#but it wasn't that long ago. the world is young. remarkably young

[mirohlayo]

STRANGE

inspired by Strange - Celeste

( From strangers to friends, friends into lovers, and lovers to grandparents )

warning : fluff, sad ending, heartbreaking ??

note : I wanted to write something cute but it turned into something sad I literally wanted to cry so sorry in advance for that guys 😞🫰

word count : 1.9k

The breeze of the wind tenderly caressed your faces, sweeping your hair that played with the setting of the sunset. Your feet occasionally brushed the ground and the swing rocked your bodies in an almost non-existent rhythm, as if you were destined to sit still. Your eyes scanned the horizon, and the fiery orange rays of the sun shone on your pupils, reflecting the love that was there.

It was calm. Restful and silent, perhaps a little too peaceful. A bit like your first meeting. “This reminds me of the first time we met…” Your voice was on the edge of breath. A smile came to Lewis's face. A nostalgic smile. “It was a long time ago now…” You nodded slowly, breathing shaky.

His hand delicately intertwined with yours, while your eyes fell on the precious stone that adorned your finger. Your engagement ring. “Do you remember that meeting?” This question came naturally from your mouth.

His head slowly turned towards you, and your eyes were linked, as before, at the same time, in the same place. “On this swing, in front of the sea and the sunset... How can I not remember it” Two smiles highlighted your facial features, now clearly perceptible. “It will remain the most beautiful memory of my life.” Lewis closed his eyes, also remembering the moment he knew he had stumbled upon the most precious star in the world.

The sea waves, the sound of the seagulls, the sunset and the swing. A little softness and clouds in the sky, grass on the edges of the tree and two young teenagers swinging while sitting on the swing. This is how the table was drawn up.

They didn't know each other. They hadn't exchanged a single word. The girl had simply joined the boy and sat down next to him, quietly and the boy had let her do so because perhaps he wanted to find company in his solitude. No one spoke, no one dared to disturb the other, and even then it wasn't embarrassing.

The girl was looking at the horizon, while the boy took the risk of taking a look towards her. She was so pretty, in that long white dress, those fine jewelry and her long fluttering eyelashes. She seemed to have fallen from the sky, an angel stranded on Earth and the boy couldn't believe his eyes. He already considered himself lucky to be able to sit next to her.

“You look beautiful.” The boy didn't think, he didn't want to think. Usually, the words came out of his mouth carefully since he carefully chose the words he was going to use. However, it seemed that he was losing this eloquence and this ability to express himself in front of this girl who was now looking at him surprised. A smile quickly rose to her pink cheeks, as she tilted her head curiously.

"Thank you. You look handsome too". The girl seemed shy, because after these words her cheeks became more and more red. The boy smiled stupidly, before thanking her in turn. They looked like two idiots, two young adolescents who were discovering the stages of love for the first time. It was a new feeling for both of them, a feeling they didn't know existed, but it was nevertheless sweet and warm.

“Are you often alone?” The question was natural for the girl, no hesitation in her voice. And maybe that's why the boy wasn't afraid to answer her honestly. "Often, yes. But I enjoy your company now." A soft laugh, which sounded like a melody, rang in the boy's ears as he enjoyed the smile in front of him. "You'll enjoy it for a long time then." The girl was serious in her remarks.

She was serious and with these words, she had promised him to stay by his side for a long time. The boy, who had befriended loneliness, had finally embarked on a real adventure, a real friendship, and a real love. You and Lewis had met that day, the lonely boy and the angelic girl.

And who would have thought that a few years later, these two young adults who were once two young teenagers, would find themselves face to face, hand in hand, eye to eye, at their own wedding ceremony.

The few guests present applauded you, while your lips explored the passion that bound you, the love that animated you. This kiss sealed your union, your destiny, and the future of a happy future. As you slowly pulled back, your eyes exchanged sincere words, sweet words. The young man saw tears running down the young woman's cheeks, and angels do not cry. Then he wiped away the salty tears of his bride, of his wife, with absolute delicacy.

The painting was magnificent. It was the same as usual. The sea in the background, the sound of seagulls and the beginning of a sunset, with the swing which witnessed the story of these two young humans. A dozen guests, a lot of love in the air and two brides and grooms who never wanted to take their eyes off each other.

While the ceremony went perfectly, the exchange of rings couldn't have been more beautiful and magical. The young bride admired with passion the fine jewelry that her husband slipped on her finger. This ring was like you, at least in his eyes. Beautiful, elegant and refined. A ring that looked like it was made in heaven, where the angels must have taken it for you.

In his turn, the young groom admired his own jewel, his ring which he wore magnificently. They were finally bonded for life, and the promise the girl had made to him, that she would stay in his company for a long time, was still there. The girl kept her word. Then in a last sweet kiss, they kissed each other lovingly, while the groom's hand delicately caressed his wife's belly, where their future children were peacefully dozing. You and Lewis were married that day, the young man in love and the young woman soon to be a mother.

Years later, the swing was still there. Perhaps a little more dilapidated than before, but still in usable condition. The sea was still moving and the sun was still setting too. In the air, the sound of seagulls but also the laughter of children, young children. There they were, sitting on the swing, the two of them rocking facing the sea in front of them, while their parents prepared the picnic on the carpet.

The father closely watched his children, helping them swing on the swing, while he let his heart fill with joy with every laugh he heard. The mother took full advantage of this moment, while setting up the plates and the picnic basket. It was like a ritual for them.

A simple habit. The four of them came to picnic on this place every Saturday at sunset, because after all this place, this swing are the memories of their history and their adventure. It's like a symbol of their life. So the parents wanted to explain it to them. Show and tell their children how they came into the world, all thanks to this unique swing.

The family chatted, ate and laughed heartily. The parents had nothing but love for their children, while they mischievously played with the swing. And then, night fell. The sky was dark and the stars twinkled divinely brightly. The children slept on the carpet, blankets over their frail bodies.

The parents admired the spectacle, looking for the nearest stars. "You look like a star. Beautiful and bright." The father loved the mother with all his heart, so he repeated these sweet words to her often. The mother laughed stupidly, but kept these words carefully in her mind, because she too loved the father with all her heart. The man next to him. “I know that even when I am no longer here, you will remain the only one to watch over me.”

The father could only smile, because after all it was true. He will always watch over her, no matter what. Both parents took one last look at their greatest gift in the world, their sons and daughter who were snoring peacefully in each other's arms. You and Lewis were enjoying your happiness that day, the best father in the world and the best mother in the world.

Lewis opened his eyes. Sunset was almost over, night was falling slowly. A few tears threatened to fall down his cheeks, but he held them back. These moments he remembered were the most important and beautiful of his entire life. His hand remained placed on yours, it still framed the precious stone, the ring that he had put on your finger years and years ago.

“Mom, Dad, it’s time for dinner!!” A young woman, who was the spitting image of her father, warned you that it was time to go eat. Your daughter smiled, happy to see her two parents side by side. "We arrive." Lewis gently stroked the ring on his index finger. And you admired the jewel, this beautiful and unique jewel that reminded you so much of yourself.

“My angel, I think it’s time to give it to them.” You nodded to express your choice. A sad smile crept onto your tired face. “Our grandchildren will be happy with our rings.” Lewis placed a soft kiss on your temple, with a sincere smile, as you removed your respective rings from your fingers.

The laughter of your grandchildren reached your ears, as they kept calling to invite you to join them at the table. Rings in the palms of your hands, you both left the swing, walking hand in hand towards them.

Your gray hair was conspicuous, as were your wrinkles. Your voices were tired but strong enough to still express your love. You were old, sure, but still in love. You kept your promise to Lewis. You offered him your company until the end. And it will remain the most beautiful thing in his eyes.

But now the sun had finished setting. Dinner was over, night had long since fallen. There was nothing left, no one left. The children and grandchildren were gone, and Lewis was heading to the swing.

He sat there quietly, his back bent. He admired the sky. The beautiful stars and the beautiful round moon. He did as before, he looked for the closest and brightest stars. And among them, there was one. A divinely beautiful one. Beautiful, very bright and shiny. She looked like you. Maybe it was you, waving to him from above.

The swing seemed empty without you beside it, and the night colder without your body to warm it. The sea was still singing, the seagulls were sleeping and the swing almost creaked. However, this beautiful star warmed his heart. “You look beautiful, my angel.” Lewis addressed these words to this star, to you. He addressed you with the same first words that he had spoken to you when you first met.

Perhaps because this was your last meeting. "Look, I'm the only one left to watch over you. I promised you that, right?" A nostalgic, sad and sweet smile formed on his face. “Now you really are a star.” An unexpected laugh escaped his throat, as he let the tears fall down his cheeks.

The swing rocked him, the sea sang to him the melodies of your laughter, and above all, his heart still beat, only for you, for the most precious star he had ever known.

[kingconia]

hiiiiii! ugh, i am not sure if you take requests? but if you do, can i ask you leona one, where reader is the descendant of scar, and afterglow savanna always treats her like shit, thinking she will try to kill farena or leona?? idk tbh the dynamic between her and others, but maybe with a prompt "why are you keep protecting me?" "because if anyone kills you it will be me?" BUT NOT ANGSTY MORE LIKE CHEESY ONE like she is joking she has no plans to do so!!

(also maybe she is friend with azul bc both of them manipulative masterminds idk)

A/N: that's actually sounds so fun. i am genuinely invested, though, i had never thought that someone will ask me to write something. but, oh, darling, thank you. i would love do that more, so if anyone wants, i am open to your ideas.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR × READER, WHO IS SCAR'S DESCENDANT

warnings: not detailed mention of blood and some threats with mentions of gore? it is lighter than it sounds.

Hatred followed you from a very young age. And it wasn't necessarily yours.

You were six, when you learned to understand that kindness will not help you survive. But cruelty will.

Abandoned, throwed away, you were nothing in the world of kings and queens. Your whole existence were cursed from the day you made your first breath, and no one was going to tell you why. Why you were so hated by the whole country, by every single person in your motherland? Why your mother turned away from you? Why you were considered to be dangerous?

But the more you grew, the more you understood that it is for the better. Their hatred, their suspicion, their rage. It made you the independent person. The predator.

And you were fine with that.

At some point, you stopped caring about what all of them thought. Instead, it filled you with even more power to move forward.

And so you survived. Proudly, with chin up to the sky, ignoring the way others treated you.

Savannaclaw wasn't necessarily bad, though. You thought it will be; Farena Kingscholar never being kind to you, and his kingdom therefore, too. But Savannaclaw was different. There, your only king was Leona. And Leona didn't care whose descendant you were.

If anything, he never even took it seriously.

”Why the fuck I would care about that cursed king?” He spitted it out once, as Ruggie asked him in what he thought was a whisper, as you passed by. ”Stupid lion is dead for a long time. Why would she care about him, even?”

And that was it. Savannaclaw never acted like you were enemy, no one glared at you with participation, no one was suspicious about your every single world.

You were free.

And the freedom you had gained, finally, made your loyalty to Leona stronger.

So, you didn't really like, when someone offended him.

It was your job to annoy him, to try break his trust towards you by cynical remarks—”oh, my King, you shouldn't trust me with your nephew. What if I tear him apart?” or ”Tsh, tsh, little lion... Haven't your brother told you? You shouldn't really turn your back to the hungry animal,”—even if he never cared.

And if someone tried to steal your job... Well, that would be really-really bad.

”Remind me once again,” you yawned, throwing a grape in your mouth, ”why I am not allowed to fight that Pomfiore boy for you?”

Azul chuckled.

”You got almost expelled twice, tigerfish. I am flatted that you are willing to try it for me, too, but I have more interesting ways to get my revenge.”

Azul was probably the strangest friend you ever had—and you had the only one, who was Jack—but it wasn't necessarily bad. He always got you involved in his plans, and as both of you were thinking about this or that in complete solitude, scheming and laughing, you thought it actually was nice.

”I caught him applying foundation on his face a week ago,” you share with him quietly. ”On the whole face. And let me say, he is not that perfect without it, Zul.”

He gasped dramatically.

”And that after interview, where he says he hates unnatural beauty?!”

”Mhm.”

”Tigerfish, you are so cruel,” he smiled. ”I love it.”

”Sure you are,” your ears moved by itself and you turned your head on the right. ”Do you hear that?”

Voices. Very loud, very angry voices. Usually, you would ignore that, but it was a familiar scent that made you move forward, ignoring Azul's question.

”Are you fucking insane, Hunt?”

”Oi, oi, I only cared to see if you would react immediately!”

You groaned.

Fucking Pomfiore kids.

As you stepped closer, your annoyed expression shifted to a worried one. There was a crossbow in Rook's arms, and Leona was holding an arrow is his hand, face angry.

So, it was it: little hunter tried to hunt Leona down.

Before he acknowledged your presence, you moved forward, raising Rook by his collar, right from behind.

”Don't get frightened, little one,” you said, voice, despite a smirk, vicious. ”I only cared to see if you would react immediately.”

Leona scoffed.

”Aha, how nice! Jolie Lionne! Had you came to save your pretty prince from the trouble?”

You frowned.

”He is the king, hunter.” Your turned him to face you properly, still leaving him hanging in the air. ”Listen to me, sweet human, the next time I see you trying to shoot him, I will scratch your eyes with my claws, and eat them in front of your fake housewarden. And then, I am going to make a feast. Do you hear me?”

His face scrunched for a second, but he put his usual smile on the face rather quickly.

”My, my... We were merely playing! But, fine, fine. As you wish, jolie lionne!”

You freed him, and this time he was rather quick with leaving.

Other students shun you actively, so it wasn't surprising. Beyond Savannaclaw, Azul, and, well, Lillia Van Rouge, other either ignored your existence or avoided you in fear. You had one the hell of the reputation, and your own attitude never helped to fix the damage that rumours left on you.

”I didn't ask you to do that,” Leona clicked his tongue, moving to your right side.

”You never do,” you shrugged. ”I don't really care.”

Maybe it was the fact that you never denied his power, never looked down at him, that helped him to make a peace with the fact that you were so eager to protect him. Because, well, in the beginning, he thought it was offensive.

”You are so fucking strange that, do you know that?” You repeated your previous action, and he continued. ”If I were you, I would love to kill me. And my brother. Especially him. But you keep doing that. Keep guarding me like a lapdog. Why?”

Why?

You wondered about it too, once. But the answer came easily to you.

It was a boy with unusual scar on his young face that stared at you without hatred the first. Simply stared, without any particular emotion, and handed you a little red flower, before leaving.

And though, he probably didn't remember it...

It was still him, who looked at you without despise in his eyes, when both of you grew up, meeting here and there, as your presence should have been always controlled and seen by the royal family.

And it was him, who made Savannaclaw respect you, as he joined this school, a year later than you did.

It was always him.

”Having trouble with creating another lie?” He smirked, moving to stop in front of you, clearly disliking the fact that you ignore his presence.

”You want to know why, Leona?” You tilted your head, meeting his curious eyes. "Because I consider you to be the King, more than your brother ever will, and therefore, I should protect you.”

Before he opened his mouth, you caught him by the chin, moving him closer. He stared at you, not annoyed, but quite lost by this action. Your eyes shimmered with a familiar hunger that always lived inside you.

A hunger for fame. Acceptance. Peace. Blood. Cruelty.

Love.

”And because,” your lips brushed the corner of his, as you breathed out on his cheek, ”if anyone ever tries to rip out your golden heart, my King, it is going to be me.”

His lips curled in a same wicked smile that played on your face.

And as his arms fall on your hips, he accepted the game.

”What a coincidence,” his whisper came out like a purr. ”Because if ever try to rip our my heart, my dear Consort, I will allow it to you.”

A laugh that escaped your chest sounded so taunted that others would find it scary.

But you know Leona didn't. In fact, he enjoyed it very much.

And both of you had a very long journey to find out what else you enjoy about each other. Gladly, you had plenty of time for that.

[teatreeoilll]

|| Temptation (Satoru Gojo X Reader) ||

(Reposted from my old blog which I don't have access to anymore (thanks Tumblr), if you liked it reblogs or likes would be appreciated to get me back on track since I've lost all my followers and half my work :(

While hoping to be reinstated in the Jujutsu world, you meet with the teacher you had a crush on in your school days.

I wrote this while drunk, I think that says it all.

Image credits to user blueparadis.

"Why'd you call me Sensei?" Gojo chuckled, his long fingers reaching his blindfold, holding it up to let one eye peek from under it. You take a seat across from him. "I was only your teacher for a year, and that was ages ago."

