a woman's eyes on him that way, and it commanded his whole attention. "I listened, and decided what would be best is for the people to see their King and Queen together."

"Is that the only reason?" He tested.

"No." You paused to adjust your skirts, and you shifted closer, sitting in a manner that should have been unbecoming of a Queen, but was endearing in its frankness. "I feel there are things that I don't know about you, but I believe your regret to be sincere."

"It was."

You stared at him with something akin to concern. "You were married once before me, weren't you?"

Ivar narrowed his eyes, hating the vast change of the conversation, and how you had sprung him into a trap, like a rabbit to a snare. "Yes."

"I see," You said, and after pausing a moment, you did not say more on the matter.

With your gaze set on the ocean, Ivar was able to take his time regarding you. Hvitserk was right, you were beautiful. You did not resemble the icy nordic women he had been surrounded by, nor were you like any of the English ladies who coward from his men. You were shades of a dark, stormy night, but also the fairness of a pale morning bathed in sunlight. He should be proud to walk alongside you.

When you caught him looking, you mistook what he had been fixated on. You plucked at the bracelet on your wrist as your mouth twisted into a frown.

"If it bothers you, I can get rid of it."

"Your silence bothers me," said Ivar. "You are my wife, I do not want you to be meek."

You burst into giggles, "Is that how you see me?"

"No, I see that you are a warrior who doesn't resort to the sword. This strength you have has earned you the title to be Queen."

"My father's insistence that I marry you made me Queen, but that is kind of you to say," You shifted to face him head on, and Ivar appreciated how you held his stern look. "Why did you agree to marry me? My father's lands are not widespread, you could have easily lorded over us with the warriors you have. It could have saved you the trouble of being tied to a Christian."

"My intentions to raid have not changed, but an alliance in a foreign land is its own valuable treasure. My father had done the same with King Ecbert, but not until he had made an enemy of King Aelle first. I won't make the same mistake," Ivar explained as he watched your loose curls dance in the sea breeze. You did not braid your hair, and it was longer than any woman's in Kattegat. Not to be distracted by your grace, he steeled his gaze, and continued to speak. "As for having you as a wife, I think you know that I find you to be an accomplished Queen, and an acceptable partner."

"Acceptable? Quit with that flattery husband, or I might swoon," You quipped with an eye roll.

"I would enjoy that."

Ivar took pleasure in how you flustered, mouth stuck open and not quite sure how to respond. You were often brash, so he forgot you were still a virgin until your shy side reared. It made his heart speed up to a gallop, a feeling he had almost forgotten. 

You were swift to change the direction of the topic back to neutral ground, but the faint pink still dusted your cheeks. "Would you like to walk with me? The people used to enjoy seeing my parents together when they would stroll the city."

Ivar recalled how his parents would interact with the people of Kattegat, though not often together. He understood your reasoning though, and clenching his jaw, he propelled his stiff body up with the aid of his crutch. You were at his side, hands hovering in the air to give him assistance in a moment's notice if he needed. Ivar waved you back, used to doing everything alone. He couldn't explain it, but it was important to him that you did not see him weak.

As you both started up the path, you placed your hand tentatively through Ivar's arm. The gesture startled him, but he managed to keep his footing. After a while of walking, he decided he liked the warmth of your touch. You remained tight to his side, and the people, yours and his, appeared delighted as you strode through the streets. 

The people of Kattegat had never looked at him with anything other than disdain, pity, and fear. He preferred this new change, bringing him closer to continuing his father's legacy as a worthy King. Ivar didn't share any more words with you, but instead chose to enjoy your quiet presence beside him. He was going to follow Hvitserk's advice about giving you a gift, if only to see you blush again. First though, he needed to decide what you would like.

ooOOoo

After that day by the water, your relationship with your husband changed. All of your games of avoidance stopped, and had been replaced with Ivar's new habit of teasing you. He seemed to like how perturbed you would get, or how red your face would become. You still had not consummated the marriage, but you had begun to share a bed.

The first time you had stayed in your shared chambers had been the last time you had been in your private wing. You had stayed up late, completing your correspondence when Ivar had returned. He had seemed surprised to find you awake, but had struck up a conversation that led you to sitting down beside him on the bed. Sleep had come, and by morning you'd awoken next to your husband for the first time.

When you had stirred, the morning was still young, and there was a quiet in the air that could only be found at the birth of a new day. You were facing towards Ivar and when you opened your eyes you found him toying with your hair. He gave you a coy smile at being caught, but he was not deterred from his actions, and you let him continue until the responsibilities of leading called him away.

Touching was something new that you had both slowly eased into your relationship. Brief grazes of skin, and gentle caressing was becoming something of a routine between you. Ivar's hands were tough and warm, but he was careful with you, as if something held him back. For all of his abrasive shortcomings, he was rather shy and boyish when it came to anything intimate. You were tempted by your viking husband, and your carnal thoughts were at war with your Christian values. You wanted him to push passed that barrier of gentleness and make you a woman. 

There was also the matter of things left unsaid between you. You wanted to ask about his first wife, but each time you came close to speaking up, you would recall the crestfallen look that had twisted his face when you had brought it up to begin with. Hvitserk would know, but that was a line you promised you wouldn't cross. He would tell you one day, so there wasn't much point in dwelling on it.

"(Y/N)," Ivar said, and you jolted up on the bed, not expecting his presence. 

"Hello," You greeted, closing your book as you sat upright. "Have you come to join me?"

"Yes," He replied before hesitating. "I have something for you. Can you close your eyes a moment?"

You shot him a suspicious glance. "What is this, Ivar?"

"Trust me."

He disappeared before you could say anything more. You breathed out a laugh 'Trust me' he says. Ivar did not have a face full of integrity, and you wondered how many people had been deceived by the one called Boneless.

You closed your eyes as he requested, and waited for his return. It was not long until he came back to the door, stopping outside as he called to you.

"Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes, husband," You answered, growing impatient. 

You listened to each careful step as Ivar approached the bed, and felt the familiar dip as his weight joined you.

"Hold out your hands," He told you, his voice close.

You wrinkled your nose, but did as he asked. What could he want to give you? You couldn't understand the sudden display of generosity, or his reasoning that called for a gift. Husbands gave presents to their wives of course, but you didn't think you and Ivar had that kind of marriage.

Just as you were tempted to peek, something warm and wiry was dropped into your lap. It wriggled with life, and your eyes shot open to find a wolf hound pup circling around in your arms. A pleasant surprise indeed. You ran your fingers through thick, coarse hair the color of iron, and the hound's tail thumped wildly.

You couldn't fight the elation on your face as you turned to look up to Ivar's. He had been watching for your reaction, and you thought you spotted relief in his eyes. 

"What did I do to deserve this?" You asked while your new gift started to squirm in your lap.

"For being patient and forgiving. Our marriage started with us as strangers, but I know now that you are too impressive a Queen to go unappreciated."

The fluttery feeling was back, flooding you with warmth. You no longer fought it back, even welcoming it if you were honest with yourself. When you were alone together, Ivar was different with you. Though you were not in love yet, you had compassion for your husband, and found yourself thinking about him during quiet moments of the day. You didn't think he loved you either, but he had his own way of showing he cared.

"Thank you for bringing him to me," You said softly. With one hand you held the hound to your chest, and with the other you reached for Ivar.

"Forgive me for what I said before. You are too respectable and dutiful to be any of the things I accused you of. I'm not sure why I said them," He said as he accepted your hand.

"I already forgave you for that, Ivar."

Sometimes you could see what was in his heart, and the hurt look on his face reminded you of a lost child. It had to be his first wife. You didn't know how to help him, and it made you want to scream for the truth if it would make him forget. But you also knew if you pushed him on the matter, he would start to pull away again, and you had only just begun to feel like a real wife.

"Ivar," You called for him, bringing him back to you from wherever his thoughts had taken him. His pain was something that you couldn't mend, but maybe you could help him move forward.

You shuffled closer until your leg pressed up against his. He looked uncertain as you placed your free hand upon his face. You were just going to place a kiss on his cheek, but at the last second he turned to catch your lips with his. It was soft and slow, and the perfect first kiss with your husband. Ivar had a tentative grasp of your hip with his arm around your waist, and you leaned into his chest. 

A whimper escaped from the pup whom you had forgotten was still in your hold. He was being squished between you and Ivar, and you pulled back with a sigh.

"Sorry boy," You murmured, giving him a scratch on the ears. 

Your hand was still braced against your husband, and he had not removed his arm from around you. The chambers grew stuffy, and the boldness from the kiss faded into heady unrest.

"You'll need to give him a name," Ivar spoke up after a while. 

He started to remove his braces, and you got up from the bed to grab extra furs for your new hound to sleep on.

"I will," You said as you started to make a place at the end of the bed for the dog to sleep. "We used to have many dogs when I was growing up. My mother used to say naming a pet was as difficult as naming a child, so I'll make sure to take my time to get it right. "

Ivar smirked as he pulled himself under the furs. He was still careful not to reveal his legs, and you wouldn't push the issue. You were still too shy to be naked in his presence as well, especially with how much time had passed since you were supposed to share a bed on your wedding night.

"I like your stories. You grew up with pleasant memories," He said.

Once you got the pup settled, you joined Ivar in bed. "Don't you have fond memories of growing up?"

"With three older brothers, and an absent father? No, my childhood was spent fighting to survive and finding a place to belong. If not for my mother, I would've died young."

You had your head propped up on your arm, and you were facing Ivar as he laid flat on his back. "I wish I could have met her then. Mothers should be merciful towards their children."

Ivar craned his neck to stare at you, a subtle reverence behind his eyes, "(Y/N), can I kiss you again?"

You scurried closer until your noses touched. "Yes," You whispered. 

And he did.

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[my-writings-and-musings]

Hey, I hope you are 100% ok with found family theme? Because found family theme in Transformers are my favourite trope. For the request, would you do the headcanons for Ratchet, Drift and Windblade with the reader who is a techno-organic?

Found Family is the golden trope above all tropes and 1000% supported on this blog anon don't worry about it. Time for some fluff.

Windblade

·Though she's somewhat new to exploring the galaxy, she knows the value of close friends, and how they can become your greatest support when times are tough. She forges bonds that are deep with those she trusts, and she intends to keep those for the rest of her life. To a certain extent one might say she has a family that's always growing. Granted she doesn't just let anyone in, but her kind nature means she's always seeking out those who need companionship. For you, this worked out rather beautifully from the outset. Unlike so many others your nature didn't perturb her in the slightest. She was merely curious, but upon discovering you were being ostracized she took you under her wing and never looked back.

·Like any found family, she introduces you to the other members and explains to each one in private what you'd endured. The bots she'd never known a day without, Chromia and Nautica, stepped up immediately to help. This family is built on mutual support and protecting one another, so think of yourself as having just gained some very large and powerful but loving bodyguards. Chromia in particular has no patience for bullies. Neither does Windblade, but she prefers to sort things out peacefully if you ever find yourself the target of more bullying. That likely comes from her role as a Cityspeaker, given that communication is her greatest skill, and she extends that to you as well. You'll never find her anything but enthusiastic to listen to what you have to say, and she loves to talk and share her opinions right back.

·Speaking of Cityspeaker duties, however, there's someone else in her circle that you'll get to meet. Titan's aren't just her coworkers, she bonds quite closely with them too, and she likes to help others understand that these gigantic beings can actually be quite lonely. Thus, your newfound family turns out to be much larger than you could have ever anticipated. That's to say nothing of how boundless the love and acceptance proves to be, as for the first time you find yourself surrounded by a judgement free environment, and it's like a breath of fresh air. Anything on your mind can be spoken without fear of rejection! Windblade takes listening incredibly seriously, after all, and so for the first time in your life you speak and are heard. The lack of genetic relations does nothing to stifle the wonder of it all.

·Yet, for her incredibly soft spark, Windblade quickly proves she has no patience for the bias you've become accustomed to as a techno-organic. Comments you were once forced to just endure are now met with fiery resistance from your adopted family. Should anyone ever get the idea they can threaten you, that assumption is very quickly corrected. The Stormfall Sword rarely even needs to be unsheathed for them to learn you're under considerable protection, and even if it does Windblade won't hesitate if she fears you're in any kind of danger, and neither will anyone else on your side. When you ask why they reply as if it's obvious; family looks out for family. They're with you through thick and thin, and you don't have to endure any cross words so long as they're around. Each one promises that much.

·Having endured what you have, it takes some time for you to understand that they mean it, and that they'll never abandon you. Windblade has truly taken you under her wing, as she so often likes to joke.

Ratchet

·Being a medic for a species desperately understaffed with doctors can be exceptionally difficult, especially with such high mortality rates, but that's never stopped Ratchet from caring. He knows every life is precious, and he forms friendships with the intent of them lasting a lifetime. No one is ever going to be uncared for if he has something to say about it. Thus, you more or less find yourself "adopted" by the gruff medic before you can even blink. Though techno-organics often face exclusion from bots, Ratchet has spent enough time performing surgery to know that what's on the inside physically hardly matters in terms of character. He's held the sparks of Autobots and Decepticons alike, and at the end of the day they all look the same.

·That being said, he makes it very clear to you that if anyone gives you a hard time, he wants to know straight away. His famously gruff demeanor isn't all an act, and he can absolutely make a bot regret every single mean word they said to you. Not only that, but he knows how emotional health is just as important as physical, so he makes sure to check in on you quite frequently. It's not our of character for him to sit you down if he sees something is bothering you, at which point he'll gently ask if you'd like to talk and he'll listen. Being busy doesn't mean he won't do everything in his power to make time for you.

·Something people often forget though, and you'll probably be quite surprised to see, is how much he likes to celebrate positive achievements and praise your hard work. Like a proud papa, he'll absolutely gush when he hears you've succeeded at something you've been working on. Not just to you either, if you're okay with it, he'll brag about it to anyone that listens. Confidence is important, so he does everything in his power to make sure you know your worth. The other medics all freely join in as well. Everyone who works in the medical bay gets close to one another, so they become your extended family of sorts, like a gathering of aunts and uncles who all do surgery together. It makes for a surprisingly cheerful crew.

·Upon getting closer to him, you eventually see that Ratchet isn't just acting gruff to cover a soft spark, he's arguably the softest bot on the entire ship. On more than one occasion you've drifted off somewhere only to wake up mysteriously tucked in to your own bed, and when asked he'll simply get flustere and say the mattress is better for your back. Trust him; he's fallen asleep at his desk often enough to know. Should you ever come down with any kind of illness, however, all pretenses of gruffness will dissapear very quickly. You'll find yourself doted on by a very caring docbot, one who encourages you to relax and not strain yourself while he brings you anything you need.

·Being a techno-organic often means enduring so much isolation that receiving any kind of medical care is hard, as neither organics nor bots typically want to treat you. However, as you spend more time with the medic who's adopted you, something begins to become clear. Not only do you receive all the medical attention you need without hesitation, but all the care one requires to truly be healthy. As a family should, he and the others medics look out for your emotional wellbeing too. Your sense of self finally begins to heal as you never knew it needed to.

Drift

·When it comes to being alone, few bots have a greater understanding than a former Decepticon. Even on the Lost Light he's pushed to the outskirts, and thus his precious few friends become lifelong companions that are naturally his family. Having explored far and wide and knowing that the prejudice against techno-organics like yourself is awful, his first action when he saw you was to offer his protection. He'll never let anyone endure loneliness if he can help it. You're surprised by how incredibly warm and affectionate he is right from the start, as his reputation would hardly suggest a bot who welcomes you like a literal ray of sunshine.

·Yet in surprisingly short order you find yourself under the protection of a bot who's simultaneously the friendliest and deadliest being on the ship. Drift checks in with you regularly to ensure you're not being made fun of or even made to feel the slightest bit uncomfortable. He doesn't want to kick anyone's butt, but he makes it clear he absolutely will if you're at risk, and he has the go ahead from Rodimus on that front. Speaking of which, the captain of the ship immediately grants you his own protection as well, stating that anyone who befriends his bestie is good by him. You're happy but incredibly surprised to find two individuals with such different personalities acting like they've grown up together, and the two don't even care about all the ways their perspectives differ!

·Growing closer to Drift only makes you more amazed at how impossibly mellow and relaxed he is. Though the bot could easily best almost any bot on the ship in combat, he's only interested in being friends with his fellow Autobots, hoping to extend the tenets of his religion into all aspects of his life. Though he wants you to convert, there's absolutely no pressure to do so, and he happily accepts your refusal if you decline. The laid back mech shows you the kind of nonjudgemental support system you never knew was possible. When asked about it, he says that he wants you to have a place where you'll always feel accepted, and he hopes to provide that.

·Even more than acceptance, you find him to be incredibly encouraging of all your goals, no matter how small some of them may be. Every time you achieve something he's effusive in his praise. Though he doesn't say why, eventually you put together that he sorely lacked the same in his youth. No doubt, he wants to provide you with everything he was missing. Whether he's more akin to a dad, uncle or cool brother becomes irrelevant over time. In time you come to realize what matters is you have someone who will always be in your corner. Should you ever need positive reinforcement of any kind, it's merely a request away.

·It takes time for it all to really sink in that you've been adopted more or less, all without your new family ever mentioning as much. In fact, Drift so naturally welcomed you into his life you're not sure he realized it either. The ninja bot is simply so loving and accepting you could forget there's a harsh universe out there every time he pulls you in for some comfort after a hard day. The peace of having such a system of support is indescribable.

[the-unknown-storyteller]

The Sight Of Such Pretty Things

Summary: Wilbur is dead and Ghostbur fills the place he has left behind, mending the broken relationships he has thrown aside.

Wilbur is dead, but Ghostbur is alive in the sense that he gets to experience all the little things his former self may have taken for granted.