He was right, of course, but the air of his office and the familiar smell of the chrysanthemum bushes outside the window had brought back too many memories of your last year at Jujutsu High; your mind had no trouble flashing the images of late nights and talks with your then best friends.

2009

"I think I might fail this year," you'd laugh, covering your mouth with your hand, thinking it would hush your uncalled-for remarks you'd whisper in the middle of training sessions, "I mean what is he, a few years older than us?"

On weekend nights, the few students in your grade would gather in one of the rooms, trying to muffle the 'tsssk' sound the opening of the drinks they managed to smuggle for these occasions would produce. At most of these gatherings, the tougher subjects would be tactfully avoided, no talk about missions and curses, or mentions of horrible past incidents were allowed.

There wasn't much left to chat about after the rules were unanimously established, and so most nights your classmates would group together laughing at the feelings you've managed to develop for your new teacher. The running joke had always made your cheeks flush red. "Oh, Gojo-Sensei, your eyes are so blue!" A boy from your class would make a lousy impression of your voice that would always elicit laughter from the group, "Oh, Gojo-Sensei, could you tutor me?"

Even at that age, you liked to think that no one apart from your friends could observe the crush you've steadily developed. However, especially when hearing your whispers, your teacher had always felt that was an insult to his self-proclaimed skills of deduction. Gojo would make sure to pause his enthusiastic explanations to put a large hand on your shoulder just to watch you blush, and your classmates giggle. He was far too determined to take advantage of each lesson to bask in the feeling of your attentive gaze.

present day

"I'm sorry," you mutter, "Old habits." His limbs are sprawled on the shiny leather of the chair as he talks ; "Are you thinking of returning to the Jujutsu world? If so, I think there are more suitable people to talk to." He noticed your gaze shifting downwards, he didn't mean any harm with his words, but you couldn't help but feel unwanted in the room.

"I'm sorry to be a bother, I just thought that -" "Ah, I'm sorry. You probably just came to visit your old Sensei you used to crush on." He snickers. Getting up from his seat, he walks around the large desk, just to put a hand on your shoulder the way he remembered would make you blush. "What? I -," You struggle to find the words, your gaze still fixed on your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. "I - I never had a crush on you."

Your words seemed to him as a personal challenge. The determination to make you admit it excited every cell in his body as he kneeled before you, the grin widening on his face when he grabbed your fidgeting hand to hold gently, the sudden touch making you raise your eyes to glance at him.

He hardly changed, you thought, his mannerisms still as shameless as they were back then, his touch still making your stomach flutter. "Nothing to be ashamed about," He declares, "It was your last year, and this young, attractive man comes in -" "Gojo Se-" you stop yourself from saying the word that so easily excited him to go down this path, "Gojo, I'm really only here to talk my reinstatement."

His thumb moves slightly over the back of your hand, the walls of the room closed in on you when the heat from his hand runs straight to your head. "Sure," He lets out another small chuckle before putting on a serious expression, "Just as soon as you'll admit it."

He watches your brows furrow. "I see you've learned nothing. The first rule of Jujutsu is that honesty makes you more powerful," The snarky comment makes you cross your arms. You yank your hand back, and the chair scratches the floor under you when you get up.

"That's childish," You inhale a sharp breath, but his immaturity, as most spiteful characteristics, rubs off on you. "Might you be so stubborn because you're the one who had a crush on me?" You spew, stunned at your own unsophisticated comment.

"Who says I didn't?" He gets up from his knee to face you once again, his unwavering enthusiasm makes it hard to control your pent-up urge to both pull him to you, and shove him away. Huh?

"Never mind that," He suddenly says.

"What do you mean, never mind that?" You cock your head to the side, confused at the sudden change of heart he displayed. "I don't need you to admit it anymore," You watch the corners of his mouth twitch lightly before widening back to a broad grin, "You already did, little tomato."

Your hands shot up to feel your own cheeks, the heat radiating to the palms of your hands. You were sure you looked like you'd just run a marathon. "Alright, little tomato, you can ask about the other things now," He smiles, leaning back on his desk. A thought crosses your head that even Alexander the Great didn't beam like that when bringing the Persian Empire to its knees.

"Don't call me that," you protest. With each response he'd evoke from you, he'd find himself more captivated, seizing the moment to push himself off of the desk only to stand closer to you. "Why not, little tomato?" He'd found himself too fond of the new nickname, his face so close to yours you couldn't ignore it if you tried. His blindfold sat peacefully at the crook of his neck, his hair splayed on his forehead, eyes agonizing to look at; looking half at you and half through you.

The childish-like oblivious manner of your feelings had disappeared as soon as his lips brushed on yours, the pit of your stomach spinning and swirling at the fantasies you thought you'd left behind years ago. He snorted a little when you pressed your lips against his, his hands impulsively gripping your thighs.

He groans between the kisses; "I really see I've taught you nothing, little tomato," He murmured, "The second rule is never letting your opponent know he's got the upper hand."

[juniperss]

Just Looking Out

Bill Guarnere x Reader

Warnings:  harassment from a stranger, super predictable plot and cliche so be prepared for that, it’s long. lots of fluff at the end. Protective Bill 

A/N: This was originally written on my main account a few years ago but I decided to move it here since I don't change this URL as often and it makes easier to find my writing! Also It's been a while since I wrote these so I'd like to think that I've improved somewhat since then!

Bill watched as you led the way through the soldier filled bar towards the small booth in the back that was currently half occupied with various members of Easy Company. The ones that weren't dancing with strangers or mingling around the bar that is. He could see the game of darts unfolding across the way between Buck and Babe, the ribbing and cheers carrying over the other sounds. He wondered briefly how you were able to weave so expertly through the crowds, but any remark about it was forgotten when you glanced over your shoulder as you checked to ensure he was still there before smiling excitedly at him.

"Guarnere! Doc!"

Floyd greeted the two of you loudly, the mug of beer in his hand sloshing. He wasn't drunk...yet, but his large smile and enthusiastic conversation that he resumed with Shifty and one of the replacements hinted that he wasn't too far off from that goal.  Time to relax and have fun was few and far between during the chaos that surrounded the world right now, so much so that it was easy to forget how young you all were. And that there was much to life to enjoy. Such as watching your friends drink a bit too much while leaning into the back of a rather uncomfortable booth and sipping on your own beer. Bill was beside you now, his shoulder bumping into yours occasionally, as stories about training made their way into the conversation sparking groans, laughter, and many a question from the replacements on how bad Sobel had truly been.

"I'm gonna get another drink even if I'll regret it in the morning." 

You quipped as you scooted out of the booth and nodded your head towards the bar. You were able to easily make your way to your destination as the once large crowd had dispersed more evenly throughout the bar as the evening grew later.  Leaning against the bar you waited for your drink you surveyed the room with ease. The dancing had wound down leaving a handful of couples swaying slowly. The music playing from the radio was familiar and calming, with a steady beat that made it achingly romantic.  Meanwhile the game of darts had changed players but was still going strong between Toye and Perconte. You bit back a smile at the sight. A cough at your shoulder startled you, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end as you turned your head quickly.

"Whoa there, dove!" 

The man was unfamiliar to you, dressed in civilian clothes with a mop of dark brown hair and scruff that was definitely not paratrooper regulation. Instinctively you moved to the left in an attempt to put some distance between the two of you assuming he had merely needed to place an order.

"Didn't mean to scare the pretty lady."

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from replying and continued to stare straight ahead watching the dart competition continue. Ignoring unwanted attention wasn't new to you especially in your time training. Being apart of Easy Company hadn't been easy, but you'd learned when to bite your tongue and when it was the right time to stand up for yourself.

"Lemme pay for your drink, to make up for the scare." It wasn't a question and that only made the offer more annoying to you. As if you had given any indication that you were looking for an advance from him or any form of conversation. After a deep exhale you turned to face him. He was even closer than he had been a moment ago, the gap that you had placed between the two of you now gone.

"No, thank you. I'm here with my friends."

The man glanced towards the direction of Guarnere and the rest of the gang at the table, eying the uniforms before looking back at you. His eyes sparkled in determination at the mention of what he presumed to be a challenge.

"They don't seem to be missing you too much. Share a drink with me and maybe you won't miss them either."

This time the offer made your stomach turn and despite your best efforts you felt a prickle of familiar fear and discomfort creep through you. Sure soldiers made comments, often times very rude ones that cut, but you had been fortunate that your company seemed to appreciate you for the most part. Easy Company seemed especially protective and respectful of you. It was jarring to not have that respect from a stranger 

"Really, I'm fine. Thank you." 

As if the heavens had parted the bartender finally pushed your drink towards you, your escape now gifted to you as if on cue. But as you reached for the cup the man grasped your wrist. Once again instinct worked faster than your mind and in one fluid motion you yanked your arm way pulling the glass towards you in the process. It shattered loudly on the ground, glass and beer spraying across the floor. 

"Been a while since a man touched you?"

His fingers were still around your wrist but the grip had tightened after your initial pull away. His words alone were enough to make you want to scream for him to leave you alone, but it was the look in his eye just about sent you over the edge into full panic. 

"You better fuckin' let her go." 

Bill was behind you and then suddenly he was between the man and you, his large hand coming to grab the man's arm. Bill Guarnere was eerily calm and somehow that was more terrifying then if he was yelling. You watched as his grip tightened and the man's grip on your wrist loosened under Bill's pressure. 

Apparently the scene of the drink crashing to the ground had gained the attention of not only Bill, but the rest of the soldiers. Buck was stalking across the room in your direction while you could see that Toye had followed Bill up to the bar. The man, sensing that he was clearly out numbered finally released your wrist and began to back up.

  But Bill didn't let go of his arm. His knuckles were white and you would visibly see the pain of his grip flash across the victim's face. 

"Nah, you're not goin' anywhere. Apologize to her." 

The man's mouth fell open slightly as he glanced between you and Bill as if he didn't understand the command, as if apologizing for crossing the line with a woman was a foreign idea. But Bill didn't budge and as the other soldiers seemed to begin to swarm, the man finally relented. "Sorry." The apology was choked, either because the words hurt to say or because Bill's grip was getting more painful (perhaps a mixture of both). As soon as his arm was released the man was gone, retreating to the other side of the bar to where a group of locals parted to let him lick his wounds in the dark corner. 

Sensing that the situation was resolved Buck and Toye nodded to Bill and you before returning to their tables leaving the two of you standing amidst the broken glass and beer. "Let's go, doll," his voice was hushed just for you and you felt the way his hand ghosted your lower back, "we can go." You allowed him to steer you out of the bar, the same way you had easily guided him through the crowd earlier that evening which suddenly seemed ages ago. 

Silence hung between the two of you and  you both inhaled the sharp fall air outside. The moon was bright providing enough light to see the path back to your lodgings easily. Bill's hand never left your lower back, yet didn't touch you, as you began to walk slowly. There was no urgency to your movements and you settled into a comfortable rhythm. "...thanks, Bill."

He scoffed. Not in a dismissive manner or in a mocking way, but rather in a way that would suggest he was waving off your thanks. "You could've handled it. I knew that when I stepped in. I was just....furious." 

"You didn't look it. It was kind of scary actually." 

This time he smiled, glancing down at you. When Bill got angry he was a rough and tumble kind of man. He used his words and his fists to get his point across, to defend the honor of his loved ones before his own. It was rare that you saw his silent anger and as you had said, it was a bit more scary than one would believe. 

"Still. Thank you for rescuing me." You gently jabbed his side with your elbow causing the both of you to laugh. One time when you'd first met he had made the mistake of attempting to rescue you from a situation that he had no business in and accidently gotten a bruised lip from you in return. Once again silence washed over the two of you, more comfortable than before. It didn't take long before you'd reached the house you were being quartered in. It was a small cottage owned by an elderly couple who reminded you of the couple back home in the states who watched all the neighborhood children with a careful and protective eye.

"Doll?" 

You glanced at him when he used the pet name you'd grown accustomed to. Grown to love, really. His fingers traced the bone of your wrist, as if to chase away the memories of the strangers grasp on you. His fingertips were calloused but his touch was surprisingly gentle in contrast, warm too. Without thinking you stepped closer chasing the feeling. 

"Goodnight..." 

His words seemed to fail him in that moment. Whatever words he had planned on saying hanging in the space between you as if suspended by an invisible string, swaying back in forth just out of reach of either of you being able to grab them in time. Yet you both knew what they were. You took another step forward, still following his touch on your wrist, his fingers now having completely encompassed it. The tenderness of his hand and of his eyes drawing you in closer and closer until you felt your chest against his.

Slowly, so slowly Bill leaned down to kiss you. Part of you had expected rough lips and strong eagerness, but instead you were met with rough lips and curious seeking behind his kiss. A curiosity that seemed to only been fed as he dropped your wrist and moved to cup your cheeks with both of his hands. Warmth coursed through your body, your mind full of fluff and your heart racing wildly. You could feel his own heart pounding against his chest through yours.

 And just as slowly as the kiss began, he moved away.

"Goodnight, Bill."

[nachosncheezies]

Mulder, Scully, and "sibling vibes"

So a few times lately I've remarked on the sibling energy I see in early Mulder & Scully, and I think perhaps it's misunderstood. I jokingly self-identified not long ago as "not a romo, not a noromo, but a secret third thing (delighted they ended up together but wishes the whole kiss kiss kiiiiiss! thing wasn't dominant forever and always)" This applies to all my fandoms fwiw. For me the friendships generally trump everything.

The other day I added this (among some other rambling) to one of @randomfoggytiger's excellent posts about Mulder and women:

To me, these two start out as best friends, almost a "sibling" relationship at first: Mulder has been looking for Samantha, "walking into that room" everyday for many more years of his life than he wasn't, and here comes this precocious, punchy little woman who says she's looking forward to being around him. She plays with him in the rain, she laughs at him, teases him and calls him "sucker", she listens to him and is eager to learn everything he can teach her. They squabble, but always stick together. She stands next to him with her little foot stuck stubbornly out to the side and her arms folded, or her little hands on her little hips, always exuding an attitude that's surprisingly large for her little body. When he looks at her it's at the top of her head. She's even the same age as Samantha. When she panics or gets scared she turns to him, and he wraps her in a blanket and tells her stories. I know it is often interpreted as flirting, but if you were to age them down, it could just as easily be a big brother who adores his little sister and a little sister who thinks her big brother hung the moon. My personal feeling is, it would be almost impossible for him not to notice commonalities between Scully and Samantha. Perhaps that's partly why he's so comfortable sharing Samantha's story with her.

To clarify, I don't think either saw the other as an actual or replacement sibling, and I don't see it as something that is remotely incompatible or icky regardless of where they ended up. Love's a lot of things and it can change and be all of it or none of it at once.

Not a person, but a pattern

Mulder and Scully were thrown together and immediately flung themselves about as far from home as you could get without crossing an ocean, at a time when there was no internet and a long distance phone call cost a million billion dollars (adjusted for inflation)(facetious). This is more than just long hours doing stakeouts or interviewing witnesses or writing profiles or joining sting operations or whatever it is that average partners (especially green-ass newbies from Quantico) might presumably be doing. They might as well have been at sea. They'd known each other for maybe a week and suddenly had to learn to not just work together but to live together, being each other's only company and support system, etc.

Watching the way they interact particularly during the pilot could be (and it seems almost always is) interpreted as crushes and flirting. I see that too, but I'm gonna toss that aside for a sec and ask you to imagine they are children, or at the very least that they're not looking to date (other people have written some very good posts about sex not being that important to them ever, or how they use it for self-flagellation (him) or rebellion (her) etc. And as fun as fanfic is, I agree with that take. For all their smouldering - both individually and together - they're remarkably sexless. But I digress. Just imagine that the search for a date or the possibility of sex is not part of the equation at this stage.)

They're both SO influenced and informed by the patterns they've been living all the way since childhood, as most of us are.

Scully is used to following strong male personalities, living to impress her dad, being a kid sister to a man who has strong opinions about how the world is or ought to be. She's extremely capable but very young for her long list of credentials (she's presumably gone from school to school to school without much lived experience), and they give her her very first field assignment with Fox Mulder. She's heard a lot about him. She's looking forward to working with him. This is probably nothing at all like what she expected when she went to Quantico, but she wants to distinguish herself so she'll go where she's asked and do her Very Best Job at it. But he immediately absconds with her and now she's doing something fun and new, and this man they've assigned her to is quirky and weird and possibly just bat-crap crazy, but in between it all he's incredibly intelligent and he's showing her the ropes and teaching her new things and she's just so excited to be here.