Talking with Philza about the colour green, stargazing with Tommy until deep into the night and collecting wild potatoes with Techno remind him that he is not that person anymore. That these moments are his and his alone.

Nevermind the fact that he can't talk freely, breaching sensitive topics left and right and touching people with hands that can only seem to remind and hurt with memories he himself cannot remember.

__

It all starts with Philza. With him and his green-striped bucket hat that ignites an irrational interest in Ghostbur's mind. It's such a nice green, is all he can think, as he walks laps around Philza's living room, mindlessly chattering and rambling on about his day. 

His restless hands throw a small piece of lapis that he found the other day from side to side, palming it in his right hand whenever he raises his hands in exaggerated sweeps and gestures to accompany his excited words about his newest project.

"-saw it just the other day and I really wanted to build it and Tubbo said he didn't mind it, so I just went right ahead and, Phil, I just gotta say, it's coming along great! Fundy is helping me balance it properly, so that it won't topple over and accidentally crush the main walkways and-" 

Ghostbur can hear his father hum every now and then to let him know that he is listening, as he mends the latest rip in one of his green shirts. Green like the stripes on his bucket hat. Both his feet and his words come to a stop, strangely fixated. It's so green.

"Hey, Phil, have you ever noticed how green your bucket hat actually is?" Ghostbur drifts over to his father to get a closer look at his hat, his crane building story forgotten. "Like, it's really green. One might think that, with all the fighting and running it has probably endured, it must have definitely lost its colourfulness. But look!" He raises his hands to frame the hat, as though it were something exceptionally precious. "Still as green as the day you got it, I'm sure!", he exclaims with a grin, his face mere centimetres away from Phil's.

"Uh, thanks, I guess." Philza laughs awkwardly, shuffling on his seat. "Never knew you were this enthusiastic about green clothes, mate."

"Oh, I'm not," Ghostbur chirps, playing with his piece of lapis, "I just really like yours, especially your hat!" He rubs his thumb over the stone one last time before putting it away, missing the way Phil's smile becomes strained. 

"It's funny that you say that. Someone I knew had the exact same sentiment towards green," Phil says softly, pulling the bucket hat from his head, rubbing at the worn fabric. "Especially towards my hat."

"Oh, how fun! Who was it?" Ghostbur loses concentration in his excitement and can distantly feel his body slowly float upwards, rotating until he stands upside down on the ceiling. Unbothered, he keeps talking. "Maybe you could introduce us sometime and we could talk about the colour green, about your green! I don't know what-"

"I… I don't think that will be possible, mate. It's been some time since I last… saw them," Phil apologizes, his voice catching at the end of the sentence.

Ghostbur sinks back down to the floor with a frown. He's done it again. "Are you okay, Phil? Here, have some blue. Calm yourself," he says, folding his hand around the blue he's just placed in his father's hands. He knows he's upset him. He keeps upsetting everyone because he keeps forgetting what is taboo to talk about and what isn't. Apparently, Philza's bucket hat is one of those things. What a shame, he really likes how green it is.

__

Tommy lets his almost broken axe fall to the ground, before flopping down himself. Sitting next to the small fire he lets out an annoyed groan.

"You know, you could have helped me chop down those trees instead of just standing there, watching and shit", he scoffs, picking at the splinters in his hands. All afternoon he had been chopping down tree after tree. Probably for his tower, which was looming behind Tommy in the far distance.

Ghostbur gives him a smile, quietly picking at the strings of his guitar, as he ignores his complaint. The soothing melody accompanies the constant crackling of their campfire and the sizzling of the fish above the flames. He starts humming for a bit, letting his gaze wander, and then he starts talking. 

"You know, I think you're quite lucky, Tommy. To be out here-", he starts, rotating the fish to keep it from burning. He resumes his strumming.

"Wha-?! What the fuck are you saying, Wil-"

"Where there is barely any light to taint the night sky", Ghostbur continues, undeterred by Tommy's protest. He repositions his left hand and the song becomes a bit more somber, bringing down the mood of the conversation with the descending chord progression. "I mean, the sky is just so beautiful out here, look," he breathes, tilting his head upwards. He notices his little brother frowning in his peripheral, but he follows his instructions and looks up as well.

"And what am I supposed to be seeing?"

"The stars, Tommy!" A grin spreads across his grayed out cheeks. The soft strumming stops for a moment, as Ghostbur makes a sweeping motion across the horizon. "The stars." A breath of admiration leaves his empty lungs.

"What about them?", Tommy asks, an annoyed tint to his voice. He sounds exhausted. Maybe he should have helped with the wood chopping, actually. Next time, maybe. Because right now, all he can think about is the twinkling and shining of the stars above him. How has he never noticed how many there are? How bright they are?

"Are you not seeing the same thing I'm seeing? Look at the stars, the milky way, they're all so incredibly clear out here in the wilderness." A shooting star flies across the sky, making Ghostbur gasp in child-like glee. "Quick! Make a wish, Tommy!"

"That's stupid, Ghostbur. I'm not a stupid child, believing in something stupid such as-"

"Ah, come on, Tommy. What's the worst that could happen? Just make a wish with me." Ghostbur claps his hands together more forcefully than was really necessary and closes his eyes. He peeks at the boy in ragged and torn clothes next to him, looking more tired and broken than a boy his age should, and mouths his silent wish for his little brother to please, please, come out of this alright. 

"Your turn!" He smiles, quietly rubbing at a piece of blue from his messenger bag when he's done.

"Ugh, fine," Tommy groans. He claps his hands together and closes his eyes with much less enthusiasm than the former did. His lips don't move along with his silent wish, but Ghostbur trusts his sincerity. Knows that the other can't be anything but sincere in almost everything he does. Whether he wants to or not. After a few moments he opens them back up. "There, done," he grumbles, "happy?"

A grin in approval and a nod, making Tommy roll his eyes. A shiver runs down his arms with the dropping temperatures of the night. Ghostbur stands up without a word, dumping three thick blankets on top of the younger when he returns. Satisfied when Tommy is adequately bundled up for the night, he sits back down at his place in front of the fire, picking up his guitar from the ground, and begins to strum yet another melody, more soothing than somber this time. He leans back against the tree log behind him, continuing to play long after the other has finally fallen asleep, only occasionally stopping to throw a log in the flames to keep the fire going. His eyes stay fixed at the stars that are so much brighter than they ever were in any of his faded memories.

__

The third time he gets fixated on something arguably insignificant, he is with Techno. They're out on a hunt for wild potatoes, since most of his old crops lay abandoned in their old ravine and the few that he managed to take with him long ago were not enough to start a proper farm. 

So here they were, quite a few thousand blocks away from Techno's base, where the ground isn't permanently frozen and manages to support the occasional berry bushes and even some wild carrots. When they come across some tall yellow-white flowers, Techno immediately puts down his bag next to them and gets out his shovel. He plows through the dirt, bringing up large chunks with every scoop he takes. They're littered with the beautiful golden glow of potatoes. 

Ghostbur floats up to the piglin, watching him check every potato he finds and throw the good ones in his bag. The dirt, damp with recently fallen rain, sticks to Techno's clothes, getting stuck in the fur of his red cape and leaving dirty smudges on his crown whenever he adjusts it. Ghostbur tilts his head, feeling a strangely familiar itch in his hands, urging him to go, go, touch it, touch it now, take it. He ignores it.

It's dirty.

"You know, I've always been curious, Techno." He picks up one of the bigger potatoes on the ground to keep his hand busy and turns it over in his hand, looking for any faults on its skin. He throws it up in the air a few times, judging its weight. "Why are you so… fascinated with them?" He throws the large potato, which the other catches easily. His eyes drift down to the red of his cape and the white of his fur collar, clumps of dirt and mud spread throughout. He tears his gaze away. "I remember you having a large farm in the ravine and I think I've never seen you eat anything other than a baked potato." 

"I do not only eat baked potatoes," Techno protests, picking up his bag and walking towards the next yellow-white flower cluster he sees in the close distance. The ghost follows with impossibly light steps.

"I only eat them most of the time," he admits, driving his shovel into the ground. He throws his falling cape back over his shoulder, ignoring the way it accidentally gets dragged through a muddy puddle next to him.

"Which is most of the time if we're being honest," Ghostbur remarks with a grin, his hands still itch with the thought of Techno's red cape getting dirty, he's always so careless with it, the white fur is getting ruined. He starts plucking the yellow-white flowers, delighted when he finds a slightly purple variant of it.

"Because they are clearly the superior food source," Techno shoots back, throwing the last potato in his bag. He notices that Ghostbur's is still completely empty except for a piece of lapis and the sack full of blue that he is so fond of carrying and handing out. With a sigh, he keeps moving. They change location a few more times, whenever the ground has no more potatoes to give, until both bags are finally filled to the brim.

Satisfied with the amount, Techno puts his shovel away and they start the trek back to his base. The sun is only two hours away from setting and they're quite a long way away from home, so Techno picks up his pace, pulling the ghost with him, away from the bees and their nest in the tree.

With nothing to preoccupy his hands Ghostbur takes out his piece of lapis, running his fingers over its rough ridges. His crown is smudged with mud.

"There is dirt on your crown," Ghostbur points out, looking up at Techno's head with a frown. "And your cape." He picks at some clumps of mud and pulls out a few small twigs.

"It's fine, I can just wash it, when we get back." And that's that. Except Ghostbur knows that Techno will just hang it up at the entrance, brushing off the worst of the by then dried mud the next time he has to go out and wear it. How does he know that. Now that he's pointed it out and begun cleaning it, the itch in his hands has grown to be unbearable. This feels familiar. He won't be able to clean the cape right away without any soap or water, he's always so careless with it, never properly taking care, and his crown is dirty with mud.

"Give it to me," Ghostbur suddenly demands, extending his hand towards Techno's crown. Why is this so important to me? "Give me your crown." The piglin raises an eyebrow at the demand, but hands over the golden crown with a shrug, curious as to what has the ghost riled up so suddenly.

Ghostbur snatches the crown from the other's hand and starts to clean it with the fabric of his sweater. The mud that has since dried slowly flakes off and reveals the shiny surface underneath. He almost obsessively rubs at the inlaid jewels, scratching away the dirt. He turns it over a few times when he is done and returns it to his owner with a slight huff. "Please take better care of it next time."

Techno chuckles at the ghost antics, but his brows are pulled together and he looks anything but amused. He doesn't hide his small frown fast enough.

Ghostbur mentally adds Techno's crown to the taboo list, as they continue walking home. At least the itching in his hands has stopped.

[girlmeetsliv3]

Head Over Heels II (Finale)

Killing Me Softly Sequel!

Yandere Hoseok x Reader ; BTS Member x Reader

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 5,626

Release Date: December 21st, 2019 @ 12 am (GMT-4)

Three years. It took three years for some semblance of normality to return to your life. It took three years for you to begin to see the world, not by it’s bad but it’s good. Three years and you were finally moving on. Three years wasn’t enough to stop his obsession. After three years, he was tired of waiting - you would finally be his.

Trigger Warning: The following story contains mentions of manipulation, abuse, harassment, and child k*dnapping. The behavior and mindset of the characters in this will be incredibly yandere and toxic. This is a work of fiction and doesn’t represent the character of bangtan sonyeondan. Enjoy ~~~

The last person you expected to see standing at the foot of your bed was Park Jimin. His hair had grown, but the blonde locks didn’t roughen him up, if anything they made him even more beautiful. A maniacal grin had spread his cheekbones wide apart and crinkled his eyes, it was as if the past three years had never occurred. You were beginning to wonder if prison had been nothing more than a temporary home for the men - and not the terrible punishment for actions you assumed it would be. “What? Didn’t you miss me?” He pouted, lips stretched out sensually. Park Jimin had always been aware of his allure. Even now when you were absolutely terrified of him, a part of you longed to kiss those lips. At your lack of response, Jimin rolled his eyes and walked to the side of your bed where he had better access to you. The closer he got the more you tried to wriggle away, but your attempts were useless Jimin grabbed your legs and pulled you towards him with ease. Not noticing, or caring, how unwilling you were to be touched by him.

“Now now. It’s best you behave. Wouldn’t want someone to be punished by your recklessness, would you?” He tilted his head pointing towards your nightstand, and your eyes dragged to the framed picture of Sun-Hi and you at the beach. That was all it took to set you off. You desperately tried to push against him and tried to hit him with your bound hands, exhaustion had worn away, as had fear. All you were concerned about now was about getting your daughter away from the lunatics that had ruined your life. “I swear to god if you touch a hair on her head -” Jimin laughed. A boisterous ‘ha ha ha’ sort of laugh. “Calm down momma bear. I won’t hurt our little girl, what kind of man do you think I am?” You hadn’t missed the ‘our.’ None of them knew whose daughter it was, that meant none of them would hurt Sun-Hi...for now. Jimin bent down to meet your eyes, “God how I missed you.” It was whispered so quietly, almost as if he was speaking to himself. His hand caressed your cheek softly, “I almost went mad when I thought we’d lost you and then we did.” He sounded so broken. You thought for a second you could see tears brimming in his eyes, but assumed it was a trick of the light.

“When you left, the first time, I didn’t know what to do with myself. But then we got you back just like Hoseok-Hyung said we would, only to lose you again.” He had stopped caressing your cheek. The hand now beginning to tighten on your jaw. “Do you know what it was like all those years? Without you? Without them?” All the sadness in his eyes had quickly disappeared and was suddenly filled with an intense rage. “Jimin - ” You tried to speak, but his hand only kept tightening on your jaw, forcing you to remain quiet. “I had to stand trial and listen to them call me a pimp, a kidnapper,” By now he had abandoned your jaw and instead had grabbed your clothes, hoisting you up in front of him. “A fucking rapist, Y/n. That’s what they said. They said we raped you.”Jimin yelled, his face mere centimeters from yours. Tears were now flowing freely down his face. Park Jimin had never been more broken or terrifying than he was to you at that moment. “You know what the worst part was? You never showed up. Not even once.” His voice had lowered significantly until he was whispering again. “You see that’s what really killed me. You didn’t even care enough to show up.”

Jimin threw you back onto the bed as if you weighed nothing. As if you were nothing. “I’m sorry Jimin. I was scared. I was so scared.” The words tumbled out of your mouth, as you sought a way to console him. “I- I-” You wracked your brain trying to find something, anything, that would help you get out of this situation. That would help your daughter get out of this situation. “I was afraid for Sun-Hi.” Jimin who had been pacing back and forth trying to control his anger came to a halt. His brows furrowed and confusion flashed in his eyes, “What?” This was it. “When I found out I was pregnant I freaked out.” Your hands began to tremble and you tried to interlace them together to make it less noticeable. “I wanted to tell you, but then I heard about the fighting. About how all of you were pinning the blame on each other and I was nervous.” Your eyes danced around the floor, as you tried to come up with something else. One more detail to make the lie seem believable. By now Jimin had begun to approach you, time was running out.

“I thought that if you found out I was pregnant by one of you. Then the rest would be mad and…” Jimin sighed, a small smile on his face. “You don’t have to be worried about that Y/n. After all, you can always have more kids.” Whatever little hope you had to reason with the madman died then and there. It appeared absence did make the heart grow fonder, for all of the men seemed more obsessed with you than ever before. “Jimin, where is Sun-Hi?” He shrugged before turning around and walking around your room, taking in his surroundings. “With her dad. Making up for lost time.” You jumped at his statement, “How do you know Hoseok is her dad?” Jimin chuckled though it lacked warmth, “Of course she would be his. You love him the most, it only makes sense.” No, that wasn’t it. It couldn’t be. “We also had a paternity test done this morning.” He casually added, as if it was a comment on the weather. “What?!” How had Hoseok even had the resources to do something like that? How had the rest of them when they were in prison? As if Jimin could read your mind, he answered all your questions.

“You’d be surprised what money can buy. Honestly, it wasn’t too bad. We all had our private cells, had food delivered, could read or watch television. Shit, the guards even looked the other way when one of us felt lonely and sought the other out.” It was a harsh slap of reality, but it was one that you needed. The system had failed you. They were supposed to keep you safe, but now you were tied on your bed with your daughter missing and the men who claimed to love you bringing havoc upon your life once more. Maybe things would be different if you had chosen a different path?

A phone went off startling you out of your thoughts, a smile broke out onto Jimin’s face. “Hi, sweetheart. How are you?” Immediately you tried to lunge at him but remembered that your feet were bound once your face hit the floor. Jimin tried to stifle his laughter, “I’m just here with Mommy. She’s talking about how much she misses you, maybe if she’s good you’ll see her soon.” You glared at Jimin with all the willpower you could muster, but it seemed to affect him very little. “You want to tell her goodnight? Um, I’m not sure Mommys' awfully busy. She’s all tied up now.” He giggled at his own little joke. “Jimin, please. Please let me speak to her.” You begged and even tried to crawl your way towards him, you couldn’t care less about how pathetic you looked groveling at his feet. “Hm…” His finger tapped against his chin, simulating deep thought. “You know what Sun-Hi, it seems Mommy can speak with you now.” Jimin crouched down and pressed the speaker button.

Nothing could be heard until a shy sleepy “Mommy?” was mumbled. You almost burst out into tears again. “Hi sunshine.” You tried to keep your tone light, but it took what little strength you had to do it. “Momma when are you coming? I miss you.” She extended the last part in a whine. Sun-Hi had a habit of becoming grouchy when she was tired. You tried to blink the tears away before Jimin could see them, but his eyes were glued to your face. Gauging you for any sudden movements or decisions, you decided to test your luck. “Mommy’s on her way. You’ll see me the second you wake up tomorrow morning.” Jimin’s tsked. “Really? I can’t wait. I miss you so much Mommy and so does Daddy.” You didn’t know how to respond to that. “Good night, baby. Sweet dreams.” Sun-Hi responded back enthusiastically, though you could still hear the sleep in her voice. “Goodnight Sunshine. Uncle Jimin will see you soon.” Then he hung up.

 “Why sunshine?” Hoseok turned towards you, a confused yet intrigued smile on his face. You, on the other hand, were desperately trying to hide your reddened cheeks in his chest, whilst also making a grab for your phone. “I don’t know. It’s just a nickname.” You once again tried to reach for your phone but Hoseok easily outmaneuvered you. Your phone was being held above his head and his other hand had crept towards the back of your neck. “Nope. Baby or Babe would be a nickname.” He slightly pulled away, so that he could see your face. “But sunshine. That has to have meaning behind it.” If possible your cheeks became even redder. Hoseok laughed and tenderly kissed your lips, you melted into him like butter. You always wondered how he managed to do that to you - make you forget everything but him. Refusing to let the playful air die he continued, “Is it because I light up every room I walk into?” His eyebrow cocked and a teasing smile made its way onto his lips. “Shut up.” You rolled your eyes, playfully shoving him. “Or could it be because your world revolves around me?” Hoseok's smile only grew wider as you scoffed, “As if.” His hands trailed down towards your ass, where they rested before giving a firm squeeze. You jumped in surprise. “Is it because I’m hot?” He whispered into your ear, trying to be seductive.

You shoved him back softly, “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just a nickname.” You tried to play it cool, refusing to let him know the effect he had on you even if it was far too late already. “Oh, so what, you call all your boyfriends Sunshine?” He was still trying to tease you, keep the mood light. But of course, you were far too worried about your feelings being exposed, especially when Hoseok wasn’t interested in you that way. “You aren’t even my boyfriend.” It had slipped out before you could even register what you had said. “What?” His voice had dropped several octaves, the way it usually did when he was angry. Immediately you turned around, holding your hands up. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that you’re special and - ” Hoseok was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Cut the crap, sweetheart. I know what you meant.” It was moments like these that you wondered exactly what you were doing. Moments like these when you were afraid of him but didn’t know why. “I’m sorry Hobi. I really am. I made a mistake, it won’t happen again.” You reached out to touch him, but he recoiled as if disgusted by your touch. “Don’t ever say that again. You have no idea how special you are to me. I would do anything for you.” You nodded at his words and kept apologizing. Too naive to understand the weight behind what he said until it was far too late.

 Jimin hadn’t trusted you enough to tell you where you were going. After, the call ended he merely threw you over his shoulders and back onto the bed, before disappearing into your closet. He emerged a few minutes later with your emergency suitcase, then he went out of the room into the one across. Coming back in with a small bag and Sun-Hi’s favorite stuffed animal a blue-ish horse with its nose in the shape of a heart. It worried you, the ease with which he had been able to know which toy to take, Sun-Hi’s bed was littered with them. Yet, he had known. “One more thing before we go.” Jimin had your phone in the palm of his hand, he flashed it in your face before the screen unlocked for him. “You’re going to call the police officer and say Sun-Hi has been returned and that the search can be called off. You’re also going to say that you’ve decided to take a break from the city given everything, but that you’ll be back in his office Monday morning to discuss everything.” He didn’t even give you a chance to agree, before dialing the number and holding it up to your ear.

After three rings, the gruffy voice of Officer Park answered, “Hello, Park speaking.” You repeated everything Jimin had told you to say, never straying from the script as his eyes bore mercilessly into yours. A part of you prayed that the officer would notice how strange all of this was, how calm your tone was compared to hours before. “Well alright child. I’ll see you Monday then.” The click signifying the end of the call was almost mocking. A scream threatened to claw its way out of your throat, but you swallowed it back. “Now that’s done.” Jimin turned off your phone before slamming it to the ground and stepping on it. There was so much force and aggression in every one of his movements you forgot the man in front of you was capable of being sweet, had been sweet, until he lost you. An uncomfortable feeling set in as you finally became aware of something: this isn’t like the last time. There’s no escape now.

Kim Namjoon toyed with the device in his hand, he wasn’t supposed to have it. Not really. But the guards had looked the other way whenever he and his lovers came into possession of certain items, as long as their pockets were lined with money they didn’t really give a damn. They hadn’t even been aggressive to them the first day, a little rough but that was nothing more than a scare tactic. The device vibrated in his hand and Namjoon unlocked it, reading the singular text.

Unknown: It’s been dealt with.

Namjoon smirked, he placed the phone under his pillow - if it could be called that - and laid on his side as images of what might happen next played in his head. Jungkook had been ecstatic during dinner today, barely able to contain himself until he saw his Hyungs. He’d spilled all the juicy details about how you’d finally come to visit him and how you hadn’t denied that Sun-Hi was theirs. Jungkook was practically bouncing with joy, and it would be a lie to say the youngest’s enthusiasm wasn’t contagious. It had been rough in the beginning, the idiotic lawyers they hired suggested that it would be better if they put the blame on each other rather than be tried as a group. Coming up with varying statements that clashed made it difficult for the prosecution to convince the jury, not to mention the lack of evidence. Namjoon had always been a cautious man, but even he made mistakes - he let his guard down around you. That wouldn’t happen again.

The device vibrated again, Namjoon frowned before his hand slipped under his pillow to drag the device out. This time it was two texts, each which sent him over the moon in different ways. Namjoon went to bed that night entirely anxious for the good news the morning might bring. Positive that for the first time in three years things would go his way.

Lawyer Lee: The committee has agreed to a hearing. If all goes well, you’ll be out of there in no time.

Jiminie: I’ve got her. We’re on our way now.

 You could distantly pick up on the rhythmic sound of waves crashing, the roar of the ocean and wind arousing you from a deep slumber you didn’t even know you’d fallen into. As you stretch out your limbs, only to not feel them bound, another more quiet sound could be heard in the distance. It was giggling, the small bell-like laughter that could only come from a child, you tore your eyes open and tried to leap off of wherever you were only to be stopped by a hand wrapping around your forearm. There he stood, the man of your dreams, father of your child, and tormentor of your dreams. A pregnant silence hung between the two of you, as one waited for the other to speak. It was Sun-Hi’s giggles that broke the tension, your eyes darting past him towards the window. Outside in the gloomy weather, you could see Sun-Hi running around the beach smiling and laughing, whilst Jimin tried to catch her. Sun-Hi was always a bright child, but she seemed to radiate like never before. Hoseok cleared his throat drawing your attention back to him. Unconsciously you flinched, prepared for anything he might throw at you.

Instead, Hoseok only sighed, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss on your forehead. “I’ve missed you. I’m so glad you’re home.” You would always wonder how he managed to disarm you in less than ten words. A moan of pain escaped you, as he continued his assault. “I’ve longed for so long to hold you in my arms, Y/n. I nearly went mad.” His hand skimmed all over your body, but his touch was soft - as if you were made of glass. Of paper. “Seeing Sun-Hi grow up without knowing her dad and how much he loved her…you can’t imagine how much that hurt me.” It was as if every time he opened his mouth, he plunged even more daggers into your heart. He wouldn’t stop until you admitted your guilt, so you finally decided to spare your pride. “I love you Hoseok. I always have, I just…” don’t love them. Not the way you want me too. Tears streamed down your face and sobs violently shook your body.

“I can’t be with them, Hoseok. I’m sorry I can’t.”

He shook his head, hands coming up to cup your cheeks. “But you love me, don’t you? Wouldn’t you do anything for me?” Yes. Yes. Yes. “But not that.” Any sympathy Hoseok may have felt for you or shown you, dissipated. “We’re a package deal, Y/n.” His voice lacked any warmth. Your time was running out and you found yourself at a fork in the road: one decision would damn your soul, but the other your heart. So you tried to reason with him, not for you but for the only other thing you could find, “What about Sun-Hi? She won’t understand. She has friends, classmates,” You desperately pleaded, “She might not understand why she suddenly can’t go back to that life anymore.” Hoseok only laughed at your worries, “She’s three Y/n. The only thing she needs is her parents, a roof over her head, food, and love and affection. She has plenty of that to go around.”

Alright, so option two then. You let out a long sigh and sat back on the bed seemingly resigned. “Please let me see her.” Hoseok raised an eyebrow as he folded his arms across his chest. “She’s my daughter, dammit. Let me see her.” You yelled at him, a mixture of frustration and exhaustion causing more tears to flow. He crouched in front of you, his hand tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Not like this, you’ll scare her. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” The Hoseok you knew was back: your sweet, loving, affectionate sunshine. You melted like putty in his hands as he escorted you to the bathroom, giving you your privacy but making sure you knew not to take too long. On the way there you passed another window, one that displayed a narrow road shrouded with long trees on either side. Deja-vu welled up in you. You’d been here before.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Sun-Hi ran straight into your arms, her short stature and low-weight making it easy for you to pick her up with ease. “Oh, my baby. How I’ve missed you.” You kissed her face all over, as she tried to push you away softly. “Look, Mommy. I found a seashell.” The shell in her hand was white with a bold stripe of grey running through it. “It’s beautiful, Sun-Hi.” Her cheeks reddened at the compliment before her eyes caught onto someone else. “Look, Daddy. I found a seashell.” Sun-Hi was desperate to be free of your arms, so she could run into her father’s, so you set her down with much reluctance. Immediately Hoseok scooped her up, congratulating her and blowing raspberries on her stomach until your child was hollering with laughter. “Aw aren’t they the cutest.” Immediately, you stilled as Jimin wrapped his arms around your waist. “I can’t wait until that’s us.” He murmured in your ear, lightly nipping at the lobe until it became red and you lightly hissed. Satisfied with your response, Jimin chuckled before making his way over to Hoseok before whispering something in his ear and kissing Sun-Hi on the cheek.

“Uncle Minnie will be back soon, okay?” He spoke, the toddler nodding before returning her attention to her father. Hoseok nodded at Jimin before both of the men’s eyes landed on you. Jimin walked towards you, gripping the back of your neck and harshly planting his lips on yours. “See you later, Darling.” With that he walked out the door, leaving the three of you all alone as you planned your escape.

             A children’s movie played on the television which took up much of the wall. You recognized the bright colors and cheery music, it was your daughter’s favorite - it seems he knew even that too. Sun-Hi was between the two of you, eyes glued to the screen, with you on her left and Hoseok on the other side. His arm was thrown over the back of the couch, whenever you shifted too suddenly for his liking he would grip your shoulder. Other than that, it was a nice normal evening. You had to act fast. “Are you hungry, Sun-Hi?” She briefly turned towards you, nodding before gluing her eyes back to the screen. “Hoseok,” you whispered trying to draw his attention, not that it wasn’t already on you. “She has to eat.” You didn’t give him a chance to respond and made your way towards the kitchen, opening the fridge as you pretended to search for food. When you didn’t find anything useful, you opened the drawers and cabinets.

           “I told Jimin to bring food.” His voice startled you. Of course, he wouldn’t leave you alone, you had counted on as much. “She needs to eat real food, not takeout. I can cook.” You began to rummage again, this time finding some beef, pasta, and tomato sauce. “See look. I’ll have it done in no time.” You crouched down to search for a pot or pans and were beyond relieved when you found them. Fingers danced along your sides, as Hoseok came to rest his head above your shoulder. “Y/n. Don’t treat me like a fool.” Your hand tightly gripped the metal handle on the black pan. You would wait patiently and then hit him over the head with it. One blow, maybe two, and you would be able to escape. Hoseok sighed, “I think there are several things you’ve left unaccounted: for one, Jimin might be on his way. Two, Sun-Hi might not react in a positive way of seeing mommy bash daddy’s head in.” Your grip wavered.  Focus Y/n. This is what he wants.

           You refused to reply, to play his games. You should’ve known better. “Turn around.” It was an order, something not to be disobeyed. Yet, you stood your ground. His lips ghosted the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning it. “Please, darling. Please~” He all but whined, but it was obviously a farce. You swallowed thickly and tightened your grip on the steel pan. It seems Hoseok had enough, “There are other ways for me to punish you now…” His voice trailed off, clearly implying something. That was only confirmed when his head moved from your shoulder to glance back at your daughter. Immediately you turned around. Just one strike and he’s out. Hoseok saw the fire glowing in your eyes and smirked, clearly enjoying this game. “I’ll tell you what, you can go.” What?! “What?” You spoke, shock evident on your features. For a brief moment, you forgot what you were planning to do and that was all he needed. Just a brief moment, to completely trap you in the intricate web they’d sewn together.

           “You can leave. I know that’s what you want. To run far away from here with Sun-Hi and never see each other again. If that’s what you truly want Y/n. I’ll give that to you.” Hoseok leaned back against the countertop, “Go do it now before Jimin comes back. He’s only ten minutes out, but if you head east you’ll find the main street and I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out from there.” There was nothing in his voice or eyes to indicate that he was toying with you. Nothing in his beautiful hazel eyes that displayed anything other than honestly. “Why?” You should’ve known better than to question things, you should’ve just taken Sun-Hi and runaway. Unbeknownst to you, a step was taken to close the gap between the two of you. You were still reaching for him - longing for him. You still loved him.

           Hoseok rolled his eyes, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because my love for you will never die. No matter what.” The distance between the two of you, which was short, to begin with, kept decreasing. “I know you better than anyone else does Y/n. When the going gets tough you run; from responsibility, affection, love. But I also know that you are one of the most selfless people I know.” Hoseok took another step forward, this time your chests were touching and your faces mere centimeters apart. “You would never sacrifice someone else’s happiness for your own well-being.” You should’ve known better than to believe he’d show you mercy. No. This is what he’d been waiting for all along, the moment he could use your biggest weakness against you. “You can run away, but we’ll always chase. You’ll never have a normal life… and neither will your daughter.” The frying pan slipped from your hand, the loud ‘clang’ it made echoing loudly against the room. Sun-Hi was clearly frightened, she jumped off the couch and ran towards you. “Mommy, are you okay?” Her soft chubby hands wrapped around yours as she gazed up at Hoseok. He smiled reassuringly, “The pan was just too heavy so it fell.”

           Sun-Hi looked up at Hoseok, her brow furrowed in confusion before she looked at you again. It took all your strength not to break under her innocent gaze, you had experienced so much growing up you couldn’t bear to have her live through even a quarter of it. Aren’t parents supposed to provide a better life for their kids? You owed her that much. Slowly, you crouched in front of her a forced smile on your face. “That’s right it was just too heavy. Don’t worry sweetheart, I’m alright.” After a couple of seconds, the toddler nodded seemingly accepting what she had been told at face value. She was barely a child and couldn’t understand that not everything was as it seems, you didn’t want her to lose that innocence just yet. “Go back and finish watching the movie. Mommy and Daddy will be there shortly.” You gently guided her out of the kitchen, content when she returned to her previous spot and focused on the graphics in front of her.

           All you could do was stare at her from the threshold, wishing things were different. Wanting to have made better choices. Regretting certain decisions. Your time had passed, things were no longer about you - nor could they ever be any more. Hoseok stood beside you observing Sun-Hi with a tender smile on his cheek, “No harm will ever come to her. She’ll grow up loved and cared for, just like you should’ve been.” Cautiously he pecked your cheek, pleased when you didn’t recoil away. Not that you could, you had become numb to it. The decision you made settling deep into your core. Hoseok’s fingers hooked under your chin and forced you to look at him, “Come on now, sunshine. Don’t you love me?” Once again, he managed to disarm you with so little effort. You practically melted into his arms.

           Lights suddenly shone from outside, before they suddenly disappeared. The door opened a couple of minutes later and in strolled Park Jimin with two bags of takeout and a new stuffed toy for his favorite niece. Jimin would make it a habit to always bring something home for Sun-Hi, until the day when he brought something for his own child. For now, he settled on the current situation though hope did bloom in his chest at the sight of your pouty lips pressed against Hoseok’s even if it was just for a second or two.  

             Monday morning rolled around and Officer Byunghoo Park sipped on his coffee as he waited for his next appointment to roll around. The Sun-Hi case had been an absolute disaster, but his commissioner didn’t seem the least bit concerned in a child disappearing only to be returned the same day. Nor did he seem to care that the child’s elusive mother had all but disappeared. To be fair, Park had his fair share of drinks that night and when his phone had rung at such a strange hour he picked up more out of a sense of duty than want. It should be of surprise to no one that he barely picked up on what the women said, it wasn’t until the next morning that he entered his office and saw the file that he recalled the strange conversation.

           Immediately he attempted to contact you but had no luck. His partner was completely useless as always, but any questions he had would be answered today, in about ten minutes or so. A quick knock on the door, disturbed his train of thought before he grumbled a ‘come in.’ A well-dressed man in a tailored suit with a black briefcase entered the room, he gave a curt bow and introduced himself as Mr. Lee. “I’m here in place of Ms. Y/l/n. She didn’t feel safe coming in, I hope you understand.” Park furrowed his brows, “Why wouldn’t she feel comfortable? Her daughter’s back isn’t she?” The lawyer chuckled humorlessly, “Oh yes, especially after the kidnappers were caught. But still -” Park jumped out of his seat almost comically, “What do you mean the kidnappers were caught? I’m in charge of the investigation and have never heard about any of this?!” Lawyer Lee attempted to hide his disdain for the man, but his patience when dealing with cretins could only extend so far.

           “Oh were you not aware that the Gangnam police were also running their own investigation? See the day-care from which the child was taken happens to lie right at the border between your jurisdiction and theirs, so they took up the case.” The words flowed so smoothly out of Lee’s mouth as if it were the most obvious thing. “I’m supposed to be notified when another sector wants to undergo the same investigation. Why wasn’t I notified?” Park scattered through his notes, searching for a map of the city and Gangnam’s contact information. “Now Mr. Park, I believe that is something you should take up with them. I’m nothing, but the messenger.” There was something Park didn’t like about Lee’s tone - the sardonic nature of it. As if he were speaking down to him. “The perpetrators turned themselves into Gangnam police and the child was returned.” Before anymore question could stumble out of Park’s mouth, Lee stood up and opened his briefcase taking out a manila envelope and placing it on the officer’s desk.