Mulder had to grow up way too fast, aged 12, and maybe suffered a sort of arrested development in that sense. He was once a big brother to a girl who was 8 years old and probably a bit of a brat, as precocious 8 year olds often are (I mean the first time we actually see her she called him a buttmunch and screamed in his face because she didn't get her way). They've sent him a partner who is a remarkable overachiever; she's a biophysicist and medical doctor, a Quantico graduate, and all under age 30. Her credentials include rewriting Einstein and her job responsibilities include "tattle tale". She's gonna challenge him at every turn, but she's green and earnest enough to want his to learn from his experience. She's following him and she's hanging on his every word and she's laughing at and with him. She asks a lot of questions and openly enjoys just being there with him, just being a part of it all.

Age them down 20 years and they could just be two kids playing in the woods and the rain. That doesn't mean they see their siblings in each other, but... to me, it doesn't not mean that either. It's patterns they've carried with them their whole lives. What I'm getting at is that that sort of sibling push-and-pull would be an extremely comfortable and familiar dynamic for them both to slip into, especially considering their isolation, and it's one which also lends itself to quick and easy affection. It's not the predominant feature of their friendship, but it's a starting place, and it ripples forward across time. (Imo it also informs the lack of romance for a number of years.)

The sibling vibes fade into the background after a few episodes (although I see shades of it popping up here and there through at least Darkness Falls), and it transforms into what becomes an easy, fast friendship, and then a deep, ride-or-die best friendship.

Of course, a twisted version of it is brutally resurrected and brought to the fore in season 2, and I think that more than anything is what scuppers a move out of denial or past anything apart from best friends until at least cancer arc, but that's a whole other post.

Thanks for readiiing 💕

[teatreeoill]

|| Temptation (Satoru Gojo X Reader) ||

While hoping to be reinstated in the Jujutsu world, you meet with the teacher you had a crush on in your school days.

I wrote this while drunk, I think that says it all.

Image credits to user blueparadis.

-

"-Sensei?" Gojo chuckled, his long fingers reach his blindfold, holding it up to let one eye peek from under it. You take a seat across from him. "I was only your teacher for a year, and that was ages ago." He was right, of course, but the air of his office and the familiar smell of the chrysanthemum bushes outside the window had brought back too many memories of your last year at Jujutsu high; your mind had no trouble flashing the images of late nights and talks with your then best friends.

"I think I might fail this year," you'd laugh, covering your mouth with your hand, thinking it would hush your uncalled-for remarks you'd whisper in the middle of training sessions, "I mean what is he, a few years older than us?" On weekend nights, the few students in your grade would gather in one of the rooms, trying to muffle the 'tsssk' sound the opening of the drinks they managed to smuggle for these occasions would produce. At most of these gatherings the tougher subjects would be tactfully avoided, no talk about missions and curses, or mentions of horrible past incidents were allowed. There wasn't much left to chat about after the rules were unanimously established, and so most nights your classmates would group together laughing at the feelings you've managed to develop for your new teacher. The running joke had always made your cheeks flush red. "Oh, Gojo-Sensei, your eyes are so blue!" A boy from your class would make a lousy impression of your voice that would always elicit laughter from the group, "Oh, Gojo-Sensei, could you tutor me?" Even at that age, you liked to think that no one apart from your friends could observe the crush you've steadily developed. However, especially when hearing your whispers, your teacher had always felt that was an insult to his self-proclaimed skills of deduction. Gojo would make sure to pause his enthusiastic explanations to put a large hand on your shoulder just to watch you blush, and your classmates giggle. He was far too determined to take advantage of each lesson to bask in the feeling of your attentive gaze.

"I'm sorry," you mutter, "Old habits." His limbs are sprawled on the shiny leather of the chair as he talks ; "Are you thinking of returning to the Jujutsu world? If so, I think there are more suitable people to talk to." He noticed your gaze shifting downwards, he didn't mean any harm with his words, but you couldn't help but feel unwanted in the room. "I'm sorry to be a bother, I just thought that -" "Ah, I'm sorry. You probably just came to visit your old Sensei you use to crush on." He snickers. Getting up from his seat, he walks around the large desk, just to put a hand on your shoulder the way he remembered would make you blush. "What? I -," you struggle to find the words, your gaze still fixed on your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. "I - I never had a crush on you."

Your words seemed to him as a personal challenge. The determination to make you admit it exciting every cell in his body as he kneels before you, the grin widening on his face when he grabs your fidgeting hand to hold gently, the sudden touch making you raise your eyes to glance at him. He hardly changed, you thought, his mannerisms still as shameless as they were back then, his touch still making your stomach flutter. "Nothing to be ashamed about," He declares, "It was your last year, and this young, attractive man comes in -" "Gojo Se-" you stop yourself from saying the word that so easily excited him to go down this path, "Gojo, I'm really only here to talk my reinstatement."

His thumb moves slightly over the back of your hand, the walls of the room closed in on you when the heat from his hand ran straight to your head. "Sure," He lets out another small chuckle before putting on a serious expression, "Just as soon as you'll admit it." He watches your brows furrow. "I see you've learned nothing. The first rule of Jujutsu, is that honesty makes you more powerful," The snarky comment makes you cross your arms. You yank your hand back, the chair scratches the floor under you when you get up. "That's childish," You inhale a sharp breath, but his immaturity, as most spiteful characteristics, rubs off on you. "Might you be so stubborn because you're the one who had a crush on me?" You spew, stunned at your own unsophisticated comment.

"Who says I didn't?" He gets up from his knee to face you once again, his unwavering enthusiasm makes it hard to control your pent-up urge to both pull him to you, and shove him away. Huh?

"Never mind that," He suddenly says.

"What do you mean, never mind that?" You cock your head to the side, confused at the sudden change of heart he displayed. "I don't need you to admit it anymore," You watch the corners of his mouth twitch lightly before widening back to a broad grin, "You already did, little tomato." Your hands shot up to feel your own cheeks, the heat radiating to the palm of your hands. You were sure you looked like you've just ran a marathon. "Alright, little tomato, you can ask about the other things now," He smiles, leaning back on his desk. A thought crosses your head that even Alexander the Great didn't beam like that when bringing the Persian Empire to its knees.

"Don't call me that," you protest. With each response he'd evoke from you, he'd find himself more captivated, seizing the moment to push himself off of the desk only to stand closer to you. "Why not, little tomato?" He'd found himself too fond of the new nickname, his face so close to yours you couldn't ignore it if you tried. His blindfold sat peacefully at the crook of his neck, his hair splayed on his forehead, eyes agonizing to look at; looking half at you and half through you.

The childish-like oblivious manner of your feelings had disappeared as soon as his lips brushed on yours, the pit of your stomach spinning and swirling at the fantasies you thought you've left behind years ago. He snorted a little when you pressed your lips against his, his hands impulsively gripping your thighs. He groans between the kisses; "I really see I've taught you nothing, little tomato," He murmured, "The second rule is never letting your opponent know he's got the upper hand."

[anonymityisfunwriter]

Timeless - Part 4: "In The 1500's, Off In A Foreign Land"

"If I first saw your face in the 1500's off in a foreign land, and I was forced to marry another man, you still would've been mine..."

Summary: It's the kind of love you find once in a lifetime, the kind of love you don't put down, and somehow, you know you would've found each other in every life.

'Timeless' Chapter List | The Grumpy Sunshine Series

Your eyes flutter shut as the summer breeze fills your lungs. You grip the stone balcony with all the strength you can muster.

"Your highness," Bucky announces himself.

"James, please, spare the formalities," you halfheartedly beg of him. You both knew what was coming. You couldn't bear the cold formality in his voice reminding you. "We're alone out here."

Spare the formalities, he does not.

He softly inhales, holding his head high and his jaw tight, "Your highness, the guests will be arriving shortly."

You pay him no mind, instead, you stare out into the garden. The one that held all those stolen moments, lingering touches, and longing glances. "The garden looks particularly beautiful this time of night, doesn't it?"

"Your betrothed," he pointedly remarks as though to remind you that you were never his to begin with, "...will be here shortly."

"James... please."

He can't stop himself from taking his place by your side when he hears the plea in your voice. He knows he'd be killed if someone caught him here in this moment with you. Still, he takes your hand, grazing over your fingers in tender strokes.

It's the last time he'll ever have you like this. He may as well make the most of it.

He glances over to you, his gaze soft and swimming with despair, "We've always known this would happen."

You shake your head so softly, Bucky can't be sure that it isn't just the warm summer breeze playing tricks on his mind. You hold your head high, but your voice wavers, betraying the regal facade, "Please, don't."

It breaks him. It tears him apart that he's hurt you because he wasn't strong enough to resist falling in love.

He took the most sacred of oaths. He was supposed to protect you.

Mind, body, soul.

Mind, body, soul, and heart.

He broke that. It was his turn to be strong, to walk away so you didn't have to. He tears his own hand away, "I'll let your ladies know you're ready for your evening gown."

"James," you call after him. "James!"

Your only response is the door snapping shut followed by a loud resounding silence. And then, there's just nothing. A nothingness that sweeps over everything, your world becoming a shade of bleak you've never known. 

You stand so still on the balcony, silent tears streaming down your cheek. You hardly notice your ladies entering your room. You don't move from your spot on the balcony, the spot where he left you for the very last time.

One of your ladies taps on your shoulder, she curtsies before you, "Your highness, are you quite alright?"

"I suppose I'm anxious," you halfheartedly chuckle, wiping away the tears. "I don't - I don't truly know what will become of me tonight."

"He's a good man from what I've heard. The servants say that he treats them well, he has a good heart. He will be a good ruler and a good husband."

You look over your shoulder, offering a soft smile, "Thank you."

"We should get you dressed. They'll be expecting you shortly."

You nod, allowing them to slip the off white gown on you. It's a beautiful gown, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't select it specifically for Bucky's eyes.

There was a time not long ago, a time when you were young and naive, full of hopeless love and a head full of fantasies of a triumphant, timeless love, that you would dream together.

Hand in hand, you would lie in your private meadow and dream. Dreams of one day walking down the aisle to Bucky. Dreams of wearing a gown that would take his breath away. Dreams whispered for only him to hear. Dreams carried away in the night.

Going through the motions off getting prepared make your chest feel more hollow than you thought ever possible. If you listen closely, you swear you can hear the summer breeze whistling through the hole torn through your heart.

By the end of the hour, you stare at yourself in the mirror. You look beautiful. And yet, you feel more empty than ever before. 

It feels like a death march, walking from your bedroom chamber to the ballroom. You've never met the man you were promised to before. You don't know anything about him except what your ladies in waiting knew.

You know it wouldn't matter anyway. You could know everything about him. You could know him from head to toe. You could know his heart, his mind, his soul, and he would never compare. He couldn't compete with the man that held your heart.

Your guards trail you behind with one notable absence. Bucky. The head of your security. Your most trusted protector. One of the most senior members of the Royal Guard.

Long before either of you knew civility, you knew him as that bright eyed little boy. Once a little boy wandering the grand halls of the palace, he followed in his father's steps, becoming an invaluable knight. It was somewhere in that time he became your own knight in shining armor.

He held your heart long before he commanded soldiers, long before your father appointed him to your security detail. He was the person you trusted most. Your confidante. The one person who spoke freely to you. 

You walk past the garden. It was always your favorite place in the palace. The place where you first saw those blue eyes. Even at such a young age, your heart knew. He would always be yours.  Even if fate would not allow it, even if destiny tore you apart, your soul would always belong to him. All those nights, sneaking out to the garden. You would be dead if anyone knew. He would be dead if anyone knew. 

You don't even realize you're being presented to your betrothed until your name is bellowed through the ballroom. Gilded from top to bottom, you can the ballroom from the very top of the grand staircase, Bucky is nowhere to be found. 

You walk down the staircase alone. Your heels click against the smooth marble. You hold your head high, face unflinching and stoic. The face of a future queen. The face of a woman that just lost the great love of her life. 

There is nothing remarkable about the man you're to marry. Nothing but the crown resting atop his head - a crown you weren't the least bit interested in. His words sound like a dull buzz in your ear. His eyes flat and dull. Even his kind smile is but a spark to the flame you shared with Bucky. Perhaps, in another life you could learn to love him. It's a lie, you realize. In those other lives, your heart belongs to Bucky too.

You can't do this, you decide in the moment the dinner is finished. You can't promise yourself to another man knowing that you'd lose the love of your life. You could do without the crowns, without the jewels, without any of it, you would give it all away if it meant you could have him. You can't go about your life without Bucky. 

You wait until the cloak of night. And then you go after what you can't live without. 

You stand in his room all alone. He's not here. Nowhere to be found. You curl your hands into fists, determined to wait for him all night. Consequences be damned. You're not but a few moments into your rumination when you hear footsteps in the corridor.

The moment his lantern illuminates the room, he gasps, his hand flinching towards his sword. He sighs, sheathing his sword when he sees it's you. His face is cold and distant as he speaks to you, "You shouldn't be here, your highness."

"I do not love him."

"You will learn to love him," Bucky dryly insists. "We must get you back before-"

"No," you forcefully interject. "I will not. My heart belongs to another. My heart belongs to you."

"We can never be," he speaks through gritted teeth, his trembling hands tightly clenched. "You are the princess. You will one day be queen. I am sworn to protect the crown that will rest on your head. That is our duty."

"Tell me," you softly exhale. "Tell me you do not feel the same."

"I -" He can't bring himself to say the words. 

"Please, so that we may fulfill our duties," you beg. "Tell me."

"You know I cannot."

"Then tell me why you run."

"You know why."

You furiously shake your head, "I do not."

"I cannot give you the life you deserve. Even if I could, your future does not lie with me, a mere commoner. I am but a man sworn to protect you. My place is not and will never be by your side."

You bitterly chuckle, "You truly think so lowly of yourself?"

"No." He shakes his head. His eyes flash over to you, finally his gaze softens, "Perhaps I think of you only in the highest regard, in the highest esteem, far higher than I could ever reach."

"You do not see yourself clearly. You are what I cannot live without. You are what I cannot bear to lose."

Bucky takes your hand, squeezing it tightly, "You love your people. You love this land."

"I love you."

"As I love you..." He cups your face, tenderly stroking your cheek, "There is no other heir. With your mother passed on, what will become of our people if we leave them defenseless and without a ruler?"

"I've read our constitution, there is nothing proclaiming I must marry of royal bloodline."

"Your father would never allow it. I would lose my head for even thinking of such impropriety."

"I am the sole heir. I will be queen."

"Yes."

"I will not allow myself to be torn between my love for my people and my love for you."

"We all have our cross to bear."

"Then let me bear mine. I will speak to my father. I will make him see. I will rule with you at my side or I will rule alone and our bloodline will die with me."

"You cannot -"

"I can."

"Am I truly worth risking the wrath of your father, the wrath of our king?"

"You are worth everything to me." 

You find your father first thing the next morning. He sits surrounded by his advisors, the same advisors that convinced your father to promise you to the neighboring country.

You knew you were not unique in this situation. You were not alone when your heart and duties were pulling you apart at the seams. You knew few loves ever triumphed. Few could overcome such pressure. And even fewer survived with two intact.

You shudder at the thought of Bucky paying the price for falling in love with you. You were both so young when you first saw him. So young and so naive.

Regardless, you stand tall. This was a love worth the fight. A love that would endure. A love that would be timeless.

"Father," you curtsy before him. "I must speak with you at once."

"Leave us." He raises a hand in dismissal. As gentle and benevolent as your father could be, he could also be stern and unflinching in his mind. People don't question your father. People don't question the king. The advisors scurry out of the throne room without another word."Is something troubling you, my dear?"

You nod, swallowing your fear for Bucky's sake. "There is something I must discuss with you."

Wonder burns in your father's eyes. "Go on."

"I am afraid I cannot proceed with the betrothal," you firmly state, your voice as cool and unwavering as steel.

He quirks an eyebrow, his eyes blown wide, "I beg your pardon?"

"I cannot marry him. I do not love him."

"You will learn to love him."

You can't count how many people have told you something similar. Hundreds since your betrothal over a decade ago. Even then, you were hopelessly in love with Bucky. "My heart belongs to another."

"An infatuation is not - "

"It is no infatuation," you explode. "I spent life loving this man. I love him with all my heart. I will not lose him. Allow him to rule beside me when the day arrives."

Your father leans forward, his gaze bearing down on you, "And what of our alliance? Your betrothal? Imagine the scandal!"

"We can ally ourselves without my hand in marriage," you reply, speaking each syllable as calmly and carefully as your most revered diplomats. "Our land is bountiful. Our people are strong."

"You love this gentleman?"

"I do."

"And who, pray tell, is this man?"

You lower your head. This was the part you feared most. Risking the life of the one you love with every fiber of your being. You reminded yourself that there was a plan. One you spent all night constructing. He was waiting on the outskirts of your meadow, if it didn't go well, you'd run away and leave it all behind. For him. "James. James Barnes."

"The head of your personal guard?"

You don't allow your voice to waver. "Yes."

"And what if I had him executed for this treason?"

"This was no treason, Father!" you speak with an intensity that you've never dared to before. Your chest heaves with panic. This was it. The moment where you lost or gained everything. "I have loved him from the moment I saw him when we were children. I would never forgive you. You would lose your sole heir."

"You would forsake your land, your people, for him?"

Without a breath of hesitation, you nod, "Yes."

Your father sucks in a breath. It was unlike you. You were the perfect portrait of an heir. With the death of your mother, people looked to you to see a steady hand and a reasonable mind. He almost forgot that somewhere buried in your sense of responsibility, was a heart that was entirely your own. "I see."

You reach for your father's hand, holding it tightly, "He is a good man. A good man who has devoted his life to the Crown."

"You cannot marry an untitled man."

"Father, please -"

"Let me finish," he stops you. "You cannot marry an untitled man, but I cannot lose my only daughter."

"Thank you, Father." You don't bow to him this time. This time, you rush towards him, throwing your arms around him. "Thank you."

"I loved your mother the way you love him," he whispers for you to hear. "I would have given it all away for her. Everything except you."

Tears well in your eyes. You squeeze his hand one last time. "Thank you."

You don't waste another moment before you run to Bucky. You find him anxiously pacing the meadow, the sunlight making his blue eyes look more brilliant than any flower you've ever seen.

His breath catches the moment he sees you running towards him. Down the cobblestone path he's spent years watching you from. He run towards you, meeting you in the center of the meadow you turned into his haven.

The moment you're close enough to touch, his hands grip your waist. His wild eyes rake over you, "Your highness..."

You throw your arms around him, "I love you."

"Your father?"

You nod into the crook of his neck. "He understands."

He breaths a sigh of relief. And for the first time since your betrothal was announced, he feels hope bloom in his heart. He pulls back, his hand pushing away the stray hair from your face. His chest heaves, his heart overwhelmed with the one dream he never dared to believe would come true. His eyes bore into yours gleaming and twinkling, so inviting you have no choice but to jump in. "Our love will be timeless, I swear it."

And it was.

On the dreaded day your father's long reign ended, and you became the queen you were born to be. He was there, holding your hand, holding you steady, by your side where he belonged.

Yours was a story of triumph, a story of hope, a love story turned into folklore, destined to be passed down from generation to generation.

Your love would last forever. A tale as timeless one could be.

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Inspired By Taylor Swift Masterlist Bucky Barnes Masterlist

As always, let me know what you think! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 💛

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[itsawritblr]

The Courage to Follow the Evidence on Transgender Care.

(WOW, the New York Times -- which a couple years ago had an ad about a qu**r girl who wished for a world in which J.K. Rowling wasn't the author of Harry Potter -- has published yet another opinion piece about trans, this one about the Cass Review. Personally, I think he's too lenient, but at least he's bringing attention to the review to Americans. )

(For those who can't read the NYT page, here's the text.)

Opinion, David Brooks, April 18, 2024.

Hilary Cass is the kind of hero the world needs today. She has entered one of the most toxic debates in our culture: how the medical community should respond to the growing numbers of young people who seek gender transition through medical treatments, including puberty blockers and hormone therapies. This month, after more than three years of research, Cass, a pediatrician, produced a report, commissioned by the National Health Service in England, that is remarkable for its empathy for people on all sides of this issue, for its humility in the face of complex social trends we don’t understand and for its intellectual integrity as we try to figure out which treatments actually work to serve those patients who are in distress. With incredible courage, she shows that careful scholarship can cut through debates that have been marked by vituperation and intimidation and possibly reset them on more rational grounds.

Cass, a past president of Britain’s Royal College of Pediatrics and Child Health, is clear about the mission of her report: “This review is not about defining what it means to be trans, nor is it about undermining the validity of trans identities, challenging the right of people to express themselves or rolling back on people’s rights to health care. It is about what the health care approach should be, and how best to help the growing number of children and young people who are looking for support from the N.H.S. in relation to their gender identity.”

This issue begins with a mystery. For reasons that are not clear, the number of adolescents who have sought to medically change their sex has been skyrocketing in recent years, though the overall number remains very small. For reasons that are also not clear, adolescents who were assigned female at birth are driving this trend, whereas before the late 2000s, it was mostly adolescents who were assigned male at birth who sought these treatments.

Doctors and researchers have proposed various theories to try to explain these trends. One is that greater social acceptance of trans people has enabled people to seek these therapies. Another is that teenagers are being influenced by the popularity of searching and experimenting around identity. A third is that the rise of teen mental health issues may be contributing to gender dysphoria. In her report, Cass is skeptical of broad generalizations in the absence of clear evidence; these are individual children and adolescents who take their own routes to who they are.

Some activists and medical practitioners on the left have come to see the surge in requests for medical transitioning as a piece of the new civil rights issue of our time — offering recognition to people of all gender identities. Transition through medical interventions was embraced by providers in the United States and Europe after a pair of small Dutch studies showed that such treatment improved patients’ well-being. But a 2022 Reuters investigation found that some American clinics were quite aggressive with treatment: None of the 18 U.S. clinics that Reuters looked at performed long assessments on their patients, and some prescribed puberty blockers on the first visit.

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Unfortunately, some researchers who questioned the Dutch approach were viciously attacked. This year, Sallie Baxendale, a professor of clinical neuropsychology at the University College London, published a review of studies looking at the impact of puberty blockers on brain development and concluded that “critical questions” about the therapy remain unanswered. She was immediately attacked. She recently told The Guardian, “I’ve been accused of being an anti-trans activist, and that now comes up on Google and is never going to go away.”

As Cass writes in her report, “The toxicity of the debate is exceptional.” She continues, “There are few other areas of health care where professionals are so afraid to openly discuss their views, where people are vilified on social media and where name-calling echoes the worst bullying behavior.”

Cass focused on Britain, but her description of the intellectual and political climate is just as applicable to the U.S., where brutality on the left has been matched by brutality on the right, with crude legislation that doesn’t acknowledge the well-being of the young people in question. In 24 states Republicans have passed laws banning these therapies, sometimes threatening doctors with prison time if they prescribe the treatment they think is best for their patients.

The battle lines on this issue are an extreme case, but they are not unfamiliar. On issue after issue, zealous minorities bully and intimidate the reasonable majority. Often, those who see nuance decide it’s best to just keep their heads down. The rage-filled minority rules.

Cass showed enormous courage in walking into this maelstrom. She did it in the face of practitioners who refused to cooperate and thus denied her information that could have helped inform her report. As an editorial in The BMJ puts it, “Despite encouragement from N.H.S. England,” the “necessary cooperation” was not forthcoming. “Professionals withholding data from a national inquiry seems hard to imagine, but it is what happened.”

Cass’s report does not contain even a hint of rancor, just a generous open-mindedness and empathy for all involved. Time and again in her report, she returns to the young people and the parents directly involved, on all sides of the issue. She clearly spent a lot of time meeting with them. She writes, “One of the great pleasures of the review has been getting to meet and talk to so many interesting people.”

The report’s greatest strength is its epistemic humility. Cass is continually asking, “What do we really know?” She is carefully examining the various studies — which are high quality, which are not. She is down in the academic weeds.

She notes that the quality of the research in this field is poor. The current treatments are “built on shaky foundations,” she writes in The BMJ. Practitioners have raced ahead with therapies when we don’t know what the effects will be. As Cass tells The BMJ, “I can’t think of another area of pediatric care where we give young people a potentially irreversible treatment and have no idea what happens to them in adulthood.”

She writes in her report, “The option to provide masculinizing/feminizing hormones from age 16 is available, but the review would recommend extreme caution.” She does not issue a blanket, one-size-fits-all recommendation, but her core conclusion is this: “For most young people, a medical pathway will not be the best way to manage their gender-related distress.” She realizes that this conclusion will not please many of the young people she has come to know, but this is where the evidence has taken her.

You can agree or disagree with this or that part of the report, and maybe the evidence will look different in 10 years, but I ask you to examine the integrity with which Cass did her work in such a treacherous environment.

In 1877 a British philosopher and mathematician named William Kingdon Clifford published an essay called “The Ethics of Belief.” In it he argued that if a shipowner ignored evidence that his craft had problems and sent the ship to sea having convinced himself it was safe, then of course we would blame him if the ship went down and all aboard were lost. To have a belief is to bear responsibility, and one thus has a moral responsibility to dig arduously into the evidence, avoid ideological thinking and take into account self-serving biases. “It is wrong always, everywhere, and for anyone, to believe anything upon insufficient evidence,” Clifford wrote. A belief, he continued, is a public possession. If too many people believe things without evidence, “the danger to society is not merely that it should believe wrong things, though that is great enough; but that it should become credulous, and lose the habit of testing things and inquiring into them; for then it must sink back into savagery.”

Since the Trump years, this habit of not consulting the evidence has become the underlying crisis in so many realms. People segregate into intellectually cohesive teams, which are always dumber than intellectually diverse teams. Issues are settled by intimidation, not evidence. Our natural human tendency is to be too confident in our knowledge, too quick to ignore contrary evidence. But these days it has become acceptable to luxuriate in those epistemic shortcomings, not to struggle against them. See, for example, the modern Republican Party.

Recently it’s been encouraging to see cases in which the evidence has won out. Many universities have acknowledged that the SAT is a better predictor of college success than high school grades and have reinstated it. Some corporations have come to understand that while diversity, equity and inclusion are essential goals, the current programs often empirically fail to serve those goals and need to be reformed. I’m hoping that Hilary Cass is modeling a kind of behavior that will be replicated across academia, in the other professions and across the body politic more generally and thus save us from spiraling into an epistemological doom loop.

[falntcry]

A Mess It Grows - LS18, OP81

Pairing: Lance Stroll x Oscar Piastri (Maplescotch)

Summary: Following Lando's win at Miami, an insecure Oscar heads to his hotel room to regress. One of his boyfriends follows suit to comfort him the only way they know how.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, kink themes (petplay/animal play), sfw intimacy, hurt/comfort, mentions of polyamory, use of pet names

A/N: Crosspost of my fic from my ao3 (inlovingmemory) and also my first fic here. Maplescotch is such an underrated ship and one of the few I would actually die for. (Mainly bc I'm a sucker for ships only I care about) Enjoy.

-

The checkered flag waved as crowds clad in orange and black began their frantic frenzy. 8 seconds ahead of the 3-times World Champion, for several laps. The rows upon rows of fans under the Florida sun were livid at the sight. Could it really be? A car the color of papaya-orange crossed the finish line for the first time since 2021. But an Australian wasn't the winner. Not this time.

No, that Australian was at Toro Rosso now. AlphaTauri. RB. Whatever they were called, it wasn't Red Bull or McLaren. He was stuck situated behind a Sauber and would likely be his same, bitter, old self after the race.

Yet, there was one Australian today who got the shorter end of that stick. One younger, yet dressed in the same ol' familiar orange and black. Bright, exhausting orange like his car. The one cameras paid no focus on: Oscar Piastri. Driver for McLaren, Alpine survivor, and 2 seasons into F1. Drove his car off for podium place until Carlos collided his Ferrari into the papaya boy. 

Front wing damage. No penalty. Late leaving the pit stop from repairs. Forcibly having to settle for 13th place with no points. Losing his place late in the race while Lando was having the time of his life.

Oh yes, Lando. Lando Norris.

There's not much the Aussie could say about the Brit. They were teammates, they were competitors. Nothing more, nothing less than that. They got along, admittedly, only because Oscar knew they had to.

Being at Alpine years ago, he witnessed the opposite firsthand. His long-term boyfriend, Esteban Ocon, had been the subject of several cutthroat backtalk and altercations involving fellow Frenchman Pierre Gasly. Sly remarks full of snark and internal gossip with mean looks, or full on fights in private. It would get nasty, almost catfight-ish. All Oscar could do was sit back and watch like a child of divorce, until he'd have to later comfort and ice Ocon's bruises.

The Aussie knew any teammate relationship could turn sour like theirs at any time. No matter how long or how deep their bond went, a budding rose always came to grow thorns. He's seen the contempt boil and bubble, masked behind the Frenchmens' PR-fueled, artificial smiles for social media. Pierre's faux-friendliness on and off-camera had targeted him too, coming from someone who desperately wanted to lure the young driver in despite knowing Esteban's warnings. Even the most enticing of snakes prepped their fangs.

But Lando wasn't like that.

Atleast, that's what Oscar hoped. Since switching his colors from Alpine's sugary, teeth-rotting, cotton candy-esque light blue and pink to a more vivid orange, the relationship between the two Anglophones had since been short of amiable. Sure, maybe they weren't constantly at eachother's throats - and maybe Oscar should've been grateful for that - but they weren't the best of friends either. Or friends at all. An air of stillness had settled between them since they first met in the same garage over a year ago, growing like a thick fog. 

McLaren and F1's social media could paint the papaya pair like two peas in an overwhelmingly positive pod as much as they wanted, but all it did was make them look good. Good. Marketable. Two young drivers ready to take on the whole grid, overwhelmingly clad in black and orange. A World Champion-in-the-making and a former rookie who seemingly locked together like two puzzle pieces. Landoscar, the fans called it. Soulmates, everyone viewed it.

If it were that easy, maybe Oscar would already be attached to the hip of the Brit. Maybe Lando - for how much he flaunted his shamelessly hedonistic lifestyle as if it were his sole personality trait and thought inside that hollow head of his - would atleast make the effort to include and invite him to stuff once in a while. It's not like Oscar was begging to go to his teammate's pretentious parties across Europe, full of high-class randoms several leagues above him. Full of people he didn't know nor could care less about him or his relationships. Instead, Oscar usually kept quiet, only bothering to smile and make small talk when McLaren needed them to. Even when the cameras weren't rolling, it was never like he asked the Brit time and time again to be besties, although sometimes he wish he did. 

Lando wouldn't have to pretend to reach out to him after their social media shoots, pretending to be interested in him and his life. The Aussie knew deep down his teammate, for how dull he proudly was, was playing the same games he was, tricking the media and inadvertently, Oscar aswell. People already thought they were the "bestest" of teammates compared to the other, far more infamous pairs on the grid. The thought made Oscar shiver.

Even his boyfriends, despite the bias against them, were never the subject of tabloids as much as the Brit was. If anything, his two lovers being disliked helped keep their relationship out of the spotlight - yet it only made the vipers of paparazzi focus solely on Lando and Oscar. Labeled as 'friends', an 'ideal couple,' despite the younger man already having special people (who were also on the grid) in his life. But God help him for actually thinking journalists payed attention to what was true.

Maybe he wouldn't be constantly compared to Lando - more than he already was - if they actually were good friends like the news said. Oscar was just a former rookie in the eyes of his team and the media, but Lando was a proven, soon-to-be World Champion. Every step he took, praise followed like a trail of gold. His own red carpet. Even the cameras were too bright, Oscar was almost blinded despite how far he was shoved out their view.

In regards to the times where he, or perhaps where McLaren allowed him to, shone, he was restricted to playing 2nd. Times where he could've helped the team gain points were never considered when they focused on his tanner teammate to earn another podium. Oscar would have to stick towards the back end of the race, feeling too insecure to look at his manager in the eye in the garage. A disgustingly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he'd grown familiar with. And as he predicted, this strategy (or lack thereof) happened again today.

Except Lando was a race winner now.

-

The heat of the Miami sun rested upon Oscar's back as he begrudgingly exited the cockpit, his fireproofs and suit on fire as he ripped off his helmet. What a horrible race that was, just his luck to go from top 4 to being the loser in a challenge with Carlos. The Spaniard seemed to collide with him, giving him damage to his front wing as he'd end up losing his place. Sure, he was able to get back in the race and set the fastest lap so he'd gain something out of it, even if it was to just end up behind an Alpine and out of points territory. But it didn't really mean anything when he had his race ruined and McLaren couldn't care less about him. 