           “I am sorry, but I do have a very important meeting with another client across town. Ms. Y/l/n only sent me here to say thank you for everything you’ve done. After all, because of your skills, her family is now reunited.” Lee bowed before quickly excusing himself. Park had wanted to question the man over the contents inside the bag but recalled encountering a similar situation on his past. He didn’t need to know what was inside the envelope, all he knew was what he needed to do. Rather quickly Park found Sun-Hi Y/l/n file and typed in whatever information he deemed fit, before moving his mouse over to a red button at the top corner. There was no hesitation in his clicking of ‘close.’ Nor in the depositing of the case file into the resolved folder. After all, your family was reunited once more - wasn’t that what you wanted in the first place? Who was he to question it?

[lastbluetardis]

Day by Day

Summary: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” The Doctor and Rose take that first step together as they begin to clear the air and reconnect after being left alone in a parallel universe together.

Tentoo x Rose, ~6400 words, Mature

What is this? I wrote something that’s not an AU??? Indeed I did. I was inspired to write Tentoo/Rose after rewatching Journey’s End this weekend, and after finding half of this fic on my laptop’s hard drive. I wrote the first half of this sometime in 2015 and finally finished it this morning. Enjoy!

AO3

They’d been in Pete’s World for a grand total of six hours. Six frustrating, emotionally-draining, confusing hours. Using the newly-obsolete dimension jumpers and some jiggery-pokery of the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver—which had not been stolen, thank you very much—they’d managed to teleport themselves directly to the London-based Torchwood offices, where they were greeted enthusiastically by the Torchwood team. Congratulations, handshakes, and hugs were given plentifully and freely; even the Doctor was corralled into the merriment and celebration.

As soon as was polite, though, Rose had grabbed his hand before tugging him and her mother out of the building. Jackie departed their company straight away, not giving either the Doctor or Rose the option of staying with her and Pete. (Jackie knew her daughter would hide from the situation, and was doing her damnedest to make Rose talk to this new Doctor.) Though Jackie did tell Rose quite firmly that she was expected ‘round for dinner one night soon—her little brother would be overjoyed to see her again.

That was how Rose suddenly found herself with a new flatmate and a belly full of butterflies.

The taxi had pulled up to Rose’s home—a small cottage away from the bustle of London that she was renting—and she had guided the Doctor inside.

But rather than sit down and have a much-needed chat about everything that had gone on, they’d cleaned up a little and went straight to bed. In separate beds. In separate rooms.

Sleep didn’t come as easily as Rose would have wished. She should have been able to fall asleep immediately. She’d been awake for over twenty-four hours; she should have been sleeping like the dead. Instead, Rose found herself tossing and turning with nothing but her racing thoughts for company.

So much had happened. She had found the Doctor and lost him again all in the span of a few hours. Only, she hadn’t lost him. He was right down the hall, hopefully having more luck than she was with sleep.

The Doctor was in her flat. The Doctor—her best friend and lost love—was in her flat in the next room over. And here she was, cooped up alone.

Letting out a groan of frustration and exhaustion, Rose flopped onto her back. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and sighed.

When she’d undertaken the Dimension Cannon project, this was not how she had seen things turning out. At all. She had imagined a bit of everything. Her bleakest thoughts were that the Cannon would never work, and she was doomed to die in this universe as every single star eventually winked out. Then there were even bleaker thoughts that she would make it back to the Doctor, only to find he had regenerated into a new body, into a new person who didn’t want her anymore. But at least in that scenario, she imagined they’d saved the universe—the multiverse—and her family would be safe.

However, there were moments she had allowed herself to hope. She allowed herself to imagine that she found him exactly as she left him: tall, thin, tight suit, really great hair and all. She allowed herself to immerse herself in the burning desire and love that she knew would sear through her veins as soon as she’d lay eyes on him for the first time. She imagined being swept into a rib-crushing hug that turned into a heated, bruising snog that turned into some really fantastic sex…

But not in any of her imaginings did she predict this: two Doctors, one of the Doctors coming to live with her while the other left her behind, no TARDIS (yet), no (foreseeable) travelling. And she was still stuck in this godforsaken universe.

At least the company was better this time around, she mused as her thoughts began to turn to the man the next room over. The Doctor was just next door. A white wall still separated them, but between those walls were simple drywall, insulation, and air molecules; there was no impenetrable Void keeping them apart anymore. Just her own stubborn pigheadedness.

Rose’s chest tightened as she remembered the look in his eyes when she’d left him alone in her flat several hours earlier. After a short, cursory tour of his new living environment, she’d made a quick escape, claiming to need a shower and sleep. He’d looked so lost, hurt, and panicked at the thought of being on his own, yet he had forced a smile and agreed wholeheartedly with her. He hadn’t protested, hadn’t asked to stay with her. He’d given her space and time, and she had selfishly taken it.

But why? Why was she hiding from him? She had been looking for him for years, yet the first thing she did was run away.

Cursing softly, Rose flung off the blankets and stepped out of her bedroom into the hallway. The door to the guest room was wide open, and upon peeking in, she saw it was empty. The bed was neatly made up; he obviously hadn’t been in here yet.

Unease flitted through Rose. Surely he was exhausted as she was? He was human now, and would need more rest than he had before. They’d gone through quite a traumatic ordeal, after all. Him especially. He’d gone and split himself in two, for God’s sake. If it was anything like a regeneration, he surely needed to sleep off any lingering stress, lest he make himself ill. Her guts twisted at the thought of him slipping into a coma as he had done that Christmas day after he’d regenerated.

Rose moved down the hall and into the living room. Perhaps he was entertaining himself with the telly? Or the scant collection of books she’d acquired over the nearly four years of existing in this universe. After all, Dickens hadn’t died until 1873 in this world—rather than 1870—and had managed to coax out one last novel before passing. She’d tried reading it herself, but found the material a bit dry and language too foreign for her to thoroughly enjoy by herself.

Before, reading together in the library, snuggled against the Doctor with hot tea and nibbles, had been Rose’s favorite pastime on the TARDIS. He had thoroughly enjoyed narrating books to her, and she had likewise enjoyed listening to him. He’d brought the stories alive in ways she could never have imagined. Quite literally sometimes, seeing as he would often surprise her with trips to go and visit long-dead authors.

Since being trapped in Pete’s World, reading by herself had only left her feeling hollow and alone.

Anyway. Rose was sure the Doctor would have snatched that particular book right up. She was eager to visit a bookstore or library with him now; she was dying to know if any of their old favorite authors had produced anything new or different in this universe. Perhaps they could resume their habit of reading together every night before bed. She would like that very much, and hoped he would as well.

With every step down the hall, her excitement grew. A smile was already tugging up the corners of her mouth in preparation of seeing him, but it slipped when she found her living room as empty as the guest bedroom.

Where is he?

She noticed with some satisfaction that the unique-to-this-universe Dickens novel was resting on the coffee table, a bookmark tucked into the pages about a quarter of the way through. But the satisfaction disappeared, only to be replaced with dread.

Where was he? Surely he wouldn’t have left without telling her? A peek into the kitchen told her he wasn’t there either. Nor was he in the loo.

“Doctor?” she called out, her voice trembling. 

No answer. But before she could work herself into a panic, she glimpsed his red Chucks strewn haphazardly by the front door. She breathed out a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t have gone anywhere without shoes.

She scrubbed her hands over her eyes, feeling utterly exhausted suddenly. She wondered if she should just go back to bed, but she quickly decided against it. They really, really ought to have a chat about their circumstances and expectations of each other. Yes, she wanted him here with her, but only if he wanted it too. Yes, she was happy to be with him again even though part of her heart was breaking at being abandoned by the other Doctor.

The middle of the night probably wasn’t ideal for that conversation, but at least it might help clear the air a bit. If they were both awake at this ungodly hour, there was no reason not to have this conversation. And at the very least, she really ought to apologize for running away from him like she’d done.

But a conversation required two people, and for all intents and purposes, her flat was empty. Where on Earth could the Doctor have gone?

He hadn’t been taken, had he? By some alien species that recognized him as alien? Was he even still alien? He said his body was human, but he still had a Time Lord’s consciousness. A Time Lord’s memories. Would that show up as alien?

Before she could call Torchwood to track him down, Rose noticed the door to her back garden was unlocked. She strode to the door and nudged aside the curtains. Bingo. A dark, familiar, lanky form was sprawled on one of her lounge chairs. He looked so small, sitting out there by himself underneath the stars he used to travel.

Her heart twinged. How hard must this be for him?

Sighing, Rose turned away from the door. As much as she ached to go and join him, she needed a minute. She needed to organize her thoughts and emotions, lest she simultaneously hug him and rage at him. No, she needed to get her anger and hurt in check first. There would be time to work through that later, but for now, she allowed herself to be filled up with the joy of being with the Doctor again.

To busy her hands, Rose filled the kettle and set about making tea. She pulled down two bags of chamomile tea and worked on making it to each of their likings. At least, she made it according to how he used to like his tea. She wasn’t sure if his tastes had changed, either from time or from becoming human.

With the tea finished, Rose rummaged around her bare cabinets for a box of her favorite biscuits. Tucking the box beneath her arm, she carefully picked up both mugs and headed outside. She struggled with the door for a few seconds until she was able to push down on the handle with her elbow.

The summer night was cool and there was a gentle breeze that nipped at her nose and cheeks. She wished she’d thought to put on a dressing gown; she was soon shivering in her pajama shorts and t-shirt. She wondered if the Doctor was cold. She didn’t know how long he’d been sitting out here, and he was dressed similarly to her: in boxer-briefs and a shirt. She winced when she realized it was the same shirt he’d been wearing beneath his suit. They really needed to get clothes for him.

She took a selfish minute to observe him, to drink in every inch of him before she approached. He must have heard her, because he turned his head. A small smile tugged up a corner of his mouth as she set the mugs and biscuits on the table beside him.

“Hello,” she said, her voice a little breathless.

“Hello.”

“I, er, made tea,” she said awkwardly, wringing her fingers in front of herself. “May I join you?”

“I would like that,” he said. He hovered his fingers over the two mugs and looked up at her questioningly. She pointed to his tea and watched as he took a long gulp, not seeming to care if the hot liquid scalded his throat. He smacked his lips appreciatively. “You remembered how I take it.”

She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “I was worried that you might not take it the same way.” She picked up her own mug and took a more cautious sip than he had. “But you’re still you, right?”

“Oh! Yes! Of course!” He cleared his throat, then lowered his voice to something a little more appropriate for the quiet night air. “I meant… it’s been a while, is all. Didn’t know if you’d remember something as silly as how I take my tea.”

“I remember everything about you,” Rose murmured, hiding behind a sip of tea.

His face softened.

They slipped into an awkward silence, with each of them nursing their own cups of tea. Rose was painfully aware that she was just standing there like a nutter.

“D’you…”

“Can I…”

They chuckled nervously, and Rose wanted to rip out her hair. Why was everything so stiff and awkward between them? Why did this feel like meeting up with her ex, rather than her lover whom she’d been parted from for four years?

“You first,” the Doctor prompted. He glanced sidelong at the box of biscuits.

Rose grabbed the box and opened it one-handed before nudging it towards him. He beamed at her and didn’t waste any time with grabbing a biscuit and stuffing it whole into his mouth. His cheeks puffed out comically.

Her heart squeezed with love for him, and tears inexplicably burned her eyes. Apart from the layer of tension between the two of them and their current location, it could have been any other night aboard the TARDIS with them sharing late night tea and biscuits before bed.

But there was a layer of tension between them. And they weren’t in the TARDIS.

“‘Oo were sch’aying?” he mumbled as he chewed his biscuit.

The confidence Rose had built up suddenly left her. “S’nothing. Wanted to know if you wanted company. But you looked deep in thought. Don’t want to interrupt. Just thought you might like some tea, though. It gets a bit cold out here.”

Rose realized she was rambling and scrambled to make an escape. “I’ll let you get back to… whatever it was you were doing.”

With her face burning from embarrassment and annoyance at her own cowardice, Rose was about to turn around when cold fingers wrapped around her forearm, halting her exit. She took a deep breath, willing her face to cool down, before turning towards him.

The Doctor was wearing a similar expression to the one he had when she left him alone in her flat earlier that evening. His eyebrows were knitted together, his mouth was drawn up tight into a thin, white line, and his eyes were so deep, so fathomless, and so sad it made her breath catch.

He opened his mouth to say something, and his Adam’s apple bobbed, but nothing came out. He exhaled in a rush, and tried again. Swallowing deeply, he averted his gaze from hers as he asked softly, “Stay? Please?”

He finally dropped his hand from her arm, moving it to cradle his mug of tea. He kept his eyes downcast, staring into the milky liquid, tracing the rim of the mug with his index finger.

The waver in his voice as well as the uncertainty shattered any resolve Rose had of fleeing back to her room. She placed her half-drunk mug of tea on the table and stepped up to him. She rested her hand on his shoulder, gave it a squeeze, then gave him a hug. Standing as she was, she towered over him for once. His shoulders were at her stomach, his head at her breasts. She tried not to think too much of that as she wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders and held him. This was the first intimate touch between them since their kiss on the beach.

The Doctor clutched at her desperately, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist and burying his face between her breasts. She was suddenly extremely aware that she was not wearing a bra. A shiver that had nothing to do with the night air rippled through her.

She bent over him and pressed a kiss to his hair. It was just as soft as she remembered.

They stayed like that for an immeasurable moment, with her hunched over him and him stretched up towards her, holding each other as if their lives depended on it.

When Rose’s back began to protest, she stood, shivering as the cool night air replaced his warm, solid body.

“Will you stay?” he asked again.

Rose bit her lip. She really was quite cold, and judging from the goosebumps raising his arm hairs, he was too.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

Before she could overthink it, she leaned down and pecked a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then skipped inside. She shivered when the warm air of her flat kissed her skin. She went to the couch and grabbed the fuzzy blanket balled up in one of the corners. She shook it out as she strode back to the Doctor.

He was sitting in the same position as when she’d left him. She held up the blanket for him to see.

“Budge up a bit,” she said, flapping her hand at him. He blinked, and she rolled her eyes. “Scoot up, and spread your legs. I’ll sit between them. That way we can both share the blanket. Unless…?”

Doubts crept into her mind. This would be a very intimate position for them to sit in. They’d engaged in much more intimate positions before, but that had been years ago.

The Doctor moved quickly, slinging his legs on either side of the lounge chair, leaving room for her between them. 

“Good idea,” he said, patting the seat to encourage her to sit. “I didn’t realize how cold it was. This human body is quite rubbish with the cold.”

Rose carefully lowered herself to the chair, settling between his thighs before she threw the blanket across herself and draped it over his legs and feet. The Doctor wrapped his arms around her middle and tugged her closer until her entire back was flush with his front. A warm tingle bloomed in her stomach.

“That’s better,” the Doctor sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah. It’s nice.”

She pillowed her head against his collarbone and let out a deep breath to relax herself into his arms. His hands rested loosely against her lower abdomen, and before long, his fingers began tracing idle lines across the waistband of her shorts. His lips then pressed ever so softly against her temple before he nuzzled his cheek into the top of her hair.

Rose hadn’t felt this complete in years. Despite the maelstrom of thoughts and other emotions churning through her, the one dominating this moment was utter peace. She loved him so much, had missed him so much, and now she was back with him once more. They still needed to talk, to clear the air between them. She needed to wrap her head around her new reality, to give herself the proper time and space to grieve the loss of the other Doctor, but not right now. Not on such a beautiful, perfect night when she was in the arms of the man she loved.

“I missed you.”

He’d spoken so quietly that if she hadn’t felt the rumble of his chest, she wouldn’t have been sure if he’d spoken at all. She tilted her head up to look at him and saw the depth of his longing in his eyes.

She reached up and cupped his cheek, stroking it with her thumb. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into the touch.

“I missed you too, Doctor. So much.” She paused for a moment, then added, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Are you, though?”

Her heart squeezed. “Yes. I know I didn’t act like it earlier. And I’m sorry. I really am. But I am very glad you’re here. With me.”

He was silent for a few seconds, then he said, “This probably wasn’t what you were expecting, was it?”

“Not really,” she admitted. His entire body tensed behind hers, but she wouldn’t lie to him. “But I’ll get used to it.”

“Great,” he scoffed, and he slowly withdrew his hands from her hips.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… I expected to be back on the TARDIS, with…”

“With him,” the Doctor bit out.

“You’re the same man,” she said. He hummed noncommittally. “Please, Doctor. Don’t do this. No, this isn’t what I expected, and yes, I’m angry and hurt and confused. But I’m also happy to be with you. I- I love you.”

He slumped back in his chair and ducked his chin to hide his face. For one horrible moment, she thought he was about to reject her, reject what she’d just said.

Instead, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m happy to be with you, too.”

Rose was said nothing for the span of several heartbeats, then she asked, “What happens now?”

The Doctor cocked his head to the side. “Well… we take it day by day, I guess.”

“Together?” Rose couldn’t help but ask.

A faint smile crossed the Doctor’s lips. “Together. Though, first thing’s first, you’re cold. Let’s go inside.”

Rose, who, despite the blanket, was close to shivering in the cold night air, nodded and stood up from the seat. She messily folded the blanket and began gathering up their mugs and the box of biscuits. The Doctor hurriedly jogged to the door and held it open for her. He followed her into the brightly-lit kitchen but stood there awkwardly while she dumped the dregs of their cold tea down the sink and put the biscuits away.

“This is a nice flat,” the Doctor said, glancing around. “You didn’t stay with Pete and Jackie?”

Rose shrugged. “I did for a while. Then needed my own space.” She held out her hand for him, glad when he threaded their fingers together. After the quiet intimacy they’d generated in the garden, she was loath to let any barriers come between them.