From where he currently was in the garage, God Save The King blared in the distance, like a thought he couldn't truly escape. If he were a little more patriotic, he'd find it nauseating. But even if he wasn't, it still was. Everywhere he went, it seemed to remind him that he'd never be good enough. He'd never be like him in their eyes, only a liability. Feeling sick again, Oscar ran and tried finding the nearest bathroom, far from the McLaren garage. Far from the podium. He couldn't bear to deal with the strategists and members of the team crowding his way right now. 

It was his day. Lando's day. It always was.

Stood proud on the podium were the same three that usually stood there: a McLaren, a Red Bull, and a Ferrari. A Brit, a Dutchman. and a Monegasque. The sun's golden glare made them looked blessed, like a trio of angels. Oscar couldn't bother to look from behind his back, ignoring the barrage and sea of voices and lights blinding and deafening him if he did. But they weren't for him, not all of them. It didn't matter. The spotlight was focused on something - rather, someone - else, and he needed to leave. Fast and unbothered. His hotel couldn't have been that far from the track, especially when he was sure some of the other drivers were headed their way there also after the race ended. 

Especially the two he knew, who he shared a room with. Who he always shared hotel rooms with, discretely under the guise of being a "group of best friends." Whatever people thought, Oscar needed them. Particularly in this moment, when his head began to feel too heavy for him to support himself. When he needed to be away from the masses and fall into a special sort of headspace only they knew about, behind closed doors. Those special, intimate moments. 

After having to do some careful finding in the garage and stripping of his fireproofs, Oscar grabbed his phone and immediately went to his contacts. He's changed enough out of his race suit and back to regular McLaren merch that he could sneak back out to the paddock. In such a fast amount of time too, seeing how the rest of the papaya crew was still too focused on throwing Lando around. Then again, Oscar was rushing in a hurry and practically gone ghost once he situated his cap.

Most of the drivers on the grid stayed at the same hotel for certain races, their team executives booking them months in advance. They were never usually that far from the track or paddock either, for the teams convienence. Such was the case for Miami, where Oscar currently padded open the resort's luxerious doors in an urgent manner. Did McLaren need him right now? Probably, if Lando's win got boring to rub in. Would Oscar head back to attend? Nope.

As the Aussie went to dial the number labelled, "Lancey," in a strike of coincidence, life decided to serve itself to him for once. Meeting eye to eye with the Canadian again off track, the taller male's expression went from one of surprise to worry. The concern seemed to rub off the younger man, as evident by how Lance was able to pick up on it quickly.

"Osc, what are ya' doing here? Shouldn't you be at McLaren's garage?"

Nothing. No response. All he received was a big, brown-eyed stare from his dark brown eyes into his. Lance's worry seemed to grow tenfold at his boyfriend's out-of-character silence. Something must've been really wrong, his race must've gone pretty bad. Lance knew his wasn't great either, but Oscar handled his more deeply.

The Canadian looked down with his own dark eyes, reflecting a vulnerable Oscar in them like a mirror. His voice almost cracked, bringing a hand to grip his tightly as he pulled them towards the elevator. Oscar wasn't even aware that the button for their floor was clicked, and soon they were off.

"I'll- I'll need to phone Esteban as soon as possible, tell him he needs to come back immediately. He's—" Lance's voice trembled, as if he had something stuck in his throat. This ride was taking too long, goosebumps forming on skin from pure nervousness.

Seemingly noticing, Oscar rubbed his head of fluffy peanut-brown hair against his side. He looked up into the eyes of his boyfriend, and felt the Canadian's nerves rapidly calm down. Realizing what kind of care Oscar needed now, the taller man spoke again, this time much more clearly.

"Esteban, right. Este is uhm, busy with Fernando right now. He'll be back soon, hopefully with some food. But I might need him to come quicker, especially since you're going into err—" Oscar pawed at Lance's sweater, cutting his train of thought off again. Feeling concerned yet a little more relaxed now, he laughed. Their elevator had reached their floor. Lance heard Oscar whine a little at how hard he gripped the Aussie's hand while walking over to their room door.

"Pupspace." A smile bright as the morning sun spread on his features. Oscar's followed as he laid put on the velvet floor, restlessly pawing at his feet.

He would've preferred if he had brought a leash to Aston Martin's garage, or perhaps if Esteban did to Alpine's. It would've made his job a lot easier, yet it's not like he could've predicted Oscar would regress this soon. Or this severe. Or Nando potentially finding it on accident. That would've been one hell of an embarrassing talk.

After some fumbling with the lock of the hotel door and Lance's strangely large quantity of keys, the door finally let loose. The Montrealer squatted down near the Australian, exchanging a gentle glance and offering his hand to help him back up to his feet, although only to walk him inside. Oscar's weight felt like a bag of thick rice, needing all of Lance's support to be carried inside as if he couldn't use his legs anymore. Granted, that was because he couldn't. He wasn't "grown" enough to do so currently. 

The lights of their hotel room were turned down low, a nice warm orange coating everything. Enough time had passed that the Miami sun had begun to set, its luminous colors bleeding through the large glass windows and fine curtains as it dipped into the horizon. The sight almost made Lance sleepy, almost falling into a drowsy state before realizing he was carrying someone much sleepier already.

Setting Oscar aside on the nearest couch, he kept his head up as the Aussie looked at him with pleading eyes. Wanting warmth and attention now that they were behind closed doors, he whined again, in a higher pitch than last time. Lance couldn't help but chuckle, hands on his hips as he returned some sass.

"Alright alrighty, Butterscotch. I'm trying to be fast for ya, but you're asking quite a lot!" The mahogany of the Canadian's lively eyes reflected back onto Oscar's, who couldn't help his cheeks grow pink like bushes of roses. The younger man watched from his place, sat on the couch, as Lance looked around their temporary living space for a few moments. Almost urgently so.

When finished, he had a familiar leather collar wrapped in his hands. Oscar's eyes went wide at the sight. Unable to keep his excitement down, he reached his thin paws out in a 'grabby' motion and yelped. Yip yapping away. Another laugh escaped Lance, who rested a rough hand on Oscar's shoulder. "Who knew Esteban and I had such a needy, impatient puppy..."

"But I shouldn't mock you this much, especially when ya need this more than me right now." Despite his outward manner and physique compared to the Aussie, the Quebecker's hands were quite gentle as he began wrapping the accessory around his partner's neck. Oscar, of course, stayed still and soaked in the attention like a sponge. Feeling the black and orange-accented leather lock into place and hearing his name tag (which simply read: "OP31, replies to 'Oscar' or 'Butterscotch.' If found, return to Stroll or Ocon.") jingle, he finally relaxed. The bad thoughts from earlier were beginning to drain out.

Not bothering to change either of them out of their team merch, Lance pulled his pet into his grip with one arm. Oscar fell immediately into his chest, pawing at it before circling around to settle himself down more comfortably. Lance gazed down, petting the fluffy caramel-brown hair between his fingers as he pressed a kiss on the Australian's nose bridge.

"You're a good boy, Osc. A good pup." Lance paused, looking away from the chocolately love in Oscar's eyes to his own fingers. Fidgeting and flicking them around, he felt a certain paw mess with it. Lance felt a familiar pair of eyes look back up at him again.

"I'm just— sorry. Sorry for you. I just feel bad that, well, ya know. Lando, Carlos, or whoever, ruined your race today."

A high pitched whimper followed in agreement as the younger man laid his head against the chest of Canadian, opting to lay against the armrest as he waited for their other partner to come home. Oscar took in his partner's scent as he laid on his side, curled up in his arms. Faintly smelling like maple with hints of pecan pie. A cold Autumn breeze over the warmth of a thick cotton scarf.

"It wasn't your fault. I know your mind will tell you otherwise, but I won't. I know, I know..."

Oscar was more than upset about the earlier drama and results, but wouldn't be lying if he admitted that he couldn't care anymore. Fortunately fleeting away, then gone in the wind. Was almost like a near memory that he since brushed off once returning home.

Home where he could unwind, where he could be his true self. Where he could no longer worry about the race or any sort of grid drama. A home where he could be with physically, no matter where he went. Melbourne, Suzuka, Shanghai, Miami...

He was safe at home. Safe, secure, and warm. Home meant comfort, but it also meant security. Private, yet seeked fun. Home never judged him for letting his walls down, or anything else really. Home made him feel seen. Feel loved. Acknowledged.

Lance was home, Oscar's home. Nothing could change that. Nothing would. He wore dark green, but loving him was red.

And so were both of their cheeks currently, mutually flushed as they pressed against eachother. Lance wasn't sleeping, no, but he was surely entertaining himself as he watched Oscar try not to. Yet a peck to the cheek helped his senses kick in, as he giggled and licked at the Montrealer's face.

Smiles were exchanged once more, Lance couldn't help but keep playing with the silk of Oscar's hair. The younger man melted to the touch, rubbing against him in an attempt for more petting. His collar seemed to be a bit too tight for his skin, causing a noticeable red mark around his neck. He had his hands available, but seemed to prefer Lance's help.

"I just wish they came to some sense, ya know? Carlos, I mean. I— I don't understand him."

The Quebecker stood up, causing the reaction of his little spoon to do the same. Oscar fell to the floor. Knobby knees against the velvet carpet as he stayed on his fours. Lance stood to stretch, leaning down to pet the Aussie as he walked towards his temporary water bowl. Tapping the side twice, Oscar skittered across obediently. Lance's train of thought continued again as he leaned against the wall, watching Oscar lap up his water.

"There's always gonna be those types of people on the grid, the ones that want you gone. I've been through it, so has Esteban. Even Lewis." 

Oscar stayed put on the floor, sitting crissed-cross with his two front hands infront. Water ran from his face down his chin. A noticeable stain now soaking the collar of his papaya-orange polo. He turned his head to the side at Lance's words, whining an octave louder. Brown eyes staring.

"I know what it's like to constantly be compared to your teammate too. You— You have to survive with it in this sport, unfortunately."

Lance adjusted his posture, squatting on the floor before standing up on his knees. Unlike Oscar, he wobbled, only stabilizing himself with a hand behind him on the floor. He pat at his thigh, whistling as he locked eye contact with the Australian, before bringing him in a tight embrace.

"You don't deserve any of this, Butterscotch. None of this. I'm sorry."

The Canadian's grip seemed to fasten against Oscar's skinnier body like a death grip. As if he didn't want to let him go, or let him breathe. Oscar rested his head the broad of Lance's shoulder, hands splayed on his lover's back. He didn't know where else to leave them.

He felt Lance's hands curl into the caramel of his hair, like milkweed silk between his rough fingers. Oscar closed his eyes, huffing before shaking slightly. His breath stuttering as his chest heaved, feeling like the weight of several stones. Was he crying? He can't remember the last time he did that, especially over a race. Over Lando. Over Carlos. Over everything and anything. Lance hugged him tightly, shushing him as he felt cold tears stain his sweater.

A nearby phone on the coffee table began to ring. Lance's phone. Must've been Esteban. 

They let it play, ignoring the ringtone repeating before it eventually ended. They didn't need to move for the world, to wait for others. All Lance needed to do was pay attention to his puppy. His pet. His lover. His Oscie. 

It was his night. Oscar's night. It always was.

Atleast to Lance. Esteban too, but only one of them was present. That's all that mattered. Oscar had people that cared, spotlight or not. Race winner or not. Unruined race or not.

Before he knew it, the Australian felt lightheaded. And light. His sopping eyes opened once again as streams littered his face, his blurry vision turning around to notice he wasn't on the floor anymore. Lance was carrying him in his arms, bridal style now. It made Oscar feel small. Vulnerable. Safe. Too deep into headspace and his own insecurities to feel anything but like a puppy. 

Looking up, the younger man was met with dark brown eyes meeting his gaze. The Canadian nodded, allowing Oscar to use his sweater to wipe his tears. He pressed a kiss to the bridge of Oscar's nose again, before laying him in the marble of their hotel room's bathtub. His soft yet coarse hands made quick work of the leather collar around the Aussie's neck, rubbing the slight red it left behind. 

Mercy coated Lance's eyes, as he sighed yet still gave a gentle smile. His cheeks lightly budding pink like a bush of hibiscuses. Oscar turned his nose up, smiling back in a toothy grin that went up the corners of his face. Face redder than salmon roe. Lance gripped his delicate hands, bringing them to his lips for a kiss. His skin was soft like the rest of him, yet he smelled his strongest here. Like oranges and vanilla. 

Lance leaned against the tub, slowly taking off each of his dear's garments. Maybe Oscar had his hands available, but he was too deep into headspace to speak — let alone strip himself. The toffee of his eyes stayed locked onto the Quebecker, purring as he went limp. Even if Oscar could take care of himself, Lance knew he needed him now. And now was all that mattered.

At the final piece of clothing, Oscar's boxers, Lance paused. His hands moved up the pale of the Australian's body to cup his cheeks, moving his thumbs against them in a soothing motion. Lance looked down at him, gentle, serene. Oscar let him do anything, and he was glad he trusted him that much. Like a puppy to its owner. A vulnerable animal to its caretaker. He pressed one final kiss to his soft, pink lips. He tasted like sorbet, Lance's favorite.

They locked eyes once more before Lance's train of thought continued. His faint voice finding itself again.

"Let's— Let's get you cleaned up, Scotchie."

[goodluckclove]

A Celebration!

So I have memory issues.

It's for a lot of reasons that I won't get into here, it's really not a big deal. But it plays a fun part in the way I form relationships, especially relationships online. To put it simply, I can no longer really remember how I met @mercuryytheraven. I think I made some post asking people to tell me what's keeping them from writing and challenging them to allow me to fix it. We spoke for maybe thirty minutes, and I remember them saying that they were working on a Warrior Cat's fan fiction, which tickled me because I didn't know people still read those books.

They essentially said that they've been trying to write for some time, but no matter what they did they could never get past around 100 words. Something always got in the way. If I'm being honest, I don't remember what I told them, but it must've been insightful because they've been messaging me almost daily ever since.

Eventually my brain just accepted the presence of this bright, dandelion-fluff of a human being. I would look at my phone and say oh hey, it's them again. I would tell my wife about their exploits and we would remember what it was like to be young and even more confused than we are on a daily basis. Quietly, and I have never told them this, but I started calling them my protege. I don't know if that's arrogant or not.

Mercury is such a treasure of spirit. All it takes is one conversation to see the depth of color they carry within them. They care so deeply and about so many things, a quality hard to find in a world so preoccupied with cynicism and meta post-irony. Not only are they already an insightful and deeply curious writer, they are also an incredibly skilled visual artist. I questioned the validity of the high standards they held themselves to again and again - but then I told myself that I once did the same thing.

When I met Mercury they said they never wrote more than 100 words. That was less than a month ago. Today they just finished the first chapter of the Warrior Cats fanfiction they've been brewing for years. It's just over 3500 words.

Friend, do you know how remarkable that is? Can you imagine that big a breakthrough? I cannot stress enough that this is an immense achievement - not unbelievable, very believable, but hard. Worthy of accolades. Worthy of relishing in!

One chapter is never just one chapter. It's the creation of something foundational that didn't exist before. It doesn't matter if it's a fluffy fanfic one shot or literary novel or long-form au or pulp genre shlock. It wasn't here before and now it is and that is one of the most wonderful things in the world to me.

You might know me as someone against the general romanticization of The Writer as an archetype, but it's moments like these that truly call that stance into question. Because what @mercuryytheraven did today, and what many of you do whenever you can, is truly a precious sacrament. It is ritualistic in nature, a human sacrifice where we are the blood offering and the result is a story birthed from our own transfer of matter.

It is beautiful. So please, if you can, send some congratulations in the direction of our friend and colleague. And the next time you reach a milestone you feel is too small to be remarkable, know that you're wrong. You're doing something special for yourself and those around you with every single word you write, whenever you can write it.

So go write it!

[shoechoe]

Donatella and Diavolo for the ask game? (And maybe Squatizi? 🦈)

For Squatizi- I remember the mix of surprise and excitement I felt when I saw the two of them on my first watch of VA. At that point, I had kind of just assumed that Jojo had no actually on-screen LGBT+ characters (The only canonical non-cishet at that point was DIO, whose bisexuality was only confirmed by Araki and is never actually stated or shown in the work) and was simply popular with the community due to its general nature (which does appeal to a lot of gay subcultures and tastes in that way). The notorious Bury-Your-Gays moment with Sorbet and Gelato didn't help either.