“I noticed the new Dickens book,” the Doctor said, pointing with their joined hands when they walked to the living room. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she said. “Is it any good? I tried reading it but, well… The classics were never my favorite.”

“But you let me read them to you all the time,” the Doctor said, sounding a bit affronted. “Why didn’t you ever say anything.”

“I enjoyed listening to you read them to me,” Rose said, squeezing his fingers. “Maybe you could read that one to me? Like we used to?”

“I would like that,” he murmured. “Did you want to start it tonight…?”

“I’m a bit too knackered for that,” she admitted. “I’d probably fall asleep after the first page.”

Rose guided him down the hall and to the guest room. Rather than releasing his hand, she gripped it tighter.

“You could sleep in here, or you can join me in my room,” she said, her voice low. “Your choice.”

“Your room,” he said immediately, and Rose breathed a sigh of relief.

They untangled her sheets and crawled beneath them. Without speaking, they moved until they were spooned together with the Doctor curled around her as tightly as he could be. His front was flush with her back, his legs tangled in hers. He wrapped his arms around her chest and anchored her firmly to him.

Rose knew this position wouldn’t last the night; no matter how many times they’d fallen asleep tangled together, they always awoke separated the next morning. But for now, Rose relished the closeness, the movements of his chest as he breathed, the tickle of his breath in her ear.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, and the kiss he planted to the sensitive spot just below her ear sent goosebumps prickling through her.

“Night,” she managed, and before she could tell him she loved him, she was asleep.

oOoOo

When Rose next awoke, pale yellow sunlight was filtering through her window. Her head was fuzzy and her eyes gritty, and it took all of a second before the memories of yesterday rushed back to her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the Doctor curled up behind her, wide awake and staring at her. He met her gaze and smiled.

All of a sudden, everything came over Rose at once. Tears burned behind her eyes, making her vision swim before she covered her face with her hands and began sobbing. Sobbing for everything she had lost and everything she had gained. For the years of exhaustion and hard work that led her back to the Doctor and led to the salvation of the universe. For the heartbreak and agony of the Doctor rejecting and abandoning her, and for the joy and love of the Doctor that was now crushing her into his arms.

She cried and cried until it felt like her entire body might break apart from the force of it. And through it all, the Doctor held her. His voice was low and soothing amidst her shuddering breaths, and though she couldn’t make out the words, she appreciated it nevertheless.

It took many long minutes before her tears stopped, and even longer before she felt like she could look at the Doctor. When she finally peeked up at him, he offered her a sweet smile and kissed her forehead gently.

“Feel better?” he asked, drying her cheeks with his thumbs.

“Not really,” she said thickly, her voice scratchy. Her head and body ached, and she felt like she could sleep for another couple of hours.

“I’m so sorry, Rose,” he said, kissing her forehead again.

��Please don’t think I’m unhappy with you. With being with you,” Rose said. “I’m happy you’re here. But I’m furious and heartbroken at him at the same time.”

“I know,” he murmured. He loosed a long exhale then admitted, “I never expected to be able to do this again. To wake up beside you. You were lost to me forever. But here you are.”

The wonder in his voice was almost enough to set her off crying again. She tucked her face closer into his chest until the urge went away.

“We can do this every day. If you want. Fall asleep together. Wake up together.” Her voice was muffled by his shirt, but she knew he’d heard her. 

He shivered and his arms tightened around her. “I would like that very much.”

Rose pulled back just far enough to press a kiss to his Adam’s apple. The muscles of his throat bobbed beneath her lips as she trailed kiss after kiss to his neck. He hummed and sighed, the sounds making his throat vibrate deliciously against her lips.

“Rose,” he groaned.

He pushed at her, pushing her away, making her stop. Her heart dropped. But as soon as she took her face away from his neck, his lips descended on hers. Her surprised exclamation was muffled by his mouth as his lips devoured hers, searching and pushing and pulling in all the best ways.

A violent shudder rippled down her spine, blazing an inferno through her veins that screamed for more, more, more. She had missed this, missed him, missed sharing her body and soul with him as they made love. And she needed him right now.

Needing better leverage than what was being afforded, Rose wrapped her arms around his shoulder and one leg around his hips and pulled. Without breaking the kiss, Rose rolled onto her back, bringing the Doctor with her. He moaned as their bodies aligned perfectly. His hips were cradled in hers, and she felt the burgeoning evidence of what this kiss was doing to him growing against her.

“Rose,” he panted, wrenching his mouth away from hers. “Rose, wait. Is this… do you…?”

“I want this,” she said, cradling his lightly-stubbled cheek in her hands. Her thumbs brushed his kiss-swollen lips. “I want you.”

A helpless little noise escaped his throat before he ducked his head down to catch her lips in his once more. She buried her fingers in his hair, so soft and strong, to deepen the kiss. Her lips parted for him, and their tongues tentatively met in the middle, slipping and gliding against each other, relearning each other after all these years.

An aching heat throbbed between her legs and she shifted restlessly. Hooking her thighs around his hips, she brought him into tighter contact against her. His groan was lost amidst hers as he rubbed against her so deliciously.

“Rose,” he breathed, releasing her lips to trail frantic little kisses along the curve of her jaw. He scraped his teeth along the side of her neck, sending shivers of pleasure sparking across her skin. She tightened her hold of his hair, keeping him where he was and urging him to do it again. He obliged. “I missed you. I love you.”

It was the first time he’d said those words since the beach. She gasped out his name and arched further into him, needing to be closer, closer, closer.

“I love you,” he repeated, kissing and sucking at her neck until Rose was sure there would be a deep red stain across her skin.

The pressure in her gut coiled tighter and tighter the longer they moved together. Their hips arched and rubbed and squirmed, hurtling her closer and closer to the edge. Rose wasn’t sure how much longer she would last when the Doctor’s rhythm faltered and he bit the soft part where her neck met her shoulder.

“R-Rose,” he rasped. “I… sorry, but if we keep going, I’m going to… er, make a real mess of things.”

As much as she would love to continue as they were, she was desperate to feel more of him. They were still fully clothed, for heaven’s sake. Granted, they were each in shorts and a t-shirt, but still. They hadn’t removed anything, though the Doctor’s hands were doing a pretty good job of mapping out any bit of skin he could reach.

“Shift up a bit,” she ordered, lowering her legs from his hips.

“Right, yeah…”

He moved to clamber off of her, but she wrapped her legs around him once more.

“Don’t want to stop,” she said. “Just… freeing up the important bits.”

“Oh… ohhhh.” She had unceremoniously reached into his pants and wrapped her fingers around his hard, throbbing length. His hips stuttered into her touch, and she tried not to give him too much stimulation to send him over the edge. She made sure he didn’t get caught in the elastic of his waistband before she worked his pants halfway down his arse.

“Feels good,” he croaked, thrusting shallowly into her hand.

“It’ll feel better in a minute,” she said, wrenching her own sleep shorts down her legs.

After a whole lot of squirming, Rose managed to free one of her legs from the shorts, letting the fabric dangle at her other thigh. She made very quick work of lining him up and taking him into her.

“Oh… oh Rose,” he hissed, eyes and jaw clenched shut.

She was nearly beyond words at the friction, at the glide of him into her. Her hips undulated against his, working him deeper and deeper until he was seated as far as he could go. The Doctor trembled above her as he held himself still, letting her adjust.

After only a few seconds, Rose couldn’t bear the pressure anymore and she arched into him, wrapping her thighs around his lower back once more. She pressed her feet into his arse to spur him on, and he was all too willing.

It was over embarrassingly quickly, but it was so, so good. When his clever fingers drummed at the sensitive bundle of nerve just above where they were joined, the tightening coil deep in her belly burst outward, spiraling through her entire body from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. She bowed off the bed, a garbled, wordless cry coming from her throat as she lost herself in her pleasure, in him.

He followed mere seconds later, his rhythm absolutely nonexistent as he worked for his release. It shattered through him in a rush of grunted curses and a sigh of her name as he pulsed and throbbed deep within her.

The world dissolved around her. There was nothing except for her and him, tangled together in the ultimate expression of love and unity. Rose trembled with aftershocks as her mind, for the first time in a long time, went utterly blank.

The Doctor breathed harshly at her breast, his forehead on her collarbone. His hair tickled her nose, and she brushed it away.

His arms trembled as he held himself above her, still seated inside of her. It was half a minute before he pressed a kiss to her chest and rolled onto his side, slipping out of her. She winced and grimaced, but followed him, tucking herself into his side. She threw a leg over one of his, careful not to accidentally knee him in a very sensitive area.

She was sure they looked slightly ridiculous. Her shorts were still dangling off of one of her legs and his boxers were barely tugged off his hips, and both their shirts were still on but twisted from their movements.

But Rose wouldn’t have had it any other way.

She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his jaw, then to the corner of his mouth. The Doctor hummed and turned his head to meet her kiss.

“That was really rather brilliant, wasn’t it?” A self-satisfied smile played across his lips.

“Yeah, it was,” she agreed, snuggling beside him.

“Er… rather messy, though,” he said, beginning to squirm.

Rose breathed out a laugh. Thank God. Their combined fluids were rapidly cooling between her legs and becoming rather… sticky.

“A little bit,” she answered. And though she really wasn’t in the mood for it, she knew she ought to clean up.

As though he read her mind, he said, “Do you want to… erm, take care of things? Well. I should as well. It’s a bit… damp. Anyway. Do you maybe want to… share? A shower? With me?”

Rose peered up at him; he was looking directly at the ceiling. She rolled her eyes. After what they’d just done together, he was worried she would reject the intimacy of a shower?

“That sounds brilliant,” she said, kissing his chest.

She wriggled off the bed, and let her shorts finally fall to the floor. The Doctor very gingerly worked his boxers down his legs.

“I’m gonna need clothes,” he said, looking down at his discarded pants. “I’ve got no clothes. Definitely gonna need clothes. And- and money, I s’pose, to buy clothes. Blimey. Money. I’ve got no money. Never needed it, but now I do. You’ve got bills, so now I do too. Money. I’m gonna need a job, and a name for identification, and papers, and…”

The Doctor’s eyes widened in his growing panic and his chest began rising and falling as his breathing went shallow and rapid. She stepped up to him and took his hands in hers, squeezing them once, before she dropped them to wrap her arms around his waist. He stood somewhat stiffly, but as Rose stroked his back gently, his muscles unlocked.

“We’ll take it day by day, yeah?” she said, echoing his words from the night before. “Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, if we need to. We’ll get everything sorted out. I’ll text Mum and ask her to bring a change of clothes for you, then we can think about going shopping. But for right now, you and I are gonna get a shower, then we’re gonna eat breakfast.”

“Most important meal of the day,” he quipped weakly. He hugged her tightly and tucked his face into the curtain of her hair. “Thanks. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Doctor. D’you think I didn’t have the same freak out when I first got here?” she asked. 

“I’m not freaking out,” he muttered petulantly.

She ignored him and continued. “We had to invent a whole new person for me. And raise Mum from the dead. We can do the same for you.” She paused and worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s okay, y’know. To not be okay.”

The Doctor exhaled raggedly. “I know. But I don’t want you to feel like I regret being here. Because I don’t. Being with you again is… it’s the happiest I’ve ever been.”

She smiled into his neck. “Me too. But we’ve got a lot to adjust to.”

“Day by day,” he murmured.

“Together,” she added.

He finally pulled away from the embrace. His eyes hadn’t fully lost their panicked gleam, but it was definitely more muted. She understood all too well that anxiety.

Though their morning was utterly perfect and she was utterly content, Rose knew it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t last. Too much had happened and so much had changed. There were so many emotions and hurts to sort through, and she knew some days would be worse than others.

But she also knew some days would be better than others. Some days would be perfect. And that would make it all worth it. Those days would be the days she would be fighting for when the fragile peace between them eventually cracked. But she had faith in herself and faith in him that they could work together to mend any breaks and piece themselves back together again, stronger than they ever were before.

As if he could see exactly what she was thinking, he smiled at her. His smile was a paradoxical mixture of sorrow and longing and joy; she was relieved he was on the same page, that he didn’t expect everything from here on out to be sunshine and rainbows. It would take work, on both their parts.

The Doctor reached out to cradle her cheeks in his palms. She leaned into the touch. His thumbs stroked her lips, then her cheeks as he ducked his head down towards hers. He skated the tip of his nose along hers, and hovered with his lips barely a centimeter away from hers.

“Together,” he affirmed, before he pressed his lips to hers to seal the promise of their forever.

[jadesjunk]

Character Bio Example 1

This is an example of some bio writing work for my Red Dead Redemption Online character Eve.

Name: Eve (Last Name TBD)

Short for Evelyn but hates being called by her full name. Comes from her Irish ancestry and named after her deceased aunt. Comes from Aibhilín or Éibhleann, the latter can be derived from the Old Irish óiph ("beauty.")

Alternate nicknames include Evy/Evie which she went by as a child but doesn’t like to be called that anymore.

Also uses the aliases Eliza or Rose and after arriving Lemoyne she may use Rhode as a last name.

Age: 21

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Lesbian (Unaware)

Appearance

Height: 5’8”

Weight: 180lbs

Eye color: Green

Hair color: Red head/Ginger

Has always been on the skinny side but after running away her increased activity leaves her often more on the underweight side. She tries to maintain a healthy weight despite her higher metabolism.

Often wears her long red hair in a braid either down her back or over her shoulder.

Prefers wearing loose work shirts and pants with mens boots. In general prefers more masculine apparel but isn’t opposed to occasionally wearing a dress or skirt when in an appropriate situation. She does like mixing up her outfits and has a variety of feminine and masculine apparel, often enjoying wearing nice vests when she can afford them.

Her main outfit consists of a black cowboy hat, red work shirt with a sash around her midsection, basic black pants, black boots, red leather work gloves and a red and black poncho gifted to her by her friend Reyes. She wears a black gun belt covered in an assortment of useful items.

Personality Traits: Kind, Stubborn, Determined, Bit Naive, Quiet

Likes and Dislikes

Likes

Animals

Good food

Comfortable clothes

Being out in nature

Warm weather/summer

Gathering plants or animal samples

Harriet

Dislikes

Having to kill (humans or animals, does it out of necessity)

Poor meals

Being cooped up indoors

The cold/winter

Alligators

Men who assume she should be grateful to be hit on

Family (Living)

??? (Father)

Catherine (Mother)

??? (Eldest Brother)

??? (Middle Brother)

??? (Younger Brother)

Savannah (Previously Claire)

Friends

Wes

Reyes

Faye?

Harriet

Trelawny?

Nazar?

Skills/Work

Eve’s main skills revolve around her witchcraft and animal handling. She’s also an incredibly good cook thanks to her mother and those she’s traveled with. She picks up recipes from all over and has a knack for figuring out what’s missing in a dish just as much as she can sort out what she might need in a particular potion. She seems to have a natural connection with animals as well, able to quickly bond with any horse she rides and often can calm horses she doesn’t know relatively easily.

Eve’s witchcraft mostly revolves around making potions. She does like to make trinkets and talismans as well but she puts more faith in producing potions. She generally avoids rituals and sacrifice as it makes her uncomfortable and she doesn’t like the feeling of possibly calling on devils. Eve’s potions are generally more for improving one’s body such as numbing the body to pain or increasing stamina and improving your sight. She has carefully tested some potions with her horses, finding ways to vitalize them much like herself.

With firearms Eve’s main choice is rifles with short to medium scopes. She can use a pistol/revolver but most of the time prefers to use her rifle without the scope instead. When she isn’t pressured or panicking she’s a great shot but her accuracy greatly decreases the more she panics. She’s also pretty bad at riding or driving and shooting and usually prefers to ride shotgun on a wagon. Sometimes she can fire off several crack shots at enemies heads, killing each in a single shot but other times she panics so terribly she can’t even hit their bodies.

Thanks to Reyes she becomes pretty decent with a bow as well but usually only uses it in hunting for stealth kills. She’s okay with it from horse back but like her rifles is far better when still on a horse or on the ground.

Her skill hunting animals varies, oftentimes she tries to shoot from horseback either to kill with rifle or bow or attempts to tranquilize with her varmint rifle. Due to how erratic and at times small her targets are she has a far harder time making clean kills and sometimes even just hitting the body with the tranqs. She’s gotten incredibly good at tracking animals but unless she gets a solid shot standing still before it runs away (or attacks) she typically fails at getting a clean kill. Eve usually tries to avoid doing hunting, preferring to focus more on managing samples for Harriet. When she does hunt it’s usually more for cooking or if she needs ingredients/materials for other things. She will assist in hunts if needed for the gang but otherwise likes to put her skills to use elsewhere.

Backstory/Past

Eve was born to a relatively affluent family far north of New Hanover. (Traveling to Saint Denis is a several day trip south.) She has three brothers who were brought up to take over her father’s business. As their only daughter Eve was raised under relatively strict parenting. While her brothers were allowed to come and go more freely Eve was often stuck at home or only allowed to go out with her family. What little freedom she had came after she was 15 and she was finally allowed her to go on brief horse rides around their land alone.

Age 15-16: Eve stumbles upon an old leather journal belonging to her great grandmother. It was hidden away in the attic of their home in an old trunk with the last remaining heirlooms of her mother’s side. The pages were worn and frail from age and much of the scrawled handwriting was in gaelic. Eve struggled with translating as she wasn’t as fluent as her mother but she manages to translate most of it. The journal mostly contains accounts of her great grandmother’s life. Mixed in amongst the crumbling pages were recipes and notes on what Eve could only think of as potions, spells and rituals. Eve keeps the journal a secret from her family, carefully translating the contents over to a new journal of her own. Outside of working on the journal she also explores in the forest trying to identify plants. She accidentally poisons herself a few times but fortunately never too seriously and her mother doesn’t catch on.