So, when Tiziano and Squalo showed up, going so far as to fondle each other on-screen, I just went "holy shit". These two are actually gay? And we get to see it? Honestly, I cared less about the fight in that arc and was just interested in seeing what would be done with those two- I suppose it wasn't explicitly stated they were together, but the on-screen groping was kind of enough to tip you off. Just for that reason, I do have a fondness for them, and I do understand why people love them and mess around with them so much in fanon.

Though, while the novelty of an actual gay couple in Jojo excites me alone, much of their writing still frustrates me and they were far from what I'd consider "good representation". They had very little screentime and were really less two individual characters and more just two halves of one whole. The fight itself was underwhelming (which you articulated perfectly in a previous post of yours) and Squalo dying almost instantly after Tiziano instead of putting up any sort of fight after his mantra of revenge was disappointing. While "good representation" is not exactly my expectation knowing... the way Jojo is, it was still annoying.

I do like them and enjoy how people take their characters and expand upon the underwhelming amount that canon gives. They're not my favorite couple and I don't talk about them a lot, but I certainly favor the pairing and see why people focus on them so much.

As for Diavolo and Donatella: As you might've guessed, I have many thoughts about the two of them. I don't know how long this is going to be, so I'll put this under a cut.

I would not say I think about Donatella and Diavolo as a pairing in a particularly "shippy" way. In a lot of ways, I don't even really see them as a romance. They only interacted for an extremely short period of time, at about a few weeks maximum, and despite apparently growing attached enough to sleep together, they barely found out anything about each other and Diavolo abandoned her without so much as giving her his name.

I find Donatella incredibly interesting (and frustrating) to think about just for that reason. Diavolo is obviously extremely avoidant of people and has been so for his entire life, using aliases since he was young, killing his mother and burying her under his house's floorboards, and then killing his adoptive father and burning down his town when he found out. In all other ways, he shows dangerous precision, determination, and intelligence when it comes to erasing himself from the world.

So, on one hand, Donatella is a really interesting deviance in his behavior and a representation of the moral of Diavolo's character. Connecting and being known by other people is simply a part of being human; Diavolo tries his hardest to scrub every trace of his existence away and isolate himself in the search of evading the inevitable pitfalls of being human, but this is an impossible task. Even one little connection from years ago- in this case, a brief fling- spiralled into an unignorable marker of his existence, and that led to his downfall.

For anyone else, a brief date as a teenager would hardly be anything remarkable or consequential, but for Diavolo, his goal to erase himself completely just multiplies the consequences of any and all relationships he's had. What would likely be a connection anyone else would overlook is instead the main reason for the fall of Diavolo's empire. (You also have the fact that Diavolo was apparently irresponsible enough to get Donatella pregnant, which could say something about how Diavolo's avoidance of relationships makes him act haphazardly and make big mistakes in the relationships he did have.)

However, at the same time, Donatella is... odd to think about (and I believe this is also part of why she's talked about as little as possible in the story). It's very hard for me to imagine Diavolo, someone shown to be secretive since he was very young, having a fling with a random girl out of nowhere. Sure, him having a relationship could work, but a seemingly random brief date leading to an accident-baby just seems off and hard to imagine considering everything else we know about him. Believably expanding upon the idea with more detail while keeping Diavolo in character sounds rather difficult, which is why I think Vento Aureo just doesn't bother doing it. (Also, why would someone date and then sleep with a guy whose name they don't even know?)

Not to mention, throughout the entire story, in all of Diavolo's spiels about how the past is coming back to haunt him, I do not believe he ever even says Donatella's name. Trish only mentions her once when prompted in the Notorious B.I.G. arc, and the only information she gives about her father are the basic facts that he was Sardinian and briefly dated her mother as a teenager. We learn essentially nothing about the relationship that these two had to Donatella, and that's a big problem.

Diavolo is at least built to be mysterious, but Trish... isn't. Could she not have asked Donatella about what her father was like personality-wise during any point in her life? Did she have no opinion on what she was like as a mother? Did she garner no opinion on her father before it was revealed he was a crime boss?

While I can speculate, it's obvious to me that Donatella pretty much only exists in the story as a plot reason why Diavolo has a daughter and not much thought was put into her or this detail of Diavolo's past beyond that. I think it's equally hard for others to envision this, which is part of the reason why the misconception of Trish actually being Doppio's daughter is a thing; the anime even plays into this by expanding on their backstory to have Doppio be the one to meet Donatella instead.

However, as I've said before, we know that this isn't true and this anime addition is in fact kind of a plot hole. We see that Doppio doesn't recognize Donatella, being unreactive when holding a picture of her in both the manga and anime and laughing at the concept of having a daughter or a girlfriend.

This anime change is especially irritating considering the fact that there are other implications in how Donatella apparently knew Diavolo and not Doppio. According to their backstory in the manga, the described personality that their adoptive father and village came to know them as is "cowardly and clumsy, yet open-hearted"- describing Doppio to a T.

For clarification, the manga goes on to state that in the Jojo universe, people with DID have alters that are fully present since adolescence.

This suggests that both Diavolo and Doppio were around since early childhood, but the village people and his father only knew Doppio- which makes sense, because knowing Diavolo, he would probably keep to himself. So, then, the fact that Donatella apparently knew Diavolo and Doppio doesn't even recognize her would say something really interesting about their relationship alone; what made Diavolo comfortable enough to show himself to her? What prompted him to go out and meet her in the first place?

Also, this may be a bit of a tangent, but I really dislike how they attempt to characterize Donatella in the anime. Her dialogue comes across as extremely stilted and odd, which makes sense, considering it's just her repeating the list of Trish's interests in the manga. (Literally- rewatch the scene and compare it to the page.)

Unlike Trish, she gets no characterization beyond this "I love sparkling water and I hate smelly men and anything that isn't beautiful" spiel- honestly, she somehow comes off as more shallowly written than the grand total of zero lines she got in the manga... but I digress.

Diavolo and Donatella are really interesting to me, but the information we get about them in canon is almost less than bare-bones, which I find to be one of the major flaws in the story. (Seriously, Jojo's creation of really interesting implications about characters and then simply refusing to do anything with them is one of its most annoying tendencies, and it especially shows with Diavolo.) I do enjoy people attempting to expand upon them in fanworks with the very little we get, but I don't know if I'd call that "shipping"; just expanding upon a hinted relationship. All in all, it's a pairing with a lot of food for thought.

[gloriousmonsters]

Mememememe I want to see

please enjoy a selection from you're on a path in the desert, chapter 2: 'The Ancient', brought about by wondering what ganondorf's motivation is and being honest and brash enough he kind of likes you and is like 'sorry, kid' while murdering you to attempt a breakout in the first chapter. narrated by Zelda, starring Link and Ganondorf.

--------

You're on a path in the desert. Or... it's more of a beach, isn't it? You can hear the sea. Small crabs scuttle and hide among rocks smoothed by eons of lapping waves; the pristine sands glitter, here and there, with old coins and jewels set in tarnished metal. Pirate treasures, as if a ship was wrecked here long ago. A lonely blue sky arches high above, unmarred by a single cloud. A path of scattered white rocks, like sun-bleached bones, lead toward the edge of the water. At the end of this path, a man with evil eyes is imprisoned. A king. You, hero, must slay him; or it will be the end of the world.

Voice of the Curious: He didn't seem that bad!

- Yeah, he wasn't as bad as she hyped him up to be.

- Bad? He was very bad! I'm completely on board with the 'slaying' thing now.

- Hang on, how are we here? Didn't we die?

> I see what you mean, but he did very much kill us. That was a thing that happened.

Voice of the Curious: I guess, but he was so... sad. He just wanted to escape. He seemed like he'd been there for a really long time.

> He did.

Excuse me, who's this? And what are you saying about dying? Please don't tell me—

Voice of the Curious : We died and we came back to life!

- More or less.

- I died and it was terrifying and now I'm me and also this other part of me and they're both me and I don't know how that works or what's going on and I'm going to start crying probably

> This isn't the first time we've been here. Your 'man with the evil eyes' was the one that killed me, not the other way around.

He's not mine, and... It wouldn't be the same, the other way around. You need to slay him, not kill him.

- I get it. I'm a human, and he's a monster.

> Semantics.

Very important ones. Listen to me, hero. I hoped that this wouldn't happen, and I didn't want to scare you with the possibility. But please believe me—we're walking a fine line, now. All is not lost, but every failure widens his chance at escape.

Voice of the Curious: Really?

I do not like how you said that. This... voice, whatever it is, it seems very young. Don't let naivety influence you, hero. One failure means he's already found a chink in your armor—it is even more imperative you keep your guard up. Whatever he said, whatever he did, put it out of your mind. Focus on this. He is evil, and he will destroy everything if he escapes. You are the hero, the only one with the power to stop him. I—everything depends on you.

Voice of the Curious : That's a lot of pressure...

- I love pressure.

- I hate pressure.

 > Are you really sure I can do this?

Yes. You’re the only one that can. 

Voice of the Curious: Wow, she sounds... so serious. I don't know if I trust her, but I think she likes you.

Ha. That's... You matter a great deal to me. By definition, of course. You’re the hero, you matter to everyone. But we don't have time to sit here and talk about our feelings, whatever they might be. Your quest is the same, hero. It's time to go forward.

> (proceed to the prison)

N: At the edge of the water, the path of rocks continue—for a little while. Soon they're fewer and farther between, and in their place are footholds of debris, half-rotted hulls of wood, old chests rammed up on some invisible sandbank below the water. There have been many wrecks here, and as you pick your way forward, you see the largest of them up ahead. Splintered and broken, its massive hull impaled on the tall and jagged rocks that rise from the hidden seabed, like towers of some sunken castle. The rest of it is remarkably intact, but it looks ancient. Weathered, by years that have sapped color from cloth and wood and leached memory from material. Every detail blurred. The figurehead is faceless, nearly formless, like the... like the image of a loved one long forgotten.

> Are you all right?

Your path ends—or rather, takes a new form—at the side of the wreck. An old rope ladder leads up the barnacle-encrusted side. The old wood creaks as you ascend, but even that sound is... muted. This ship isn't just wrecked, it's becalmed. The muting of that sound makes you acutely aware of the absence of others. No birds cry in the sky; no fish splash in the water. The land behind you is already lost in a hazy fog. This is a lonely place.

Voice of the Curious: She's making it sound so depressing. It's sad, but it's also sort of cool, right? It's like an old pirate ship! It doesn't feel like a prison, it feels like... like a hideout!

Please be quiet. It's a prison. It might look... odd, but it's a prison.

Voice of the Curious : Do you think there's treasure?

...No.

Voice of the Curious: ...You want there to be treasure too, right?

I'm not interested. We have a very important job to do. To your left, across the weathered deck, a door leads to the fo'c'sle. It's not locked, but it's encrusted with barnacles, warped in its frame. Beside it, a sword is embedded in the wall, as if left there after a battle long ago. It gleams with its own light—

Voice of the Curious: It's not glowing, though. It's just a sword.

It's not—but... Ah. Yes. Well, it doesn't need to glow, does it? It's the hero's sword. It's made to kill evildoers and monsters. It's meant for your hand, and your hand alone. Take up the sword, hero. You'll need it if you want to save us all.

- But it's not glowing. Didn't you say it was important it glowed?

- What if I don't want to save everyone?

> take up the sword

- don't take up the sword

Sword in hand, you force open the door, rusted hinges screeching as you shove your whole body's weight against it. Before you is a sheer drop, lightless, only the first few feet visible in the foggy sunlight that filters past your shoulders. A rope ladder hangs over the ledge at your feet, vanishing into shadow. The air is musty, damp, and smells of moldering spice and rotting silk, wood permeated with gunsmoke and worried by the icy teeth of the ocean over the course of centuries. If this is the prison the king's been confined in, killing him will be a mercy.

His voice echoes up from the darkness, tired but commanding.

The King: I knew you'd return. Come here, boy. Let us speak face to face.

Voice of the Curious: He remembers us! And he sounds... older. I mean, he was already older than us. But he sounds much older now. 

Of course he's old, he's been in prison for a long time. Don't dwell on it or wonder about it, the more time and thought you give him the more dangerous he is. Just get down there and accomplish your quest.

> proceed down the 'stairs'

After what feels like half an hour of nerve-wracking descent, feeling for foot and hand-holds in the darkness, light begins to bloom below you. When you come to the bottom, a few minutes later, you find yourself facing another door—this one richly carved wood, remarkably well-preserved considering the state of the ship. It's hard to make out much in the light filtering through the cracks around it, but you can see intricate, geometric patterns, and the snarling face of a boarlike beast carved huge in the very center.

Voice of the Curious: What—

You waste no time fooling around and asking questions, and open the door. Striding within, you find yourself confronted with a surprisingly lavish room, dimly lit by old oil-lamps. Rich rugs cover the floor; a huge bed stands in the back of the room, partly hidden by curtains, and a huge desk carved with intricate details dominates another side of the room. Tapestries, paintings and maps nearly cover the walls, save for a section that seems dedicated to a number of weapons—at a glance you see twin swords and a trident. Everything feels a little... oversized, as if you're a child venturing into the room of an adult. When you look closer, you can see signs of wear and age—cracking paint, books with pages puffed by soaking and drying out, scratches in the fine wood and dust on the tapestries—but the overall effect is still opulent, overwhelming. This feels right for a prison meant to confine a king; it would be suitable for an emperor, confined to his office by the new regime, allowed to keep a pretense of dignity.

But across the room from you, there's a strangely bare section of the wall, interrupted by only two things: A porthole filled more by spiderwebbing cracks than glass, showing only blank darkness, and the King, who stands tall and studies you thoughtfully with pale gold eyes.

The King: You approach me, yet again, with your blade in hand. Interesting.

He's a big man, broad and heavy, a physique that might impress as brutish or sedentary if not for the way he holds himself. Straight-backed, imperious, with a hint of a fighter's grace in the way his stance shifts as his eyes track the step you take forward. There's no gray in his hair, or deep wrinkles on his face, but something about him gives an impression of great age and greater weariness. His face is craggy, but his eyes are delicately lined with black; he wears a topaz on his brow, and fine robes that inspire ideas of entrenched and confident authority. As he seems to reach an internal resolution in his appraisal of you, his teeth bare in what is hard to determine as a mocking smile or a grimace of pain.

The King: I suppose that if you try to kill me this time, it will only be fair. But I'd rather we talk.

Voice of the Curious: Ooh, talk! Yes! I want to know what's going on! Just, um, maybe we should stay at a distance.

Remember what you're here for. Don't listen to him, or him. Please, hero. Kill him now.

- slay the king

- kill him?

- You killed me last time, I'd like an apology before we do anything else.

> All right. Let's talk.

[ugliestbimbo]

i wrote something a while back, unrelated to any fledged-out fics or ideas. i was gonna post it here like a week ago, but ig i forgor. here it is:

also some CWs (theyre not too bad tho):

- SLIGHT violence

- MINORLY REFERENCED pedophilia

- IMPLIED child abuse(?)

- mental issues, idk if that counts as a CW tho

——————————

From the moment he was born, Kalim was held in high regard. It wasn't just that he was the heir to the Asim fortune, in all honestly that paled in comparison to his true 'calling'.

Pure porcelain locks, destined to curl every which way and envelope the world around him in light.

Smooth, soft, sand-tinted skin, a perfect blank canvas for his ‘legacy’, whatever that could’ve meant.

Dazzling blood-red eyes, shining in the night like precious jewels, a story dancing beneath their irises.

Or, that's what everybody told him, at least.

To him, his outlandish hair was a bother. Loud and noticeable, he couldn't sneak into town if he tried. Not to mention the length of it, and the fact that it'd always tangle itself into one huge prophetic hair mop.

His skin was blank, painfully blank. Only the traditional Asim tattoos were allowed to linger, all other markings were erased by magic. But that didn't erase them entirely. Kalim would remember the pain of each and every one; every inked needle pierced into his skin, every jagged ornamental knife dragged across his flesh, every spell they cast, the burning of magic as it seared into him.

And his eyes. He wanted to gouge them out. Having to look in the mirror each morning and be greeted by the very staple of death. Red, red, red. Kalim hated red. The red in his eyes, the red in his clothes, the red in his skin. Red, red, red. Always red.