Age 16-17: Eve discovers an old abandoned cabin deep into the woods beyond her family’s estate. Over the course of the summer she slowly begins cleaning the inside and converting it for her own use. She begins using her riding trips sneak away to the cabin and soon even does so at night. She gets caught coming home once by one of her brothers, thankfully the most understanding one who doesn’t ask questions and instead just helps her get the horse put away and back in bed without being noticed. 

Age 17-18: Potential suitors begin approaching Eve but many end up getting the message she’s not interested and eventually move on to other women. Her mother and father are frustrated by her lack of interest in men. Soon Eve unfortunately catches the eye of one particularly stubborn man who becomes incredibly enamored with her. She repeatedly turns him down and this frustrates him as he knows she would be well off and would make a beautiful wife. He begins to become obsessed with her, believing he deserves her. The suitor is used to getting his way, being a slick and charismatic businessman. 

Age 19: Eve is in her cabin when suddenly the door bursts open. She grabs for her shotgun (in case of predators) and aims it at the intruder. It turns out to be the suitor from town who refuses to leave her alone. After he mocks her and tries to tempt her into marrying him he causes her to panic and she shoots him in the abdomen. He falls flat on the floor of the cabin, blood spilling from the hole in his torso. Eve barely collects herself after retching onto the floor, covers the body in an old blanket and then buries it in the back. She changes clothes, takes her horse (Deseray, a blood bay arabian) and runs away. 

Her family never finds out about the murder, they do eventually suspect the suitor had done something but doubted she eloped with him after so many refusals. A widespread search commences but they never pick up any sign of her and eventually it’s called off. They mourn for her loss and pray that she’s alive and well out there somewhere.

After the murder Eve makes it a town or two over before stopping and gathering herself. Still horribly shaken she decides to head towards Saint Denis as a backup plan. If everything goes wrong she has family there and can contact her parents or brothers if it comes to it. At least she knows the area and how to get there. For a brief while she barely scrapes by in the wilderness before falling in with some Irish travellers on their way to Rhodes. She takes up work cooking and caring for their horses while traveling with them.

Eve learns how to better survive on the road thanks to them and is finally taught how to use a gun properly. By the time they part they gift her with a beautiful cob and point her in the direction of a man named Trelawny. The mysterious con artist gives her work to help her survive and helps her get setup at Rhodes stables with her two horses. Trelawny is the main person who teaches Eve how to talk her way out of issues or use her innocent appearance against others. While she’s still relatively naive and unfortunately a little too trusting he helps sharpen her senses and skills. 

At some point Eve runs into Harriet and picks up work sampling and studying local wildlife. She doesn’t really understand it at the time but while working for the animal enthusiast Eve begins developing a massive crush on her. (Mostly because she’s never been in love or crushing on someone.) Despite Harriet’s eccentricity the pair get along incredibly well (though most of it is Eve listening to Harriet wax on about animals and how horrible hunters are.) She ends up sharing her knowledge of natural remedies and concoctions, delighting Harriet and helping her with developing her sedatives, revivers and so on.

At some point Eve ends up running into Reyes at a saloon after both end up so drunk they start hitting on people of the same sex. (Eve at the time is still unaware that she’s lesbian.) They get thrown out together and Reyes invites her back to his camp to continue drinking. The pair have a good time, mostly downing more alcohol, singing, dancing and howling at the moon. Eve ends up messing up some of her clothes and Reyes gives her a spare poncho to wear. Eve makes a joke while drunk that since they match they’re the “Happy Ponchos” now. The two pass out before sunrise and in the morning she convinces him to let her tag along.

Reyes ends up teaching Eve how to hunt more efficiently and the best way to use as much of an animal carcass as possible. She continues to sticks around him like a lost puppy and learns more than ever before, becoming incredibly proficient in using a bow thanks to him. Eventually she even manages to craft a bow made of antlers from her best buck kill with his help. Through Reyes Eve also runs into her cousin Claire who has since left home and changed her name to Savannah.

[ichimatsutrash04-blog]

Corpse Party: Osomatsu-san - Chapter Three

It’s funny, really, how one’s brain can refuse to accept what is undeniably right in front of them. At least, that’s what Osomatsu thought as he told himself that Ichimatsu was okay, that he was fine despite the bloodied hoodie in his shaking hands. He continued to believe this even as he was suddenly aware of the sheer amount of red staining the floor around him, staining his hands, and seeping into his pants. There was so much, there was way too much blood. Ichimatsu’s blood. Osomatsu felt light-headed and probably would’ve passed out had it not been for the strong arms supporting him.

Choromatsu was just as, if not more scared and would’ve loved to curl up and sleep until this nightmare was over, but his older brother needed him right now. He knew that, as the eldest, Osomatsu would take full responsibility for anything that happened to his siblings, and he knew that if Ichimatsu really was…gone, the guilt would likely destroy his brother. He wouldn’t – no, couldn’t – let that happen. They all needed their big brother. So when Osomatsu fell forwards from where he was still kneeling on the ground, Choromatsu was there to catch him and pull him into a reassuring embrace.

“It’s all my fault,” Osomatsu said bluntly. “I dragged him into this and now he’s dead.”

“H-hey, don’t say that. We don’t know anything for sure.”

Osomatsu lifted his head and looked his little brother in the eyes. A gasp escaped Choromatsu’s dry lips as he saw how tired he looked, how hopeless. He looked like he had given up, and that frightened Choromatsu more than anything.

“There’s too much blood, Choro. Look around, and tell me I’m wrong.”

He was right, and Choromatsu knew it, so he said nothing and continued hugging him. All he wanted was to bring that contagious smile back, as annoying as it was. Anything was better than this.

After a few minutes of tense silence, Osomatsu struggled to stand, and then slowly backed away, still clutching the hoodie. “I have to…I gotta go find him.” He turned and ran.

“Osoma – wait! Don’t - !” Choromatsu sighed, glaring at his injury which prevented him from sprinting after. However, it wasn’t long before the panic set in. Here he was, alone, in an abandoned school that may or may not have led to his brother’s demise, and with a sprained ankle to top it off. He laughed morbidly as he realized that they hadn’t even bothered to try the main door and honestly wasn’t surprised when it didn’t budge.

“Of freaking course,” he mumbled exasperatedly. This meant the only other choice he had was to go back in, which he was less than a little enthusiastic about. Trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his ankle, Choromatsu set off in the direction Osomatsu had gone, distracting himself from the suffocating atmosphere by humming one of his favorite Nyaa-chan songs. It didn’t help much.

It must’ve been some sick twist of fate that brought Choromatsu right to the infirmary. His hand was poised over the door handle when he felt that overpowering urge to run away and never look back, because whatever was in that room was sure to haunt him for the rest of his days. He stood frozen in place, carefully considering his options for…seconds? Minutes? Hours? Time felt warped and unreal in this place. Finally, Choromatsu gathered his courage and slowly, so very slowly, pulled open the infirmary door. He was so relieved to see the familiar faces of his brothers that it took a moment for the devastating reality to sink in.

Karamatsu sat cross-legged on a cot in the corner, his back against the wall. He could’ve easily been mistaken as being asleep if not for the absence of the rise and fall of his chest as well as the crimson blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Karamatsu’s arms were wrapped tight around Ichimatsu, whose head rested in his older brother’s lap and whose own arms looked as though they had been hastily patched up with a thick layer of bandages. They were both as pale as the white sheets they sat upon. Choromatsu would never find out exactly how or why he lost two of his brothers so quickly.

For the first time in quite a while, the third eldest Matsuno had absolutely no idea what to do. Should he scream? Should he cry? Should he seek revenge from whatever monster caused his siblings pain? Choromatsu’s senses weren’t working properly. He felt numb, his vision was blurred, and there was a faint ringing in his ears that nearly drowned out the choked sob that came from the other side of the room. Startled, he whipped around to find Osomatsu in the corner, knees drawn to his chest and tears now streaming freely down his face. Choro decided he could grieve later. He had to make sure his still living brother was okay.

“Come on, Osomatsu-niisan. Let’s find Totty and Jyushi and go home. There’s nothing we could’ve done.” Choromatsu tried to reason with his brother while cautiously approaching him. He didn’t know what to expect from the eldest sibling in such a fragile state of mind.

Osomatsu, meanwhile, had no intention of moving. “We were real jerks to him, y’know that? Kara, I mean. He didn’t deserve any of the crap we gave him and had every right to hate us…but he chose to forgive us instead, and look where that got him.” He spoke barely above a whisper. “And Ichimatsu, little Ichi…God, I just regret never telling him how much I loved him. He thought he was worthless, but all five of you mean the world to me. Ha, look at me, getting all emotional like a kid.”

Choromatsu’s heart broke as his older brother was interrupted by a fresh wave of tears, and for the second time that terrible day, Osomatsu found himself in a comforting hug.

“I really am useless,” he said, laughing between heart-wrenching sobs.

The lights flickered.

“You’re right, though. This really is all your fault.” It took Choromatsu a moment to realize that the words had come from his own mouth. “What gives you the right to live when it’s your fault that they’re dead?” No, no, what was he saying? That wasn’t at all what Choromatsu thought! It was like he couldn’t control himself. Why was this happening?

“I hate you.”

I’m sorry Osomatsu.

“Get out of my sight.”

Please don’t leave me.

“I never want to speak to you again.”

I love you niisan.

Osomatsu stood with a blank expression on his face and walked toward the hall with unsure footing, placing a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. He couldn’t face his brother as he said, “Well…if that’s what you want.”

No, that’s exactly what Choromatsu did not want, but he could only watch helplessly as his brother was consumed by the darkness beyond the infirmary’s threshold, leaving him alone once again. That is, unless you’re counting the lifeless bodies of Karamatsu and Ichimatsu which he was desperately trying to ignore. Eventually getting to his feet, Choromatsu made to go after Osomatsu, but was pulled back down by a splitting pain in his skull that made even the worst migraines he’d ever had the joy of experiencing feel like minor headaches in comparison. He almost welcomed the comforting blackness that accompanied him to unconsciousness, leaving him lying on the dirty, wooden floor, trapped in dreams of endless corridors, vengeful spirits and dead brothers.

Osomatsu was lost in a section of the school that he and Choromatsu hadn’t yet explored. “Choromatsu…” The mere sound of his brother’s name was enough to make his eyes water. Two brothers missing, two brothers dead…and one brother that didn’t want anything to do with him anymore. If that wasn’t a sure sign that he’d failed as the eldest, he didn’t know what was. Maybe Choromatsu was right though. Maybe they really were better off without him around. Maybe he should just…

He stopped beside a break in the floorboards and peered down into black nothingness as far as the eye could see. His foot hovered over the pit. The image of Kara and Ichi, their lives so unfairly stolen from them, was burned into his memory, and Osomatsu wanted it gone. Choro was the most responsible of the six of them anyways and could be trusted to care for the other two. Osomatsu had no issue handing over the role of eldest brother to Choromatsu. After all the years he put up with Osomatsu and Karamatsu’s antics, he sure as hell had earned it. So what did they need him for? He wanted to protect his brothers and only succeeded in getting them killed. So why shouldn’t he join them? It’d be all too easy.

Just

One

Step

“OSOMATSU-NIISAN, NO!”

Osomatsu whirled around and caught a flash of pink before the floor beneath him broke in two and he tumbled backwards into oblivion.

[hasansonsuzceliktas]

Creating a Meaningful Life...

"We all die. The goal isn't to live forever. The goal is to create something that will." Chuck Palahniuk Some questions have obvious answers. We ask these questions to discover things, such as the quickest way to get from A to B. However, not all questions have definitive answers. We ask them in order to form the most suitable answer for us personally rather than to get firm information. One such question would be, “What is the purpose of my life?” If we ask other people this question, they can only give us their own versions of the answer. Of course, we could accept their answers and determine our own direction accordingly. However, if we want to identify the inner urge that made us ask the question in the first place, we have no choice but to create our own answers. Sure, but how? The ability to create is the most precious gift to humanity. It holds an infinite potential that we all possess. However, it requires considerable practice to develop it, just like with any talent. Remember, it was much easier when we were kids, because practice was something we did since birth. We did it by playing games of course. During childhood, our minds were like huge strainers with a single, large hole. Our creativeness flowed through it freely, expressing itself by playing games. The vast majority of us were full of creative ideas. Unfortunately, as we grew up, we stopped playing games. More holes appeared in the strainer, but each hole got smaller. Only a few things from the source then managed to reach our consciousness. We therefore concluded that we weren’t creative people. What a huge mistake that was! The increasing number of holes in our strainers builds up our reasoning, which we benefit greatly from in our social lives. However, we must also understand that pure creativity cannot be reached through reason, yet reason takes shape based on ideas that are realized through creativity. For instance, before the invention of the light bulb, if someone told us that we could illuminate a room at night with a small glass ball hanging from the ceiling, we would laugh at them. However, once Thomas Edison made this possible, it became part of our reasoning pattern. Creativity needs a playful spirit. If we want to add creativity to whatever we do, we should live in the action without worrying about the result. Whatever the final score is, everybody wins in the end, because all the players enjoyed the game. When a certain result is necessary to enjoy the game, the playful spirit disappears and anxiety replaces it. This anxiety suggests that the desired result can be achieved using certain means, so we radically change the way we operate. As our state of mind changes, our stress level increases, and feelings such as poor confidence, inadequacy, and a fear of losing arise. The holes in the strainer gradually shrink until they eventually block the flow completely, leaving us stuck. However, the source of creativity still lies in playful pursuits. The seeds of creativity can only grow there, being born into this life when the time is right. Another important point is how we want to hit the target with the first shot. When we try something, if we miss the target during the first few attempts, we tend to give up, thinking that this is not for us. We think because if it really was suitable for us, we would have hit the target easily without much effort, just as its told in the success stories of creative people. In reality, practice is the most effective way to realize our creative potential. Without sufficient practice, we can't bring our creative ideas into reality. Only after practicing enough can we create things easily and automatically. Let us take a deeper approach to the process of creativity. It comprises three basic steps: 1- Daydreaming Dreams enable pure creativity, because it exists in this endless ocean before reaching the strainers of our minds. Many people try to dream in the shallow waters just before the strainer. In other words, they tend to have more realistic dreams that can feasibly come true in the future, and they build different scenarios around them. When we talk about daydreaming, we mean the daydreaming children do. It doesn't matter whether the daydream is realistic or logical. In these worlds, dogs can fly like birds, trees can speak like people, and fish can swim among the stars. 2- Creative Ideas When traveling in fantasy worlds, something suddenly happens! An intersection forms between the fantasy world and the real world, and a connection is established. To describe this state of mind, we compare it to a light bulb illuminating our minds. Whatever enabled the connection passes through the strainer to the consciousness as a new idea. 3- Creation/Production A creative idea is not much on its own. It has to become more than just an abstract notion in the mind, and it needs to be perceived easily in real life. It is the phase of creation and production, where pure, abstract ideas become concrete and take shape in a certain discipline. Practicing this discipline is an absolute must for this stage of creativity. The more you practice turning the abstract into the concrete, the stronger the creative idea becomes. This is the only way you can become competent enough to implement an idea so that it’s close to the original abstract version of it. Otherwise, our efforts will look dull compared to the ideas in our minds, and they may cause us disappointment. We might believe the idea was not good enough and question our ability. In fact, all we need to do is keep practicing. However, I don't think these three steps take place in order. In other words, there’s no linear pattern where dreaming comes first, ideas are then formed, and production comes last. Creative thinking doesn't exclusively come from dreaming. For instance, if we need to find a solution urgently, an idea can suddenly pop up. On the other hand, dreaming is a different case. We dream because we enjoy it and we need it, not to come up with creative ideas. Dreamland has a different reality where anything is possible, but when it comes to production, not all creative ideas can be adapted for reality. Sometimes our products can be derived from other people's ideas. For instance, we might play other people's music with our own instruments or sing and dance like a famous pop star, or we might print other people's artistic creations onto clothing. Our productive side grows stronger this way, and this can also trigger the formation of creative ideas. If we understand how this system works, no small failures during the process can stop us. We consider them part of the process and carry on regardless. Personally, I struggle most during the production process, which for me is my ability to write. Most of the time, what I write doesn't resemble the original ideas in my mind, and when I realize this, I feel like I should abandon it. This is especially true when I compare my work with that of others who have proved themselves in the same field. I just want to delete it all and forget my disappointment by watching TV and eating food. Believe me, I do this. However, my dissatisfaction grows larger and larger every day. A moment then comes when even my indulgent escapes don't give me any pleasure, so I start writing again... It is very important to identify the stage we get stuck at in order to realize our creativity and awaken from our deep sleep. We must ask ourselves the right questions to progress beyond this stage. Once we answer our questions, either through learning or by creating, we must carry on creating meaning in our lives. Creativity is vital for humans, just like eating and drinking is. I don't say this just to make it sound important. It really is essential. It is even a matter of life and death. Imagine if you didn’t eat or drink, your body would quickly fail. Likewise, if we don't exercise our creativity, our joy in life vanishes. This degeneration is slower and more gradual than in the physical body, so it is generally too late when we realize it, just like how a frog in hot water doesn't realize it’s boiling to death. The spirits of this world express themselves through creativity. Each time a spirit does this, it grows bigger and illuminates its surroundings. Children are the most creative beings in this world, and the light of their spirits shines brilliantly. They are always joyful and enthusiastic. They are the real gurus of this world. If you want to live a meaningful life, carry on dreaming and having creative ideas, and make them come true. To cut a long story short, let's continue playing games... “All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” Pablo Picasso Read the full article

[hbirauorrzfm-blog]

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[itsworn]

Backstage in 1962 With Shelby, Breedlove, Roth, Stanley Mouse, Mickey Thompson, Jet Cars, Dobie Gillis, and the First Ford Mustang

Boom!