The hair, he could cut. The skin, he could turn a blind eye to. But the eyes, the red.

Memories of blood, screams, cries. All swirling like a storm beneath his disgustingly red eyes. Maybe they did tell a story, after all.

. . .

Kalim couldn't tell whether he was supposed to be the ‘Savior’ or the ‘Sacrifice’. All he knew was that he was one of the two, and there wasn't any in-between.

Kalim wasn't a child, he was a cog in in some fucked-up machine. A bedtime story everyone had been told since they were as young as him. He wasn’t just a child, he was much more.

Is that what they told themselves whenever they eviscerated him in the shrines? Whenever they pet his soft silver hair and remarked on how beautiful he's grown to be? Whenever their eyes lingered on his body for far too long, either brimming with a sick satisfaction or an even sicker lust?

Disgusting.

Just another reason to hate eyes, but at least this time they wouldn't be his own.

Always watching, always judging, always trying to mold him into their perfect little thing. They never blinked, never faltered. He could feel them boring into him at every waking moment.

The 'stares' reminded him of what he truly was.

“A fragile little thing.”

“A child too beautiful for his own good.”

“A ‘tyrant-in-the-making’.”

No matter what they deemed him, he was aware of his place. He would always, and only be something for them to admire. A prized possession to be bedazzled and presented on a pedestal. A bragging right, a bargaining chip.

And strangely, the role flattered him.

. . .

Despite it all, Kalim loved everything, everyone. Even those who wronged him, even the ones who started this whole sick prophecy mess. He loved them.

He would spend his free time dancing through the estate's halls with anyone who decided to join him. He would lounge in the courtyard, basking in the sweltering heat as if it weren't scorching his skin.

(It wouldn't leave a mark, nothing ever did.)

Absurdly long, wild white locks would trail behind him, flowing like water. Occasionally, they'd snag on furniture or foliage, but Kalim didn't mind.

(He would even take advantage of such situations to vouch for a haircut.)

As for his eyes....he’d keep from looking at them. He would avoid each mirror, each puddle, each shining tile. He hated his eyes, and that wouldn't change.

(And yet everyone else seemed to love them so much.)

He made it his goal to bring joy unto others, no matter what cost. If the elders were satisfied with their grotesque rituals, so be it. If the family adored his soft, princess-like appearance, then he'd fit the bill. And if the workers and servants appreciated his easygoing nature and generosity....

Well, those were a given. Kalim could never find it in himself to be cruel, even if it's what his father expected of him as the Asim heir.

(His father was the only one he’d never be able to satisfy.)

But at least there was everybody else to love him. Enraptured by his unruly hair, his unchanging skin, his eerie red eyes.

And then the few that loved him for everything else. Those fond of his personality, his demeanor instead of....whatever else everyone saw in him.

(He wished there were more, but who was he to complain?)

. . .

Jamil didn't know how to react, really. At first, he was angry, infuriated. He'd enrolled into NRC for one sole purpose, to escape. And this fucker had followed him, right to his dorm room.

His anger never subsided, but it was largely overpowered by his next emotion. Concern.

Kalim was curled up in the blanket, sobbing his little heart out while furiously scrubbing at his face with said blanket. White hair peeked out in every which direction, from whatever gaps it found in his sad cocoon.

Jamil always tried to convince himself otherwise, but he really did care for the heir. Either that, or he was a better (and more kindhearted) person than he gave himself credit for.

Whichever it was, he was still (unfairly) tasked with dealing with the stupid fuck, so he had to resolve this someway somehow.

"Kaimsnsjdjjxjdh

——————————

thats all. 🦧

[shebeafancyflapjack]

A Slip Through Worlds (Part Five)

(Both Silvers just want to go home. Set partly in @idiotwithanipad 's Gore Au).

Moisture tickled the inside of his nose as he stirred.

"Robin? Robin!" A stern voice shouted in his ear; "For God's sake, man, wake up!"

"Ugh..." He grunted, annoyance pounding through his head, never a fan of having anyone force him to wake up.

Especially not a Bossy Army Boots.

"What wrong?" He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, which also felt damp.

Huh...

"What's wrong?! Open your eyes and take a damn look for yourself!"

The caveman did so, eyelids flickering open to the images of Cap and the others standing over him, all of them staring at their surroundings with perplexed frowns. The sky above was miserably grey overcast.

And all around them was the densest layer of mist blanketing the grounds.

"Ooh. Weather odd." He commented, strange to see so much mist at this time of year.

"Tell us about it. I can feel the damp right up my..." Julian cleared his throat; "Well, y'know."

Robin waved his fingers through the air. Droplets of cold water were caught on the edge of his finger. He brought them to his lips, hoping for his first taste in centuries, only for them to evaporate before reaching his tongue. Unfair.

"It's all a bit spooky, ey! Would have been perfect for Halloween." Said Pat, forever looking on the bright side.

"Are you responsible for this, Robin?" Asked Fanny.

"Me? Why me?"

"Most weather abnormalities tend to be caused by you." Thomas remarked.

"Ey, this no stormy. Who say it not other..."

The sudden quiet and lack of giggling or hand clutching his own struck him silent.

He glanced around.

"Where Moonah Girl?"

"We heard her calling for Kitty a short while ago, the two girls disappeared into the woods together." Explained Cap.

The relief was slight. At least she wasn't alone and Kitty would keep her entertained, but he felt an protective itch to make sure both young women were safe, even though Kitty was only a year his junior. In his eyes, she would forever be the four year old child her parents brought home from Jamaica.

And Moonah Girl now being both blind and mentally broken...

"They've been there a while. Probably as long as you've been kipping out here." Said Julian.

"Is it just me, or does the mist seem to be swirling towards the forest?" Thomas asked.

Robin followed his gaze. There did seem to be an undercurrent pulling the thick air close to the trees, nearly obscuring them from view in a rising fog.

Then they heard the scream.

"Katherine!" Captain gasped, recognising the pitch.

They all dashed as fast as they could in their various outfits across the field. Robin's heart thudded against his eardrums. Stupid, useless thing. Once again falling asleep and leaving tribe to be eaten by wolves. Or whatever was causing the girls distress.

Why was it only Kitty who was screaming?

Just as they crossed into the woods, the Georgian ran to meet them, gathering up her skirts so as not to trip. Her face was pasty with terror.

"I...I thought I was helping her!" She cried, reaching for Cap who took her hands; "She...She said she wanted to find her mum. I didn't know she'd..."

"HAHAHAHAHA!"

There it was. Moonah Girl's laugh. It made every hair on Robin's head rise, the shrill bleat sending the birds flying from their nests.

He left the group and darted forward, following the plumes of mist, seeming to flow in the direction of her laughter.

It was...coming from her? Since when did Moonah Girl have misty powers?

"HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA!"

That laugh...it was as he'd heard it on the night he'd found her, dancing alone on the field. Too high pitched. Too forced.

Panic quickened his pace as he followed his ears and nose.

Then he came to a small clearing in the woods were the mist seemed to converge, a cloud encircling the figure on her knees in the dirt, cackling hysterically, hands over her eyes.

"Moonah Girl?" He called, stepping forward. "Silver?"

"Hahaha...Hahaha...She won't come! I thought this time she'd come! Hahahaha!"

He knew that laugh. Not just from her...but from himself. Buried memories from the times when his own brain cracked beneath centuries of torment. Laughter replacing tears. Laughter replacing screams.

Blood trickled down her hands, her velvet sheaths, across her lightning bolt tattoo and off the tip of her elbow.

"What happen? Tell me..." He gently touched her shoulder.

Then she turned, pulling her hands away from her face. Away from where her nails had dug themselves deep at the corners of her mouth.

Long strips of skin had been peeled from her cheeks by her own nails, red horizontal lines widening her unnatural smile even more so, revealing the muscles and gums and teeth beneath her face. Fat tears rolled down from her bloodshot grey eyes and into the raw flesh chasms.

It was enough to make a man who hadn't eaten in ten thousand years want to vomit.

And Silver continued to laugh.

"Mummy won't come! I bled and screamed but she won't come! Where is she, Robin?! Why won't she come find me?!" The tortured teen demanded to know, unable to cease smiling; "I want my mummy! I want my mummy! I WANT MY MUMMY!!!"

-

Amy wondered if maybe she'd given Other Silver the wrong advice. It hadn't been a pleasant experience, all those months ago when the witch had forcefully entered her memories to assess her character. It was somehow worse seeing it from the outside.

As she watches the girl scream after the spiked tendril shoved its way into her frontal lobe, she wondered if she should have told the girl to run instead. Not that there was much chance of escape but...

It wasn't her Silver. Not the semi-insane friend who had brought magical forests and dragons into an otherwise cloistered and miserable afterlife. But it was A Silver. A Silver who knew her favorite fags. A Silver who had tried to defend her from the witch's wrath.

She made a move forward, but a paw wrapped around her wrist. Turning around, the beast man shook his head at her, grunting.

His eyes softened as they met hers, seeming to tell her to be patient. It would be over soon.

Clearly he'd witnessed plenty of these interrogations by the witch's hand.

Amy shifted back, agreeing to wait. She tugged at the sleeve of her hoodie, hoping for Other Silver's sake that there's not going to be anything in her head to invite the witch's anger. Even better if she happens to subconsciously give some clue as to where Their Silver was.

I'm gonna fly right up to the Great Wall, Ames! You watch, I'm gonna visit every single other world! Do you think we're best friends in every one of them? Hehehe.

Well. She was right about one at least.

Hopefully the Other Amy - Lucky Bitch Amy who could still speak and didn't have to deal with her eyeballs occasionally falling out - was looking after their Silver. Or maybe hiding from her incessant hugs and laughter.

Though, by the sounds of it, that Amy didn't have dragons, so that was a win for-

"AAAAAAH!"

Another scream. Amy jumped, fizzy drink leaking from her lips as she tried to gasp.

It wasn't Silver who was screaming now.

The two figures were still stuck in that pose, Mary holding Silver up before her with one smokey tentacle, the other buried deep in her brain. And both of them were crying out, wailing as if sharing in the deepest and most agonising of griefs.

Amy tugged at the beast's fur, signing.

This happen before?

For the first time, she saw genuine fear appear on that ancient, bearded face. He shook his head.

Not good.

What the Hell was inside this Silver's memories that it was causing the witch to suffer as well?

Nothing ever broke through her darkly regal and gothic front she put on - nothing except Silver. Amy had watched them together, how they lovingly bantered and teased each other, Silver bringing out a lighter, gentler side of the wraith that reminded Amy she had once been just a normal woman. The one that Other Silver had known as her Mum.

Even the beast man looks as though he's internally debating whether to intervene now, worried for both his Mistress and perhaps the child, whether she be his charge or not. Amy knows, despite all appearances, he doesn't like to see children in pain.

"Mmm." She tries. Maybe they should-

Two arms encircled her and lifted her up off her feet. Amy spilled some of her drink again.

What the fuck?!

Then she recognised the feel of the fur lining against her cheek, along with the cloak damp with blood.

No! No, not yet! It can't be morning already!

She squirms in her dad's body's arms, wriggling around to try to bat against him, push herself out.

Let her go! Damn it, she can't leave now, not until she knows that This Silver is okay!

If the witch has seen something awful then she'll want revenge.

Amy can't just leave her...

But there was no reasoning with this thing. It merely tightened its grip, jostling her up and partly over its shoulder, ignoring the punches she delivered to its back.

Not yet! Not yet!

She tried to meet the beast's eyes, but even he looked reluctant to intervene. He hadn't done too well the last time he'd tried to go up against the body bit, having been thrown out of the house onto his arse. He looked as though he'd be more willing to go up against another bear again than him. Besides, he had to stay close to Mistress. His tribe.

The beast gave the girl an apologetic grunt. In return, she gave him her middle finger. Fat lot of good he is!

All she hears as the body carried her out of the woods and back to the house was the two screaming women behind her.

And then, as she finally reached the front door, silence.

-

Robin stared, mortified, at the girl before him, laughing away despite the blood and tears on her face. It didn't take too long for the self imposed cuts on her cheeks to sew themselves back together. But her nose and mouth continued to leak deep red clots.

Summoning all his courage, he knelt down close to Silver, trying his best to stay calm.

"Why Moonah Girl hurt self, hmm? Try to ruin pretty face?" He asked, softly, reaching for one of her hands.

She was trembling; "M-Mummy put a spell on me. Sh-she called it a Special Charm. It...It makes it so she can always tell if I get hurt. She always hears my cry, no matter how small and it...Hehehehe, it's like a special tracking chip. She can come find me anywhere!"

That was certainly....inventive. Robin highly doubted Mary was capable of such a trick.

"Moonah Girl hurt self so Mum would come?"

She nodded, giggling some more; "Just a few pinches at first. Nothing too big. D-didn't want her to worry. But then she didn't come and...I thought I needed more pain, hehehe!"

One of her fingers moved up to the corner of her lips again.

"Mummy loves my smile. I thought I'd make it bigger for her, hahaha."

Shit. This was so much worse than Robin feared.

Silver hadn't just suffered a mental breakdown. She'd crossed the line into self-harm, which as a ghost was not an easy feat unless someone put in some serious effort. It broke his heart yet again, remembering briefly when William and Godric had once had to stop him from trying to punch his own teeth out.

"She didn't come...Mummy won't come, no matter how loud I cry..." She sobbed, stretched lips twitching in strained agony; "Why won't she come for me, Robin?"

"Moonah Girl...." He sighed, wanting nothing more than to take the pain away.

"Doesn't she love me anymore?"

"No! I mean, yes! Of course she love you. More than anything. You precious to her." He stressed, squeezing her hand.

"She's cross with me...Because she knows I did something bad. I-I didn't think it was that big a deal. I didn't even think it worked, hehehe..." She began to ramble again, "But I think something went wrong. And now Mummy and Mr. Floof are gone."

Robin bit his lower lip.

"Moonah Girl. Listen now..."

She stopped her laughing and sobs, brow furrowing. At least he had her attention.

He took a deep breath, then turned to notice that Cap and the others were all at the edge of the clearing. Watching him. His heart that had felt torn between two sides all day seemed to settle to one as he looked at Kitty clutching the soldier's arm.

Robin lowered his head.

"Silver. You trust Robin?" He asked.

She sniffed; "Y-yeah, sure, hehehe."

"You trust that I friend?"

She nodded; "Yes. My sweet fluffy friend! Hehehe."

"Then listen now." He held both her hands in his; "You...You mum. She....not coming back."

A beat.

"W-what d'you mean? Where did she go?" She asked, quietly.

"She go up to stars. She safe. But...she no be with you anymore." He told her, as he wished he'd been the one to tell her the first time around. Perhaps they wouldn't be in this state; "She was good friend of mine. She ask me to take care of Moonah Girl."

And he'd done a piss poor job so far.

Silver winced, the news struggling to sink in.

"But....But Mummy can't leave me." She said, "I...I need her to turn the lights on."

The mist around them seemed to freeze, tiny icicles stuck in mid air.

Fuck. He hated this. But he had to see it through.

"You safe with me. Robin look after you now. Robin and friends, all together." He promised, renewing it in a way.

"Mummy wouldn't leave me. She wouldn't! She didn't even say goodbye!" The tears won out against her laughter, fresh tears falling fast.

Robin tried to gather her into his arms.

"Hey, hey, listen." He comforted, holding her close; "She no say goodbye because she no want to leave. No parent ever want to leave baby. Trust me. But....some time we forced to leave, or get taken away..."

"S-someone took Mummy? But...she's the most powerful woman in the world."

That she was, in her own special way.

"Fate take us from one's we love. It no one's fault." He tried to reassure; "But we remember them. They stay with us here." He gently touched Silver's chest, above her heart. "And one day you see, you have new family to love you."

Or remember the ones who have known you for years already. Perhaps this would be the start of her brain healing at last.

"....W-will I ever see her again?" The girl asked, weakly.

"Yes. One day. That I promise. Just...might be very long wait." Very, very, very long in his case. "But she there. Waiting. Always close by."

With any luck, Stompy would soon visit her dreams to remind her.

Silver sniffed, the mist beginning to fade, though the unseasonal chill remained.

She reached for Robin, wrapping her arms around him and nestling into his furs. He wrapped her up tight and held her close, one hand on the back of her head.

"Mr. Robin...Is Amy in the stars as well?" She whispered.

He closed his eyes; "...Yes, Moonah Girl. Sorry."