The first wave of post-WWII Americans was flooding DMV offices with license applications. Millions more of us were right behind, pacifying ourselves with model kits and slot cars and go-karts and magazines until that magic 16th birthday made the real thing possible. Tri-Five Chevys were just used cars, cheap and abundant. Networks of indoor winter shows brought California’s latest customs to enthusiasts across North America. Automaker dollars flowed freely to motorsports for the first time in five years, since spooked automakers and suppliers pledged to stop supporting racers and promoting speed. Henry Ford II personally announced his factory’s return while mocking secret skunkworks programs that enabled rival manufacturers to win races on Sunday and sales on Monday during the so-called ban. Ford Motor Company simultaneously dispatched an elaborate Custom Car Caravan of modified new cars and display engines. Most of Detroit’s new, lightweight compacts were optionally available with small V8s. The species of muscle car was not germinated just yet, but the gleam was in the eye. What a great year to be a gearhead!

Archive images exposed outside and inside L.A.’s long-gone Great Western Exhibit Center support Tex Smith’s Apr. 1962 HOT ROD appraisal of NHRA’s second Winternationals Rod & Custom Show as, “The major hot rod exposition in the nation” and “the biggest show ever staged that we know of.” The hit-making bands of guitarist Dick Dale and drummer Sandy Nelson undoubtedly contributed to four-day admissions exceeding 65,000, according to HRM. Later, the vast City of Commerce facility hosted the 1968-1979 L.A. Roadsters Shows prior to its demolition.

It’s impossible to imagine such a cohesive hot-rodding world evolving without the media network created by the Petersen Publishing Company. Even after two ex-PPC employees opened Argus Publishers and launched Popular Hot Rodding this year, Petersen monthlies had virtually no competition on a national scale (with the exception of Road & Track, which always stayed ahead of Petersen latecomer Sports Car Graphic). News-hungry enthusiasts had no reliable alternative to coverage arriving two, three, or more months late, sterilized in Hollywood to portray the hobby positively (and ignore drag racing outside of NHRA’s). On paper, Robert “Pete” Petersen appeared to be printing money. Editors never let on how close he—and we—came to losing it all.

There’s a business expression about how strong cash flow will invariably cover up mistakes—until it won’t. Early employees have said that the fledgling company thrice fell perilously behind on printing bills in the 1950s and survived only by the grace of sympathetic, patient printers and bankers. “Pete got a little carried away with his spending,” recalled photographer Bob D’Olivo, who was hired on in 1952 and stayed for 44 years. “The company was growing, and Pete wasn’t seeing all the figures. He hired a general manager to take some of the load, but if you wanted to talk to him in the afternoon, call the bar just down the street, and he willtake your call!”

When Car Craft’s Bud Lang stopped by this Sherman Oaks upholstery shop to report on a T-bodied AA/Modified Roadster under construction out back, Tony Nancy happened to be building a custom oxygen mask. We know that “The Home of Bitchin’ Stitchin’” did its usual fine job because later, when Spirit of America crashed into the water, Craig Breedlove feared that he was trapped and doomed until realizing that the breathing hose was keeping him connected to the submerged cockpit.

D’Olivo said the “major change came in the early 1960s, after two financial guys named Doug Russell and Fred Waingrow came aboard. Tighter control was needed on salaries, projects, travel, and so on. A management-and-numbers guy was needed, and that job went to Fred. All publishers and directors would now report directly to him, about 28 or so. This is when I was given the title of photographic director.”

A tradition of acquiring competitive titles and spinning off experimental ones was paused. As strict formulas were imposed upon individual publications, unprofitable or inconsistently profitable titles were either killed off (e.g., Kart and Rod & Custom Models) or reinvented (e.g., Motor Life became Sports Car Graphic) to free up operating capital and reduce debt. The painfulprocess worked: President Waingrow steered the ship back into the black, and the founder retained full ownership of a company that he would ultimately sell, in two installments, for nearly three-quarters of a billion dollars.

Since setting up shop at the 1958 Michigan State Fair at age 18, Stanley “Mouse” Miller drew crowds and eager customers wherever he appeared in the Midwest and Northeast. If $6 seems like too little to charge for a custom airbrushed sweatshirt, that would be about 55 bucks today. The kid could whip out one every hour and do it in color, instead of the basic black outline drawn by competitors. His operation must have impressed Wally Parks, who waded through the sea of ducktails to get the shot. Burned out on monsters by 1965, Mouse returned to his native California (where his animator father used to work for Walt Disney) and found work creating posters for San Francisco music promoters and album art for local bands, most notably the Grateful Dead. Mouse is still painting at 80, and still offers prints of Freddie Flypogger and other lovable “weirdoes” (MouseStudios.com).

Sure, had this virtual monopoly come apart early, competitors would have tried to fill the abandoned niches, but how well, and for how long? Just like the tree that falls in a forest with no one around to hear it, how else in 1962 could all of us, together, have followed Zora and Shelby, hot rods and customs, Roth and Mouse, Tony Nancy and Craig Breedlove, Cobras and Sting Rays, model cars, slot cars, sports cars, old cars, new cars? No way would the photo archive that Bob D’Olivo organized in 1955 and protected had stayed intact, in which case the most complete pictorial record of hot rodding and American motorsports would not exist for us to study and enjoy in a magazine directly descended from Pete’s first one. We’ll be feeling lucky all over again as each coming issue digs deeper into the 1960s.

Decades before IRS became commonplace in domestic cars, Pontiac chief engineer John DeLorean attached this exotic suspension, two-speed-automatic transaxle, and torque tube to entry-level 1961-1963 Tempest compacts with just a few bolts. How convenient for Mickey Thompson’s busy skunkworks, which the factory commissioned to hurriedly convert a stocker for the NHRA’s Winternationals introduction of Factory Experimental classes. Regular visitor Eric Rickman obviously had his run of M/T Enterprises—and a hunch that future readers might appreciate a peek at the world’s fastest man’s junk pile. We are left to wonder how the faded body panel wound up here, and whether some magazine staffer was responsible for separating the piece from an unknown open-wheel race car. (Help, longtime Car and Driver followers?)

Here’s the kind of historical image that could easily go undiscovered without the magnification enabled by modern scanning and digitizing. Only after zooming in to confirm the identity of Zora Arkus-Duntov (with helmet) did we realize that his waiting ride was a test mule made by joining the front half of the upcoming second-generation Corvette with the back half and roofline of a first-gen Vette. Sports Car Graphic tech editor Jerry Titus was granted exclusive access to private January tests at Daytona and Sebring on the condition that he ignore the “blue disguised prototype” that joined a red ’62 model and Zora’s baby, the CERV I single seater, for some brake development. Titus snapped the photo literally behind the distracted engineer’s back in late January, nearly a year before most folks saw a new Corvette in person. (See Apr. & May 1962 SCG.)

Jerry Titus was probably the best racing writer or writing racer ever employed by Robert E. Petersen. At the conclusion of Chevy’s Florida testing, Zora offered a few laps of Sebring in a priceless test car previously driven only by Stirling Moss, Dan Gurney, and Duntov himself. In the May 1962 SCG cover story, Titus described his 172-mph straightaway speed as “conservative” in a 1,700-pound package pushed by at least the 380 hp conceded by Chevrolet. Later, Titus was tabbed by Carroll Shelby to shake down and race the G.T. 350.

Help, readers: Does this scene ring any bells? None of our sources can recall a movie or TV production involving the channeled, 283-powered ’31 highboy that New York transplant Bill Neumann (not pictured) brought to L.A. prior to joining Car Craft and, ultimately, taking over Rod & Custom after PPC editorial director Wally Parks fired the whole staff. Neumann’s classified ad in R&C’s May 1962 Bargain Box mentioned “over 90 trophies,” but no asking price. A born promoter, he helped organize the Speed Equipment Manufacturers Association in 1963 (later renamed the Specialty Equipment Market Association, or SEMA) before opening Neuspeed Performance Systems.

Leave it to George Barris to add life-size TV stars Robert Young and Dwayne Hickman to a Barris Kustoms display that brought three famous hot rods to the Winternationals Rod & Custom Show. Barris’ own AMBR-winning ’27 T played a role in Young’s short-lived Window on Main Street series, while the former Chrisman & Cannon competition coupe costarred with Hickman and beatnik sidekick Bob Denver in an episode of The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis. Behind them is the Ala Kart, the roadster pickup that survived the 1957 Barris Kustoms fire to become the first repeat winner of Oakland’s tall AMBR trophy. (See Apr. 1962 HRM; May 1962 R&C.)

Yes, slot car racing was both a participant and spectator sport at its peak. Model-maker AMT staged regional competitions on elaborate tracks like the setup at the NHRA’s February show. This showdown matched up winners from 1,100 West Coast hobby shops. Later in the year, AMT cheerleader Budd Anderson unveiled the gamechanging, steerable, 1:8-scale Authentic Model Turnpike system for home use during a six-month, fulltime modeling stint at the Seattle World’s Fair. (See May 1962 CC.)

Pontiac stockers prepared by factory contractor Mickey Thompson enjoyed another dominating season, starting with February’s second Winternationals. What appears to be a late round of Mr. Stock Eliminator—a bonus, heads-up showdown bringing back the quickest 50 stockers, win or lose—finds S/S Automatic champ Carol Cox, the first female allowed to enter an NHRA national event, out in front of stick-class-winner Jess Tyree, an M/T mechanic driving the same 167-mph Catalina that set multiple international speed records over the winter at March Air Force Base. Waiting to run at Pomona are previous-round winners Lloyd Cox, Carol’s husband (Pontiac, right); Gas Ronda (Ford); and eventual runnerup Dave Strickler (Chevy), who would fall in the Mr. Stock final to Don Nicholson (not shown). The barn across the street is long gone, but last time we looked, the two-story house remained. (See May 1962 HRM, MT & CC.)

The ragtag bunch of drag and dry-lakes racers that test-fired Craig Breedlove’s $500 military-surplus engine at Los Angeles International Airport in June, just two months before this homebuilt tricycle’s scheduled Bonneville Nationals debut, must have seemed unlikely to make the builder-driver a household name worldwide. The official team truck’s wooden signboards announced the “Spirit of America World Land Speed Record Attempt.” The low-buck team made it to Speed Week, but the semifinished car/trike was limited to static testing at the adjacent Wendover airbase. (See Sept. 1962 MT.)

Despite the convergence of five jet-powered vehicles on the salt during and immediately following Speed Week, a piston-powered streamliner remained the world’s fastest land vehicle all year—to the certain relief of Revell, which had entered the hot rod market by miniaturizing the 406-mph Challenger I and Ed Roth’s revolutionary Outlaw street roadster. Rather than follow the shady example of fly-by-night model makers that blatantly reproduced identifiable race cars without attribution or remuneration, Revell licensed and heavily promoted the men along with their machines. Revell’s national advertising blasted Roth’s brand and zany image far beyond the hot-rodding press and car-show circuit. (See Nov. 1962 R&C.)

It didn’t take long for an unidentified slot car hobbyist to power one of Revell’s snap-together streamliners. Reader Rick Voegelin, the former Car Craft editor and a lifelong slot racer, squinted at the photo through old eyes and semipositively identified the dual motors as Pittmans, likely swapped out of powerful locomotives.

It’d be a stretch to suggest that muscle cars and Funny Cars were invented here, but the roots of both American inventions run through this very engine compartment. Two years before the second-gen Tempest begat the GTO, Pontiac assigned the Super Stock Division of Mickey Thompson Enterprises to create a prototypical factory hot rod for the NHRA’s new A/Factory Experimental class. Beyond a mandate to stick with genuine Pontiac hardware wherever visible, in-house engineers Hayden Proffitt and Lloyd Cox (pictured) virtually rewrote the rulebook as they converted a four-cylinder ’62 Tempest into the year’s quickest and fastest late model, a runaway A/FX champ at both of the NHRA’s national events. By the time this photo was snapped in late June, displacement of M/T’s Super Duty 421 had soared from 434 to 487 cubes, according to Motor Trend, and Cox had assumed the wheel vacated when Proffitt took a 409 Chevy deal and opened his own shop. Meanwhile, Holman-Moody and Dragmaster were secretly developing 480-inch strokers for Ford and Chrysler, respectively. Understandably alarmed, Wally Parks halted drag racing’s arms race—temporarily—by capping 1963 displacement at 427 for NHRA-legal competition. However, the horse had left the barn, and the Big Three’s monster-motor lessons would not be lost on so-called “outlaw Super Stock” racers running independent meets and run-what-ya-brung match races. (See Sept. 1962 HRM; May & Dec. 1962 MT; June 1962 R&C; Jan. 2017 HRD.)

If you remember being faked out by this photo, don’t feel like the Lone Ranger; so were the rest of us subscribers and newsstand browsers. Art director Al Isaacs’s clever positioning of the car’s shadow and of editor Don Evans’s right forearm clinched the delusion that Monogram’s 1:8-scale “Big T” was a real roadster. Inside, the description of Bud Lang’s cover shot joked that because the car is only 16 inches long, Evans and his “lovely cousin, Sharon Huss … were shrunk for photo.” Either way, such juxtaposition was a neat trick when Xacto knives, layers of physical film, and steady hands were required to do the layout work done digitally now.

Staff photographer Pat Brollier shot the B&W photos for CC’s inside story, which Isaacs laid out like a typical car feature. Despite a steep retail price of $10.98—10 times that of the usual $1.98 kit—strong sales inspired Monogram to rush-order a fullsize running version for use as a promotional vehicle. Customizer Darryl Starbird delivered that bigger-yet Big T to the model maker’s booth at NHRA’s late-summer car show in Indianapolis. (See Oct. 1962 CC; Dec. 1962 R&C.)

This one had us baffled until a regular research source, the American Hot Rod Foundation, came through in a big way. AHRF director David Steele recognized the back wall from later photos of Carroll Shelby’s Cobra factory, while AHRF curator Jim Miller instantly identified the last Scarab that Phil Remington built just before Reventlow Automobiles Inc. was shut down under IRS scrutiny. Its all-aluminum Buick V8 shared technology and major components with similar engines that Mickey Thompson developed for this year’s Indy 500. The suspiciously empty Venice, California, space and much of Reventlow’s workforce were taken over by Shelby not long after photographer Pat Brollier visited in early July. Lance Reventlow personally debuted the sports car in September with an impressive second-place SCCA finish at Santa Barbara and made at least two more starts before selling to John Mecom, who installed a small-block Chevy. Augie Pabst eventually acquired this rarest of Scarabs and still has it, as far as our AHRF friends know. (See Dec. 1962 SCG.)

Lance Reventlow was the husband of actress Jill St. John and the son of infamous heiress Barbara Woolworth Hutton. Mom’s fortune financed the boy’s dream of all-American sports cars, built and driven by homegrown hot rodders to beat the best European factory racers. His trio of front-engined Scarab roadsters did exactly that starting in 1958 with a shocking upset at Riverside’s International Grand Prix and the national SCCA championship. Two subsequent attempts at building formula cars and competing in Europe were expensive failures, however, and the Internal Revenue Service was unconvinced that the cash-burning business was really a business. Lance fatally crashed a private plane in 1972, at age 36. His alcoholic, drug-addicted mother followed in 1979, leaving behind just $3,000 of a trust fund that had once been the equivalent of nearly $400 million in today’s money.

Wally Parks became HOT ROD’s first fulltime editor in 1949, cofounded the NHRA in 1961, and simultaneously guided the publishing company and the sanctioning body through the end of this year. In early 1963, he resigned as editorial director of Petersen’s automotive publications to run the NHRA fulltime.

Two years after designer-builder Athol Graham was killed chasing the unlimited LSR in the homebuilt Spirit of Salt Lake, his widow, Zeldine, and former helper, Otto Anzjon, brought the rebuilt streamliner back to Bonneville to prove that Graham’s design was sound. The inexperienced driver followed officials’ instructions to gradually build speed to the 225-mph range before attempting this first full pass, which lasted about 100 feet before Allison-induced wheelspin exploded the right-rear tire. (See Dec. 1962 MT; Jan. 2017 HRD; Jan. 2019 HRD.)

NorCal drag racers Romeo Palamides and Glen Leasher didn’t get to Wendover until the last day of Speed Week, in August, which is normally restricted to prequalified record runs. They were granted one low-speed shakedown run that reportedly revealed “unexpected chassis problems.” The monstrous Infinity went home to Oakland to prepare for a private session on September 10. Leasher, who’d acquired jet-car experience in Romeo’s busy Untouchable dragster, made a troublefree checkout pass and turned around. On the return trip, he unexpectedly accelerated on “full ’burner,” veered off the course, flipped repeatedly, and was dismembered. (Later that day, Romeo called another Bay Area slingshot driver about fulfilling his jet dragster’s commitments and created a colorful career for “Jet Car” Bob Smith, who miraculously survived crashes in a whole

In late August, the original Ford Mustang was captured in the L.A. shop of famed bodybuilders Dick Troutman and Tom Barnes. Barely a month later, the tube-framed, midmounted-V4, front-drive, 1,480-pound prototype made exhibition laps and fans at both the Watkins Glen and Riverside Grands Prix. Ford described it as a “study vehicle for possible production of a sports car.” Motor Trend predicted that its “Impact should hit squarely and cause excitement in three or four or five years,” adding, “Unlike so many styling projections and dream cars offered so far, this one is crammed full of usable ideas.” (See Nov. 1962 HRM; Dec. 1962 SCG; Jan. 1963 MT; Feb. 1963 CC.)

Judging by other film negatives documenting Robert E. Petersen’s fall hunting trip, the boss got the last laugh by bagging both an elk and a bear.