Another sob, followed by the most heartbreaking giggle.

She clutched onto him like a lifeline.

"Are you gonna leave me too?"

He shook his head; "Never. Never leave Moonah Girl. Never ever."

-

The smoky tentacle vanished and Silver fell to the floor in a heap of floppy arms and legs.

Her cheeks were soaked with tears. Her throat sore as shit.

And her head...Fuck. Worse than any hangover.

"What...What did you..." She clutched at her aching skull.

Flashes of old memories had pulsed through her senses. Her life, her lonely childhood, the sudden death of her dad, the school bullying, her mother's neglect, eating disorder, sibling abuse, followed by her death by aneurysm. And that had only been the start.

Silver looked up at the witch who was gazing down at her, those bony hands now over her lipless mouth as she regarded the teen before her with eyes of...

Wait.

She no longer looked angry or vengeful, just...

"Oh you poor little darling." Nary gasped, "I dids not expect to see...How you has suffered so!"

Not Robin padded forward but didn't disturb the pair. Where was Amy?

Silver frowned, still panting, feeling as though her brain had been run through a grinder.

"You....believe me now?" She asked, surprised by how much the witch's tone had changed.

"Of course I dos, little'en! I saws it all! What yous endured in that...other world." The witch touched her own exposed clavicle; "So t'is true. My darling girl did find a way to break through the forbidden barrier. The great wall were dreams that we glimpse in windows become real, living worlds. And somehow, by random chance...You did happen to wander through the gap she made..."

Silver nodded, even if she didn't fully understand it still.

"I...I just thought I was dreaming...And then I heard you. M-Mary..." She confessed, earnestly.

Come to Mummy. There's a good girl.

"You sweet little thing. You dids mistake me for thy own dear mother?"

She nodded again, tearing up a little.

Mary's bony hand stroked over her head; "I saws how you lost her. How she did leave thee without a word of goodbye. And how thou wallowed in uncertainty for years until her love was confirmed."

Only recently at that. She'd tried not to doubt it, but...

"And then, ons tops of that, your companion was taken from thee too."

Silver sniffed. Yes. That also wasn't great.

"I...I'm really sorry you lost your Silver. I didn't mean to trick you into thinking I was her."

"Oh, sweet child. Don't you worry your little head about that. T'was all a harmless misunderstanding. T'is waters under the bridges."

Oh. Yeah, sure, triggering her claustrophobia, choking her, threatening to burn her alive...All easily forgiven!

Shut up, Silver, just roll with it.

"At least now we know what happened to my darling girl. She be more powerful than I thought." The witch mused; "I will have to find a way to reopen the gap in the wall and guide her back through."

"Reopen? You checked it?"

"Yes, child. T'was one of the first spots I did check. The universe doth not care for anyone poking holes in its. It can easily repair itself."

"But if she did it before then she might be able to again?" Silver spoke, rubbing the red mark at her neck; "Or maybe I can? And I can find her on my way home?"

The witch tilted her head as she regarded her. Then she laughed...almost sounding like the Mary she knew.

"What do you mean, sweet one? You're already home."

Silver blinked.

"Uhm...No, I...I have to go back to my world."

"Why ever woulds you want that? There be nothing for you there. I saws it myself." Nary said; "No mummy to hold you. No dearest friend to laughs with. And that...That poor excuse for a guardian!"

"Guardian? You mean...Robin?"

She saw what he did. What he said. The last feelings Silver had towards him before she left that world. The hurt. The resentment. The disappointment.

It all seemed so insignificant to her now.

"A beast who lacks the loyalty of one such as my dear ally." The witch looked fondly across at the feral man close by; "He woulds never betray my little'en the way that scoundrel dids to you."

Silver shook her head; "He...He didn't mean to-."

"Hush now, pretty one." Not Mary began to sooth, summoning another tendril of smoke. Not to attack, this time, but to caress Silver's face like a velvet glove; "You do nots need to defend him. Soon far more pleasant thoughts will replace him in your mind."

What?!

She shook her head, feeling dizzy and weak again as the smoky arms began to swaddle her.

"You...You wanna keep me here?"

"We calls it claiming, in this world." Nary explained; "T'is what we do with lost foundling children."

"I'm...not a foundling..." She has a Mum. The adoption certificate proved it. It didn't matter if...

"Oh darling girl. I saw how you dids run to my embrace without a seconds thought. T'is understandable. All girls need their mummies."

"I..."

"Shh." Her bony hand stroked her cheek this time; "Don't fret. My little'en did struggle to accept her new home at times too. But she did settle, in the end, and became my most beloved and happy child. In time, you will come to feel as comfy here as she did. I will ensure that you want for nothing, my precious."

Fuck, fuck, this was wrong, all wrong.

But, sod it, she was too weak to fight, after having her brain ripped open like breaking the spine of a book. Too tired, despite her cycle being far from over.

"Wha...What about...y-your Silver...?" Her words became slurred as her jaw went slack.

The smoke wrapped her up as if in a thick, soft duvet, lifting her feet off the ground. It was too tempting to close her eyes and just...rest...

"Oh, fear not. I shall find a way to retrieve my darling girl." Nary smiled as she leaned in close, the ember in her eyes glowing with adoration instead of fury; "And she will be overs the moons to come home to a new twin sister."

[autumnvine]

Fire and Frost

Chapter 1

Summary: Valeia, a witch on earth is forced to hide deep within in the shadows of the forbidden forrest alone with powers she doesn't understand and can't control. Only to be found and taught by the God himslef.

Everyone has their secrets, everyone has their deepest of fears. But not everyone was like you. Noone understood you. Afterall hiding in the forbidden forest all these years conjured up many rhumers and speculations. The forrest was believed to be older than time itsself, home to many a vile creature, and centre of all things wrong with this world. It was a constant state of darkness, no sun every seemed to rise nor set, it never rained, never changed, always remaining the same. Perfect. Seclusion.

It was the most oppertune place where you could b who you were without hiding any part of you from the outside world. Building a cabin from scratch wasn't always the plan but it was better, it was a sacred place you had called home for the past twenty years. Sometimes you came face with animals not of this world, a monster looking like a tiger with the capability to camouflage, an entity that could shapeshift, call your name and lure you deep into the woods, unable to find your path back. None of this frightened you, as you were what was to be feared.

Until one night, the air became much thicker the fog was heavier and the sky overhead changing to a green lightning, slowly preparing yourslef from what was happening, the darkness was fading slightly, one single ray of sunshine pushed it's way through the joins between the wooded wall. Dissaprearing with in a blink of the eye everything was back to normal. The fog returning it it's usual state, a shadow quickly running past the seal at the bottom of the entrance.

"What do you want?" voice strong and clear, protective. It stopped moving standing there, feet at the doorway, the door crashing open not through your choice.

"I am Loki, and I have been falling for thirty minuites! Now what is this wretched place?" A God like man standing there, the first human contact you had had since retreating to the forest all those years ago, it quite litterally appeared on your doorstep.

"Not God like. I am a God" Loki able to read your thought "Will you stop thinking, your mind is too loud" he demanded.

Baffled by the situation unraveling infront of you, you stood silent.  "Well, where am I?" Loki becoming more annoyed

"You are in my home,and I suggest you leave." your hair started to blow slightly in the wind caused by your emotion, his black shoulder lengthhair covering his face as the wind was picking up. Loki stood tall grinning at your power "Powerful young witch aren't we" he remarked

"How did you find me? Nothing survives in these woods long enough without proper protection." Loki mved closer to you, his smile widening "I like you" the wind becoming stronger around you, the closer he came, the stronger it grew. objects becoming caught up in the whirlwind, the tall dark trees tillting with the strength of the wind. "That's plenty don't we agree" Loki said as he watched the hurricaine develop out into the forest. Watchign as your mind was racing, you couldn't controll it, you didn't mean to start it, never mind stopping it. The worse you feared it the stronger the wind grew, it wouldn't be long before it ripped your home apart piece by piece, the God flicked his fingers gently and swishing his wrist the growing storm had stopped. Your hair in disarey, your things not where they should have been but what puzzled you more was the fact that Loki  made it stop. He could control it. He too had magic, and was clearly much  beetter at it then you.

"How did you do that?" you asked "You can't control it can you?" he replied, shaking your head side to side. "Will you teach me?" Loki agreed, perhaps the gentleman falling onto your doorstep was better then you had imagined.

--------

Chapter 2 - coming soon

Taglist

@plutoispurplw

[andguesswhat]

bunny! 🐰

Almost Easter, isn't it? ;)

I have to admit I’m always a bit hesitant with random AUs like this, I prefer the “real” Timmy and Armie, that's why I actually decided to not write this, but Timmy keeps saying ´prettyprettyplease´ and making big puppy eyes that I should at least tell you about it, because he thinks his man with bunny ears is really fucking awesome and he probably just wants you to agree and gush with him a bit. So here we go, time for a little fluffy bedtime story for you…

Because there was a day a few years ago where a different version of Armie ran into a different version of Timmy. At a garden party. And you're not going to believe this, but at that garden party, Armie was engaged as a waiter, and because that party was given by a very rich, very gay film producer, that very rich and very gay film producer decided that all his waiters would walk around in a special outfit: A silver sequin playsuit (you already know that one ;)) combined with nothing but a bow tie around the neck, cuffs around the wrists, leather boots on the feet, and of course, fluffy bunny ears on the head.

And when Timmy walked with his boyfriend through the festively decorated garden and saw these waiters in their outfits, he had to laugh because it just looked so very funny.

His boyfriend was... Now let's just call him Ryan (lol). Ryan was a young, ambitious film producer who wanted Timmy to make it big, though Timmy thought that "making it big" was kind of secondary. But he wanted to act, with the greatest opportunities the world had to offer, with the best directors, with the greatest actors, he wanted to be in every good movie out there, and if he had to "make it big” for that to happen, then so be it.

If there wasn't always this pressure that Ryan thought Timmy had to "show himself” because the truth was he didn't really want to "show himself” because the conversations Ryan had with all those various producers were always so miserably boring.

And that in Hollywood! Shouldn't it be teeming with stimulating conversations? Why was everyone always talking about money and facts and figures?

Timmy sighed at another such conversation as he sank deeper into his rattan chair, boredly circling his finger over the rim of his empty glass, when suddenly a dark, very warm voice said "You look like you could use another drink!"

And when Timmy turned his head to see who it was that had this incredibly pleasant voice, he looked into the face of a veryvery handsome man who was smiling at him in such a tremendously warmheartedly and amused way, while wearing bunny ears on his head, that Timmy couldn't help but laugh out loud and a feeling of pure joy bounced through his body like an Easter bunny on the loose. And all of a sudden, he did like very much being at this party.

Because from then on, the handsome waiter with the bunny ears came by him quite often, was very charming, winked at him very sweetly, and made dry and funny remarks that made Timmy laugh. He made him also swallow, Timmy had to admit, because, whenever he left to serve someone else, Timmy looked at those endlessly long bare legs that ended in a tight ass under the glittering fabric. But that was secondary. Definitely secondary, but very nice.

Then a little later, as Timmy walked from the bathroom back to the backyard, he saw the handsome bunny-eared man leaning against the wall a little ways away, cigarette in hand. He appeared to be taking a break. Timmy gathered his courage and walked boldly up to him, and his heart leapt a tiny bit when the man smiled at him as he saw him.

"You really don't mind wearing bunny ears?"

The man looked at him playfully shocked "Why? Don't they look good on me?"

Again, Timmy had to laugh. "They do. I just thought if you wear them even during your break..."

"Oh, I wear them all the time. When I cook, when I read smart books, wheh I pee, in the shower... Even when I lick balls. Always! ... What's your name?"

Timmy was very grateful to the man for not making him have to react to what he had said, but could simply say his name. "Timmy, my name is Timmy. And you are?"

"Armie."

And when that gorgeous man named Armie reached out his hand and Timmy grasped it, he felt a small electric blast emanate from their handshake, spinning high into the air, leaving orbit and drifting across the universe, and he knew his life was about to change forever.

They met every hour from then on for Armie's 5-minute-cigarette-break and those five minutes were more stimulating than the entire party.

Armie asked him questions, questions that he might have considered impertinent from other people. But the way Armie asked them, they just made him realize so many things that he had been blind to. Since he'd been here in L.A. he'd lost his footing a bit, his friends were in New York and here in L.A. he only had Ryan and his circle of friends, which kind of narrowed his view on things.

Armie took a drag from his cigarette. "How long have you been with your boyfriend?"

"Three months. Why?"

"Because you're standing here while he's there flirting with another man."

Timmy sighed. Timmy sometimes missed a certain respect in Ryan.

"We have an open relationship. It's okay."

"From the beginning?"

"Yeah, from the beginning. It's okay with me." And because Armie didn’t say anything else, Timmy asked, “You wouldn’t do that?”

“I don’t know. I think man is not made to live monogamously forever so an open relationship is an option I guess. But I think I’d be so incredibly jealous! When I'm really in love, I can’t imagine wanting to share that person with anyone. At least not in the beginning. I mean I want to be the one who carries the person on my hands, I want to be the one who spoils that person as much as possible. I want to be the only one who gives pleasure to that person. Does that sound bad? Maybe I'm just too selfish. Or too possessive. Or both. I don’t know."

Timmy liked that Armie didn't act like he knew everything, that he didn't act like he was the perfect guy. Timmy liked that he didn't seem to mind asking questions about life and getting to the bottom of them.

"Well, I would find it a pity if I were not allowed to stand here and talk to you just because I have a boyfriend."

Armie laughed. "Fair enough." He took another drag on his cigarette. "So why are you with him?"

"Because he understands me."

"What does he understand?"

"Everyone else thinks I'm arrogant because, for example, I can't handle not getting a part. People say I’m making a fuzz. He doesn't."

"That's not arrogant. The others are just jealous that they don't have a reason to feel the way you do. It sounds very ambitious, passionate to me. What else? What else does he have that others don't?"

Timmy shrugged again.

He didn't love Ryan unconditionally, that was not a secret, but did that unconditional love even exist? Wasn't this larger-than-life love more of a Hollywood invention?

At least Ryan knew what Timmy wanted, what he sometimes needed. Lost in thought, Timmy felt his wrists. "Why do you want to know all this?"

Now it was Armie’s turn to shrug his shoulders. "Because you don't look as happy as you might."

Shit. Timmy hated it when people could tell by the look on his face how he felt. How was he supposed to be a good actor if he couldn't even pretend to be happy at a garden party?

"Stop worrying about why the hell you don't look happy when you're not.” Armie smiled at him. “Tell me rather at the next break what your favorite movies are or whether you were the angel or the ox in the Nativity play at school. Minor spoiler: I was Mary. And you can tell me if wearing bunny ears is now an upgrade or a downgrade."

Timmy had to laugh again, feeling that tingle in his body again, so yes, he was already eagerly looking forward for the next break.

And so they told each other their lives that day.

The 5-minute-breaks were of course way too short for that so they made a game out of running into each other as much as possible at the party, to exchange at least one question or one answer and when Armie finished his shift, they adjourned to the back of the garden under a tree and talked and talked and talked some more. About everything. Their wishes, their experiences, their friends, their families.

And Timmy was just happy. Happier than he had been in a long time.

He had the feeling that Armie gave him the guidance he was looking for. He wasn't looking for someone to tell him what to do or not do. He was looking for someone who would let him grow and realize what he wanted and what he didn't want. Someone to show him who he was and who he wanted to be.

When they parted that evening, Armie reached into his jacket, pulled out his bunny ears and handed them to Timmy.

"Here. I figured you like them."

Timmy smiled and took them in his hands.

And he realized that a savior doesn't always come riding along on a horse or wearing a red magic coat, sometimes he just wears bunny ears occasionally.

Or.... as Armie would say, just had a wild untamable curly head and bright green eyes.

For little did Timmy know that something had stirred in Armie as well. While Timmy asked him question after question, open and purely interested like no other person had before, there were moments when Armie wavered. It was a good waver, a waver that almost made him put all the bullshit aside for once and answer what came deep from his heart. All of a sudden he felt the need to share what was hidden deep within him. He felt like he could tell Timmy things that he hadn't told anyone else. And maybe one day he would.

So what we can learn from this little random bedtime story is that no matter in which universe, Timmy and Armie will always find each other. With bunny ears or without. And today with, because Timmy thinks that a very charming Armie with fluffy bunny ears is something that the world sometimes just needs. Especially at Easter. And I agree.