The day before the Los Angeles Times Grand Prix in Riverside, Carroll Shelby (right) and Ford upstaged Zora Arkus-Duntov (left center) and Chevrolet by sneaking the second Cobra ever built into a so-called Experimental Production class and race that SCCA conceived for brand-new Sting Rays; in particular, the fearsome foursome of Z06 fastbacks entered by Mickey Thompson. Despite Bill Krause’s sizable horsepower handicap, his spunky, 260ci roadster swapped leads with Dave MacDonald’s 327ci Corvette (background) until the Cobra’s rear hub carrier failed an hour into the 300-mile enduro. (See Jan. 1963 SCG; Jan. 2017 HRD.)

These had to be the trickest transporters at Laguna Seca for October’s SCCA showdown. Meister Brau beer outfitted one of the earliest tractor-trailer rigs in the photo archive for hauling the high-dollar Scarabs and Chaparrals campaigned by Harry Heuer, a member of the brewing family. Norm Holtcamp had other ideas and started from scratch on his Cheetah, sliding an electric-load-leveling Mercedes sedan chassis under a ’60 El Camino cab purchased at GM’s Van Nuys Boulevard plant. A hot-rodded ’57 Corvette 283 and three-speed Chevy trans mount amidships. We don’t know whether Holtcamp hit his target of 112 mph fully loaded, but you can be sure that second-owner Dean Moon wrung top speed out of the Cheetah before parking and neglecting it for years at Moon Equipment Company. Longtime HRD readers will recall a small color snapshot in our May 2013 issue of the disembodied remains in the yard of collector Geoff Hacker, who tells us that full restoration is scheduled to start later this year at JR’s Speed Shop (Venice, Florida).

Longtime PPC photographer Bob D’Olivo identified art director Art Smith, but neither the blonde nor the legs. Not much work was getting done the day that SCG editor John Christy wandered by, two weeks before Christmas.

The Mysterion signaled the beginning of Ed Roth’s asymmetrical (some would say dysfunctional) stage. The dual-engined gas dragsters that proliferated during these fuel-ban years might have inspired the twins that buddy Budd Anderson procured from Ford (said to be 406s, but probably ordinary 390s). During transport between shows, their combined weight repeatedly cracked and ultimately collapsed the Swiss-cheese frame, which was stripped and junked along with the body. Reader Don Baker saw the HOT ROD Network preview of this article and sent in a memory of riding bikes with his childhood pals to a show at Devonshire Downs (San Fernando Valley). Lacking money for admission, they arrived early that morning and sat outside, watching the show cars arrive, “when Big Daddy rides in, towing Mysterion. He was alone and asked us to help getting it off the trailer. We pushed it right onto the show floor. Pretty cool at that time.” We found the image on one of the final rolls exposed by staff photographers this year, yet the Mysterion was completed in time for the start of the indoor show season in January. (See Dec. 1962 & Sept. 1963 R&C.)

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[bridini]

”

I came to the writing of a short biography of Joyce through my earlier biography of Arthur Griffith. The contrast between the two contemporaries is vast, particularly in the context of their current public recognition. Yet both confined their life’s work to their native land. Griffith hardly ever physically left it, while Joyce, though abandoning it physically, never left it mentally or artistically. An Italian visitor to the James Joyce Museum in Sandycove said to me in the summer of 2016: “The great thing Joyce did was to create an international community.” Griffith, though an accomplished Dubliner, was also of Ireland and a high achiever, but has been relatively forgotten. Yet both their lives were intertwined up to the publication of Ulysses in February 1922 and Griffith’s premature death that same year. Joycean scholars and enthusiasts generally shun the Griffith-Joyce links, fearing that the grounded one would delimit their literary interpretations of the artistic genius. I encountered this dichotomy during the four years I spent researching and writing James Joyce Unplugged.

As in any biography, one tries to deal in facts germane to the subject. Éamon de Valera advised his secretary: “History depends on documents; no documents, no history.” A difficulty with Joyce was the surfeit of documentation on his life contained in his own published writings, which as Sean Latham suggests are in essence fiction, though containing much autobiographical material. This is not unusual in imaginative literature, with the author having carte blanche to shape the biographical record to his/her purpose. Normally such a practice will bestow only positive attributes on the author, but Joyce is unique in this as in most things, in that he includes materials which portray him in a very negative light. One example occurs in Ulysses as Buck Mulligan chides Stephen:

O, the night in the Camden hall when the Daughters of Erin had to life their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured, multi-coloured, multitudinous vomit! The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for whom they ever lifted them. About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside. Part. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates leaves his house today, if Judas goes forth tonight. Why? That lies in space which I in time must come to, ineluctably. My will: his will that fronts me. Seas in between.

What is his motivation for including this? The event occurred on June 20th, 1904, four days after he had first met Nora Barnacle. The lady who had stumbled over him was an actress named Vera Esposito. The four men who dealt with the drunken Joyce were the brothers Frank and Willie Fay, Seumas O’Sullivan and George Roberts, who would later give him grief over the publication of Dubliners. Joyce thanked the Fays by soon writing a poem:

O, there are two brothers, the Fays, Who are excellent players of plays, And , needless to mention, all Most unconventional, Filling the world with amaze.

But I angered those brothers, the Fays, Whose ways are conventional ways, For I lay in my urine While ladies so pure in White petticoats ravished my gaze.

Joyce was not averse to “correcting” some facts to suit his purpose. When Herbert Gorman was writing Joyce’s biography, with support from his subject, Joyce insisted that he married Nora in 1904 and that his relationship with his father was sufficiently filial. Ellman wrote that Joyce used the opportunity to “ventriloquize a little” and “to pay off scores”. Joyce insisted that his relationship with Fr Henry in Belvedere was a good one towards the end of his time there. But in fact the opposite was the case, as testified to by a number of contemporaries. Richard Ellmann comments: “Other witnesses indicate that Joyce’s memory was at fault.”

The most difficult and most important area where there is a discrepancy between fact and fiction in Joyce is in relation to Portrait of the Artist. This is the work which is accepted as illustrating Joyce’s abandonment and rejection of his Catholicism and his country. But it was a greatly contrived book, even in the choice of the name of the hero, Stephen Dedalus; Stephen after the first Christian martyr and Dedalus after paganism’s greatest inventor. He was consciously making his life as he was living it into fiction, all the while realising that he could adapt or change it to suit his purpose. He controlled the real people he wrote about, often much to their annoyance. He excised his one loyalist, his brother Stanislaus, deciding that he must be alone in his life ‑ “A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella,” he wrote. It is ironic, as Brenda Maddox has written, that eventually it was Stanislaus and his family who gained from “his memories and his brother’s papers”.

Indeed Matthew Hodgart accuses Joyce in Portrait of lying in suggesting that he did not go to a Christian Brothers School for a few months when his father could no longer afford to send him to Clongowes and before he was taken in as a “free” boy to Belvedere. Joyce has his mother say in Portrait:

I never liked the idea of sending him to the christian brothers myself, said Mrs. Dedalus. Christian Brothers be damned! said Mr. Dedalus. Is it with Paddy Stink and Micky Mud? No let him stick to the jesuits in God’s name since he began with them. They’ll be of service to him in after years. Those are the fellows that can get you a position.

He anticipated, even urged, friends, and especially Oliver St John Gogarty, to betray him in his need for a victimhood like that of Christ or Parnell. He wrote: “I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home or, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use – silence, exile, and cunning.”

A Portrait began life as an autobiographical story intended for the magazine Dana, which rejected it, as the editor, John Eglinton, said he could not understand it. It 1903 Joyce developed it into Stephen Hero ‑ a novel in a realistic style. At this time he was also writing short stories which became Dubliners. In 1907, with twenty-five chapters written, he abandoned Stephen Hero, developed the story instead into a five chapter novel about Stephen’s developing consciousness. It was serialised in The Egoist in 1914-15 and published as a book in 1916.

While writing Portrait, Joyce was an exile in real time, living a different life, in contact with Ireland through reading Arthur Griffith’s newspaper, Sinn Féin. He gradually became to support Griffith’s views on Irish nationalism, writing to his brother Stanislaus;

If a victorious country terrorises over another, it cannot reasonably take it amiss if the latter responds. Men are made that way and no one, unless he is deluded by self-interest or cunning, can still believe that a colonising country is driven by purely Christian motives when it takes over foreign shores – if the Irish have not been able to do what their American brothers did, this does not mean that they will never do so – a moral separation already exists between the two countries.

The practicality of Griffith’s emphasis on trade and consuls abroad, replacing Irish members of parliament at Westminster, appealed to him. When Stanislaus sought to get his brother to support Tom Kettle’s Irish Parliamentary Party, James would have none of it, ridiculing those MPs as self-serving. He also ridiculed the idea of Home Rule, declaring that the British would never grant it to Ireland without partitioning the country. Declan Kiberd remarks that “this was one of the most accurate predictions of partition”. James wrote to Stanislaus in 1907 of Griffith: “ ... so far as my knowledge of Irish affairs goes he was the first person in Ireland to revive the separatist idea on modern lines nine years ago … The Sinn Fein policy comes to fighting England with the knife and fork … the highest form of political warfare I have heard of.”

Even when the IPP held the balance of power after the 1910 general election and Home Rule appeared to be just a matter of time, Joyce remained sceptical, even to the point of visualising that parliament would reduce Irish representation by half. He said that despite Ireland becoming part of British democratic life, she had never been faithful to England nor to herself, as she discarded her own language for English, betrayed her stars and served only the Catholic church. Even when the Home Rule Bill was passed in 1912 he was astute enough, like Griffith and Sinn Féin, to realise that Britain would as usual control taxes. Kiberd writes: “Joyce wrote from the viewpoint of a staunch republican.” Herbert Gorman stated: “Joyce, if anything, was an Irish nationalist at heart.”

Joyce’s most poignant take on Irish independence saw him writing about an unlikely revolution: “One thing alone seems obvious to me. It is way past time for Ireland to have done once and for all with failure. If she is truly capable of revitalizing, let her rouse, or let her cover her head and lie down graciously in her grave forever ... But though the Irish are articulate, an insurrection is not made of human breath and negotiations ... If she wants to put on the show for which we have delayed so long, this time, let it be comprehensive, and conclusive. But telling these Irish actors to hurry up, as our forefathers before us told them not so long ago, is hopeless. I, for one, am certain not to see that curtain rise as I shall have already taken the last tram home.”

But when the performance did unexpectedly occur in Dublin at Easter 1916, Joyce remained quiet. Of course the tragic murder of his old friend Sheehy-Skeffington and the partial destruction of Dublin did affect him. The Sheehy family suffered another tragedy when Tom Kettle was killed fighting in France in September 1916. Joyce wrote a letter of sympathy to the two widowed Sheehy sisters he had known so well. As Richard Ellmann writes, “Joyce followed the events with pity; although he evaluated the Rising as useless, he felt also out of things.” Later in 1918 he was glad when the British had to abandon their plan to introduce conscription to Ireland, remarking “Erin go bragh”. At that stage he looked forward to the time when he would revisit an independent Ireland.

When Nora was in Galway as the Civil War was in progress and had to flee amid gunfire, Joyce felt that it was all part of the ongoing conspiracy against himself. Constantine Curran later visited Joyce in Paris and “found exaggeration of Nora’s danger from the Civil War preposterous”.

The publication of Ulysses had coincided with the coming into being of the new Irish state, with Arthur Griffith as president. Richard Ellmann writes that “Ulysses creates new Irishmen to live in Griffith’s new state … For a moment it seemed that the two events were allied, that Ireland would be a nation once again in terms of both spiritual and political emancipation. But Griffith died after only a few months in power, and Joyce had second thoughts.” The several references to Griffith and Sinn Féin in Ulysses demonstrate that Joyce had an intimate and detailed knowledge of the man and what he was about. The book features many references to the Sinn Féin leader, alone of the politicians of his day, while Joyce also called attention to the ultimately political direction of his own work by having the Irish Stephen, at the end of the brothel scene, beaten up by a British soldier, whom he describes as “The Uninvited”.

Joyce was visited in Paris in 1922 by Desmond Fitzgerald, a minister in the new Irish government. He wrote to Stanislaus that “the Dail Eireann minister of propaganda called on me and wished to know if I intended to return to Ireland – to which I returned an evasive answer. He is proposing me, it seems, for the Nobel prize in his capacity of cabinet minister as soon as the Treaty is ratified at Westminster, though not in the name of his cabinet. I will take a small bet that if he does not change his mind when he sees the complete text he will lose his portfolio while I have not the faintest chance of being awarded the prize.” In the event it was WB Yeats who won the prize and Joyce was never even nominated.

6/2/2019

Anthony J Jordan’s biography is called James Joyce Unplugged and is published bywestportbooks@yahoo.co.uk

[thecoroutfitters]

Written by Pat Henry on The Prepper Journal.

There are many reasons why people start prepping. For me I had growing sense of the fragility of the social and economic fabric that weaves our daily systems together back in 2005. Call it a gut-check that was caused by impulses I am still not even aware of the source, but I felt an urge to take steps to protect my family. From what? From all manner of normal, everyday events and tragedies that affect people all over the world and have since the beginning of time. Fires, earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, famine, disease, war, economic downturn, zombie invasion, pandemic, loss of a job, drought, flood. The list goes on and on but I began a journey back then that continues, almost without ending to this day to be prepared for just about anything that can happen.

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Many of my other prepper friends though seem to have hinged their motivation for prepping on a political urgency. Their own reasons for prepping stemmed almost directly from the recent political climate and actions taken by one political party or another. The fear of regulations or rules coming down from an abusive, tyrannical despot drove them to prepare for a loss of rights, confiscation of firearms or riots in the streets. But after one election cycle, the urgency has waned for these preppers. The fear of gun confiscations is gone because one man left office and another woman failed to become his successor.

Now, instead of burning up the comments on many of the more popular prepping blogs out there calling for everyone to take steps now, it seems that so many preppers who were in full swing a year or two ago have relaxed and stopped worrying about the need to prepare. Has this happened to you?

When you stop prepping

Now don’t get me wrong, my urgency to prepare has highs and lows and I have myself gone through periods where I prepare with more vigor than other times. This can be for a lot of reasons. For some preps, I spend a little more money and if the finances aren’t where I’d like them, I scale back. The months before Tax Day usually slow things down in that respect. Other times, when I do have the finances and want to purchase some prepping supplies, I go after it a little more enthusiastically. Sales have a great way of motivating me too.

But the difference is that I have never felt in the entire time I have been prepping, that everything is OK. That I don’t have anything to worry about and all that was wrong in the world has been repaired. Never. Not even once. Perhaps some of that boils down to what I think some of the major problems are and what I am more concerned with. After the basic level of preparedness for life’s curve-balls, my big worry is economic collapse. That to me is the big one to get concerned about because trigger reasons aside, if that happens, we could easily see rioting, disease, mass death, wars, etc.

Additionally, I have been slack in some of my every day preparedness occasionally and I end up smacking myself for letting my diligence slip. For example, we recently completed a trip out-of-state to see family. We didn’t take my vehicle which has a pretty complete vehicle survival kit and a lot of other supplies that would enable us to survive for a good while with nothing else. Instead we had my wife’s vehicle, which is less stocked. Usually, I would move everything over as I packed and make sure we were covered. This time I was lazy and although nothing happened to us on the road, I thought about the lack of supplies the entire trip. Some days I leave the house without my concealed carry weapon and I worry that this will be the day when I find out I needed it. Fortunately, that has never happened.

Now is not the time to let your guard down

These are minor fluctuations that happen to everyone based upon life. I haven’t abandoned my other preps and I will redouble my efforts on my next out-of-town trip so that I am more prepared for whatever life throws my way.

But some people think that just because one person won an election, that the need to prepare is lessened, if not removed altogether. For those people who were prepping solely because of the political environment they saw as a threat, the words coming from the new boss are different, more aligned to what they believe, their own principles and morals – so the urgency has gone away.

Now is not the time to let your guard down

I wrote a post back in 2013 titled Misplaced Hope: The Futility in Picking Sides Politically where I basically said my own personal belief is that it does not matter who is in charge politically in the grand scheme of things. Our government isn’t truly representative anymore and your interests are not placed above the interests of those in power. This doesn’t change really no matter which side is in power so believing that just because one side wins all your problems are solved is folly. Your mileage may vary.

To those preppers who think that now since the last election, our economic issues are over, that government will stop spying on people, that your freedom will increase, that the world as a whole will be a better place and people will start to reason and get along. Those who think we will never have conflict with another country, that our health and prosperity will continue forever… You’ve got to get your head out of the sand. The man behind the podium doesn’t control the economy, the banks do. The Deep State doesn’t care who is in power because they don’t have to answer to anyone and besides, you freely give your privacy away to any one of dozens of companies already.

Prepping is a Marathon, not a sprint

I could go on, but the point I am trying to make is that you shouldn’t stop prepping because your team won the last big game. Things can change and one election doesn’t alter the course of history typically. I maintain, that each of us should keep our heads down, our eyes peeled and continue to prepare. Maybe you spend less time arguing with people on Facebook, but your journey to preparedness shouldn’t stop because you think the reasons you had for prepping have gone away. Elections happen every 4 years and even outside of that, major events happen that change things in ways you could never have imagined. Look at 9/11 and what that did to our view of the world and outlook on many things. Surprises do still happen.

So to all the preppers who stopped and all the new preppers from the other side who are just as worried now as some of us were before November 8th and who are now prepping with an urgency many on this side have lost – don’t let your guard down! We should be prepared for anything. Don’t let what is happening in the media from day-to-day dictate whether or not you are taking steps to protect your family. Look at the larger picture, to history and keep making strides day by day to learn new skills, to set aside food and water, to get in shape and obtain training you could need one day.

Prepping is a Marathon, not a sprint and the race is far from over.

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The post Preppers: Now Is Not the Time to Let Your Guard Down appeared first on The Prepper Journal.

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